But, without fail, a cold and drowning emptiness would seep in hours later. To have a partner like the men that SV wrote about wasn’t possible. They were more than just strong and kind, more than proper gentlemen. In fact, most had questionable morals. Yet no matter how roguish they were, they always saw the main character for who she was. Truly saw her, and accepted her. No change necessary. No protocols or façade. The heroes always fiercely loved their heroine, always viciously fought for her.
She tried to imagine Lord Richard, or any of the men of thetonfor that matter, being half as appealing as thesefictional characters were.
It was preposterous—a mere fantasy.
Yet Isobel wanted nothing less than such sweeping, defiant, and depthless love. These men would burn the world down just to hold their lady’s hand. She wished she could refuse to settle for anything less—even if that meant being alone.
Another sigh escaped her lips. Not wanting to lose the satisfaction the book’s ending had given her, she released her concerns to the sky above. There was plenty of time to be miserable later. Lounging on her favorite blanket, tucked away amongst the lavender bushes, she could neither see the estate nor feel the pull of familial and societal responsibility.
Escape wasn’t always possible, but Henry being busy with Clara’s debut Season presented unique opportunities to indulge. Despite the numerous events of the Season and having to sometimes chaperone her niece, Isobel found she could more easily evade her brother’s frivolous timetables for tea, afternoon walks, and whatever dull company he planned on hosting that day. He simply had too much to keep track of to control her. Henry rarely came out here, anyway, as the flora tended to aggravate his allergies. Their gardener, Mr. Grint, came by periodically to care for the trees and other plants, but otherwise it was just her, the purple sprigs, and the buzzing bees.
She could simply be. The rows of lavender were her own secret universe. Her sanctuary.
It’d been that way since her youth. When she was six years old, soon after her mother passed away, her father had taken her out with him to the already tilled aisles. They worked all day, planting the seeds in tidy rows as he told her about the plant and how the color had been Mama’s favorite. He explained they were planting them in her memory, but they were also for Isobel—to help her mourn, to help her remember, to help her heal.
That night, Isobel was caught sneaking out to see if they’d sprouted yet.
“Patience, Izzy,” her father had soothed. “Beautiful and strong things need time to grow into themselves.”
She wondered if he’d known then that even time couldn’t help her become the woman she was expected to be. Had he known that she would need the garden even more now than she had then?
A bee with pollen stuck to its fuzz droned by her, dutifully on its way back to its colony. Not for the first time, she idly wondered if the little creatures were happy with fulfilling their tasks and never going outside of the confines of their mission. Did they wish for a life beyond their obligations to queen and colony? Or did they find comfort in their routine and knowing exactly which role they were expected to play?
Isobel envied them the determination with which they carried out their duties. If it were only so simple for her to forget to dream and instead resolutely fulfill her obligations, she’d have no inner turmoil to reconcile.
It would all be so much simpler.
A rumble of thunder brought her out of her imagination. Isobel blinked lazily. The sun was an hour from setting, the skies mildly overcast. Gray clouds loomed in the distance, and the promise of rain drifted in the cool breeze.
She really should start heading home. Despite the thought, she made no move to get up. Henry and Clara were at some lavish event or another that would carry on well into the evening.
The thunder sounded again, this time for much longer. Perhaps the rain was coming sooner than she thought. A sense of sadness overcame her that she would be chased back inside before she was ready to go.And though she found it perfectly acceptable to sit in the rain if one wanted to, she didn’t want to ruin her novel.
Propping herself up on her elbows so she could see more of the horizon, she spotted something drifting through the gray. Itblinkedin and out of existence.
Transfixed, she sat up. The novel that had been splayed across her chest fell into her lap. If she squinted at the shape in the sky, she could just make out what looked like lightning crawling over a soaring structure, black smoke trailing behind it.
Whatever it was, it was massive.
And there weretwoof them.
Grabbing her book, she stood up. Fear and curiosity simultaneously vied for her attention. Within the span of a few rapid heartbeats, the outsized structures came nearer and lower. The rumbling sound became so intense that she thought to cover her ears, but she was frozen in awe.
When they passed overhead, all smoke and drifting flame, she realized how colossal they were. One was endless obsidian, and the other gleaming silver, both almost as big as Nott Manor. They flashed incongruously in and out of sight. Her mind couldn’t comprehend what she was witnessing. The roaring and crackling like thunder and lightning, the fact that the shapes had wings but were not animals…
What in the devilwerethey?
She had a brief feeling of being on the precipice of something. Like she was passing an invisible line where her life would no longer be the same. There would be two divided parts—before this moment and after.
When the bottoms of the unknown edifices scraped against the treetops of the forest beyond the lavender fields, she braced herself, clutching her book toher chest.
She held her breath.
The trees groaned.
A heartbeat later, the earth shook with their impact.
Isobel looked from the blue manor to the smoke billowing up from the woods.
