She turned away and hurried toward Frannie before he could witness the effect he had on her. It was too mortifying to bear.
Her breathing was heavy and fast, and she had the most delicious lift in her stomach—the way she felt just before the roller coaster plunged over the edge of its track.
This was the last thing she wanted. And yet she was tempted to draw even closer to it, feeling the warmth she knew could leave only burns.
“Frannie,” she called out across the crowded chamber. She emerged from behind the column, waving to draw Frannie’s attention.
Frannie turned and when she registered who the voice belonged to, her face soured.
She attempted to keep walking, but Grace took her skirts in her hand and wove quickly through the thick crowds of the Palace, keeping Frannie’s ridiculous bird-topped hat in her view.
“Excuse me,” Grace said, making her way past a group of people who had gathered to look at an exhibit displaying thousands of handmade shoes from Mexico.
“Frannie, this is ridiculous,” Grace called ahead. “Are you actually trying to run away from me?”
“It doesn’t benefit me in the least to be seen talking to you,” Frannie said over her shoulder, not slowing.
“Fine.” Grace quickened her pace even more. “We can have this conversation loudly or quietly, it’s up to you, but itwillbe said.”
People were starting to turn as Grace parted through the corridors, following Frannie out of the Palace and into the fresh air.
“You’re making a scene,” Frannie hissed.
“Some things are worth making a scene over.”
Frannie finally stopped walking. When she turned to Grace, her green eyes blazed, but they were no match for the fire that was heating within Grace, licking up her spine.
Frannie opened her parasol and brought it up to block them from view.
“What do you want,Miss Covington?” she asked Grace through gritted teeth.
“I have something to say to you. About your treatment of Lillie.”
Frannie pursed her lips, as though she were bored.
“You were shockingly rude to her at the party last night. Lillie—who has always, against everyone’s better judgment, been your friend. And you publicly shunned her in her moment of need,” Grace said.
“There arerules,” Frannie hissed. “Social rules you’ve never abided by. Youoryour mother. Rules are what keep society running. Your impertinence to believe you are above them is unsurprising but no less disappointing.”
“There are rules of decency, too,” Grace said, sharpening her words like claws. “They matter most of all. And those are the rules you apparently never bothered to learn.”
Frannie snapped her parasol closed and Grace walked away, chest heaving.
That evening, Grace found paper in the drawer of the desk, just like Theodore had said. She thought of the way he had held her gloved hand earlier that day. The way a thrill had shot up her spine when he had brought his mouth to it. She settled in with her small notebook, going over her notes. There was nothing to eat for dinner, but she made herself tea and lit a fire in the hearth. She had gotten a small loaf of bread they were giving out for free from the Pillsbury counter that would carry her through. The spring rain outside was coming down in sheets, and though she was hungry, the studio felt cozy and warm.
She changed into a nightgown and took down her hair so that it fell in honeyed swells around her shoulders.
Just then, there was a bold knock on the door.
She jumped. Heart racing.
She wrapped a blanket around her nightgown and suddenly wished she really did have a weapon. What a stupid quip she’d made about that spoon.
She grasped the pen to use as a last resort—it could probably take out someone’s eyeball with a well-aimed thrust, at least—and strode toward the door.
“Who is it?” she asked through the wood.
“Miss Covington?” a voice shouted from the other side. “Are you there?”
