The demon screeches and scuttles under the sofa. I tug one elbow out of the sugar bowl, looking ruefully at the tea-stained sleeve of my dress. “Shit.”
“May I be of assistance?” says a deep, cool voice.
My eyes dart to the doorway, where stands a very tall, broad-shouldered gentleman in an enormous greatcoat. In one gloved hand is a dripping top hat. In his other hand, he holds a card with blue and silver lettering.
His face magnetizes my attention. He’s lightly tanned, with long wavy hair and a thick beard, neatly trimmed, which cloaks his face all the way up to his prominent cheekbones. His nose is large and straight, his brows boldly arched, and his brow furrowed with slight confusion. His beard frames a pair of full lips, the loveliest I’ve ever seen on a man.
Both his hair and his beard areblue. Rich blue, the color of a forest lake on a sunny day.
Despite the greatcoat, the hat, and the gloves, he has a wildness about him, a restless power that’s palpable across the distance between us. He’s handsome in the dramatic, uncivilized way that a pirate captain might be handsome, and perhaps he is a pirate, because who else would dye their hair such a color? His eyes are a couple shades lighter than his hair—a bright, pale blue.
I stare up at him without bothering to move from the center of the mess. “Who are you, and why are you in my house?”
“I am Theron James Beresford,” he replies. “I’ve gotten into the habit of hosting dinner parties lately, to get to know my neighbors, and I would like to invite your family to my estate this weekend.” He holds up the card in his hand. “Your mother said I could step in and leave this invitation on the little table by the door… except that table is so cluttered with other things, I thought perhaps I would put it elsewhere, so it doesn’t get lost.”
It’s true. Despite our lack of funds, or perhaps because of it, we have a habit of saving everything, including any items we can scavenge that other people don’t want. The house is cluttered, and it seems like a million random things end up on the square table by the front door, the one that in better times used to hold a vase of freshly cut flowers.
I attempt to rise from the wreckage of our afternoon tea. “I can take it.”
“Can you?”
It’s an innocent question on the surface, but the way his lips twist and his dark lashes lower slightly intimates a naughty meaning behind his words. Or maybe I’m reading too much into his expression, misinterpreting the way his gaze drops to my chest. My dress has a rather low neckline, and in this position, my assets are rather prominently on display.
“You, sir, are no gentleman,” I say.
“When did I claim to be?”
Flustered, I struggle to my feet, casting a furtive look around for the little demon. It’s nowhere to be seen. “You should have offered to help me up.”
“Watching you manage it yourself was so much more entertaining.”
My jaw drops. I can hardly believe he said that to my face.
“Fuck you,” I reply, and then I clap my hand over my mouth. Fuckmefor speaking those words to a stranger, a neighbor, a man who wants to invite us to a party.
I can’t remember the last time we were invited to anything. It’s my fault, of course. It’s because of me that the people of this area are cautiously polite to us rather than friendly. They pity and tolerate us ever since my father ran away with a traveling tinsmith about ten years ago, but they still whisper and watch us when we visit the shops at Mulhouse or Loisay, the two nearest villages.
My sister and I usually manage to catch the demons and release them in Wormsloe Wood, the forest bordering our property. A few times the demons have escaped from the house and run off on their own. There’s one winged snake from a summoning last year that still flutters around in the attic. We haven’t been able to catch it. I suppose it eats any mice it finds up there, so that’s one advantage to its presence.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasp. “I shouldn’t have said that. I… please forgive me. It has been a strange day.”
“So it would seem.” He pauses, as if he’s waiting for something.
“Well…” I clear my throat and hold out my hand. “Give it to me, then, if you still want to. The invitation, I mean.”
“For someone who lectures others on the qualities of proper behavior, you certainly seem to have forgotten your manners.” He places the card in my hand. “Since you won’t offer your name, I’ll give you one: Mistress of Wanton Destruction. It suits you.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “This destruction was unintentional. Nothing wanton about it.”
“How disappointing. Good day.”
He disappears as swiftly and silently as he entered. Given his size, his stealth surprises me.
I look down at the invitation in my hand. Dinner and dancing at his estate, which is apparently called Valenkirk. I’ve never heard of it. Then again, this region has been somewhat volatile over the past few years. The peerage system crumbled a couple generations ago, and now monarchy is supervised by a delegation—though neither the Queen nor the delegates seem to know what to do with the nation’s economy. In our region, old families have been leaving while new ones come in only to depart again. Jobs are scarce, and crops haven’t produced well.
We’ve talked many times about moving to one of the larger cities. Each of us has useful skills. I could work as a seamstress or a music teacher. Anne could work in a bakery or do the lettering of signs and advertisements for shops. Mama could serve as a governess, a nurse, or a tutor for children. But every time I start seriously considering that sort of future, another demon appears out of nowhere, and I remember why I can’t be a normal woman with a normal job. My chaos would follow me, and any new life I tried to build would be undone. Worse still, my curse would reflect poorly on my mother and sister as well.
As I was growing up, Mama and Papa often warned me that some people might consider my ability dangerous and unnatural. I must be careful, they said. I must try to hide it.
