“All his savings from years of performances,” Anne agrees. “If he had to run off with another woman, at least he provided something for us to live on. It was oddly unselfish of him, if you ask me. But maybe it was his way of proving that he did love us, even if he couldn’t love us enough to stay.”
“Rotten bastard,” I say, and we both giggle, even though it isn’t funny.
“I’m going to bed, too,” my sister announces. “Do you want me to help you upstairs?”
“You’re a bit tipsy and so am I. That, along with my injured ankle, makes going upstairs a very bad idea.”
“You’re probably right. You’ll sleep down here then?”
“Yes. I’m quite comfortable.”
“See you in the morning.” She drapes another blanket over me and blows out the candle before going upstairs. I pull the blanket close to my chin and ponder some of her last words.
Oddly unselfish of him, if you ask me.
Why would a careless man like my father, one who adored rich living, leave his money behind and run off with a woman like the tinsmith? My mother once described her to us as an “impoverished little fool with a cheap kind of prettiness.” If the tinsmith had no money, wouldn’t Papa have needed his savings in order to start a new life with her?
And why leave behind the piano gifted to him by the queen herself? Why not at least send someone to fetch it once he got settled in his next home? Why abandon his lyre, his notebooks, and most of his wardrobe? By my mother’s account, he left home with his leather travel bag, a few clothes and necessities, and his favorite pipe. Nothing else.
Over the years, Mama has sold or given away everything that belonged to him… almost as if he were dead.
Wine and weariness overcome me before I can take that line of thought very far. When I wake the next morning, theevening’s conversation is an unpleasant smudge in the back of my mind.
That afternoon, with Anne’s help and the support of the crutches and the brace, I manage to wash up, dress for the dinner party, and do my hair.
“You should stay home and rest,” Mama advises. “Otherwise you’ll be in pain most of the night.”
“Pain doesn’t matter if I can see him,” I tell her.
Her eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
I avoid her gaze, busying myself by weaving ribbons into the ankle brace to make it slightly more attractive.
“Sybil, I know he’s very charming and wealthy,” Mama ventures. “But we barely know anything about him.”
“We know that he’s kind and strong and clever,” I retort. “He wants to take care of me, and I intend to let him.”
“Does heknow?” she says pointedly.
“About the summoning issue? No, he doesn’t.”
“You should tell him. If you don’t, you’ll be entering the relationship on false pretenses.”
“Secrets can be safeguards,” I tell her.
Mama shakes her head, but instead of replying, she heads upstairs to do her hair before the carriage arrives. We’re all wearing the same dresses we wore to the last dinner. There’s no use pretending we’re wealthy enough to purchase whole new ones, but we’ve changed the trimmings a bit, and my sister and I fashioned autumn leaves out of cloth scraps and added them in colorful swirls to the waists, busts, and skirts of the gowns. The effect is quite lovely, and it makes the dresses look different enough that we won’t be too embarrassed to wear them twice.
This week, the dinner tables are set up in the very barn where the orgy occurred, but it’s unrecognizable as the same place. Gauzy gold curtains and sparkling strings of beads cloak the walls, and crystals drip from the rustic ceiling.
Over the original flooring, new boards have been laid—but they aren’t simply boards, they’repaintings. Beresford has carpeted the entire floor of the barn with paintings of flowers, leaves, faeries, caverns, and waterfalls. We are literally walking—or in my case, hobbling—over works of art. I don’t know where the art came from, whether he painted the pieces himself or purchased them. They seem to be protected by a hard coating so they won’t be damaged by the impact of shoes and boots. Still, it feels strange, almost disrespectful, to walk upon such beauty.
I was carried to the barn by a brawny footman, but I insisted on using my crutches and entering the barn myself. Beresford spots me immediately, and we have a silent, distant conversation despite the crowd of guests between us.
He raises an eyebrow and gives me a rebuking look because I didn’t let the footman carry me in.
I tilt my head saucily, setting my jaw.I like to do things myself when I can.
He rolls his eyes a little, the corner of his beard twitching as he gives me a smile that’s half indulgent, half admiring. Then he nods toward the head of the central table, where there are two large chairs draped in white fur flecked with ebony. One of the chairs has a blue cushion, and the other a scarlet one.
