Chapter 1
Ourheadbutlerdelivereda cream envelope, secured with a mulberry ribbon, to me. As usual, he asked no questions. I bit back my smile as I accepted it and turned it over in my hands.
"Thank you so much, Oscar." I tucked the letter into my sweater pocket, determined to read it in solitude as soon as the occasion permitted. The idea of having a gallant secret admirer was too delicious not to indulge. I concluded my piano practice in the music hall and left in search of a housekeeper, nearly finished with my list of morning endeavors. As usual, Pemberley's magic led me to who I was looking for.
"What have you got for us today, Miss Georgiana?" My cheery housekeeper, Harriet, asked.
"The ferns in the drawing-room are asking for a bit more light," I instructed her. "We're giving candy canes toany children who visit during the open house, yes? Do we need to purchase more of them?"
"We've already taken care of that, Miss," she replied. "Don't worry about a thing. Although the tourists love it when they can see you playing piano, if you have time."
"You're a saint, Harriet. I'll try to give another performance this afternoon, but for now I'll be in my library should anyone need me." I scurried past her and up the grand marble staircase, which was adorned with yards of holiday garlands and fairy lights. At the top of the first flight, a live twelve-foot Christmas tree graced the landing.
How many more days?Its question drifted into my mind.This pot is crushing my roots.
"Not too much longer. Though you look beautiful dressed up for Christmas. In only two and a half weeks, you'll be living back outside in the woods." I brushed an evergreen branch, releasing a barely visible glow of soothing magic from my fingertips. "This should help you be patient, friend."
Another flight of stairs brought me to the third floor, which housed my personal library. It was the perfect place to hide away, and littered with books, shelves of them,stacks of them, piled nearly to the ceiling in places. The room was utterly disorganized, yet entirely beautiful. To have such a room in an orderly, magical house like Pemberley was something I considered a personal accomplishment.
Over the years, I’d defended my personal library from the well-intentioned hands of housekeepers, butlers, and personal assistants who offered to organize it into something presentable. I intended my library to be private and personal. In short, the opposite ofpresentable.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I ushered myself inside and closed the door behind me, safe from the demands of being Pemberley’s fae princess. I needed a space where our staff knew not to disturb me because the rest of the gothic manor I called home had little privacy, especially during December. The estate was a popular destination for tourists, social elites, aristocratic fae, and our many distant relations who claimed to be “close” family.
Even though our parents passed years ago, my brother and I kept the home open through the holiday season as a royal pillar of fae strength and a beacon to our kind, fulfilling our obligations to the community, and all that. Honoring our parents' traditions was away for Darcy and me to hold on to what we'd lost when an accident claimed their lives.
I ran my fingertips over the spines of the classics collection. The gray December skies outside contrasted with the poinsettias and glowing fireplace in the corner. It seemed like a day for something a little forlorn. Bronte, maybe.
I collected a stack of books and settled into a window seat overlooking the grounds. But I set them aside momentarily, because first I had to look over my letter.
My heart rate picked up just a little as I slid the ribbon from the carefully folded paper. I’d received my first note over two years ago when hosting a masquerade at Pemberley. But the letters stopped until three months ago, when they randomly picked up again.
Georgiana,
To hold your hand and walk in the rain, or share a dessert for two. Thousands of memories, imagined, etched in my heart when I dream of you.
Memories imagined. Romantic, probably, depending on who wrote it. Part of me didn’t want to know. For now, my mysterious admirer could be anyone I dreamed up, and I doubted reality could ever match my imagination.
“Too bad you’re scared to show your face,” I muttered.
Don’t be ridiculous;my face is gorgeous.I sensed my orchid, Vanda's, reply as she reached her plum-colored petals toward the sky from her porcelain bowl on the windowsill.
I smiled but didn’t respond. Communicating with plants could border on absurdity.I refrained from admitting to Darcy that I had a secret admirer and enjoyed the letters because he’d certainly see them as juvenile. Full-grown adult that I was, I mentioned them to no one except Rosie and Vanda. Since they were literally plants, only I could understand them.
I tucked a few cushions behind my back and under an elbow, intending to lose myself in my book. But I struggled to focus on the wintry English moors in the narrative. They were too similar to my current reality and not the escape I needed.
So, I gazed out the paned glass from the third-floor window. Miles of forests, rustic pathways, and occasional cottages surround Pemberley. Patches of snow and barren oak trees perfectly illustrated the gray December day.Among the flood of tourists on the ground floor below, an elderly couple bundled up in theirwinter coats faced the chilly air and climbed the steps to the main entrance. They'd enjoy their visit. Our accommodating staff would greet them, and the art collection and Christmas displays were second to none.
We had sequestered my private rooms and library off from the tourist areas. So when a strange young woman with dark hair wandered into my room, I nearly jumped out of my skin.I tumbled out of the window seat and onto the floor, then pulled myself up. “Oh my goodness, you scared me to pieces!”
“So sorry. I didn’t realize anyone else was in here...” The girl paused, brushed back a lock of chocolate-brown hair, and squared her shoulders. She was pretty but looked worried about something.
"May I ask your name?"
She glanced around my library with wide eyes. “I’m a journalist. My name is Lizzy. I’m doing a piece about the art collection here. Again, sorry for intruding.”
Something about her was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. Even so, she seemed harmless enough, and Pemberley's magic had a tendency to land people in just the right place. So, I did my best to be a gracious hostess. “Understandable. It gets pretty hectic when we host the holiday open houses. My name is Georgiana Valemont.”
Lizzy’s mouth fell open. “You’re Darcy’s sister?”
