“Well—”
“And maybe you and Rosalie would prefer Christopher and I scarper off for a bit while you chat?”
It’s like something is squeezing at her stomach, roiling hope and fear and elation together. “I—”
“And you’d like to tell me what’s going on, but it feels like Rosalie already should have, and this is rather awkward?”
The words stick in her throat, confusion and relief swirling in her chest.
“It really has been obvious for ages,” Amalie says, her voice a bit softer.
“Has it?” Catherine mumbles.
“Rosalie’s never beenthisobsessed with anyone. And you may think you’re rather sly, but you can’t stop staring at her anytime you’re together.”
Are her cheeks actually bursting into flame? “You don’t mind?” Catherine whispers.
Shit.Shit. She didn’t mean to say—Rosalie’s the one who should tell her—she only meant to ask for help, not to—this isn’t her secret to—
“Believe me, if Henrietta and I had felt anything the one time we kissed, we’d have run off into the mountains,” Amalie says easily, glancing over her shoulder at MissTeit, who has stopped to pretend to admire a shop window some thirty paces back.
“You and Henrietta?” Catherine manages to ask, her throat tight.
“Once. Just to see what it felt like,” Amalie says with a shrug. “You never kissed a friend?”
Catherine worries at her gloves, her face and neck still scaldingly hot. “I did,” she admits softly. “She didn’t feel the same way.”
“And Rosalie does feel the same way?” Amalie asks, her voice lilting, knowing, just shy of teasing.
Catherine shrugs, meeting her eyes briefly. “I won’t kiss and tell. At least not if she hasn’t.”
Amalie shakes her head. She bumps her hip against Catherine’s as they head for the entrance to Sydney Gardens. “You both liked it,” Amalie says.
“Yes,” Catherine whispers, glancing at her to find Amalie looking back, completely at ease, completely without judgment.
“And you don’t think it might feel the same with Mr.Dean?” Amalie asks.
“No,” Catherine says, quick, easy, sure. “Not at all. I—I don’t want to kiss anyone else. Ever,” she adds, letting the word slip through unbidden. Giving it joyous voice.
“Good,” Amalie says decisively, her calm, measured look melting into a true smile. “Rosalie deserves someone who wants only her.”
“I do,” Catherine assures her.
Is this what it’s like to belong somewhere? To be accepted? Like a warm hug and a hot cup of tea and a beautiful sunrise all at once?
She feels like she could fly. Mother waswrong.
“Good,” Amalie repeats, squeezing her elbow. “Rosalie’s spent our whole lives making sure Henrietta and I end up with the right people. It’s only fair she does too.”
That warm feeling oozes slowly out of her chest. “I wish I knew how to make it that simple.”
Amalie hums. “It is more complicated than letting Mr.Dean pick his prize.”
“Oh, ick,” Catherine exclaims.
Amalie laughs and leads her across the street and around the Sydney Hotel into the verdant gardens. “I could help you out, if you’ll return the favor.”
Catherine looks down at her. “Oh?”
