His hand rose to my face, his thumb brushing my cheek as though committing the shape of me to memory. The kiss he gave me was tender and unhurried, a moment carved out of time itself, as if the river and the night had agreed to grant us this small mercy.
“Promise you will not put yourself in danger,” he said.
His words caught in my chest, sharp and bright and irrevocable. I leaned in once more, resting my forehead against him, drawing strength from the closeness while I still could. “I promise.” Then I retrieved my mask from the cape’s hiddenpocket and stood still while Steele secured it over my curls, his touch lingering in a heartbreaking moment.
The barge eased closer to the bank, the oars slowing until we drifted into the deeper shadow cast by the overhanging trees. A short ladder was lowered over the side.
The men stood back to give me room. One of them murmured, “Godspeed, my lady.” Another inclined his head, solemn and respectful, as though sending me into battle rather than toward music and lantern light.
I placed my foot on the first rung.
Before I could descend further, Finch, who’d climbed down to the bank, stepped forward and offered his hand. His grip was firm, steadying. He lowered his voice so only I could hear. “It would kill him if you were hurt.”
I met his gaze. “Then I won’t be.”
Something like approval crossed his expression. Once my boots touched solid ground, he released my hand.
I did not look back. My heart could not have borne it.
I lifted my chin, drew my cape closed, and went to meet whatever future waited for me.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
The Floralia
The barge that carried the women was quieter than I expected.
There was no laughter, no raised voices, no careless anticipation. They stood or sat apart from one another, cloaks drawn close, masks worn carefully. A few spoke in low voices, but most remained silent, gazes fixed anywhere but upon one another, as though acknowledging the strangeness of our shared journey.
The river slid past in darkness, the steady dip of the oars the only sound that broke the hush. Lanterns hung at the bow and stern, their light deliberately muted, enough to guide but not to comfort. The air was cold, damp with river mist, and I welcomed it. It helped keep my thoughts sharp.
The barge slowed as we neared a landing, the oars lifting in careful unison. Lanterns glimmered ahead, set low along the shore, their glow filtered through branches that hung heavy over the water. Beyond them, the faint outline of a path revealed itself, curving away from the river and into deeper shadow.
This was no public landing. It belonged to private property.
The house itself remained hidden, but its presence announced itself in subtler ways. Music drifted faintly through the trees. Laughter followed, softened by distance. Somewhere beyond the dark, the evening waited for us.
The ladder was lowered, and the women rose as one, movements hesitant, uncertain. One by one, they descended, boots slipping slightly on damp stone, cloaks gathered close. No one spoke. No one lingered.
When my turn came, I stepped down carefully, my boots finding purchase on the uneven ground. The river lapped quietly behind me, already indifferent to what it had delivered.
I did not look back.
The path away from the landing wound through a stand of trees, with lanterns hung at measured intervals to mark the way. To one side, set back from the river and half swallowed by shadow, stood a long, low boathouse, its doors closed and its windows dark. Gravel crunched beneath my boots, the sound swallowed quickly by the night. Some of the women strolled ahead of me, others behind. None by my side. We were a procession without fellowship, drawn forward for different reasons—curiosity, excitement, or something far darker.
As we walked, the house gradually revealed itself.
First, the glow of light through tall windows, softened by heavy draperies. Then the shape of the building itself, long and discreet, and kept deliberately apart from the river to avoid notice. This was not a place meant to impress. It was a place meant to receive.
At the entrance, servants waited. Women servants, their expressions composed, their movements efficient.
Surprisingly, my assumed name was not demanded.
“Your cloak, my lady?” one of the servants asked.
“No, thank you.” I wasn’t the only one who kept hers.
