Amelie covers her mouth, nearly spitting tea. “She asked you to replicate it because it’s funny.”
He huffs. “I fail to see the difference between my artistic interpretation of a human parlor and an actual one.”
She leans forward and pats his hand. “Which is why you should listen to me next time. Is that not why you brought me along? For my artistic eye and human sensibilities?”
I clear my throat, reminding them I’m still here. It doesn’t do the trick.
“I’ve had about enough of human sensibilities,” Foxglove says. “I swear, this town is probably the stuffiest I’ve ever had the horror to work in. I’m supposed to design a ballroom that is neither too human nor too fae. And heaven forbid it inspire carnal desires. What else is a ball to do? Better yet, what am I to do with the furnishings the board has rejectedagain?”
“It is a shame,” Amelie says. “The furnishing themselves weren’t bad. Just the presentation. If you hadn’t covered everything in doilies, pocket watches, and rugs, it would have been fine.”
My pulse races at their words, and I rush to speak before they can continue to ignore me a second longer. “Mr. Foxglove, I came to speak to you about your services, and they may benefit your situation. My employer would like to…spruce up his vacation manor, and we will gladly take whatever furnishings you can provide, so long as they are fashionable and in good condition. We may also need minor renovations. We will compensate you handsomely, of course. In addition, we require discretion and will pay for that as well.”
Foxglove looks me over as if seeing me for the first time. “Discretion? Who is your employer?”
“He’s a fae royal, but he prefers to avoid undue attention to his title,” I say. “As he will be entertaining human guests, he must have suitable decor as soon as possible. Is there any chance we can steal you away from your work here? Just for a time. A consultation at the very least.”
He ponders for a moment, then takes a sip of tea. “I suppose I could take leave while we await the next shipment of furniture. The ballroom is all that’s left to furnish.”
A flush of excitement washes over me, radiating down to my hands. They tremble as I pull a folded card from the pocket of my cloak and hand it to the fae.
“Thirty-three Whitespruce Lane,” he reads, taking the card from me.
“Please call on us as soon as you can. We’d like to have the manor improved at once.”
He nods and tucks the paper into his coat. “Very well. Any other demands on my time, tall human?”
“Well…while I’m here,” I say, “there’s another service I’d like to secure that requires some discretion as well. Is there anyone you would recommend to fit my employer for a new wardrobe? And perhaps a trusted barber willing to travel to perform a haircut and shave?”
“Hair is a little beneath me these days,” Foxglove says, bringing a hand to his chest. Then his expression turns wistful. “But I do miss it from time to time. I’ll see what kind of magic I can work on your employer.”
Little does he know, it will certainly take magic to turn the grizzled king into the Elliot Rochester he needs to become, but I keep that part to myself. “As for his wardrobe?”
Foxglove shakes his head, but Amelie leans forward and lights her hand on my forearm. With a wink, she says, “I’ll take care of his clothes. It’s sort of my specialty.”
17
My relief at securing my first task is all that keeps my legs from feeling like lead as I drag myself to my next destination. The nearer I get, the more my stomach begins to churn. I can’t believe I’mchoosingto call upon Imogen Coleman.
Think about the money and the freedom, I remind myself. There’s something else I look forward to lurking beneath that, something I hardly dare to admit.Think about the look on her face when she realizes she’s been duped.
I arrive at the door to the townhouse and knock, my carefully curated outer persona firmly in place. A maid answers and invites me inside. I barely take two steps before Imogen all but tumbles down the stairs, eyes wide when they meet mine. She looks me over, then rushes to take my hands.
“Tell me it isn’t true,” she says, voice low.
“What isn’t true?”
Cheeks tinged pink, she looks like she’s on the verge of exploding. “I called upon you this morning and you weren’t home. Your sister, however, informed me of the most distressing news.”
My heart leaps into my throat. That means Father and Nina received my letter.
Imogen squeezes my hands tight in her grasp. “Tell me you did not get ajob.” The last word is said with so much disgust, one would think she was talking about murder.
“I did—”
Before I can say another word, she pulls me toward the stairs, one hand still clenched around mine. I snatch my fingers away and follow her at a more moderate pace. She reaches the top landing and begins to tap her foot while she waits for me to meet her there. With every step I climb, I relish her annoyance.
“My dear Gemma, I am so upset with you I can hardly find the words,” she mutters once I reach her. She then leads me to the door I recognize as belonging to their parlor. Strains of piano music float from the other side, a sound so peaceful and elegant, it momentarily roots me to the spot. Imogen, far less moved by the melody, throws open the doors and stalks into the parlor. “Enough, Ember.”
