Blinking back tears, I pull my sister to my chest. One of her arms circles my waist. “You haven’t lost me.”
“But I will,” she says through her sobs. “I lost Mother and Marnie already. I’ll be married to James soon and then…and then what, Gem?”
Another painful lump rises in my throat, one bearing the secret I haven’t dared share with her—about my plans to leave Faerwyvae and return to Isola. So I tell her the only honest answer I can give. “I don’t know, Nina. I really don’t know.”
Once our tears have somewhat dried, we manage to extricate ourselves from each other’s grasp. Only then do I see what kept my sister from hugging me with both arms; against her side she carries a book. With a sniffle, she holds it out to me. “I thought you might want something to read.”
I take the book gingerly in my hands, caressing the cloth-bound spine like the body of a lover. My lips curl into a smile as I read the title.The Governess and the Earl.
My sister straightens, composing herself and clasping her hands at her waist. “If you want the rest of your books, you’ll have to visit me.”
“You’re holding my books for ransom?” I laugh, then give her arm an affectionate squeeze. “Thank you.”
With a sad smile, she nods and returns to Father’s coach. I remain in place, watching as the horses take the black coach away, then stare even longer after they’re gone. Only then does my heart feel lighter, relief settling over me. With a sigh, I hug my book to my chest and turn back toward the manor. I’m halfway to the door when I recall how Elliot had stepped between me and my father. The way he revealed his identity just to get him to stand down. It was unexpected to say the least. And I’m grateful for it.
A smile tugs my lips, but I force the thoughts from my mind. For just beneath them lies my poorly discarded mental note, one involving a brief touch and the king’s chest. I squeeze my book tighter to stop the tingling that dances over the surface of my palm.
21
I’m surprised how quickly the manor starts to improve. Walls are scrubbed, some are repainted or repapered. With the help of the manor’s residents, the floors are cleaned, corners dusted, and windows polished. As the week goes on, I continue to dole out tasks, helping with some myself, and assign official positions to the king’s pack of wolf people. I’m impressed with how amenable they are to work, as if the prospect of keeping busy is a tantalizing thing. I suppose five years trapped in one place without task or purpose will do that to a person, whether human or fae.
By the end of the week, Foxglove has brought all necessary furnishings and the old items have been stored in vacant rooms. Most of the work that remains are finishing touches, which results in several talks with Foxglove about the number of doilies each room should have.
“Are you sure you like the fae style of this room?” Foxglove asks as he takes me on a tour of the newly finished parlor. “We could try the human style instead, if you like. I have several hat stands and grandfather clocks that were rejected from the Verity Hotel’s design proposal.”
I take in the freshly cleaned walls, the gleaming floors covered in plush, elegant rugs, the fashionable furniture. “No, Foxglove. This is perfect as it is.”
“I’m so glad you like it.” He grins, but it soon turns into a grimace. “Hopefully the bristly Mr. Rochester won’t have too many complaints.”
“I’m sure he’ll find it lovely,” I say, although I can’t be certain what he’ll think of it.
I’ve hardly seen him since his confrontation with my father. Once work began on the parlor, he made himself scarce. I imagine he’s been holed up somewhere by the fire in a quiet wing of the manor, far from the noise. I can’t say I blame him. It’s been chaos around here, with hardly a place to sit and ruminate like he’s so fond of doing.
Foxglove extends his hand toward the wall of windows at the other side of the room. “Come see the work in the garden.”
I follow him to the windows, the afternoon sun streaming in from outside. Today, the sky is bright and clear instead of cloudy, a light dusting of snow coating the leaves of plants and shrubs like powdered sugar. It’s been interesting to watch the weather patterns from the manor. There’s always snow on the mountains, but just like in town, never a massive accumulation of it on the property. And unlike Vernon where foot traffic makes the snow slushy and brown by the end of each day, it’s always pristine here.
I study the swarm of activity in the gardens as the landscapers Foxglove helped me hire set about their tasks. Hedges are trimmed, shrubs are shaped, and debris is hauled away in wheelbarrows. “It’s turning into an elegant garden indeed,” I say.
“They’re working on the front too. Although,” Foxglove points out one of the windows, squinting, “any idea why your employer refuses to let us enter that courtyard? It’s a mess. Brambles and thorns everywhere. And one single rose, nearly smothered by thorns.”
My heart leaps into my throat, knowing exactly what part of the garden he’s referring to. That’s where I’ve caught Elliot sitting, watching that very rose. The one that counts down to the day the curse will claim his life. I shudder at what could happen if anyone were to accidentally brush up against it, dislodge its petals. “It’s a sacred place, Foxglove. Do not let anyone set foot in it.”
He frowns, releasing an irritated sigh. “Fine, fine. Mr. Rochester said as much.”
“Thank you,” I say. “It’s very important.”
“Very well.” He turns to face me and reaches inside his jacket to retrieve an envelope. “Here’s my bill for this week. There won’t be much more to do next week, so whatever grand event you’re preparing for can probably commence.”
I take the bill from him, my pulse quickening at the mention of thegrand event. In other words, phase two. Everything has happened so fast, I’ve hardly had time to plan Elliot’s first meeting with Imogen. “Wonderful,” I say. “I’ll see that you are paid as soon as possible.”
He nods with a warm smile, then takes his leave. As soon as he’s gone, I rush to the new bureau—one of rich mahogany—and take out a new piece of paper. There I start my list of ideas and tally everything I’ll need to execute my phase two plan. I’m so engrossed in my work, I don’t even notice the figure that stalks into the room.
“Where is my chair?” asks a gruff voice.
I whirl to find Elliot standing before the fire, glaring at the elegant furnishings that have been placed around the hearth.
It takes me a few moments to compose myself, blinking away the numbers and calculations that dance over my eyes and turn my attention to the king. He’s back to walking with his staff instead of his prosthetic, but his clothing is new. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t wear a full suit, but at least he’s chosen a nice pair of trousers, the leg neatly folded and pinned on his amputated side, as well as a crisp white shirt and open waistcoat. “Take your pick,” I say, recalling his question.
