Gritting my teeth, I force myself to meet his gaze. “There’s a word where I come from, and perhaps I should have used it sooner, for I’m certain it is a word well-known in Faerwyvae as well. The word isno.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “You truly are clever—”
“Gemma!” a female voice says with a gasp. I don’t need to look to know who it belongs to.
Today of all days,I mutter to myself. With all the effort I can manage, I plaster a smile over my lips to conceal the snarl I’d rather show, and face my nemesis.
Imogen.
3
Imogen greets me with a superficial hug, oblivious to the books I hold between us. “Dearest Gemma,” she says, her blonde curls bobbing beneath her pink hat. “I was so put out when I arrived at your house and you were not in. Did you forget our plans for tea?”
“I did not forget them, for we never made them,” I say. “I recall youtellingme you’d be over for morning tea, but I do not believe I affirmed I would be home to receive you.”
She laughs, but her blue eyes go steely. “You’re so funny, Gemma. However, your father wouldn’t like to hear of you missing any of our dates.”
“No,” I say with a sigh, “I doubt he would.” Curse my father for setting me up with Imogen Coleman, daughter of the vile woman he’s been courting since we arrived in Vernon. She calls herself my friend, but in truth, she’s more like my jailer. Here to keep me prim, proper, and well out of scandal’s vicious grasp.
“It’s a good thing I knew just where to find you.” She then turns to the infernal man next to me. “I see you’ve met Mr. Aston already. We’re old friends.”
Ugh, of course they know each other.
“A pleasure to see you again, Miss Coleman,” he says with a nod. “I wasn’t aware your family would be vacationing here.”
She swats him playfully on the arm. “You should know better by now. My family should be expected at all the liveliest social seasons.”
“Yes. In fact, one would almost say youchasethem.”
I’m taken aback by the jibe, impressed to hear the first intelligent thing from his lips.
Imogen’s face flashes with a scowl, but she quickly replaces her smile. “Mr. Aston, you must escort us home and carry Miss Bellefleur’s books.”
“No,” I say before he can take a step toward me. “I’m desperate for some time alone with my dear friend.” Words I never expected I’d come to say about Imogen, that’s for sure.
Mr. Aston frowns, hands extended toward the books I hold in a viselike grip.
“Ah, Mr. Aston,” comes the bookseller’s voice. “I overheard your love forInfinite Suffering in the Garden of Happenstance.If you enjoy that, I have a new book all the intelligent young men are raving about.”
My companion perks up at that. “Yes! Yes, I would like to see this book indeed. I will leave you two to talk amongst yourselves. I do know how ladies love to gossip.” With a wink, he rushes to join Mr. Cordell, giving me a glorious escape.
Well, sort of. There’s still Imogen.
We exit the bookshop, which sends my stomach plummeting. Gone is the comforting smell of paper, the dim indoor light, replaced instead with blinding white snow and crowds. At least my anxiety has all but retreated in the wake of my rage at Mr. Aston. It makes returning to the busy streets much easier to bear than it had been when I first set off. It’s always like this when I leave the house these days. Terrible at first, most often from the vantage inside my own head. Then nearly as bad when I first step outside. But I grow used to it as my memories of the past fail to materialize in the present.
This is here. This is now.
Imogen points across the street. “Oh my goodness. Is that…a fae?”
I follow her line of sight to the elegant hotel-to-be still under partial construction. Outside it, a male figure with brown hair and horn-rimmed spectacles confers with a copper-haired woman next to him. While the woman appears human, aside from her odd choice of clothing—a brocade coat in vibrant chartreuse—the male has distinctly pointed ears. The sidewalk around them is nearly empty, with many crossing the road to give them space. As much as I hate to admit Mrs. Aston being right about anything, it is true that very few fae have come to Vernon so far, and when they do, they tend to be a bit of a spectacle. The two figures across the street, however, don’t seem to notice, as their attention is fixed on the hotel’s facade.
“I can’t believe they’re still working on the Verity Hotel,” Imogen says with a pout. “It’s the only one with space for a proper ballroom. How can we have a true social season without a place to dance?”
I internally roll my eyes. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”
“I wish they’d hurry. You’d think hiring a fae interior designer would make the process faster, not slow it to a snail’s pace.” Imogen continues to glare at the hotel, as if that alone could speed the construction, until a petite young woman approaches.
She wears an enormous blue bonnet—although she looks old enough to wear much more mature fashions—and a gray wool coat with fraying hems. “I’ve picked up your ribbons,” she says to Imogen.
