Imogen doesn’t so much as look at her. “Take Miss Bellefleur’s books, Ember,” she says, pointing at me before she starts off down the sidewalk.
The girl named Ember takes my burden with a warm smile, adding to arms already laden with bags and boxes.
“Thank you,” I say to her, then join Imogen. “Is she a new maid? I haven’t seen you travel with her before.”
Imogen leans in close and mutters, “She’s my stepsister. Might as well make her useful.”
I nearly trip over my boots as I whirl back to the girl, heat rising to my cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were a maid. Here, let me take them back.”
“Really, it’s fine,” Ember says.
“Yes, it’s fine,” Imogen echoes, but with more ice in her tone. She pulls me to face forward, her smile never faltering as she says, “It’s improper to carry your own books, Gemma dear. You’ll never snag a husband like that.”
Her words return my irritation, but they also remind me to replace my mask. My unflustered persona. With more grace than I truly feel, I ask, “And what about your sister? If such a thing is improper for me, is it not improper for her to carry my books?”
She lets out a high-pitched laugh. “Ember isn’t on the market for a husband.Weare. As someone older than you, you must heed my counsel.”
I bite back my retort. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to tell Imogen Coleman to take her counsel and piss right off. But, of course, my father would kill me. My so-called friendship with the girl is probably the only thing keeping him from breathing down my neck every minute of the day to find me a husband.
So instead, I look down my nose at her. “How do you know I even want to marry?”
She meets my gaze, aghast. “Well, we’ve already established you have no merits to recommend you to the fae royals, and becoming one of their prized artisans is the only viable option for an unmarried woman without her own wealth. You don’t sing, you don’t play the pianoforte, and you have no artistic talent. Besides, the Winter Court’s seelie king rarely accepts new artisans, and the unseelie king doesn’t even hold auditions. In fact, even if the unseelie king decided to finally grace us lowly townspeople with his presence, I’d hesitate to suggest you get your hopes up with him. Hardly anyone knows a thing about him, aside from his disdain for humans. I don’t even know his…”
She trails off, her tirade coming to an uncharacteristic pause. I furrow my brow, watching as her eyes glaze over, face blank as if she’s suddenly forgotten what she was saying. Maybe I’ll get lucky and she’ll stop speaking altogether.
Then, just as suddenly as the strange expression came, it disappears with a shake of her head. “No, your destiny lies not with the fae and their elite cities and palaces.” The wistfulness in her tone isn’t lost on me, and I wonder if she’s speaking equally to herself. I’ve heard her lament time and time again that there haven’t been nearly enough fae princes present at any of the other courts’ recent social seasons. Apparently, a royal fae husband equates to the ultimate marital success for human girls in Faerwyvae.
Imogen sighs. “Like me, your place is here, amongst the humans. Which means you must have a husband.”
I clench my jaw, wanting to scream. How are the people here so…so stagnant? So unprogressive? I never considered my previous homes to be amidst advanced society, but everyone I’ve met in Vernon suggests this place is several years—if not decades—behind the times.
Then again, personal experience has proven just how prevalent rigid social structures can be…and the cruelty of those who enforce them. The rumors. The sneers. The leering taunts—
“Mr. Aston is a great option,” Imogen says, startling me from my thoughts. “I will hate you forever if you snag him. Although, I am sure I have lost all chance with him regardless.”
As much as I despise engaging in such trivial conversation, her words have piqued my curiosity. “Why is that?”
“We courted for no more than a week last year, and I’m certain neither of us could stand it. He wanted nothing more than to talk and debate, and I could hardly keep up with the dreary subjects he wanted to chat about. You could tempt him, though. It’s clear he’s already smitten with you. Besides, you both like…books.” She says the last word with a flourish of her hand, her nose wrinkled with distaste.
I lift my chin. “A mutual love for books doesn’t mean I can tolerate tedious conversation with an insufferable fool who thinks so highly of his intellect.”
I catch a stifled laugh and find Ember feigning a cough behind us. Imogen, however, has stopped in her tracks, eyes wide as her cheeks burn pink. “You should not speak of Mr. Aston like that,” she mutters furiously. Gathering her composure, she links her arm through mine, and we begin to walk again. “He could be just what you need, you know.”
I frown. “Just what I need? For what?”
She looks up at me, lips twisted into a knowing smirk. “To secure a husband before everyone here finds out.”
This time, I’m the one pulling to an abrupt halt. “Finds out? About what?”
“Your father told my mother all about it, and she told me.”
A hollow ringing fills my ears, and time seems to slow down and speed up all at once.
When Imogen next speaks, her feigned whisper sounds more like a shout, and it feels like a punch to the gut. “The scandal in Bretton.”
The breath is stripped from my lungs, and my heart slams against my ribcage as I’m suddenly back on that street I was on just months ago. Familiar faces of women I’d once called my friends stand around me, hurling insults.
Whore.
