“Your dearest friend,” he echoes, a sarcastic bite in his tone.
Thankfully, I must be the only one who catches it, for Imogen only smiles brighter as she links her arm through mine. “Yes, I do adore your steward.”
I widen my eyes to keep from rolling them. It isn’t hard to grasp the truth of the situation. What I’m sure really transpired is she woke up this morning with the realization that I am her only direct link to Elliot. The thought gives me some semblance of vindictive pride, knowing I have such a power over her.
Elliot grimaces and says nothing in reply, but when his eyes flash to me, I give him a warning look. With a subtle flick of my hand, I gesture him forward. Catching the hint, he releases a sigh and descends the front steps at a slow, leisurely pace. I must say, he’s getting quite adept at walking with his prosthetic. Imogen beams as he stops before us, but Elliot says not a word.
Damn it, Elliot! I clear my throat. “Nice weather, isn’t it?”
Elliot furrows his brow, eyes sliding to mine.
“So nice, I imagine the back gardens are just lovely.” I enunciate each word for emphasis.
He frowns, jaw clenched, then faces Imogen with a poorly developed smile. His motions are stiff as he extends his arm. “Would you like to take a walk with me?”
Imogen takes his arm with enthusiasm, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings as she presses close to his side. My breath catches at the sight of them touching, seeing her hand placed exactly where mine had been just last night. But why should that bother me? It’s just a hand. An arm. Simple contact.
Simple. Until it’s not.
“I most certainly would!” Imogen says. “Does your garden have any of the Winter Court’s famous snow-loving flowers? I have yet to see a single fae garden planted in Vernon.”
“It’s mostly hedges,” he says flatly. “There is very little magic at the manor.”
Her face falls a bit. “Oh. Well, I do love a well-manicured hedge. Will you show me?”
His eyes flash to mine, and I can almost see the wordhelppulsing within them. However, I’ve learned my lesson about interfering when Imogen is around. He’s on his own.
He holds my gaze a few seconds longer, then it’s as if a shroud is lifted from over his face. In the blink of an eye, his expression transforms from dour to radiant, and he turns a warm smile to Imogen. “Yes, I will show you.”
Side by side, they turn around and head for the back gardens.
“I suppose you’re stuck with me now,” Ember says.
I turn to face her with surprise, having almost forgotten her quiet presence. Something about her gentle manner calms my nerves, stills my aching heart. “Come, we must not fall too far behind.”
“No, of course not. For that would be highly improper.” Her tone is sweet yet subtly mocking in a way I don’t think I could ever pull off myself.
I look at her with fresh eyes. In the short time I’ve known her, I’ve found her far more likable than her stepsisters. And the more I’m in her company, the more I recognize the silent rebel hiding inside.
Linking arms, we trail behind the couple, keeping them in sight but not sound, just how I’m sure Imogen prefers.
“This is the only reason she brought me,” Ember says. “Well, two reasons. First, so I would be paired with you if her grand scheme were to come to fruition and she managed to snag an invitation to converse with Mr. Rochester. Second, so I would pose no threat in attracting your employer’s attention.”
I frown, assessing the girl at my side. She wears a heavy overcoat in a pastel pink, fraying at the hems. Today’s bonnet is white patterned with daisies. “How old are you, Ember?”
“Seventeen.”
So she’s a year younger than Imogen and a year older than Clara. “Why does your family treat you so poorly?”
“Well…” She hesitates, as if searching for words. Then a crash erupts behind us, and Ember surges forward, almost falling. I startle, pulling away from her. She whirls around and I do the same. But just as I do, a weight strikes the front of my cloak. Chunks of snow slide off the wool and fall to the ground at my feet.
I lift my eyes to find Micah, head thrown back with laughter. Two other heads, then a third, peek from behind the coach, a tree, and a hedge. “Attack!” shouts Micah.
All four children spring forward, grinning wildly while they hurl balls of white ice. With a shout, I scurry back, panic heating my cheeks. Ember, however, dives to the ground and gathers snow inside her gloved hands.
“What are you doing?” I ask her, barely dodging in time to avoid an icy missile thrown by one of the boys.
Ember hurls her makeshift ball of snow and strikes Micah in the chest. I expect him to react with anger, but he…laughs. Ember squeals as another child—the girl—hits her with a ball to the shoulder. “You’ve never had a snowball fight?”
