4
Before I can think better of it, his name tumbles off my lips. “Thorne—” I realize my mistake at once, and it sends heat blazing in my cheeks. I can’t call himThorne. I shouldn’t even be on a first-name basis with the version of him that lives in my dreams. And I’m not. I never use his name, and he doesn’t even know mine. But in my head, I confess, I may have crossed a line. For there he exists asThorne.
Whispers break out amongst the students, and I feel Sister Agatha’s surprised stare burning into the side of my face. Even more heated might be the scathing look Lina gives me. I can’t bear to meet her eyes. I’m sure she’d shoot daggers from her irises in a silent scolding for my slip in social decorum.
With a feigned calm that I’m sure doesn’t hide my humiliation, I correct my mistake. “Mr. Blackwood.”
“Miss Rose, I presume,” he says, tipping his chin. HisI presumeembarrasses me further, proving that even greeting him with the confidence of his identity was too familiar.
He looks the same as he did when I first laid eyes on him two years ago, with silver-framed spectacles perched on his strong nose, dark hair swept back from his forehead to reveal his widow’s peak and the sharp planes of his face. Though, unlike the first time when I caught sight of his bare forearms, he wears a navy suit jacket over his fully buttoned waistcoat, and his cravat is neatly tied at his throat. Morning light catches on his lenses, obscuring his dark irises for a moment. When his eyes become clear once more, I note a hint of trepidation in them. A wariness. Or an unspoken question.
Something stirs in the back of my mind, and for a moment I picture him with wings and horns—
Wait…why would I think of that? Why would I picture a human man like Thorne Blackwood with wings and horns?
I blink, and the image flees my mind like it was never there to begin.
“Agatha!” Marsh’s voice shatters the air with a frantic note. “What were you thinking letting amanthis far into the convent? He shouldn’t be beyond the parlor.”
Spruce shoots Marsh a weighted look, as does Agatha.
When Marsh proves oblivious to both, Spruce steps in front of her with an exaggerated smile. “That’s not just any man,” she says, speaking slowly, pointedly. “That is Thorne Blackwood from Blackwood Bakery. Our most loyal patron.”
“Oh!” Marsh’s emerald cheeks deepen to forest green. Rarely ever does the rigid Marsh appear flustered. If this situation weren’t so odd, I’d be amused right now. But I’m not amused, I’m…confused.
What in the name of the stars is Mr. Blackwood doing here? Better yet, what does he have to do with—
Stars above.
In my surprise at seeing the man from my dreams, I almost forgot the source of my previous shock.
My parents.
They’ve sent for me.
Before Thorne made his startling arrival, Agatha said my parents sent someone to fetch me. And that someone is…Mr. Blackwood?
“My apologies, Mr. Blackwood,” Sister Marsh says, in an uncharacteristically sweet tone. “Forgive me for my rudeness.”
“No, forgive me,” he says, deep voice almost without inflection. “I should have known better than to enter this far into your sacred space.”
A couple of the older students giggle, likely charmed by his baritone. Not to mention his looks. And his reputation. Blackwood Bakery’s success has made him a household name, one I learned even before I first caught sight of him in the field two years ago. I’m not the only student with a crush on him, for he’s considered one of the most prominent human bachelors on the isle. In a land ruled by fae where most young ladies dream of marrying fae princes rather than humans, Mr. Blackwood’s popularity is impressive. Honestly, I’m surprised the room hasn’t dissolved into fits and swooning. It isn’t every day a gorgeous man strolls straight into the kitchen of the Celesta Convent School for Girls, much less one with wealth, fame, and status.
“If anyone is to blame, it’s me,” Agatha says, smoothing things over in her bright and bubbly way. “I was simply so excited to tell Miss Rose the news that I forgot to set him up in the parlor first. He must have thought I meant for him to follow.”
“Well, we will remedy that now,” Marsh says, gesturing toward the kitchen door. “Let us speak in the parlor.”
Marsh shuffles into the hallway while Agatha, Spruce, and Mr. Blackwood follow. I try to do so as well, but my feet won’t move. I’m still too overcome. Still half in doubt that I’m not dreaming.
“Go on, you dolt,” Lina whispers, giving me a not-so-gentle shove. It’s enough to shake me out of my stupefaction.
With a fortifying breath, I force my feet to move over the flagstones and follow my teachers into the hall. As soon as I cross the threshold, the kitchen erupts with a frenzy of giddy gossip.
* * *
The only thinglouder than my teacup rattling in its saucer is the thud of my heart. My teachers, our guest, and I sit in the parlor, a bleak room in varying shades of beige from the walls to the furniture. Even the landscape paintings of Starcane fields host this same bland color scheme. The brightest colors in the room belong to my three teachers, their pink, blue, and green features stark against their gray gowns and wimples. I can’t even bring myself to look at Mr. Blackwood. His presence is as sharp as his namesake, constantly tugging at my awareness from the corner of my eye. There’s something smug about his composure, some self-assurance that grates on my nerves. He sits at the far end of the room in a wingback chair near the hearth, leisurely sipping his tea as if he hasn’t just upended a woman’s life. The few glances we’ve exchanged have shown me nothing but his expressionless—albeit handsome—visage, but whenever I look away, I get the feeling he’s smirking at me. But why? And why is he even here?
I’m about to look his way again but stop myself.
