If I am to be presented as a work of art, this ballgown just might do it. It’s a risk, of course. He could laugh at me. He could claim his future wife must be more aware of the proper state of dress for every time of day.
Still, there are only three games left, and I need to win two of them.
I need to take a risk. One on my own terms.
The music flooding from my phonograph begins to lag, the lilting melody taking on an eerie quality. My heart sinks. I know what that means. The cylinder is losing its charge.
I glance over to where I’ve set the phonograph upon a round ivory-and-gold table. Sure enough, the cylinder’s golden glow has faded to a flickering murky yellow. The glow dies completely as the needle halts over the now-frozen cylinder. Shoulders slumped, I cross the polished wood floors, carpeted in plush floral-printed rugs, to the table. With practiced care, I lift the cylinder from under the needle and bring it to the nearest window. Throwing back the mauve velvet curtains, I look out at the night sky, the deepest indigo dotted with glittering lights. The stars look less plentiful than they do in the Star Court, yet the sight sets me at ease. There’s something about starlight that will always feel like home.
I set the cylinder on the windowsill where it can soak up the glittering illumination and be back in working order by morning, then prop my arms beside it. Leaning my forehead on the glass, I stare down at the scenery one floor down. A labyrinthine garden spans below, one I’ve yet to visit, only seen from my window. It’s wilder than the manicured garden out front, its hedges taller, its flowers larger, its trellises overgrown with ivy. Shadows gather at its center while fireflies—or perhaps some sort of sprite—flit about, lighting paths with their passing.
Yearning burrows deep inside me, the same I once felt for my glade. For solitude in nature. For an unseen dance. It grows, lighting a fire in my heart. I assess the garden with a keener glance, seeking any sign that it’s occupied. It’s near midnight now, and both Minka and Mr. Boris have already retired to their own rooms. I can’t imagine many others are awake. The only reason I am is because my mind wouldn’t let me sleep.
My argument with Thorne resurfaces, making my fingers curl into fists. I need a better distraction than any I’ve attempted tonight. I need fresh air and the night sky. I need the feel of earth beneath my bare feet.
A soft smile warms my lips as I pad back to the wardrobe and extract a long silk robe from inside. I drape it over my linen chemise, securing the tie at my waist. I consider donning more appropriate clothing, including shoes and hose, but that would defeat the purpose. What I need is a sense of freedom. Solitude. Connection with nature.
On bare feet, I slip from my suite and into the hall. It’s dark, the sconces dimmed to a pale glow. As quietly as I can, I descend the stairs and make my way through the manor, relieved when I pass no one. Thorne doesn’t seem to keep the largest staff at the manor, and with dinner having been served many hours ago, I imagine not even the kitchen remains active this late at night.
With the manor so dark, it takes me several tries to find the door that leads to the garden beneath my window. I have to circle back to the main foyer twice before I gather my bearings and locate the part of the manor that is just beneath my suite. Finally, I locate a drawing room with a pair of doors that let out to the tall hedges I’ve been seeking.
My excitement grows as I step onto the path, breathing in aromas of mountain air, rosemary, and spruce. I cross beneath the first trellis, brushing my fingers over the tangled ivy that weaves through it. After a fork in the path, I turn to the right, where the hedges grow taller, thicker. High enough to block the sight of the sleeping manor, my only company the stars overhead. Peace falls over me. I wind through the paths with no agenda, no destination in mind, only mindless comfort.
A giddy urge climbs up my chest, flooding my arms, my legs, my toes. It begs me to dance, or at the very least, skip. So I do, grinning as I leap from one paving stone to the other, then circle in a graceful spin. If anyone could see me now, I’d be embarrassed by my frivolous moment of play. But I’m alone. Free to act as wild and unrestrained as the ivy that serves as my silent companion—
“This is rather childish, don’t you think?”
The words have me halting in place, nearly tripping over my feet. My heart races as I whirl in the direction of the voice—Monty’s—but I see no sign of him. It’s only when he speaks again that I realize how far away he must be.
“Asking me to meet you at midnight? We aren’t the lovestruck youths we once were, Cosette.”
My shoulders sag with relief. He hadn’t been talking to me at all. From the sound of his voice, he must be on a different path on the other side of the dividing hedges. But my relief is soon replaced with a twinge of discomfort. Monty is alone with Cosette. At night. While jealousy or anger would be an acceptable reaction to one’s fiancé meeting another woman, that isn’t what unsettles me. It’s more that I feel I’m invading their privacy. Whatever follows isn’t meant for my ears.
Cosette’s voice comes next. “I wanted to be alone with you. I knew you wouldn’t come to my room nor let me in yours.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Shit. I’m right.
Monty’s reply, however, surprises me. “You need to give up. I’m never going to love you.”
“Then why did you meet me tonight?”
“I was bored.”
The sound of shuffling footsteps.
“You say you’ll never love me,” Cosette says, “yet you always let me touch you.”
A male gasp. Then…a low groan.
My hand flies over my mouth. Stars above, this isdefinitelynot something I’m meant to overhear.
“This is the last time,” Monty says, voice slightly strained.
“Why? Because you’re getting married?”
“No, because I’m tired of you.”
“You don’tfeeltired.”
