Just to be sure, I halt before the next stranger I pass, a lanky human man with a long gray mustache. I grab him by the lapels. “My mother is a fox.”
I wait for pain, for a tightening in my lungs, but it doesn’t come.
“I’m a fucking fennec. My father is a liar and a cheater and a whore.”
“Good God,” the man says with a huff, shaking me off and dusting his lapels with gloved hands. He scurries away as if he fears he might catch my madness.
It worked. It really worked. I’m nearly sick with joy. There are so many people I want to tell. Thorne, who will be enraged that I kept such a secret from him but will probably relate to me most. He’s had to deal with his own family secrets, and he’ll hate that I never let him be there for me. And Briony, who might forgive me just a little more for being so goddamn annoying when we were engaged. I had reasons for not wanting to marry her, for being desperate to give my father cause to disinherit me. Angie needs to know too. It’s time I stopped keeping her in the dark and acknowledge she’s stronger than I’ve given her credit for. She deserves the truth. Of course, Edwina and William will get a kick out of this too.
But most of all…
Daphne.
I must tell Daphne that there’s nothing standing between us now. There’s no need to keep our love hidden. No limits to where our relationship can go.
My rational side reminds me to check my pocket watch and see how much time I have left until my workday starts, but I can’t pay the ticking hands much heed. I have to see her. Now.
I hail the first hansom cab I find, directing the coachman to Fletcher-Wilson headquarters in the business district. Traffic is slow on Verbena Street, so I get out a couple blocks early, pay the driver, then jog the rest of the way. That’s when I see what’s causing so much commotion. Figures crowd the sidewalk holding signs and chanting slogans. Something about smut and bare chests.
I stride for the front doors, but a woman intercepts me. “Good sir, will you sign my petition to keep bare chests off book covers?”
“Fuck off,” I say and brush past her. At her shocked gasp, I halt to face her with an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry. That was rude to say to a lady. What I meant waskindlyfuck off.”
I don’t bother stopping at reception and instead climb the stairs to the editorial floor. It’s a flurry of commotion, making it impossible to spot Daphne. I stride between desks, overwhelmed by the chaos. I wonder if this is how Daphne feels in new or crowded places, assaulted by sound and confusion.
“What are you doing here?”
I whirl toward the familiar voice, but it takes me a moment to locate its source. Finally, I find a paper pixie lounging on her belly on an ink pot, a manuscript open on the desk before her. I haven’t seen Araminta in her unseelie form since the day I reunited with Daphne outside the break room. But if she’s here…
“Where’s Daphne?”
With lazy motions, she flips the page of the manuscript to read the next. “She’s probably at the train station by now.”
“What do you mean she’s at the station?”
“Her book covers were canceled and her promotion was postponed or something.”
My heart slams down to my feet. “Why did she go to the station?”
“Mr. Fletcher gave her the rest of the day off, and she said something about catching the noon train.”
“To where?”
“Beats me. I’m too depressed for cognition.” She turns another page of the manuscript. “Why else do you think I’m reading bad queries?”
I run a hand over my face as dread settles into my chest. There’s only one place I can think she’d go after learning her career goals have imploded.
She’s given up, taunts the dark side of my heart.Without her career, she has nothing to free her from her handfasting. You were never enough. Of course she ran away.
She left. She fucking left. Before I could tell her…
Everything inside me wants to shrivel.
You never should have confessed your heart to her. It’s only going to hurt more to lose her.
But I don’t have to lose her. Not anymore. I can be what she needs me to be.
You can never be what she needs. She was here for her illustration career, not you?—
