The night air sliced into her lungs, sharp and metallic, colder than it ought to be.
“Begging your pardon, Miss. But you looked like you could use a drink,” an unwelcome intruder said, interrupting her sobs.
Wiping away the last of her tears, she turned and found an unfamiliar usher holding a snifter of brandy for her. “Thank you,” she croaked as she took it from him.
Brandy had never been a favorite of hers, but she was desperate for the cordial’s promised reprieve. She took an eager swallow. An unusual sweetness coated her mouth, heavy and cloying. A hint of bitterness lingered when she inhaled through her teeth. It wasn’t unpleasant enough to prevent her from tipping the rest of the glass back.
“Thank you, truly. You ought to let Potter know he’s chosen the wrong maker, though.” She thrust the glass back into the man’s hand.
“Who?” he asked, head tilting to one side as he assessed her.
“Potter, he’s at the bar. This one has nearly gone off.” She clarified, indicating the glass.
“Oh, of course. Anything else I might fetch? For your relief.”
“No, thank you,” she said. Behind him, the door opened again. The jovial clink of ivory chips, winning jeers, and the quartet’s rich melody poured out. Lady Arabella slipped onto the balcony.
The usher used the opportunity to slide toward the door, the dissonance dulling with the click of the latch following his exit.
“Are you alright?” Lady Arabella asked, her expression awash with false concern.
“Of course I’m not alright,” Eliza snapped, weariness dripping off each word. And shewasexhausted. Weeks of emotional upheaval and sleeplessness weighed on her spirit and her body. “Why should you care?”
“I— You should not be out here on your own.”
“It’s my father’s club. The only danger to me here is your brother.”
The lady merely shook her head, then stepped forward to rest a hip against the balustrade beside Eliza.
“I know you think him a villain. And in some respects, you are correct—he did set out to deceive you. But even if your father hadn’t sent him away, he wouldn’t have been able to go through with it.”
A hysterical, bitter giggle bubbled up in Eliza’s chest. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am quite serious. You have no idea what he’s endured for his failure.”
“His failure,” Eliza repeated, another paradoxical chortle brewing in her chest. “I rather think he was quite successful in his plan to ruin me. I amruined. I could never accept him, even if he wished it—which he does not. Still, he’s ruined me for anyone else. And I am just... so tired. Tired of the back and forth, of fighting with my family, of wishing I could excise him from my heart. I need it to be done.”
Eliza turned and slumped against the stone rail behind her, her legs and shoulders heavy with the weight of her burdens. Her thoughts drifted curiously, morphing and twisting, refusing to hold shape.
“Are you alright?” Bella repeated.
The door clanged open again. The sound was too loud, too bright. The jeering laughter and discordant music fractured the peace Eliza had found on the balcony. A masked gentleman stepped out. He held up a cigar by way of explanation, then moved toward the opposite end of the balcony to allow the ladies their privacy.
“I told you?—”
“Physically, I mean. You seem peaked.” Bella’s eyes narrowed.
Eliza giggled again, the absurdity of the situation in stark contrast to the heaviness in her heart.
Hands clamped on her shoulders, jerking her upright. Bella’s gaze roved over Eliza, examining her critically. Eliza swayed uneasily in the grasp, the glow of the cigar beyond Bella spinning.
“That man—the one who brought you a drink—did you know him?” Bella shook her.
Eliza batted weakly at her companion’s overzealous grip. “Let me go,” she protested. “My father always hires extra staff for the ball.”
“Oh God,” Bella whispered.
The gentleman suddenly appeared behind Bella’s head. He did the most peculiar thing: He plucked her silver hairpin free from her waves. More astonishing, he then gripped the pin in his fist like a knife.
