That shudder rinses me again.
I steel myself against it.
Abigail asks, soft, “Should I add more wood to the fire?”
Kneeling on the rug, I lift my frown to her, ribbons in her hands, then flick my stare to the hearth behind her.
The fire is generous, but it doesn’t roar anymore. Doesn’t matter—I’m not cold.
Abigail has misread my shuddering.
I shake my head, hair falling onto my cheeks. “Let’s just get this over with.”
The hoarseness of my voice screams for lemon and honey tea. I don’t act on the need.
Abigail cuts thick, cream paper, adds it to the pile on my left, and I wrap gift after gift.
The mess is strewn about the rug, little shavings of paper and ribbon resting on the threads tightly woven.
Abigail does most of the work.
I wrap, but she cuts ribbon for me to tie around the packages, hands me cards to address, sorts out the piles for me.
The gifts for James are annoyingly large and clunky, so I just whack a bow onto the easel, embrace it with a ribbon, then stick the address card onto the canvas.
I’m not wrapping that.
Note to self, in all my numb existence, get smaller presents next year.
Next year…
The following New Year, just twelve months away, I might be signing the cards differently.
Now it’sOlivia Craven.
But if I can’t find a way out of this, then this time next year, I won’t be in my bedchamber, I will be in Dray’s, signing these cards,Mrs Olivia Sinclair.
That strikes me still.
It tingles my bones all the way to my fingertips.
My mind spirals.
For some gifts, I’ll need my husband’s name.
Mr and Mrs Sinclair.
No, that’s taken already by Harold and Amelia.
So what will we be?
Dray and Olivia Sinclair… Mr and Mrs Dray Sinclair. Dray Sinclair and wife.
Dray and the deadblood.
My mouth tugs down at the corners.
I lift my dull gaze to Abigail as she tugs a ribbon over the edge of scissors, curling it. Her hand moves expertly, like she’s done this a hundred-million times before.
