I’m under the warmth of the heavy duvet, but it feels lumpy and claustrophobic.
I kick them off, and I’m too cold without them.
Dawn comes, and it feels too soon but it also takes so long to lighten the horizon.
I suspect I only got a couple of hours sleep fractured through the night.
I’m quick to get up, shower, and dress for breakfast, but when Abigail comes into the bedchamber, pushing a trolley that’s stacked with tureens and fruit bowls and coffee pots, it’s clear I’m not invited to eat in the dining hall.
Abigail leaves the trolley and rushes out of here like her skirt is on fire.
Maybe Mother ordered her to stay clear of me.
Part of my punishment.
Cut me off from even more people.
No cell to use, no friends to visit, no chimes to ring the rotary phone, and so I suspect my calls are being intercepted by the staff and not forwarded to my room, because I damn well know Serena is too gossip-hungry to not call and find out what the hell is going on.
My family cut me off from the world, from people, and I have that weighty sensation pulling down on my insides, a realisation that this will be my life. Forever.
There is no other suitor coming to save me.
Dray stands at the end of my path.
My father will take my hand, like he did at the ball, and pass it to Dray’s.
And that will be that.
I would be a fucking moron to think, even for a second, Dray won’t be doing the same as my father, cutting me off from everyone and anyone at my slightest misstep.
And I’m a bit of a fuckup.
I imagine I’ll be misstepping so much that I’ll be practically stumbling through life.
A sigh sags me as I drop onto the sofa.
The mess of a ransacked wardrobe is discarded all over the rug and armchairs and coffee table.
I leave it, because I give up on this whole packing alone thing.
I need Abigail.
Even if she is a traitor, she’s a good packer.
I eye over the mess for a while, too long, and my mind keeps drifting away from me.
I flop onto my back.
The cushions hiss as my weight sinks into them, flattens them slowly, and I stare up at the chandelier. It glitters, clean, so clean, and dances with the reflections of artificial lights.
But even with a half-dozen lamps on, the glum of the winter darkens the bedchamber—or maybe that’s my mood reflecting all around me.
It’s a mood that startles when the door rattles with a faint knock.
Quick as lightning, I sit up and stare at the door.
The knock is recognisable. A quick rap of the knuckles, lazy but firm.
