I step closer; I can’t help it. “Gen, I thought you’d be asleep. Are you alright?”
She shakes her head, stepping toward me but holding herself back. “No. No, I’m not alright.”
“Today wasn’t easy. The rot—”
“The rot nearly took Mari from me. She worsened quickly, and I spent all evening at her bedside trying to help her find some relief from her pain. She can’t sleep, can’t seem to find rest. A fever burns through her, and there’s no medicine that can bring her any comfort. Can you help her? From what Leland said in the carriage, it sounded as though you have more experience with the rot than anyone else.”
I don’t respond to what Leland shared in the carriage. There’s no point in discussing that with Genevieve, even if she’s shown me a different side of herself today. Instead, I ask, “Did her doctors bathe her thoroughly? The affected area should always be treated first. The fever and other symptoms should go away with time.”
Her sister shows the classic symptoms of overexposure to helachite, despite only being exposed to the rot. It’s strange—typically, direct contact with the rot leads to rotten skin and, if untreated, a painful death. Perhaps it’s her blue blood that gives her these symptoms.
“She shows no signs of rot on her skin, so I believe she was treated right away. But I worry how she will recover. She’s so terribly ill, Kieran.” Gen’s chin gives a small wobble. She isn’t used to dealing with hardship in her comfortable life, and in moments like this, it shows. That doesn’t discount the pain I now see she’s endured with her gift—or the way her mother controls her every decision—but she hasn’t known loss.
“I wonder if the person doing this is close to your family,” I muse aloud, and Gen immediately looks at me with a cross expression, little scowl lines forming around her full lips.
“You truly hate my family, don’t you?” she snaps. “You must, to say such a thing. It’s obviously someone trying to harm us—someonewho despises us. In fact, none of this became so serious until you arrived.”
I hold up my hands, shocked that she would suggest such a thing. I returned to Naseria ready to make Genevieve Ashcroft understand what it means to feel defeated, to make her recognize that she’s a spoiled brat who’s never known suffering. But now, I’m not even sure that’s true.
My voice comes out harsh as I say, “Gen, I would never harm you or your family with helachite or the rot. It is—I cannot begin to describe the damage it does to a person. I want the guilty party discovered, and I want them held responsible for their actions.”
“The constables are working hard to find the person responsible. It will happen, I’m sure.”
“It damn well better! There’s a dead man who didn’t deserve to die, let alone die in such a painful way. I don’t want there to be another one. These attacks have been far too close to your family. You must consider whether it’s not a servant or someone else who has access to you.”
Gen’s brows crease as she looks away from me. “You truly think it’s someone near our family?” Her eyes dart back to mine, and she moves minutely closer. “No, you’re right. It does seem that way.”
Her face softens, and it catches me off guard. I want to pull her close and protect her. I want to explain all the reasons I’m torn between despising her and desperately wanting to make her my world again. But I don’t. It’s not my place.
“Be safe, Gen.”
“Don’t you want to ruin me, Kieran? Why do you even care?” She steps closer again, close enough that I can smell her sweet scent.
I clench my hands into fists to resist the wave of need to pull her close. She’s all-consuming, and yet she’s my own form of poison. So wrong for me that I know the only antidote is to stay far, far away.
“Against my own judgment, I care for you far too much, Gen.”
Her lips purse tight, and she walks to the hidden doorway. “I think you should listen to your judgment. Good night, Kieran.”
20
Genevieve
The glasshouse is warm on this late winter day, my seventeenth birthday, and I shuck off my wool overcoat before turning to my growing collection of rare plants. There’s a peace in the stillness of this place, one I feel more and more desperate for as my world continues to become more controlled.
My twentieth birthday is only three years away, and already there’s talk of what my gift may be. Last night, Mother even mentioned the need to begin considering suitors for marriage, saying that being wed before her gift manifested had been a good thing.
Gabe, being the annoying brother that he is, said I didn’t need to find a suitor because I’m already in love with Kieran. At that bold proclamation, Mother suggested I should form attachments to boys of my own blood.
Blueblood.
She expects—no, demands—that I marry a blueblood.
But how is that possible when Kieran already has my heart?
The latch on the glasshouse door opens, and I turn to see Kieran step inside, a package resting in his arm.
“Happy Birthday, Gen,” he says, and I rush toward him, throwing my arms around him.
