And then Rascal bays.
I freeze, and Bram’s body goes rigid. The knob clicks on the door to my chamber, the hinges creaking open.
Mother stands at the threshold, putrefaction in her eyes.
twenty-three
Mother cuts a sharp figure against the soft glow of the chamber. Her face pinches, and though she is a small thing, her anger swarms around us like oil. Bram rolls off the bed, hastening for his buttons and the slack buckle of his belt.
“I—gods below and above,” he sputters, cheeks more alive and burning than I have ever seen them. Bram brushes fingers through his hair.
“Get out.” Mother’s voice is as sharp as cut steel. “Now.”
Bram takes a step forward, mouth open, gathering courage. “Mistress Thorn, if I could just—”
“I don’t give a damn about what you could or could not do, Mr. Avery. I saidget out.” She kicks the door open wider, and Rascal whines. “And take that mangy creature with you.”
I open my mouth to protest, collect myself just enough to ask her to stop, but when I sit up higher on the bed, my voice squeaks. “Mother, please—”
“I don’t enjoy being ignored,” she snaps. The edge in her voice frightens me more than the darkness seeping into the chamber. “Take that dog, Mr. Avery, and get out of my daughter’s room.”
Bram’s eyes dart to me, begging me to open my mouth, to tell her off, to beg for him to stay. But I can’t come up with anything. My body tenses like a freshly strung bow.
“I’ll see you at the party, Bram.”
There is betrayal in his face when he hurries across the room and past Mother, Rascal behind him. My stomach folds, and once more, I am just a girl wilting in the presence of someone who thinks they know what is best for me. But when doIget to make that decision? When is it time for my voice to be loudest?
Tension swims thick as Bram leaves the room. My mother’s eyes trail him and then back, hard on me. I push myself up more, but her gaze is piercing.
“Do you hate him?” I ask.
She blinks. “Don’t be ridiculous, Morning Glory. You can’t hate someone you don’t know.”
Saliva sticks hot in my throat. “But youdoknow him. You said—”
“I know him merely as the young man who died back home, nothing more.”
Back home.
I scramble forward in the bed, sheets scratching my skin. “Mother, I was thinking, once we’ve attended this party and all, we could…” The words stop halfway up my throat. I swallow, force them past my teeth. “We could go home. Back to Father and the vicarage and Rixton.”
Her face lights up like candle-glow, only to be blown out by a shadow leaking from her steely irises. “Why would we do that?”
I wait, listening for more, hoping her lips will break out in a laugh and she will reassure me she is only teasing. That, of course, we can go home. But she doesn’t. Her face only twists into shapes I do not recognize. I do not answer her, too stunned for words.
Mother strides deeper into the room and throws a dress on the bed. “Istelle will be up shortly to help you dress.” She turns to leave but sets her eyes on me. “Be careful, Adelaide. You’ll be deciding where your allegiances lie before the end.”
The door slams, and I am left with my skin burning. Both from the pain of Mother’s words and from where Bram traced me with his lips. I try to blink away the thought of her not coming home, but it clings to me like houndstooth weed, sinking into my flesh.
Shewillcome home. I will make sure of it. If not, what will there beto go home to? And what will remain here, tethering her to this place in between life and true death?
I push the edging dread away and reach for the dress, hold it out in front of me. It glistens blue, like ice beneath the candlelight. Beads like shards of glass trickle down the bodice, and the sleeves cut away to show off my shoulders. Istelle comes to lace me into it, and I shiver beneath her touch.
Everything is so desperately cold here. Like an unlit hearth in winter, a hollowness where warmth should be.
The invitation lies crumpled on the bed, where it was lost between Bram and I. Istelle ties a mask tight around the crown of my head and turns me back to the mirror. Breath sticks in my throat. The upper half of my face is swathed in silver, spindles of ice shooting from delicate white lace. A crown of winter.
Istelle sniffs. “The Lady picked it out herself.”
