After the closure of the bakery, the family had moved to the small house outside of Buckleford—a far less fashionable address than what they had enjoyed in Frostbourne. Not that Hugo minded. He preferred the quiet of Buckleford over the bustle and pretension of Frostbourne. Even though he did miss the amazing bootmaker he used to frequent in Frostbourne.
As far as Hugo could tell, his mother had burned through their savings and was now selling off bits and bobs around the house to help fund his Season. If he didn’t find a wealthy husband this Season, they would have to leave the lazy life of aristocrats and get jobs. He couldn’t see his mother returning to the life of a common charwoman. Not after all her fancy gowns and tea parties with baronesses and countesses.
A heavy sigh tumbled from Hugo’s lips, and he tore his gaze away from the threadbare carpet and discolored patch on the parlor wall where yet another painting had gone missing. He had no interest in marrying a wealthy husband—particularly a duke or a baron. His preference was for a nice country squire who had a little farm he could help with. They could spend a quiet life together away from the hustle and bustle of balls and extravagant dinners. A country squire was less likely to look down on his family’s humble roots.
Yet, he was willing to put himself out there for a member of the aristocracy because it would mean that his mother could live the rest of her life in comfort. His brothers would be able to marry for love rather than social standing and money.
“I take it the streets are still muddy, and I should wear my old boots into town,” Dorian drawled.
Hugo’s head snapped up to see his younger brother standing at the top of the stairs, an ever-present book clutched to his chest and a smirk on his pale-pink lips.
Hugo groaned. “It wasn’t my fault. A spell went wrong on a horseless carriage, and it went tearing through the streets.The damn thing nearly plowed into a young man. I only just managed to pull him to safety?—”
“And the thing went through a mud puddle, splashing you from head to toe?”
“Yes,” Hugo growled, stomping up the stairs.
“Did the man get splashed as well?”
“Not a single drop.”
Dorian grinned, but there was warm sympathy in his chestnut brown eyes. “Sounds about right.”
Hugo sighed as he crossed to his bedroom on the left. Dorian trailed behind him and shut the door. Hugo paused, staring at his brother in question. He hadn’t expected Dorian to follow him. There wasn’t more to tell, and he still had to get cleaned up. Except maybe for the fact that he’d saved the world’s most dashing man, but he wasn’t ready to share those details yet. He wanted to spend some time daydreaming about the stranger’s eyes and almost-smile.
“I have good news. Well…” He made a face and shrugged. “Well, I have news at least. Good for us, but I doubt Mother will be pleased.”
“What’s happened?”
“Mr. Cuthbert has hired me at the bookshop. He was impressed with the way I improved the binding on one of his treasured books. The pay isn’t much, but I’ll be selling books and rebinding some of the rarer ones in hopes of enticing nobles into shelling out some serious coins for pretty collectibles. He’s promised to give me a bonus percentage of the books we sell that I’ve improved the binding on.”
Despite Dorian’s worries, excitement bubbled up in his words. There was nothing Dorian loved more than books. It was fitting that his magical gift revolved around binding and repairing books.
Unfortunately, their mother was unlikely to see this as a good thing. How could Dorian find a nobleman to marry if he was working as a common bookseller? The best he could ever do would be another merchant or a merchant’s son. Not that there was anything wrong with that. It was just that Jessamine had tasted the rarefied air of the aristocracy, and now nothing else would be good enough for her children.
The only problem was that without one of them getting a job soon, they were going to be destitute and living on the streets. Forget marriage to a duke or baron.
“Let me worry about Mother. You focus on impressing Mr. Cuthbert,” Hugo reassured him.
“You sure?”
“I’ll handle it. Besides, I’ve been thinking about talking to Mrs. Weatherly to see if she’d take me on as an apprentice. Mother has an appointment with her seamstress tomorrow. That should take all day. Maybe I can sneak out.”
Mrs. Weatherly ran the finest glass-blowing workshop in the district, producing the very best wineglasses, vases, and pieces of art. Hugo’s magical gift was in the creation and manipulation of glass. Not valuable or special. Why couldn’t it have been in the creation of diamonds or gold? Then everyone would be eager to have him as a husband or son-in-law.
Most people might not think much of his magic, but it was a valuable skill. There were plenty of people in the world who would pay to have him make a set of unique and elegant wineglasses or even basic glass jugs. It was a good, sturdy magical gift.
At least he and Dorian had magic. Augustine was almost eighteen and had yet to exhibit even a spark of magic. Most people developed their gifts between the ages of twelve and sixteen. Mother kept claiming he was a late bloomer, but evenshe was struggling to hold on to that rationale as Augustine’s eighteenth birthday edged closer.
Of course, not everyone possessed a magic gift, but there was no stopping people from pitying or looking down on those who lacked magic. Augustine pretended not to care one whit, but Hugo knew he was trying to hide his pain from his family. Personally, Hugo thought Augustine’s grief over the loss of their father was hindering his magic, and now the worry about not having any magic was exacerbating the situation.
“You may want to hold off on chatting with Mrs. Weatherly,” Dorian advised, wincing.
Hugo had been in the middle of peeling off his jacket but stopped at Dorian’s tense words. “Why?”
“Mother somehow gained an invitation to the Winthrop Spring Gala.”
“What?” Hugo cried, his voice cracking. His knees gave out, and he sank toward his bed. Dorian lunged forward, catching his arm and holding him upright. His brother’s quick action was enough to jolt his brain awake, reminding him that he was still coated in mud and had no desire to spread that same mud onto his bedding.
