Morgana clapped her hands together. “Oh, how charming! Our Calliope still dreams of hopeless fantasies.”
“Dreams are for children,” Victoria agreed.
Calliope scoffed at them.
“Silence,” Duvessa said coldly. “Your fate has been sealed, child.”
Calliope refused to respond to the taunt. She should try to find a way to get word to Mr. Fitz. She was afraid, however, she wouldn’t be given a chance.
Morgana laughed. “Yes, fate brought you back where you belong. The attic still waits for you.”
Vile.
Victoria smirked. “Yes, we’ve prepared it for your return.”
Duvessa silenced her daughters with a flick of her hand. “Enough. Take her upstairs. We’ve wasted too much time already. The earl and her betrothed shall return soon, and I expect her to be prepared. There will be no more theatrics.”
One of the men grabbed her arm and led toward the stairs. Calliope lifted her chin, refusing to be dragged like an animal. Every tread stirred old shadows—the attic’s cold drafts, the sting of laughter in the corridors, the loneliness that had once smothered her.
But she was not that girl anymore.
She had tasted freedom. Brighton’s salt air still thrummed in her veins. Maxen’s fierce gaze, his impossible presence, his body against hers burned hotter than these walls could ever contain.
They thought her cornered. They thought her caught. But she had claws now, sharp enough to draw blood.
Her stepsisters followed, whispering gleefully behind their hands. The house had once threatened to swallow her entire being.
Not this time.
Chapter Thirty
Every eye inthe room turned to Calliope the moment she stepped through the doors flanked by the three men who had taken her from her shop. She ignored those stares. Chin lifted. Shoulders squared. Let them look. Let them wonder if she was the same girl they’d once scorned.
Because she wasn’t.
Not anymore.
And she wasn’t going to cower for anyone. Not again. Especially not for Duvessa.
She had, however, been surprised at the quality of the gown. She wore a gown of flowing white, matching gloves that came to her elbows, and pearls in her hair. Her stepmother had even dressed her in a pearl necklace, which of course, to her, felt more like a collar than anything else. Even so, appearances had to be kept up, she supposed.
All eyes turned to her.
Her uncle, the Earl of Balfour, had finally arrived and stood by the window with a drink in his hand. He was heavier than she remembered, his once-dark hair now a thin, silver crown around his head. His belly strained against his waistcoat, and his lips pursed with disapproval. He spared her but one glance before averting his gaze.
She could scarcely believe she shared this man’s blood!
Beside him stood another man, dressed in lavish gold. Too muchgold. Age had not been kind to him. A wide belly, even wider than her uncle’s, sweat gleaming at his brow despite the cool of the room, piggish eyes that raked over her as though she were cattle at market. She just had to look at the greed in his gaze when his eyes fell on her to know he was the betrothed, Lord Flemmington.
With them was a corrupt officiant, she presumed. How else could he allow a woman to be forced into a union against her will?
Her stepsisters hovered by the piano, tittering and giggling, but still only the second most annoying sight of the day. Duvessa, she took the top spot. The woman seemed to have had a sculptor carve a look of smug victory into her face. Most annoying.
Calliope couldn’t deny the apprehension that stole over her as to whether she’d be able to fully escape, but shewasdetermined to remove that insufferable gleam from all these people.
“Well,” the earl said into the air, “my niece returns.”
“I was kidnapped back,” Calliope pointed out.
