It was a few months before my father had arrived in my dressing room and mucked everything up. Marion, her mother, and her sister were in their private balcony box for a performance ofLaSylphide. Her mother, a patroness of the ballet, brought her daughters backstage after the performance to meet a few of the dancers.
Marion looked so confident, that was the first thing I noticed about her. She held her head like she knew she was the kind of person who mattered. I curtsied as I met her family, and her mother smiled warmly and said, “Oh, no need for all that.”
Marion’s sister was chatty, but Marion said hardly a word, just looked at me with those clever eyes of hers.
“It was nice meeting you,” she said in a voice softer than what I’d expected.
“You as well, Lady Thorne.” And then she was gone. I didn’t see her again until the Pact Parade, where she introduced herself. It wassilly of me to think she’d remember the meeting, no matter how significant it felt to me.
“I would have remembered meeting you,” Marion says once more.
“You did, at the ballet with your mother and sister.”
“I haven’t been to the ballet since I was a child.”
“That’s not true, you came last fall toLaSylphide. I played a witch.”
Marion sits down and puts her head in her hands. “What else happened?”
“I made polite conversation with your family while you stood staring at me, completely silent.”
Marion groans in embarrassment.
“No, I found it rather charming,” I say with a laugh. “I complimented your necklace, which you tried to take off and give to me. I politely declined, but the next day, there it was in my dressing room, wrapped in a bow. I wore it the day of the Pact Parade, but you didn’t even remember me, so I got too embarrassed to wear it again. I have it upstairs.”
Marion looks up at me, tears welling in her eyes. “I know what she took from me.”
I sit down next to her and put my head on her shoulder. “What?”
“Queen Mor,my bargain. I traded away my happiest memory in exchange for writing talent. Faith, meetingyoumust have been my happiest memory.”
She was telling the truth.
I blink away the memory and come back to the downstairs drawing room of Caledonia Cottage, where Ivy Benton sits next to me, her lips bruised like she’s just been kissing.
Ivy is always lying; I’m sure it’s Emmett’s doing. It’s why I had tomove out of that room with her and in with Marion. I don’t regret that decision at all now, even though Marion drives me mad, staying up all night, scribbling in her endless notebooks.
I feel a little guilty that Ivy thinks I don’t like her because of her feelings for Emmett. I actually think she and Emmett would make a good match. How unfortunate that it’s impossible for them to be together.
It seems only determined anti-romantic Ivy Benton was strong enough to scale bleeding-heart Emmett’s thousand-foot-high walls. I don’t even know if she’s realized yet just how devoted he is to her. He never looked at me the way he looks at her, not even close.
That was part of Emmett’s and my problem. He was never practical enough for me. Marion is all practicality. Shoved under her mattress is a timetable of ships leaving London for ports all around the world. At night, we pore over it and dream about the places we could go together. Next to the timetable are the half-finished manuscripts along with lists of publishers and the price they’ll pay per word once they’re finished.
It’s easy enough to leave England. Queen Mor takes pride in telling her subjects we are not her prisoners. But returning will be difficult. Once we leave, the ports will be shut to us, by any legal means, forever.
The last day before the queen’s announcement of the winner feels like the stillness just before a thunderstorm rolls in on the horizon. None of us quite knows what to say to each other. We pack our trunks while Emmy and Olive crack jokes; we’re all moving out of this cottage regardless of what tomorrow’s results are.
We did the calculations last night, all gathered around the sitting room fireplace. Ivy Benton is winning, barely, with a score of3.3. Marion and Emmy are tied at 3.6, and Olive and I are tied with 4. The queen never said explicitly that our scores would determine the winner, so it could be anyone’s game.
If it’s Marion or me, we’ll run.
I hope it’s Olive, for her and Bram’s sake. She’s been pacing up and down the halls, ranting that the scores could mean nothing, that it doesn’t matter that she’s losing.
All day, we wait, yet no footman comes to gather us. No one has the stomach to eat, despite Olive carrying tray after tray of tarts and scones and puddings from the kitchen. Just when we think she’s done, she comes out with another.
It isn’t until I’m in bed that I’m shaken awake by a footman. “Come with me, miss.”
It’s the grand finale. I can hear the orchestra reaching its final crescendo. It’s nearly time to take my bow. I am nothing if not a seasoned performer.
