He glances at the ticking clock on the mantel. “We should get you back. You need your rest.”
The door to the cottage is unlocked, and I climb the stairs on my tippy-toes so I don’t make any noise.
There’s a shadow moving in the darkness. Faith is sitting upright in bed.
“You little snake,” she snarls. “I wonder how Bram will react when I tell him you were out all night.”
“Faith, please,” I beg. “It’s not what you think.”
“Emmett can’t save you.”
“What do you want from me?” I croak.
“I want Emmett back.”
“He’s all yours. That’s not what this is.” I don’t have the energy to fight her. I feel suddenly weak at the knees. The room tilts.
“Then what is it?”
It would be easier to be angry with her if she didn’t sound so broken. “I wish I could say,” I reply.
“Then we have nothing else to talk about,” she snaps.
Her tone chills me. I crawl into bed, unable to stop shivering, and let an uneasy sleep pull me under.
Chapter Seventeen
I awake at dawn to the sound of the bedroom door swinging open with a clatter. Standing there in her nightdress and sleeping cap is Viscountess Bolingbroke, Faith by her side.
“She was out in the middle of the night,” Faith declares, like she’s proposing to burn me at the stake. “It was all so terribly improper. I had to let you know as soon as possible.”
I open my mouth to protest, but my throat is on fire. I’m shivering and sweaty all at once. My body aches from the inside out, as if something is bruising and breaking endlessly. I blink away the sleep from my eyes and find my vision blurry at the edges.
Viscountess Bolingbroke rushes to my side and places her cool hand on my forehead. “She’s sick with fever, Miss Fairchild. Fetch the doctor and your lady’s maid. I’m not sure what sort of prank you’re playing, accusing your visibly ill competition of impropriety, but the next time you lie, I may have to tell Her Majesty.”
Faith sputters, her face bright red with anger, then storms out of the room.
When I awake, it’s to Lottie dabbing a cool cloth on my forehead.
“Shh, miss, you’re all right.” She soothes me like I’m a child, and I let my eyes flutter shut.
“What happened?” I rasp. Light streams in from the windows, and I suspect I’ve been asleep for a very long time.
“You’re running a fever, darling. Just relax.”
My hands hurt the worst. They’re swollen and ugly, my knuckles too stiff to move.
When I awake again, it’s Greer who is standing over me. “They told me to make you drink,” she says, and tips a glass of cool water into my mouth. Every swallow is agony.
The darkness is freezing as it swallows me whole.
Emmy Ito
Marion and Faith are in the garden, Greer is holding vigil by Ivy’s bedside, Olive is in the kitchen, and my hair has never looked worse.
I swear my lady’s maid must hate me. Tonight I’m having dinner with Prince Bram, my reward for winning that blasted hedge maze—a meal, alone, with him, and I look like a poodle.
My maid used a curling rod on my front pieces and they’re dangling in front of my eyes like little springs. I swipe them away, frustrated, fold my fashion periodical, and pad across the cottage to see what Olive is doing in the kitchen.
