“Sleep well, Lady Ivy.”
I cross the lawn, my face burning with embarrassment.
I’m nearly to the cottage when I hear the sound of footsteps through damp grass behind me.
I turn, hopeful I’ll see Bram, ready to kiss me for real this time, but I deflate as Emmett comes into view. He’s probably just coming to Caledonia Cottage to wait for Faith, to finish what they started earlier.
I walk quickly, hoping he’ll give up, but he speeds into a jog behind me.
“Slow down.”
“Were you watching us?”
He slows as he catches up, falling into step beside me. “So what if I was?”
“You shouldn’t have done that tonight,” I say.
Emmett laughs awkwardly. “Unfortunately, it’s always been punch first, think later with me.” But I’m not sure if I believe him. He thinks so much about everything, it’s like I can see him constantly tying himself in knots.
I turn for the door, but Emmett reaches for my sleeve, brushing but not quite touching me. “You seem upset with me.”
“I’m not upset.” I’m not. I have absolutely no reason to be upset with Emmett for kissing Faith tonight.
Emmett’s knuckles are bruising like violets. “Does that hurt?” I gesture to them, desperate to change the subject.
He runs a thumb over the mottled skin. “I can have Bram fix them later.” His eyes narrow, as if he hopes to see right through me. “You’re sure you’re not upset?”
I swing open the door to the cottage. I’d rather face the wrath of the other girls—who, no doubt, are annoyed with me for stealingBram away—than spend another second looking at Emmett De Vere’s face.
“Never, ever been better.”
He stops the door with his foot.
“Good. Because everything is going according to plan. Up until now, the only person he’d ever thrown a punch for was me.”
The next two days are absolute chaos. We’re rushed to the modiste for last-minute alterations to our hunting wardrobes, Viscountess Bolingboke calls an emergency etiquette class on how to conduct ourselves while on the road, and all the while the queen’s new terms loom like storm clouds over our heads.
That night, the memory of Emmett at the ball comes back to me. I sleep fitfully, imagining the way Emmett held Faith’s waist as he kissed her.
I think of my parents, who married for love and doomed us to a life of instability; of Olive, who moons after Bram so openly I’m humiliated on her behalf; of Faith and the crystal goblet she threw at Emmett’s head. Love can’t exist for me. I refuse to be made so foolish.
My mother sends a note, as promised, with news of Lydia. It reads onlyYour sister’s health is much improved. She misses you and we all wish you the very best of luck. Most sincerely, your devoted mother.
She also sends a newspaper cutting, an article titledPRINCES BRAWL AT KENDALL’S CLUB. It’s a sensationalized account of events, but it does mention my presence and speculates whether this means that Prince Bram has already introduced his favorite suitor to his friends at the club. In the margins she’s writtenWell done!
It’s perfect, just enough intrigue to make me interesting, but it falls short of a full-fledged scandal.
I tuck the letter and the article away in the back ofFaeries of the British Islesalongside the maps I stole from the books in the sitting room. I tore them out of atlases when everyone else was asleep.
I pore over them by moonlight, planning the best routes. I learned my lesson the night I went out to search for Lydia, and I don’t plan on making the same mistake twice.
I read the book too, rediscovering the magic I felt as a child within its pages. It transports me back to Mrs. Osbourne’s warm hearth. The book was printed over two hundred years into Queen Mor’s reign, long after information of her kind was banned. She’s not mentioned at all, as if the author was hoping that by not acknowledging her, its contents would be less incriminating. Every piece of information is hidden in children’s stories. I’m reading a passage I must have heard one hundred times as a child—about a fae revel on the summer solstice and the human girl lured there—when a line catches my eye:Though faerie wine was sweet, there was none so sweet as the love of a mortal.
Emmett would likely be furious with me if he knew what I was plotting, but if all goes according to plan, he’ll never find out.
On Tuesday night Olive returns from her private meal with Bram like she’s walking on air. She floats into the sitting room, where we’re all engaged in a half-hearted game of whist, and flops down onto the love seat.
“He kissed me!” She giggles and kicks her feet. “I can’t believe he actually kissed me.”
