I pass him the map, and he takes a long look. “What is this?”
I hand him the book next. He traces his finger over the cover. “‘Faeries of the British Isles,’” he reads. “Where did this come from?”
“Bram.” I explain everything about our cook, about Bram gifting me the book, and then, about the idea it gave me. “Your theory about the May Queen is good, but completely uncorroborated. If we’re going to stake everything on it, I need to talk to a second source,” I say.
What I don’t say is the part that keeps me up at night. If I’m going to manipulate someone as kind as Bram into running away with me, it needs to be for a good reason.
I’ve thought about writing to Ethel about it, but I’m pretty sure the footmen are reading the letters we send out, and I couldn’t risk it.
When Bram gave me the book and said it was from “a friend,” the idea took hold. The original owner is surely long dead, but there’s a chance that this friend of Bram’s still lives at the address inked on the inside of the front cover, or perhaps more books remain.
“When were you going to tell me?” Emmett asks.
“I was going to tell you the other night, but you seemed rather tied up with Faith.” It’s too petty, I shouldn’t have said it. It does me no good, and he doesn’t deserve my vitriol. He’s allowed to kiss whomever he pleases.
Emmett presses his lips together as he thinks, then understanding dawns on him. “At Count Doncaster’s horrible excuse for a party? When did you—”
“I went searching for you and found you... otherwise occupied.” There’s that horrible feeling again, the one where my skin is hot all over and I can’t quite catch my breath.
“Oh,” Emmett breathes. “It’s not what you think.”
“I don’t think anything. It’s none of my business.”
“Faith loves someone else.” Emmett sighs.
“Oh, of course. Let me guess. She tripped, and her mouth fell into yours.”
Emmett casts a sidelong glance at me. “Faith kissed me to make sure it felt different. You don’t have to believe me, but I promise you, it meant nothing.”
“All right.” I hate how petulant I sound.
“I’ve never lied to you. I’m not starting now.”
The old cart horse clomps along.
We reach the outskirts of the market town well before lunch and stop along the roadside to water the horse and eat half a loaf of the bread Emmett smuggled from breakfast.
The paths become increasingly narrow as we journey farther into the woods, where the trees grow so thick they block out the light, and the world turns a few shades darker.
On and on we go, deep into the depths of the old-growth forest. There’s something eerie about these woods, off in a way that makes my skin crawl. “No birdsong,” Emmett says, realizing it at the same moment I do.
It’s gone completely quiet save for the trudging of our old horse down the road.
“Not a great sign,” I say.
“I don’t believe in signs,” Emmett replies, but his knuckles are white where they grip the horse’s reins.
We come to a sharp hook turn in the road, and the horse whinnies and digs his hooves into the soft ground, grinding to a halt. Emmett hops out of the carriage and lays a comforting hand on his neck. “Shh, what’s wrong?”
He tugs on the reins, offers an apple, tugs again. But the horse will go no farther.
He doesn’t use a whip. My heart feels strangely warm.
“I think we’re on our own from here,” he declares.
I hike up my skirts and hop down from the cart, refusing the hand he extends. “Believe in signs yet?” I ask.
We walk in nervous silence for about ten minutes before we come to a stone house deep in the darkest part of the wood.Houseis a generous term. It was probably once a grand dwelling, but the forest is doing its best to reclaim it. It’s covered all over with a green-gray moss so damp it appears to be dripping off the stones. What once was the garden is now an angry tangle of thorns and half-dead holly crawling like a desperate animal upon what used to be an intricate mosaic of flower beds.
