“No. One trunk a day. That’s what we said.”
“But we still haven’t worked out what to do with this stuff.” Cassandra held up a Russian beaver hat and stroked it against her face. “This is soft.” She put it on her head and did a twirl.
She looked adorable, but Amelia would not be swayed. “It has a tail. Wear that and the village boys will be yanking it every two seconds.”
“We could cut the tail off…” Her face was sweet, hopeful—just as it had been every quarter hour since the project began.
“Cassandra, the point of sorting through all of this is so that I can get rid of my old life, not transfer it to you.”
“I’ll put it in the maybe pile.” Cassandra’s maybe-I’ll-keep-it pile had started on the couch and had now overtaken half the room. She picked up a single white glove from the floor. “Oooh, pretty!”
“Impractical. And it has a tear at the wrist.”
“Tears can be mended.”
“Its partner is probably lost.”
“But it might not be.” The glove got tossed on top of the beaver hat.
Amelia shook her head and turned to today’s trunk. A thin film of dust covered it. Had it been that long since this all began? She’d have to remind the maids that, even if it wasn’t overly attended, they would need to clean the lumber room.
She undid the leather straps. Cassandra skipped over, leaning over her shoulder. This was Christmas to her, hell to Amelia.
The leather edges stuck together for a moment before they pulled apart.
“Ugh.”
“Ugh indeed.” Amelia picked up one of the dozens of embroidered cloths from the pile. It was a kingfisher. Objectively speaking, it was lovely with exceptional detail. Excellent work. It should be—she’d spent a week on it.
“Why would you keep so many?”
“Why did I make them in the first place is a better question.”
“The toss-it pile,” Cassandra said.
“The burn-it pile.”
The grin on Cassandra’s face lit up so quickly Amelia worried she’d unlocked an inner pyromaniac. But as quickly as it appeared, it vanished. “The fireplace isn’t big enough.”
“Perhaps I could donate them?” They were exceptional embroideries. Worthy of a gallery wall, she’d been told.
Cassandra drew in a swift breath, grasping Amelia by the shoulders and shaking. “The firm!”
Amelia caught the girl’s wrists before her head was shaken off. “I’m not confident a building full of men want walls decorated with peonies and poppies.”
“No, silly.” Cassandra rolled her eyes. “There isa bigfireplace at the firm.”
For a split second, stomach-clenching, breath-catching euphoria flared inside her. A lifetime of propriety snuffed it quickly. “Cassandra Asterly, we are not dragging a trunkload of embroidery that I spent years of my life creating down to a factory just so we can watch it burn.”
Except wouldn’t that be amazing? She’d hated every minute spent embroidering those useless, ridiculous cushion covers and wall hangings. But she’d done it because she was a lady of theton, and that’s what ladies do.
The past week and the obvious lack of response to her house party had made it clear that she was no longer a lady of theton. That life was done now. She would have to forge another. And what better way than setting fire to this trunk full of wasted dreams?
Cassandra gave her a sly smile, as if she could read every thought Amelia had.
“Fine. Let’s get our coats.”
Cassandra was out of the room before Amelia could even stand. She brushed the grey dust from her hands. “Greenhill?” she called as she entered the hallway. “Could you ask Charlie to bring around the cart?”
