It was late, and the Lyon’s Den had opened an hour before. Amber was needed in the cage with her grandfather, and this daydream-come-to-life was ended. She had to go back to work. They were downstairs in the front parlor laughing over the antics of Lady Dunnamore’s tiny dog, but the moment she heard Lord Byrn’s voice in the hallway, Amber began her apologies.
“I am so grateful, my lady,” she said, regretting the need to use the honorific instead of “Diana.”
“Stop, stop! You cannot mean to leave. We were having such a lovely time.”
Amber didn’t answer. The ache in her heart was enough to clog her throat. Stupid, stupid to grow attached to a daydream. She had plenty of friends at the Lyon’s Den. The women who worked the upstairs rooms and the dealers all treated her as a treasured sister. She didn’t need another friend, she told herself. And yet, her time with Diana had made her wish for something more. Something that had colors like the fabric on Diana’s settee. Something that did not smell of tobacco or spirits. As if she, too, were the willowy lady of an old title who might one day dance with a prince.
Except it was a dream, and so when Lord Byrn entered the parlor, she stood and made her goodbyes. He had no time beyond a quick buss on his sister’s cheek before they both were outside and headed back to the gray cage in which Amber spent the bulk of her time.
Quick day, quick end.
For the first time in her life, she hated her life with a passion born of despair. Because she knew with absolute certainty that she would grow old and die in the gray cage at the Lyon’s Den.
