Her riotous curls spill across her shoulders when her head tilts. “This is usually when you say that you love me too.”
“Have I not shown you in all ways that I do? You are to my heart what air is to my lungs. Without you, I would cease to exist. I love you, Nia Quill. My Nia.”
She pushes to her feet and throws herself into my arms, and I am home.
Her lips cover mine, heady and sweet. Sunshine and jasmine.
Nia. My Nia.
Fae of my heart.
Thisis my new favorite day.
44
“Give her thoughtful gifts.”
— Nia Quill’s List
My slipper meets the top stair to the tune of my father’s deep voice. This is the first night in forever that he’s left the counting house before it closed. Death tends to have that effect on people, I’ve learned. Breaking old habits, creating new ones.
The luxurious sweep of silk skirts tickles my bare legs as I descend.
Father, bless him, looks as if he’s about to have a coronary. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the man’s face so red as he gawks at me from the foyer.
“Surely, you’re not wearing that,” he chokes. “The front barely covers your?—”
“I know. Isn’t it beautiful?” And the scandalous neckline that dips down to my sternum is one of my favorite parts. I love this dress, it makes me feel like a goddess, and Maddox is going to keel over when he sees me in it.
Three of the best reasonsnotto listen to the man who sired me.
“I think you look . . .nice, dear,” my mother says from behind her glass of wine.
Whether she means it or not, I appreciate the sentiment. Perhaps I need to die a second time for my father to come to terms with the fact that I have breasts.
“Thank you, Mother.” I sweep toward the door. “Shall we?”
Our hired carriage waits outside. Our faithful driver gives me a wink and a gruff, “Happy Birthday, Miss Nia.”
“Thank you, Martin.”
Mother and Father climb into the carriage as well, accompanying me to the heart of Rosehill city. We could’ve walked, but I’ve done enough walking—and climbing—over the last few weeks to last a lifetime.
When we emerge into the square, there’s an energy in the air, a buzz that’s catching, amplifying my own excitement.
Nothing can bring me down, not even seeing Ivee Lynch sitting at one of the high tables at the very front of the Black Rose, a short glass with a lime wedge braced on the rim clutched in her hands. The pink of her flouncy gown matches the color on her lips and the bow in her canary-colored ringlets.
Instead of avoiding her like I normally would, I head straight over to her table.
Almost dying puts a lot into perspective, including how ridiculous it was to hold a grudge against this woman for stealing a pie and kissing someone who didn’t deserve my time or affection anyway.
Who knows? Maybe she thought Jonathan and I were over. I never even asked.
It's time to bury my anger. “Hello, Ivee.”
Her eyes widen as she glances around the busy pub, no doubt searching for an exit. Little does she know, I’m not here to cut her down.
“Nia.”
