The sound echoes through the house. The door opens, and one of the sisters stands there. I should know her name but I don’t.
“Tell Lou to meet me in the back,” I tell her, then walk away without waiting for her response.
I make my way to the back patio and take a seat at one of the picnic tables they use when the weather turns warm, though it isn’t anything close to that now. January has stripped the place down to its bones, leaving the air even colder here in the shade. I tug my jacket down over my hands.
This is as far as I go. It’s the only place I can meet Lou. I can’t step foot in Rosewood Hall. Men aren’t allowed there unless specifically invited, and women can’t come over to Ashford House until after five and even then, only if they’re bonded to a brother. The rules between the houses are older than any of us, tradition that’s followed without question.
Boundaries meant to divide. To protect.
I lean back against the hard wooden bench. The quiet is broken only by the dry whisper of branches overhead and the occasional call of a bird in the distance, faint and fleeting. Somewhere farther off, a door shuts, the sound carrying before the silence closes back in.
I stifle a yawn with the back of my hand, slower than I should be. The past four days are catching up to me. There were times I was sure Becky wasn’t going to make it.
I haven’t told her that. Haven’t told her about the way her body seized when the fever spiked too high, how her back arched and her eyes rolled back as if something had taken over and refused to let go. Or how she drifted in and out of consciousness, caught somewhere between this world and another, talking to people who weren’t there, reaching for them like she could touch them if she tried hard enough. The way she called out for them, voice breaking.
There was one name she kept coming back to. The way she said it, yearning and desperate, made him sound like everything to her.
Remi.
I don’t know who he is.
A friend. A lover. Someone she lost, or someone she’s trying not to.
I tell myself it was the fever talking, her mind grasping at whatever it could while her body burned. I shouldn’t have noticed. Idefinitelyshouldn’t be jealous of a man who might not even exist.
I am.
Whichis stupid.
It’s probably the fatigue. The constant vigilance of watching something fragile, knowing it could break if I let my attention slip. I’m not used to taking care of anyone, and the responsibility has gotten under my skin more than I expected.
Which is why I’m here. About to do a thing I hate.
A petite brunette with a heart-shaped face and warm blue eyes approaches, wrapped in her fuzzy bathrobe. She holds a mug in each hand, both steaming.
“Hey, Lulu,” I greet the head of the sisters, the female equivalent of me, as she sits down next to me. Without a word, she passes me a cup of coffee, and I wrap my hands around it, grateful for the warmth.
“You didn’t need to rush.” I quirk a smile at her and point to the robe.
“Are you kidding?” she teases right back, more at ease with me than almost anyone. “The great Carrson Ashford pays me a visit before 8 a.m.? I’m not wasting time getting dressed.” She grins. “What’s up?”
“I need a favor.”
Louellen nearly tips sideways off the bench, catching herself with a startled laugh. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she says, her Southern drawl thickening as she presses a hand to her chest. “You’re asking for help?” Her eyes go wide as she leans back, squinting up at the dull gray stretch of winter sky above us. “Are there flying pigs, or has hell officially frozen over?”
I set my coffee down harder than I need to, the ceramic knocking once against the table, and push to my feet.
“If you’re going to be like that,” I say, my voice going cold, “forget it.”
I turn before she can answer, already done with the conversation, but her laughter follows me, bright, unrestrained, breaking through the quiet of the back yard.
“Hey—no, don’t go,” she calls, laughing. Her hand lifts like she’s going to grab my arm, then stops and falls back to her side. She knows better. “Stop being so dramatic and sit down,” she adds, smiling. She pats the spot on the bench next to her. “I’m done. I promise.”
I hesitate, long enough to make the point, then turn back.
“You’re the one being dramatic,” I mutter.
“Sure,” she says, lightly rolling her eyes. “Says the guy who tried to storm off in under ten seconds.”
