The chill in the air snaked up my arms. My purple redingote had thick sleeves, but the cold still got to me.
My personal coal pot was inside, fixing my scaffold and now resolving to defend me.
Unbelievable. Wanting to scream, I clasped my elbows and shook myself. Instead of banging my head on the stone of the theatre walls, I studied the sounds of the city. Link boy shouts—they were beginning to gather to light pitch torches and guide the carriages of night revelers.
The streets would fill with crowds, hungry for the night’s entertainment and so noisy.
Clang. Bang. Shouts.
Covering my ears, I held still, or maybe I couldn’t move. Closing my eyes, I calmed.
I should move back inside the theatre, but I couldn’t take those steps for I was at risk the minute I saw Felton.
I still cared for my husband, cared about his opinion, cared about why he put himself at risk for a country that made him lie, cared about all the times I was angry at him and he might not’ve returned.
Felton could stir both my temper and that intangible thing that made me feel warm and secure and beautiful.
I was all those things to him, even when he was mad.
Months and months away should mean that I was no longer susceptible.
Yet, here I was, fearful of falling apart or back into his arms.
My eyes snapped open, for I wasn’t sure what the darkness meant. Or what met me there.
That was the problem. For now, I hoped my friend the duke recovered, and prayed to the Holy Father that the rift between father and son would heal.
A bell rang in the distance.
The shouts of boys sounded louder.
Everything would be starting. The sizzle. The adventures.
This one with Felton had to end.
No settling for last place. No hiding to keep a peace that violated mine.
Me and my family, first, now, and forever. “If that means giving up my vow to kill Gladstone, I’ll abandon it.”
I said it aloud again. That should mean it was true.
Clasping my elbows, I started back inside. I had a commission to complete before I began practicing more lying affirmations.
When I returned, I spied Felton climbing on the scaffold.
A leg here, taut arm there, he’d straddled the thing.
Not a dresser like Tramel or the men of the ton, as they called the fashionable set here, but he looked well in his fitted chocolate breeches and cracker-crisp white shirt.
Lean and muscled he remained, but I’d eaten so many coconuts and mammee apples and hundreds of other things that shouldn’t be baked with sugar, I wasn’t thin.
Well, I’d never been thin, but I was always happy.
This glorious fuller-figured me—it was another thing to criticize. His family loved to poke. Felton would ignore it to keep the peace.
“Cecilia. You’re back.” He leapt down.
“No need for concern. I said I would be back, my lord.”
