Then it faded.
“Met,” he repeated slowly, “in my entire life.”
Viola could not move. Could not breathe. She watched as something shifted behind his gaze, as the pieces slid together.
Blue and green, his eyes were. Fey and devilish. Otherworldly and strange.
He picked up the book again and looked down at it in his hands. Then back at her. At her ink-stained fingers. At the quill callus on her middle finger, she had never hidden.
Georgiana was still ranting, something about moral decay and the corruption of the institution of marriage, but Sebastian lifted one hand, and she fell silent.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
“Selina Sable,” he said quietly. It was not a question.
Viola’s throat closed. She tried to speak, but all that emerged was a whisper. “It’s me. I wrote it.”
He stared at her for a long, terrible moment.
“Yes,” he said at last, his voice strange and distant. “I rather think you did.”
He sank into the chair as though the legs beneath him had given way.
Georgiana’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click. “What?” she gasped. “You?” Her voice trembled.
Viola swallowed, then lifted her head. “Yes, Cousin. I am a writer. I am Selina Sable.”
Sebastian dragged a hand over his face. “I knew, of course, that you write. Letters, poems, imitations, little amateurish stories meant for private amusement. Perhaps even one or two sent off to be printed in some obscure pamphlet.” He glanced at the book on the table. “But this?”
“There is nothing amateurish about my writing.” Her voice stiffened.
He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. “No. No, of course not. I beg your pardon. Everyone knows, me included, that Selina Sable is no amateur, but a more proficient, decidedly more popular writer than Radcliffe and the rest of them combined. Good Lord.” He dragged his hand over his face again as the full weight of it struck him.
“You, you, you are the woman who wrote this?” Georgiana’s voice quavered. “Selina Sable?”
Viola pressed her hands together until her knuckles blanched. There was no taking it back now. There was no sensein denying it. “I am very much afraid I am, Georgiana,” she whispered.
Georgiana swooned.
Sebastian leapt to his feet. Viola rushed forward, and together they helped her down onto the sofa.
It took Georgiana an entire vial of hartshorn salts, lavender oil, a cold compress and then a hot one, and finally, a glass of the strongest Scotch whisky to revive her.
After she downed the glass in one gulp, she sat up, a gleam in her eyes. She pointed a finger at Viola. “You, Viola, are Mrs Selina Sable, authoress of the most popular tales of terror and Gothic romances of the decade?”
Viola sighed. “We have already established that I am, Georgiana. Now, if you do not mind, I need to talk to Sebastian alone.”
Georgiana clasped her hands together. “But then you are not only immensely famous but also tremendously wealthy! They say Mrs Radcliffe, when she publishes a book, earns about five hundred pounds. Walter Scott and Lord Byron a thousand…”
“I earn twice that for each publication, plus ongoing royalties, and those from theatrical adaptations. And that is the case for all my books.” That was solely thanks to Peregrine, who had become notorious for driving ever harder bargains with each publication.
Georgiana’s finger swung from Viola to Sebastian. “You earn more than him!”
He gave a small smile. “I daresay she probably does.”
A beatific smile spread across Georgiana’s face. “Capital.”
After Sebastian had bundled Georgiana into her carriage and sent her off, Viola paced the drawing room, beside herself with worry.
