Page 104 of When the Sky Breaks

“It won’t be hot once we’re at sea,” Neal offered. “The cold seems to take the edge off.”

Something was scratching at the door, knocking maybe? Neal got up and went to answer it and immediately let in two big, scrappy, battle-scarred cats—a tabby and a ginger—both of which clambered into my lap, purring loudly.

“You’re attracting them subconsciously,” Neal muttered.

“I think it’s because I don’t feel well.” I sighed, but I pulled the cats in closer and buried my face in their fur.

“See if you can sleep,” Neal instructed. “I’m going to go explore. Ansel is right outside reading reports about that Ironmoot peryton incident—which you handled fantastically by the way. Yell if you need him.”

“Love you,” I murmured, kissing him briefly then curling up with both the cats and laying down to sleep.

“I have tea,” Neal said immediately upon waking me. “Peace offering.”

“Small favors,” I mumbled, rubbing my eyes and sitting up. There was another cat in our bedroom. I didn’t bother to guess when it had appeared or from where.

“Ansel says you have to put on your silk dress for dinner,” Neal said as he got up and started going through our bags. “Apparently the first night is fancier.”

“Then let me work on convincing all these new friends to stay put while we go eat,” I said, climbing out of bed and herding the cats into our sitting room.

We made our way through the corridors, up the grand staircase and to the main first-class dining salon. It was a stark contrast to the room aboard our steamboat down in Houston. On the Gulf the steamships had massive windows, sweeping views, but the rough seas of the North Atlantic made so much glass impractical and encouraged darker, more opulent spaces that felt significantly more enclosed.

I settled at my place as Neal explained, repeatedly, to the steward that yes if they brought out fish in red wine sauce I’d probably vomit just from the smell. Ansel circled the table, glancing at the other place cards. Suddenly, he froze.

“We need different seats,” he said.

I felt panic rising in my throat. Ansel was never scared. But now? His face was ashen, his hands shaking.

“What is it?” I asked. I took the card from him, my free hand resting on his shoulder. I’d certainly never felt the urge to comfort Ansel until this moment.

“Not what—who.” He paused, glanced over his shoulder. “And there she is now.”

I turned to see an immaculately dressed Elven woman stalking toward the table, malice in her eyes. She was petite, taller than me but not by more than an inch or two, with gorgeous bright blue eyes and long chestnut hair coiffed to perfection. She wore a fuchsia silk dinner dress with a tiered skirt, bleach-white lace trim, clearly expensive.

And when she reached our table she shoved me aside without a second thought and slapped Ansel across the face.

Neal caught me with an arm around my waist in an instant. I could feel the protective tension coming off him in waves. Conversation in the dining room halted immediately—every eye fixed on the four of us.

“I knew I should have booked White Star instead of Cunard,” Ansel muttered, rubbing his face where the woman had hit him. I glanced at the place card in my hand. Guinevere Marchmont.

“You utter wretch!” Guinevere shrieked, standing on her toes to properly get in Ansel’s face.

“That’s hardly fair,” Ansel tried to protest, but Guinevere wasn’t backing down.

“You abandoned me—at the altar no less—you abandoned your posting, your people!” she snapped, loudly. “For what? Some common hatchling!”

Ansel opened his mouth but didn’t have a chance to respond.

Guinevere’s voice dropped to a hiss. “You took a child bride? O’Faelen, I know you’re irresponsible, but this is a new low.”

“I’m twenty-seven,” I muttered under my breath.

“You abandoned me! For her!” Guinevere gestured toward me, eyes lingering on the growing belly that was now too big to easily hide with the fullness of my skirt, the flushed cheeks from nausea, the dress that—while technically appropriate—was certainly cheaper and more conservative than most in the room.

“Ansel, you have to . . .” I began. But then I saw the glint in Ansel’s eye and realized this was a lost cause. He’d made up his mind. We might as well play along.

“Yes,” Ansel said calmly. “I left the Courts. I left you. I wanted out of the politics. Away from the drama.”

“And the girl?” Guinevere asked, voice finally down to a reasonable volume.