Page 89 of When the Sky Breaks

“Of course. It’s going to be fine.”

“I mean right now though . . .” I trailed off. “It’s all actually okay. We’re dry and safe and warm and someone’s cooking dinner and . . .”

“You’ve more than earned it,” Neal said, pulling me into his chest and kissing my head. “I’ll go heat water and you can get a bath.”

“You think I can really ask for books?” I asked as he pulled away.

“I think you’re their sovereign,” Neal chuckled. “Go ask. Relax. Have fun. Ansel and I have everything in hand.”

I woke the next morning feeling truly rested for the first time in months. The bed was comfortable. The house felt safe. All three dogs lay flopped at my and Neal’s feet, snoring gently. I could faintly smell tea and blueberries from downstairs.

Neal was still fast asleep beside me, curled up at my back with an arm draped over my waist to cradle my belly. And I was so incredibly grateful. The dark circles under his eyes had been worsening by the day. I knew he didn’t sleep well if he worried I wasn’t safe.

So I shifted, quiet and careful not to wake him, grabbed one of the books off the pile Henri had brought up the night before and settled in to read until someone came and told us it was time for breakfast.

Someone knocked on the door half an hour later. Neal startled awake, looking stunned that he’d slept later than me.

“You deserved it,” I murmured, settling beside him in bed again and running a hand through his hair. “You’ve barely slept.”

“Thank you,” Neal said gently. The knock on the door sounded again.

“Can you get it?”

Neal nodded and stumbled out of bed, the dogs trailing on his heels. Henri stood smiling on the other side of the door. He had a big mug of tea in one hand and a dressmaker’s box in the other.

“Ansel said she’d want these before she came down,” he said. “Does she like the books?”

“She does,” Neal assured him. “We’ll be down in another half an hour.”

“Would you like me to take the dogs?” Henri asked. “They didn’t bother you?”

“Not at all,” Neal said. “I promise.”

He closed the door behind him and handed me the mug of tea.

“How sick are you this morning?” he asked as he set the box on our bed and opened it.

“Not very,” I said. “I think the travel and sleep deprivation are at least half of it.”

“Duly noted,” Neal said as he unwrapped the dress Henri brought. He held it up—plain-weave linen in a burnt orange and ivory stripe. It’d be easy for travel and would comfortably get me up to New York. Once we were there and knew what absurd social calendar the local aristocracy had put together, I could find others to augment it.

“That look like it fits?” Neal asked.

I nodded.

“The color is good too,” I said. “And I don’t think that’s cotton?”

“Linen,” Neal agreed.

“Oh thank goodness,” I laughed.

“Want me to help you get dressed?” Neal asked as he helped me back out of bed, pressing a kiss to my forehead, then my lips.

“I’ve got it,” I assured him. “Go get changed. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

I slipped downstairs and into the kitchen, in a properly good mood for the first time since we’d left Santa Fe, definitely since Ansel had arrived, maybe since my father died. Neal was still getting dressed in our room and preparing a long list of telegrams to send out to New York ahead of our arrival. But the smile evaporated off my face when I saw the tall, unfamiliar, dark-haired Elven man standing in the kitchen.

“Who the hell are you?” I asked.