Page 94 of When the Sky Breaks

“Oh, love, you really should not have said that,” I whispered, lips brushing against her ear.

I felt her breath hitch, her body warm and flush against me. I slipped both arms under her hips, lifting her against me and pressing her back into the wall.

“I meant it,” Sorcha replied, kissing me again, harder this time.

I left her flushed and sated, curled up in bed.

“You two alright?” Ansel asked when I made it down to the kitchen. “She sick again?”

“Something like that,” I mumbled in response. “Can I have dinner to take up for her?”

Etienne hurried to oblige.

“But you two . . . resolved your differences?” Ansel pressed.

I glanced up. I could see a trace of a smirk playing at Ansel’s features. “You heard something.”

“I’m old,” Ansel replied. “Better hearing. Ancient powers. You know the drill.”

“You do not let her find out.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, lad,” Ansel said. “Just glad you two are on speaking terms again or not speaking I guess, but . . .”

“Shut up,” I snapped as I took the tray from Etienne and made my way back upstairs.

Thirty-Nine

Sorcha

We reached New York four days later. Neal sent word by telegram the day we left Washington, and the Outer Court outpost was more than ready to greet us when we arrived.

Ansel disappeared the second we cleared the city limits to go book passage to Liverpool. Which meant we reached the Outer Court building alone and entirely unprepared for the welcome being put on for me and—as they were continuously referring to Neal—my “consort.”

The Outer Court building stood four stories high, sculpted from white marble and dark slate shingles and wedged between rows of equally impressive brownstone townhomes. Three courtiers met us on the steps in a flurry of bows and kissed hands as they took Neal’s and my bags and offered tea, a seat, a newspaper. I’d planned to go straight to the library, get in touch with whoever kept track of the books and the histories, get to work.

That was not what transpired.

I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d ended up sitting in a tub of steaming, sudsy, lavender-scented water while an older Elven woman ironed a nightgown that definitely wasn’t mine. I also wasn’t entirely sure where Neal was, which was more than a little unnerving.

Unlike the printshop back in Washington, this felt formal, official, alien. No one had yet called me by my first name, only “High Lady Wilson.” I bristled at that. It was MacCairn now.

I’d corrected them a dozen times, but the staff only chuckled dismissively.

I was fairly sure the older woman with me now was named Zebrowska and was supposed to be my personal maid. I’d never had a personal maid. I was fairly sure I didn’t want a personal maid.

I respected the work Ansel had put in outfitting the post. I respected the surprising emotional intelligence he’d demonstrated in even attempting to build a full-scale equivalent of our European staff and library somewhere in the States to try and coax my father away from Santa Fe.

Over the months on the road, I’d also come to deeply resent my father for refusing the offer. I tried not to dwell on how much pain and difficulty it would have spared us if he had moved here to New York after my mother died. I shook the thought away. It wouldn’t help. What happened happened.

But no amount of appreciation for the attempt could negate how deeply uncomfortable I was with how Ansel had outfitted and staffed the posting.

“Where is my husband?” I asked once I’d finished washing and brushing my hair. I appreciated the warmth, appreciated the chance to get clean, but I’d never taken well to pampering or luxury. I wanted up, out, to get dinner quickly and then go find Neal so we could walk the city’s bustling streets until I was too tired to stand up any longer.

“His bathroom,” Zebrowska said simply.

“You have multiple?” I asked. “For one bedroom?”

“Of course, High Lady Wilson,” Zebrowska said, clucking her tongue. “Whenever you’re ready I’d be happy to set your hair and get you dressed for dinner.”