Page 95 of When the Sky Breaks

I looked at the clothes laid out on the dressing table. Notably, none of them were mine.

I frowned. “Where are my things?”

“We’ll get you new ones tomorrow,” Zebrowska assured me. “For now these will do. It’s informal. And you have the baby. So a tea gown is fine for dinner.”

I remained entirely lost but figured playing along was the quickest way both back to my husband and to get my hands on food. So I let Zebrowska help me out of the tub, fuss with my hair for what felt like an eternity, and dress me.

Neal was waiting when I got downstairs, and I tucked myself into his chest on instinct.

The entire house smelled like sherry and butter, and it made my stomach turn.

“Where were you?” I whispered, face pressed into his jacket. The smell of woodsmoke, wool, and gunpowder was almost entirely gone from him now, replaced with scented soap and what I thought must be aftershave. I didn’t like it.

“Kidnapped and forced to use soap I knew you’d hate and put this on,” he whispered back, hugging me tighter as he tugged at the lapel of his smoking jacket.

I heard murmuring from the gathered staff and glanced up at Neal with a mixture of uncertainty and something irrationally akin to fear. They were courtiers. Why was I so damn nervous?

“You’re in charge,” he murmured into my ear.

And I smiled, emboldened. Ansel had configured the outpost to meet exacting, stifling, high-society expectations. But I was in charge. I was the sovereign. And now I was present and opinionated. Which meant I didn’t have to tolerate the fussing and the judgment. I could be called whatever I wanted. I only had to make myself entirely clear.

“High Lady Wilson,” someone said behind me, “dinner is getting cold, I’m afraid. And the chef has made . . .”

“Shut up,” I said, turning away from Neal and snapping at the courtiers. An older man named Randall—something akin to a butler. Zebrowska—the lady’s maid. Mrs. Farthington—the housekeeper. And then half a dozen “aides”—mostly the younger or less magically gifted sons of high-ranking noble households. I still wasn’t entirely clear which was which or what they did. The entire throng fell silent immediately.

“We will take dinner in the drawing room,” I said, using the tone I’d heard Glen take with particularly uncooperative guards and ranch hands. “You will not be dictating our sleeping or bathing habits. You will refer to me as Lady Sorcha or Mrs. MacCairn. Exclusively. And I want any official communications I missed on my desk, in my office by noon tomorrow. Zebrowska? I need dressmaker’s appointments tomorrow. Mr. MacCairn needs one at the tailor as well.”

I paused for breath and took the slip of paper Neal handed me. I unfolded it briefly and glanced over the meticulous list of everything I had and hadn’t thrown up in the last two weeks.

“Have your chef work off this,” I said, shoving it in Randall’s direction. “We’re taking a walk. Have something I can actually keep down ready at seven.”

I took Neal’s hand, made for the door, and heard Zebrowska try to protest.

“If you’re about to say something about not being dressed appropriately please save your breath,” I said simply. I heard Zebrowska’s footsteps retreat.

“So somebody’s figured out how to manage a household staff,” Neal chuckled, taking my arm as we made our way down the steps.

“Somebody doesn’t like to be watched while she bathes and called a title she hates and separated from her husband,” I muttered in response.

I slept hard that night, making a mental note that silk sheets were on the short list of things I wanted to keep at this outpost. I’d been up for hours after dinner, retching into an oddly intricate porcelain chamber pot while Neal held my hair and rubbed my back. But I rose early, shrugging into the same dress I’d worn the night before and pinning my hair up before the sun had fully cleared the horizon.

I was behind—too long on the road, too much time sick. I had work to get done. I slipped downstairs silently, careful not to wake Neal.

I found Ansel in my office, thumbing through the stack of missives casually, already sipping a coffee. He must have gotten in after we’d gone to bed.

“Seems you decided to come in and make some changes?” he asked.

“Nothing substantive,” I replied. “Cost cutting. Less obnoxiously self-aggrandizing menus. I like the sheets though.”

“Tell Neal and he can get them for Edinburgh and Islay,” Ansel said. “I can have them get you tea?”

“Do that,” I said, taking the papers from him. “Updates on disproving Iksura’s legal claim on my title?”

Ansel shook his head. “They’re almost done in review, and so far there’s no precedent for denying you the title due to age, but there’s another three hundred years of documents to check before we can be entirely sure.”

“I’ll try to be patient,” I said. “Anything else interesting to report?”

“General interesting? Portal interesting?” Ansel asked. “Be more specific.”