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“There you are, dear sister,” he says, his voice light and sing-song. He bounds toward me with the carefree energy of a boy, tapping my nose as if I were still a child.

Casey slings an arm around my shoulders, his warmth a sharp contrast to the cold guilt settling over me. “Ye’ve been missin’ all the fun,” he says with a grin, oblivious to the tension hanging thick in the air. “Come on, we’ll find something to drink.”

I nod, forcing a weak smile, but my gaze flicks back to Finn. He leans against the wall, golden eyes locking onto mine for a single aching heartbeat. Something flickers there—regret, longing, something I can’t name—but before I can breathe it in, he looks away.

27

A House of Glass

Triona

Tuesday, 3 June 1823

Casa da Prímula

My body feels leaden as I wake. I lie still, listening to the silence that followed the iron wall clock’s chime, signalling morning meal. It rang at least half an hour past, but I know the state of the house—heads aching, stomachs turning, nursing other consequences of last night’s excess.

After Casey collected me from the hallway, I became his reluctant shadow as he continued drinking. By night’s end, he’d been a prickly bastard, starting a fight with Bran after catching him, stealing a kiss from a rather curvaceous party guest. The dispute reeked of drink and wounded pride. After that, Casey left me alone, so I’d carted myself to bed.

I didn’t see Finn for the rest of the night. As much as I longed to find him, I thought it wiser to give him space.

An intrusive thought has been playing over in my mind since I left him standing there in that hallway. The thought gnaws at me. Was that look I saw in him as I made a last pass at him regret?

But that kiss.

The memory floods me, searing my cheeks with a heat that defies the morning’s chill. It consumes my every thought. The press of his lips—firm yet tender—lingers as though he had restrained himself for an eternity, only to surrender after that constraint was broken. His gaze laid me bare and reached the core of me. Even now—I can feel him hot between my thighs—his deft fingers playing my body as if I were a tune he’d spent years perfecting. He moved as if he knew me better than I even knew myself.

I force myself upright, though the weight in my limbs makes it feel as if my emotions have taken root there. My gaze drifts to the bedside table—and a small, startled sound slips from my lips, a quiet mix of excitement and disbelief.

There, nestled in the soft morning light, is a bundle of primrose.

For a moment, I don’t move. The purple petals are tied with a thin piece of twine. Slowly, I reach out, brushing my fingers over the stems.

They are still cool, the dew on them fresh, as if plucked only minutes ago.

The flowers are a stark reminder of my mother, as they will always be. Her quiet grace, unshakable love, and the way she knew what I needed before I did. I reach out to grab the bundle, tears pricking my eyes, and an overwhelming wave of guilt rises.

I clutch the flowers to my chest as though they might vanish, much like the bloom in Da’s garden that day—when life as I knew it turned to ash. A day I’d wasted away, not knowing it’d be the last in our home. I’d never again hear my mother’s chiding, which I’d needed more often than I cared to admit.

I’d never feel the warmth of my father’s embrace, arms wrapped around my frame as if he alone could shield me from all. My steely composure completely shatters.

And suddenly, I’m falling.

A sob escapes from between my lips, unbidden and raw. My shoulders shake violently, and I clutch the bundle as if it can anchor me to something no longer present in this realm.

“Triona?” Aunt Amelia’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp with concern.

I glance toward her, barely able to meet her pitying gaze before she crosses the room and gathers me into her arms.

“Oh, my love. What is it?” she murmurs as she strokes my hair. “What’s hurting you so?”

I can’t answer. My throat burns, my chest heaves, and the only sounds that escape are broken, guttural cries, echoing all around us.

Aunt Amelia rubs comforting circles on my back, though I can feel her own trembling. “It’s all right, love,” she whispers. “Let it out. Let it all out.”

All I can think of is how much I miss them. How much I miss her. My mother. My father. My home. The life I’ll never have again. How ungrateful, selfish, and foolish I had been.

I’m afraid—afraid that one day I won’t remember the sound of my mother’s voice or the way my father laughed. Afraid they will fade from me entirely, leaving only this aching void in their place.