Page 116 of The Duchess Curse

Her mother had gone pale. “It’s not funny! If you are in love, you’ll die soon!”

“We did not mean to upset you, my lady,” Bran said. He needed to lower the temperature of the room. He pulled the shadows close, and the fire in the nearby grate died a little. “You must understand why Guin would want to know more about the curse. Her entire life has been dictated by it.”

Guin calmly folded her serviette and placed it next to her plate. “Are there any family heirlooms or documents that might give us some clue as to the curse’s nature?”

“The witch’s belongings were burned,” Cairnsbury said. “But you’re welcome to rifle through the attic. I’m afraid you’ll find nothing but dust and decaying furniture. Even the paintings of my great, great grandmother were burned. Though if you ask me, she was this family’s savior.” He took a long swallow of wine and slammed his glass on the table as he stood. “Excuse me if I do not join you for after-supper drinks. I find myself rather bored by the conversation.”

His wife watched him walk away, lips curled into a disgusted sneer. “Do forgive him. He’s never possessed good manners. I have a megrim. My apologies. Good evening.” Then she left too.

No love was lost between Guin’s parents. Another arranged marriage that benefited the family’s connections more than the people bartered away in exchange for it. Perhaps the curse had saved the family, but it had broken those belonging to it.

“I assume,” he said, “you want to explore the attic now?”

She nodded. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep otherwise.”

He grabbed a bottle of wine on their way out the door and followed Guin all the way to the top of the house. The attic was dusty and disorganized. It looked like the place where unwanted things went to die. He and Guin brought glamoured fairy orbs to light at the same time and set them bobbing in the air.

“Where should we start?” he asked.

“I’ve no idea. The trunks are the most likely places?”

He began to haul every trunk littered about the place closer to her. After that, he gathered books from cobwebbed shelves and piled them up neatly where Guin sat in a circle of bright peacock-colored skirts.

The first trunk was filled with a child’s clothing, old bonnets and gowns and shifts. Guin remembered them all. They’d been hers. And something about these pieces of her locked away made Bran want to roar.

The next trunk was legal documents pertaining to people who’d died long ago. And the one after that seemed to be a trousseau that had never been used in a fashion out of style at least fifty years ago.

Bran drank the wine, passing it off to Guin, as they rummaged through every trunk.

Surprisingly, it didn’t take them terribly long to find something interesting—several journals belonging to her great, great grandfather. The man was an avid recorder of his life.

And most of it was tedious. They flipped through each bound volume, searching for the word curse in his slanted, narrow script until the wine was gone and the words began to melt together.

“I think we need to sleep,” Bran said. He stood and held a hand out, and she took it, gathering up every book she could hold.

Bran picked up the rest of the books and helped her carry them to their room.

They made love slowly until their limbs were slick with sweat, then fell asleep quickly. They fit together like a bit of alchemical silver—sharing heat and shaping themselves into something new.

When the sun woke Bran once more, he was alone in bed.

“Not again,” he grumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

“Oh, you’re up. Good morning.” Guin sat in a puddle of dawn light, surrounded by a circle of books. One was open in front of her, and she looked almost terrified.

He jumped out of bed and wrapped himself around her, cradled her in his cross-legged lap. She wasn’t gone. He inhaled the scent of her, held it tight in his lungs. She’d stayed with him.

“I found it,” she whispered. She pointed at the open book.

“How long have you been awake?”

“I don’t know. But I”—she yawned, and it quaked her body—“found it.”

He picked the book up with one hand and read as she collapsed against his chest, an armful of sunfire curls and muscles and curves.

Negotiations with The Earl of Hemlock are going smoothly. Cassandra cries herself to sleep most nights, her mother says, but she has offered no actual resistance to the match. She fears the curse. Stupid girl, to believe in fairy tales, but her stupidity is my gain. The more she believes she’ll be killed for marrying young, penniless Baron Archibald—or believing he will be—the more she adheres to my edicts. She’ll sacrifice herself to save her love. My mother truly did me a good service when she poisoned father. Telling Cass the poison remains in our blood keeps fear in her heart. Fear is a powerful tool of manipulation. I think we’ll have a house party in the spring to celebrate her nuptials…

“Fucking Jupiter.”