Marion stops, her eyes narrowing. “Find what?”
“I just…” I shake my head. I can’t explain the real reason. I don’t know what she’d do if she found out I’m from another world and that I’m so close to my one chance to get back home. “I have a feeling. Please, Marion, just a little more time.”
She studies me for a moment and offers a small soft smile. “Your feeling can wait. Your responsibilities cannot.”
She tightens her grip on my hand and gently pulls, but I don’t budge. “Marion, please. If you could just—”
“Hannah, you are new to Pentacles, and while Cups may have its own set of expectations in which you are well-versed, I am the expert on Pentacles’s decorum and its particular rules. Your attendance at the feast is important to the negotiations you and Ashwood have come all this way to conduct. If you are late or arrive with a stitch out of place, it will be seen as blatant disrespect. The feast is important, and we must both be there on time.”
“I understand, but this is important too.”
“Then I promise we can explore more at a later date. But for now, we must get you back to your rooms.”
There’s sincerity in her eyes, genuine concern, and I know she’s not going to budge. With a heavy sigh, I nod. “Fine. After the feast, then.”
“After the feast,” she agrees, then pulls me forward.
I feel like Cinderella, dashing down wide hallways and up grand staircases to my room before the clock strikes twelve and my carriage turns back into a pumpkin.
We burst into my room, the door swinging shut behind us. Inside is quiet and empty, the air crisp and chilly in Kane’s absence.
“I thought Ashwood would be here,” I say more to myself than to Marion.
“I’m sure he’s with Highgate discussing their schedules and agendas for the talks with the king,” she says, rushing to the side of the bed to tug on the bellpull. “Wouldn’t it be amazing if our husbands also became friends? Perhaps we could holiday at each other’s country estates.”
I force a smile, trying to match Marion’s enthusiasm as she continues on about parties in the countryside, but it’s impossible when my problems are so different from hers. My mind is elsewhere, and I collapse onto the edge of the bed, my pulse pounding in my ears.
“What if I never make it back?” I mutter, the thought twisting my stomach into knots.
“Don’t worry, Hannah,” Marion says, settling onto the maroon-and-gold settee near the foot of the bed. “If we must, we’ll summon an army to prepare you in time for the feast.”
I nod, trying to hold back the sudden rush of tears that threatens to spill over.
If only that were my real concern.
Fifteen
According to Marion, she hasn’t summoned an army, but it sure does seem like it as attendants scurry in and out of the bedroom with trays of brushes and combs, buckets of steaming water for the bath, dried flowers and soaps, and delicious treats that make my stomach growl.
A petite maid nods, her delicate features pinched in concentration as she sets down a golden tray laden with warm scones, tiny cakes covered in delicate icing, and a bowl of fresh fruit. She looks familiar, like I’ve seen her on the bus or coming in and out of the high-rise where Posh Pulse’s offices are, but I can’t quite place her. Although this isn’t the first time, and most likely won’t be the last time, I recognize someone from my world.
The sugary-sweet scent of fresh pastries wafts through the air, and I take a mouthwatering inhale before reaching for a cake the size of a shot glass. Before I can begin to nibble away at it, because I’m sure shoving the whole thing in my mouth would be extremely unladylike,another attendant sets a different sparkling gold platter on the table in front of the settee. Tall, narrow porcelain cups with gilded rims and accompanying saucers decorated with hand-painted pentacles rest on the tray next to an elongated, slender kettle with a fluted spout and an ornate golden pentacle on its lid. Marion picks up the kettle, her movements graceful and measured, and pours the rich drinking chocolate into the cups.
“Thank you.” I manage a smile, my heart twisting with the anxiety of being trapped in this room while I’d rather be digging through others, as I accept the cup from Marion’s outstretched hand. I take a delicate sip of chocolate, the rich, velvety liquid sliding down my throat. For now, I’ll push down my worries and do my best to embody a lady from the Kingdom of Cups.
“Which gown do you think you’ll wear tonight?” she asks, her fingers plucking the air over the array of pastries as she makes a choice.
I blink, my gaze sweeping over the room. The trunk is nowhere to be found, and I didn’t have enough time to explore all of Lady Ashwood’s dresses anyway. “I’m not sure.”
“There are so many options. It’s always such a difficult choice.” Marion sighs. “I remember when choosing the queen’s gown for such an event would take all day. The attendants would parade them in and out, each gown more beautiful than the last. And the jewels!” With a flourish, she bites into a scone and collapses back against the settee’s plush cushions. “But, for tonight, we can pretend everything is back to the way it was and indulge ourselves. And I do love to indulge…” A mischievous smile plumps her cheeks before she takes another bite of pillowy pastry.
“What was it like before?” I ask, not sure exactly how much prying is too much when it comes to being the perfect lady.
“Before King Lockhart died and the queen took to her rooms to nurse her broken heart and make threats about leaving noble life?” Wistful, Marion gazes up at the ceiling. “I suppose the only constant is that things change. Sometimes for the better and others for the worse.” She seems to shake herself free of her reverie and reaches for the bowl of fruit. Her slender fingers curl around a pomegranate half, its ruby-red seeds glistening like jewels.
“At least some things stay the same,” she says, holding the fruit out to me. “The palace has prize-winning pomegranates. Or, at least, they would be prize winning if there were ever a contest for Pentacles’s best pomegranates. They’re grown in the same arboretum as the pears. Juicy, delectable, and a favorite of Lady Whitmore, the court’s resident pomegranate glutton.”
“Pomegranate glutton?” A laugh bubbles from me as I take the fruit and glide my finger over the swollen seeds.
