“Did you have a lover there?” Cecily blurted, and I nearly choked on my tea.
“Cecily,” Lilian warned, and Myra shook her head, though she looked just as curious as her sister.
“A lover?” I echoed, my voice dry.
“Did you leave your boyfriend behind?” Cecily rephrased, her pale head resting in her palm. “That would be so romantic. So tragic.”
Tragic would fit into my life.
Preston snorted, sharp and amused. My head snapped in his direction, heat flickering along my neck as he offered me a venomous grin. He was clearly enjoying this. I looked away before I did something stupid, like throw my fork across the table, aimed at his head.
I had never loved anyone. Not like that at least. My life had been too full of survival, too quiet and strange for anything resembling romance. And my mum, she’d taught me love could wound in silence. That people you love the most tend to slip through your fingers. Anhe Fei used to say grief makes the heart brittle, and love is a heavy thing to balance on such fragile bones. Besides, boys were too immature anyway; you couldn’t really trust them. No, I had all the romance I needed in my novels.
I shook my head. “I didn’t,” I answered, without elaborating.
Cecily let out a long, dramatic sigh, and her sister studied me before returning to her plate.
Lilian clapped her hands, breaking the rhythm of the room. “Before this conversation descends entirely into farce,” she looked pointedly at the twins, “I’d like to propose a toast. To finally have my granddaughter by my side. The very last of the Thornbury name.”
Her words coiled around my ribs like thorny vines. I had never been anyone’s granddaughter before.
I reached for the champagne, more to do something with my hands than to join in the toast. The sweet, golden liquid bloomed over my tongue, unfamiliar and soft. I’d never had champagne before. My mum preferred red wine over anything, and even that was rare in our household.
When I looked up from the glass, my gaze landed on the butler. He stood in the shadows like a sculpture, balancing a silver tray in his hands. His presence was quiet, unassuming, but there was something about him I couldn’t quite place. He smiled. Not broadly, but kindly, just like when I arrived, and my shoulders began to loosen. I raised my glass slightly, and took another sip.
Still, the pressure hadn’t vanished. Not entirely. My movements were followed by Preston’s torturing eyes, his gaze clinging to me like fog. His food lay untouched on his plate as he watched, like he was waiting for something to break.
I blanked my face. If he wanted a reaction, he could choke on the silence instead. And if he wanted war, I would make sure he knew I didn’t bruise easily.
Nor did I bleed quietly either.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ELODIE
After dinner, I planned to take a bath and hide under the blankets until sunrise. The manor had quieted, the echo of my footsteps fading into velvet silence as I climbed the long, spiralling stairs. The chandeliers wavered above my head, casting long shadows against the dark stone walls.
My fingers trailed the cold marble railing as I pictured my mum here. Walking these same hallways, listening to the same silence. It was too hard, too heavy to picture her in a life I didn’t know.
I reached the second floor and was about to turn down the hallway toward my new bedroom when a flicker of movement caught my attention.
Someone—no, something—drifted across the far corridor, just ahead. A woman, though I couldn’t see her clearly. Lilian didn’t mention anyone else living here. Her gown trailed behind her, silver in the dark, as she moved with a strange sort of stillness, like moonlight painted onto glass.
I blinked, and she was gone.
Slowly, I made my way over, the stone floor uneven under my boots. The corridor remained empty, with no sign of anyone being there. I looked around, my gaze landing on a rusted mirror. The manor was full of them, along with antique portraits. It must have been a simple reflection. Probably just a trick of the candlelight.
Still, unease coiled in my spine.
The house breathed around me, cold wind slicking my chin as I turned toward my room, my eyes landing on another slightly cracked door, pale light spilling out of it. I edged closer, the rug stealing the sound of my steps, but the moment I peeked inside, the light vanished. The room was steeped in semidarkness and crammed with huge shelves from wall to wall. The scent of old paper and dust, undercut by the faint bite of mildew, hung in the air.
I searched for a light switch, but found none, so I stepped back into the hall, lifting a candle from one of the ornate consoles. Its flame flickered as I returned to the room, moving it around. The room had no window, none that I could see. But it had a high ceiling, painted with harshly white clouds and a sky so blue it looked out of place in the gloom of the house.
The mahogany shelves were rich with carved vines and flowers. I ran my fingers over old war books and leather-spined volumes, while dust particles danced around me in the air. Something gleamed in the light of the candle, and I leaned down, pulling off a gold-patterned book, bound in cold, brown leather.
Tales of Thornhill
My lips parted. I placed the candle down on the rug and sat down to read.
