“We already started looking for dresses,” Cecily chimed in, glancing up from the steam of her tea, her gaze nearly lost beneath her white lashes.
“She hasn’t agreed yet,” Myra said softly, the edge of hesitation in her voice enough to earn a swift, sharp look from her sister.
“But it would be so magical,” Cecily whispered, almost pleading now. “Everyone would be there.”
“The Marzouqs have promised it will be exactly to your taste.” Lilian smoothed the napkin in her lap.
But that was the thing. I didn’t even like theideaof it.
Her attention remained fixed on me, her gaze steady, like a hawk watching its prey. “I’m sure your mother’s old friends would be delighted to meet you.”
I blinked, breaking eye contact. She found the only thing I was truly interested in. My chest tightened, the possibilities pressing in. After a momentary silence, I cleared my throat, my fingers gripping the spoon. “I think a party would be great,” I forced out, and Cecily jumped in her seat, clapping her hands at the same time Lilian did.
“Splendid,” she said. “Then we shall say yes to Declan Marzouq’s invitation as well.”
The spoon in my hand froze mid-air, a single drop of soup landing among the silver thorns etched into the porcelain bowl.
“Invitation?” I asked warily, as Lilian’s smile bloomed like a bruise.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ELODIE
Ilay on the hard mattress, staring up at the bed curtains above my head. The delicate fabric swayed faintly in the cold breeze that slipped through the open window, but my skin burned as if fevered. I rolled onto my stomach, dragging the still slightly dirty book closer on the crisp bedsheet. My fingers traced the embossed title, though my thoughts were far away, spiralling through the unwelcome prospect of tomorrow night.
Declan Marzouq.
I was being forced to endure an evening with him—a stranger, no less. The idea of being confined to a car with him, relying on his good graces to drive me to god-knows-where, left me sickened. Trust him? I’d rather eat glass than trust a man.
I grimaced at the thought, chewing over ways to wriggle out of the situation. The idea of finding the chauffeur boy and demanding the car keys briefly crossed my mind, but the inheritance loomed too large a threat. Anything brash or defiant could cost me the future I longed for.
I moved to shut the window. The darkness from the other side of the frame seemed endless, the stars pale in the sky. I exhaled sharply, letting the storm of my thoughts settle as I sankback into the mattress. My fingers pressed into the cover of the book.
“I found it,” I whispered, looking around the room. The ornate wardrobe, the elegant swans, and small moths carved deep into the fireplace… The room stayed perfectly still. “Mum?”
Nothing. Disappointment numbed my limbs. Carefully, I opened it, the cover crackling beneath my fingers, brittle with age.
May 2, 1665.
Agnes arrived.
The handwriting was slanted, elegant, inked in a style I hadn’t seen in any other book.
The girl is small. Nine, she says. Quiet. She touches the walls when no one is looking, like she’s listening for something beneath the stone. She’s clever like that.
Her name is Agnes, and she has magic in her fingers.
I turned the page.
May 16, 1665.
Agnes’s second week.
She doesn’t cry. Not once. But she watches the sky too long for a child. I caught her today,fingers pressed to the windowpane. She said the stars hum at night.
She weaves fate in her sleep, I’m certain of it.
I leaned back against the headboard and slowly flipped through the book.
