Philip snapped his gaze to the door where Lily stood, her eyes soft from sleep and hair loosely plaited over her shoulder. She still wore her shirtwaist but had changed into a simple navy skirt.
She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. “Snapdragon,” he said, his voice oddly tight. “Will you join me?”
She hesitated for a moment before moving to sit beside him, and his shoulders slumped in relief. She smelled of sleep and snow, sugar and leather. “I’m terrible at this.”
“I remember.” His chest warmed as her shoulder touched his, and she didn’t pull away. “Rose always got the most.”
The sister in question wiggled her fingers and grinned. “And I intend to do it again.” She winked at Ben, who stared at her with open adoration. “Watch the master at work, darling.”
Excited whispers sparkled around the table as Timothy lit a match and touched it to the edge of the brandy. A collective gasp went up as the liquor ignited, flashing high for a moment before settling into dancing blue and yellow flames, a conflagration contained in an innocent-looking pool.
“We’re supposed to stick our fingers in there?” Ben scoffed. “I’ll let you handle this, Rosie.”
Lily rose to her knees. “You won’t get burned if you’re quick about it.”
Nervous anticipation knotted in Philip’s chest. The game carried little real risk to anything besides a carelessly draping sleeve or lock of hair, but the desire swelled to wrap her up and keep her safe from anything that could harm her, nonetheless.
The irony stung, knowing he’d caused more harm than some burning brandy.
“Why is it called snapdragon?” Ben asked, and as if on cue, a loud pop erupted as a raisin burst, sending sparks dancing into the air and across the liquid surface.
Callum scoffed. “Ye English are insane, ye ken?”
“You don’t play this in Scotland?” Alex asked.
“We dinnae play with our liquor. We drink it.”
Violet shot her fingers out, snagged a raisin, and pulled back with a yelp. “There. I’m winning.”
“Like hell you are,” Rose growled, grabbing her own while Ben beamed at his wife. Fern, meanwhile, quietly plucked one fruit after another without drawing attention.
They continued in this fashion, shrieking and howling with laughter, cheering each other on and celebrating when Callum and Ben caught their first raisins. Lily had settled further against Philip, and he risked bringing a hand to her hip. She stiffened, but relaxed before he could move his palm away. For a moment, he glimpsed the couple they could have been, had he not left. His wife at ease, smiling and laughing, trusting him to protect her.
“I can’t eat any more.” Marigold’s cheeks were flushed. “I’m d-dizzy from the brandy.” Archie curled his arms around her and dragged her onto his lap.
Lily rubbed her hands together. “This one’s mine, then.” But as she reached out, a flame sparked and splashed hot brandy onto her exposed wrist. She hissed and pulled her arm back, wrapping her hand around the wound.
Philip was on his feet before she could catch her breath, bringing her arm towards him, but the light was too low to see clearly. “Doesit hurt?” he asked, his voice tight. If she said yes, he might toss the entire bowl out the window, followed by Timothy for having the damn fool idea in the first place.
“I’m fine.” But she sniffed, and he knew she was lying.
“Where are your bandages?”
Her eyes were dark when they met his, flashes of blue flame dancing over her hazel irises and casting half her face in shadows. “Salisbury has some in the china room—”
They were moving before she finished. He led her with an arm around her waist as they traversed the darkened hallways, descending the servant’s staircase to the china room. He lit the gas lamp and lifted her onto the table at one end of the narrow chamber. Only when he was certain she could stay upright by herself did he open the cabinet above her head to search for supplies.
“You don’t need to do this.” Her voice was breathy, thin, and he ground his teeth together to stop himself from carrying her into town to find a physician.
“You’re hurt.”
“Not badly.” She curled her fingers around the edge of the table and craned her neck to see what he was doing.
He opened his mouth to respond as he moved a bottle of carbolic aside, but what he saw stopped him cold.
The vial of laudanum was nothing unusual, the cloudy blue glass and dropper as familiar as his hand. The text on the label blurred as he blinked, the blood rushing in his ears suddenly deafening. He clocked the level of liquid on instinct, calculating how many doses it contained, how long it would last.
Being confronted with the tool that destroyed his marriage and nearly claimed his life made his insides curdle, his stomach lurching and threatening to rebel. Still, his fingers itched with the desire to unstopper the bottle, knowing the sweet euphoria that would chase a single taste, the bliss waiting just beyond the glass.
