“Know what?”
He stares at me, his gaze intense. And yet, it’s different from Rafe’s. With Jude, I don’t so much feel like I’m being undressed as x-rayed. Like he’d rather see my bones and my guts than what I look like under this robe. Finally, he seems to reach a decision. “I need to show you something.”
“Okay.”
“It’s in my bedroom.”
In his bedroom.
Which isin his house.
Which would putmein that manor.
Confusion morphs into excitement.
I hold up two fingers in request for two minutes. As quickly as possible, I use the restroom,brush my teeth, splash my face, put on deodorant, ditch the robe and pajamas for a pair of black leggings and an off-white hoodie. I top it off with a bit of lip gloss and a spritz of body spray. I hurry down the stairs, slide my feet into a pair of loafers, and join him outside, where the sun has chased most of the fog away.
He looks exasperated, like I just spent thirty minutes curling my hair instead of a meager five engaging in basic hygiene. He turns toward the manor.
I follow him up the cobblestone drive.
Dad has made impressive progress over the past week, but after thirty years of neglect, it’s only a drop in the bucket. I take in the weeds, the overgrown hedges. “Are you really going to host the masquerade ball here this year?”
“If Isabel has her way,” he answers, his pace unfaltering, his attention fixed forward.
“You don’t like the idea?”
“I neither like nor dislike it.”
I lengthen my stride to keep up with his. “It’s only a month and a half away. Less than, actually.”
Jude doesn’t respond.
“That’s not a lot of time to prepare. The upkeep alone on these grounds is a full time job. What my dad’s doing now isn’t upkeep. It’s … ” I glance over my shoulder at the overgrown garden on the southeast lawn, with a half-crumbled stone arch and an enormous twisted tree, its dead branches tied with faded ribbon—for what reason, I don’t know. “Resuscitation.”
He stops in front of the tiered fountain in the courtyard, once thepiece de resistance, now weathered and dry except for rainwater that’s puddled in the basin. “Do you have a point, or do you just like to talk?”
“This may come as a shock to you, but talking is a relatively normal thing to do when in another’s company.”
He glowers.
“But I also have a point.”
“Which is?”
“If the ball is going to be held here, my dad’s gonna need some help.”
“I’ll talk to Isabel.”
With that, he climbs the stone steps.
Suddenly, we’re at the entrance, and I feel like I need a minute. A reverent pause. Some way of commemorating such a momentous occasion. A text to Twig, at the very least. But Jude just pushes the doors open and walks inside. He reaches the staircase before realizing I’m still stuck on the threshold.
With a shaky exhale, I step inside.
The marble floor is a deep charcoal veined with silver. Wrought-iron sconces cast long shadows down midnight blue walls patterned with gold filigree. To my right, a pair of double doors open into the ballroom. To my left, a matching pair remain closed. Two staircases spiral upward,and in the center hangs a massive chandelier that is both beautiful and ominous.
Jude gives his throat a loud clear from halfway up one of the staircases. I hurry to catch up, trying to take it all in. Every detail. Because what if this is my only opportunity? But before I can blink, we’re in the upper hall.
