“I’m just saying, if we’re being old-fashioned about this, you should probably ask my dad for permission first.”
Jude unbuckles his seatbelt. He grabs the door handle, like he’s going to get out and ask my father’s permission right now. With a laugh, I take his arm and pull him back into his seat.
The live wire returns, crackling in the cab of his BMW.
I tuck my hair behind my ear with a noticeable tremble in my fingers. “Of course, Jude Vandenberg. I would love to go to the ball with you.”
The morning air is crisp as I jog my usual loop. I cut around the stables, the grass tipped with silver. The season’s first frost always feels magical, but even more so here on the Vandenberg estate. Sunlight filters through a scatter of gold and crimson as I turn down the wooded trail that takes me toward the manor.
The whole time, I’ve barely felt the ground.
Last night, Jude asked me to the ball and I’m still floating. For once, I didn’t dream about fires or monsters or bombings. I dreamt of pleasant things. Happy things.Attractivethings.
A smile breaks across my face.
I’ll need a dress. Something period-appropriate. My mind wanders to the wardrobe on the third floor. I imagine donning that gorgeous gown. I imagine Jude in a dark coat and gloves, a cravat at his neck, looking at me the way he did last night.
I burst through the woods. Ahead, the backside of the manor rises from the fog like a gothic dream. I follow the path, which curves around the hedge maze, and to my delight, I discover I’m not the only one awake this early on a Saturday morning.
Jude sits alone on the terrace with a book and a mug of coffee, bathed in golden sunlight like a brooding Adonis. His hair is damp, as though from a recent shower. And as I approach, I notice he’snot reading a book after all, but one of the leather journals we’ve been poring over as of late.
“Hey,” I say, smiling as I come to a stop, my breath escaping in puffs of white.
He looks up, and for a slip of a second, it’s like watching a candle catch flame—a warm, delectable spark. But then, just as quickly, the flame flickers and dies. A shadow creeps across his face.
“Hey,” he says back.
I step onto the terrace, feeling uncertain. “Do you usually get up this early?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” he says.
“Me neither.” Only something tells me our sleepless nights were very different. I couldn’t sleep because I was too giddy to sleep. Jude, on the other hand, looks haunted. Or, shoot. Maybe regretful? My chest tightens at the thought, the warmth from my run evaporating.
He avoids eye contact as I stand there awkwardly, pulling at my sleeves, stretching them over my hands. I nod at the journal. “Find anything new?”
He taps the porcelain handle of his coffee mug. “I was thinking about what Rafe said last night. It is strange that he didn’t write about the portrait.”
“He did, though. Maggie has the proof in her office, remember?”
“That’s just one mention. Written on the day he finished. What about all the decades he toiled?”
“He might have written more. There are wholeyears unaccounted for. Journals that were lost in the fire.”
“Maybe. But we have quite a few. And aside from that one scrap Maggie has, there’s nothing. Don’t you think he’d write about the object of his obsession as much as he tried to paint it?”
I’m not sure. I’ve read plenty of Vandenberg journals by now, and the menfolk weren’t exactly verbose when it came to their inner thought life.
“I want to show you something,” Jude says, finally meeting my eye. “It’s up in my room.”
In the upper hall, Rafe steps out of Jude’s bedroom.
Jude and I come to a stop.
“What were you doing in my room?” he asks.
“Looking for you,” Rafe says, far too casually. He gives Jude a once-over and clucks his tongue. “My, my. You look like hell, Cousin. Trouble sleeping? Insomnia got you down? It does seem to run in the family.”
“What do you want?” Jude asks.
