“Always,” I bit out.
He chuckled, clearly amused. He wore jeans and a heavy cabled cream sweater. His hair was disheveled and met by a shadow of a beard that I’d never seen him sport before. “We’re not going anywhere without an agreement. I was prepared to offer you my services last night, but you—very rudely, might I add—did not want to listen to what I had to say.”
“Well, we’re here now. No reason to gloat.”
“There’s always reason to gloat,” he quipped.
I couldn’t decide what was more infuriating: the fact that he must argue with each word out of my mouth, or the fact that he’d continued to run circles over my skin. The motion was disgustingly soothing.
“What do you want, Death?”
He smiled. The kind of smile that felt like utter ruin, lips curling into a threat and a promise all at once. Dread pooled in my stomach.
thirteen
Astoria
December 1945
When I arrived in London a few years earlier, the world was on the cusp of war. The years that followed were long and brutal. We’d all lost more than we ever meant to give. Now the war was over, and this December, joy clung to the air—infectious and bright.
I’d been invited to a winter masquerade ball by a dear friend, and all things considered, it was exactly what I needed. For weeks, I searched for the perfect dress, trying my best to honor the hostess’ eighteenth-century theme. Balls and gowns and Hollywood fantasy had begun to spill into every corner of life. It was part of the post-war high.
I’d enlisted the help of a seamstress who helped me create the most stunning black ball gown and mask. Despite everyone’s protest, I insisted on black.
After everything this year, I wasn’t ready to fade back into normalcy as if nothing had happened and there was nothing to grieve.
Leo had fallen on the battlefield, joining his sister in death, leaving Arthur and me as the last of the DuPonts
I’d spent nearly seven years in London and, slowly, my circle had begun to pick up the threads of life from before the war. My friends were marrying, having children. There were even rumors that Charles Henley—my closest friend’s oldest brother—had bought a ring. He was kind, hard-working, a decorated naval officer, and he’d make a good husband. A good father. And regardless of the effort I went through to keep him from me, he loved me anyways.
But I couldn’t do it. Not when he would age. Not when our children would grow up and leave me behind.
Instead, I was boarding a boat in the morning, bound for America. I’d reunite with my son and somehow I’d figure out what came next.
The air thrummed with energy and anticipation as I stepped into the ballroom—a grand hall tucked deep in the English countryside, in a manor that could rival even Chatsworth House.
Pulling my onyx-laced mask down over my eyes, I slipped from the car, giddy to spend my final evening in England cloaked in anonymity. Lifting the heavy skirts of my gown, my gaze swept over the towering architecture, breath catching in my throat as I made my way inside. From somewhere beyond the gilded doors, soft strings floated through the air, weaving the melodies of famous composers into the night.
Helen had pulled out all the stops. Everything was magnificent.
Servers glided through the crowd with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres, champagne, and deep red wine. In the center of the room, couples danced in sweeping arcs, the women’s gowns trailing behind them conjuring images of spilled paint—blush, emerald, sapphire, gold. The men lingered off to the sides, laughing into short glasses of something dark and expensive. Their conversation light, their postures easy.
Towering floral arrangements graced every table and alcove, fragrant and full. Even the drapery had been swapped to match Helen’s theme: opulent and otherworldly, mirroring a fairytale set just outside of time.
My black gown had been a bold choice, but its silhouette held all the romanticism of another era, and as I crossed the threshold, a hush rippled through the room. The orchestra slowed into a softer movement, its notes unfurling into the winter-chilled air, delicate as breath on glass.
I paused, breath catching in my throat, letting the moment settle.
Then I saw him—a tall stranger striding toward me with his hand outstretched. His dark hair was brushed back, the top left long and tousled into soft waves. I couldn’t make out his full face beneath the raven-feathered mask, but the strong cut of his jaw left little doubt that he was handsome. Striking, even.
When our hands met, his skin was warm, his fingers calloused. A spark bloomed where we touched, humming like a struck chord.
“I’m certain none here could consider themselves as fortunate as I,” he said, his voice rich and low, “if you would grant me this dance.”
That voice,it wrapped around me with the warmth of velvet, so achingly familiar I almost swayed. Something deep inside me stirred, sharp and sweet; a note held too long. It echoed of home.
The flutter in my chest turned tight. Anchored. Cemented.
