Castle Killyreigh.
Home.
For three years, Celia had been stumbling over introductions, dropping teacups, blushing when gentlemen praised her. For three years, Celia had been clinging to Killyreigh. That Clarence would choose a wife or plunge into debt—either one seemed likely—and be forced to return home. She would go with him, obedient and stubborn, and manage the barony like she had done for their father.
This time, no one would pull her away.
She had always imagined, in this part hidden so deep that she did not even have words for it, that Rose would choose her father, Henrietta would choose a husband, and Marianne would stay with her. Marianne had always needed Celia.
But now, Misfortune was laying its skeletal fingers on Mr. Thompson’s throat, its hollow eyes laughing as the women tried to scurry away.
Marriage,said Aunt Thompson.
Illness, said Rose.
Leap free, said Mr. Hughes.
But Marianne was sleeping in Celia’s bed and Celia would hold on to Marianne until one of them drew their last breath;until Marianne was flying free towards a life she chose for herself.
Celia knew every face of death, and Misfortune would not overawe her while there was life and love to cling to.
Filled with sudden fire, Celia marched across the room, wrestled the heavy frame down from the wall, staggering slightly, and then shoved it under her bed. She had to rearrange some pillows and boxes, and had a moment’s fear of damaging the art—but what did it matter? It was just her own painting of a place that mattered only to her.
Her family meant more, and Celia was not going to lose her family again.
Chapter Three
Let’s Have One Other Gaudy Night
Peter Alcott kickeda stone down the street, pitter-tip-crack echoing off the dark cobblestones. Kick. It flew under a barrow, tied up under a tarp for the night. Peter balanced on one foot, stretching out the other toe, tapping, reaching. Must have that stone! He grabbed the top of the cart, which wobbled. Aha! Another kick, and he hopped away lest the barrow topple, shaking splinters out of his palm, combing the dark to see where it landed.
At the turn-off to his own street.
He almost made another loop. His dancing slippers had lost their polish several hundred kicks past, which didn’t matter, but sooner or later a man has to go to bed.
One more kick, and he slipped it into his pocket for good luck, a strange exultant victory. All this time, he hadn’t lost the blasted thing, and there had been little enough going right lately. Ha!
Peter trotted up the stairs to the terraced house where he rented rooms, deflating with each step, exhaustion pounding his temples. The latch was ajar, so he paused to listen. Nothing. Pushed open the door. Nothing. Dim lantern smoking on the hall table.
Irritated with the lazy-lolpoop staff, Peter did the proper thing himself. Lit a candle, slid his stiletto from under histrouser cuff, checked down the corridor through the kitchen and pantries. Good—no rushers on the house lay, snabbling the plate. Peter locked the front door securely, checked it again, and headed upstairs two at a time.
Damn, but he was tired. Celia’s face—oh God. But he had to do it.
A small white card was tucked into a sliver in his front door—was it?—yes, PL embossed white on white. Good.
Or not good. He wanted to fall into bed and wallow in misery.
Peter called out as he opened the door, holding his breath as he hurried through his front room—smelled of mold, maybe something died in the wall, worse than usual lately—to the sitting-dining-library-bedroom, and found Paul Leavenworth leaning back on one of the ladder back chairs, feet propped on the warm hearth. He was a Black man, hair trimmed short and always impeccably dressed and shaved, currently reading a book and tapping a card languidly on the table.
Next to a meat pie. Oh—Peter remembered he was hungry.
Peter tugged off his wilted neckcloth and tailcoat, kicked the fine dancing slippers into a corner. Maybe ruined. He glanced up and realized the way his former military partner was watching him—bad sign.
“Were you going to tell me about this, or what?” Leavenworth tapped the card again.
Peter jolted to attention like an electrical spark.
Leavenworth laid the rough foolscap on the table, flat, where they both could see it. The letters still speared Peter like each coarsely scrawled word was a tiny lance, piercing not only his skin but the entire life he had built. For himself. All his own.
