Rosavyn had arrived with Kazrian this morning. She had not been expected. The plan had been for her to come later with the rest of the family, with Lady Lelianna and whichever other Rowanwoods intended to be present. But she had walked into The Honeycomb’s kitchen looking bright and composed and entirely too cheerful for someone whose heart, Lucie knew, was quietly breaking yet again.
Lord Grayfield had begun a formal courtship with another young lady. Someone who had manifested the previous Season—of course she had manifested, that was the whole wretched point of it—and the news had moved through Bloomhaven society.
“It was always going to happen,” Rosavyn had said. “I told you as much, did I not? I predicted this very outcome, and I am nothing if not consistent in my expectations.”
Lucie had not pressed. Instead, she had simply said, “I am glad you are here,” and Rosavyn had smiled and said, “Where else would I be? At Rowanwood House with Mother giving me those dreadful pitying looks of hers? Absolutely not. I would far rather be useful.”
Lucie drew a breath and gave a small nod. “Well. I ought to get back inside. There is still a great deal to finish.”
“Is there truly?” Iris asked. “It all looks done to me.”
“The confections that must be fresh cannot be done until the last moment. The honey-light cream for the little tartlets has to be whipped and piped within the hour before serving. And the crystallized violets for the top of the petit fours still need positioning.” She was already moving through the list in her head, the familiar churning inventory that never truly stopped. “There are rather a lot of those, but the pixies will help. And of course, there is the sugar syrup for the spun sugar part of the showpiece, which I must prepare to the exact correct temperature before covering it with an enchantment that will preserve it like that until the moment I need it during the demonstration.”
Iris and Rosavyn blinked at her. “Right,” said Rosavyn. “Well. I suppose we had best get inside then. I will help in whatever way I can.”
Lucie turned toward the back door and almost walked into Georgiana, who was coming out.
“Oh, Lucie, there you are.” Her gaze flickered past her to Iris and Rosavyn before returning to Lucie. “I was looking for you.”
“Is everything all right?” Lucie asked, frowning slightly. Because Georgiana had her shawl on, pulled close around her shoulders, and there was the little basket she always carried to and from The Honeycomb, sitting on one arm. She looked, Lucie noted with confusion, as though she were leaving.
Her gaze dropped to the flagstones between them. She pressed her lipstogether, and one gloved hand smoothed down the front of her shawl before gripping the edge of it tightly. “I was just upstairs,” she said. “Speaking with Lady Rivenna. I have … I have given my notice.”
Lucie’s breath stopped. “What? Georgiana—what—you areleaving? Today? You cannot possibly—today, of all?—”
“I have accepted a proposal of marriage.” The words came out in a rush. “His family is departing Bloomhaven this afternoon. I am going with them.”
For several seconds, Lucie could not make the words assemble into anything that made sense. She stared at Georgiana, her mind lurching to catch up, the calm of the morning cracking along a fault line she had not seen coming.
“I—forgive me,” Lucie said. “I did not realize there was … I had no notion of … of a courtship or …”
Georgiana’s eyes remained downcast. “It has been a rather … private arrangement. Quite new. I am sorry for not having spoken of it sooner.” Her fingers twisted at the shawl’s fringe again. “But he is a good man, Lucie. Truly.”
Lucie’s mind was spinning. Two things were turning over one another, colliding, separating, colliding again. The first was relief for Georgiana. She was leaving. Georgiana was getting away from Henry. Whatever this proposal was, however sudden it seemed, it meant that Georgiana would no longer be under her brother’s roof, no longer within the reach of his temper.
And the second?—
The second was that the only other person who knew every confection by name, who understood the honey light varieties, who could describe each creation to a guest with the kind of steady warmth that put even the most demanding fae patron at ease, who was supposed to stand beside her this afternoon and help her navigate one of the most important moments of her life—wasleaving. Now. Hours before the launch.
Do not think about that. Do not think about that yet.
The important part—the part that mattered most—was that Georgiana was getting away.
“This afternoon?” Lucie heard herself say. “You are leaving this afternoon?”
“His family has obligations elsewhere. They cannot delay their departure.”Georgiana’s voice was thin, strained. “I know how this must seem. How sudden it all is. But I am unable to remain here any longer.”
Lucie found herself nodding slowly. “I … I understand.”
And then a far worse thought arrived, cold and sudden, and Lucie felt the blood drain from her own face.
Had she made things worse?
After she had shouted at Henry. After Balthazar had raked his claws across his face. After she had slammed the kitchen door in his face with the whole of her weight behind it. Had he gone home from that humiliation with his temper up, and had Georgiana been the one to bear it? Was that why the marriage was so sudden, so urgent, why a good man’s family could not delay their departure by even a day? Had Lucie’s own anger, her own righteous defense of herself, come down in the end upon Georgiana’s head?
She felt ill.
No. Whatever the cause—whatever part she had or had not played—the answer was still the same. Georgiana must go. Georgiana must be free of him.
