“How did you get inside?”
“You have a spare key at home. For the front. I took it from Mother last night.” Charlotte stepped into the room. “Where did all these cushions?—”
“You did not touch the beehive structure, did you? We specifically left it in the front room because the shop is closed today, and?—”
“Of course not. I did not so much as breathe on it.” She crossed the small space and stood at the foot of Lucie’s makeshift bed. “You sent a messenger pixie to Mother to say you were staying the night again. Which was perfectly adequate as a message, except that no one has actually seen you in two days, and I thought I should come and assure myself that you had not been eaten by the building.”
Lucie smiled. “I am quite well. There has been a great deal to do before the launch, and it was simpler to stay.”
“Simpler,” Charlotte repeated, in a tone that suggested she did not find the explanation entirely satisfying. “Are you quite sure you are all right?”
“Yes. I promise.” And Lucie found that she meant it.
Charlotte studied her for a moment longer. Then she seemed to accept it—or at least to set it aside for the time being—and looked around the study with renewed interest. “Well, I must say, it is rather cozy up here, is it not?”
Then she gathered her skirts and lowered herself down onto the cushions, shuffled forward past Balthazar with a great deal of rustling, managed to turn herself over, and lay down beside Lucie. “Oh,” she said, settling back. “This is rather lovely, actually.”
Lucie, still sitting, looked down at her. “It is surprisingly comfortable.”
“I can see that. One might never leave.” Charlotte drew the edge of the blanket over her own lap and gave it an approving pat. “Very cozy. I shall have to inform Theo that I am moving in.”
Lucie laughed and lay back down, resting her head beside Charlotte’s. But as the laughter faded, something cold turned over in her stomach. The gossip bird. Henry’s voice through the door.Now all anyone will know you for is this.
She kept her voice steady as she stared at the ceiling. “Charlotte … you have not … heard anything, have you? About me, that is. Any talk, or …”
Charlotte frowned. “Talk? What sort of talk? Do you mean about The Honeycomb? I have heard only good things. There is much anticipation. I have a feeling it is going to be a great success.”
The tension in Lucie’s chest eased. If Charlotte had not heard anything, then perhaps the bird’s shrieking had come to nothing after all. Lost in the rain, or drowned out by some fresher scandal, or simply not believed. She breathed and let herself think it:Perhaps it will not happen.
“Why?” Charlotte asked. “Should someone have been talking?”
“No. Not at all. I was merely being—” Lucie waved a hand. “Foolish.”
Charlotte gave her a look that said she did not entirely believe this, but she let it go and launched into her next story, which concerned Robbie and Belle and the afternoon of ‘gardening’ they had undertaken in the back plot the previous day, unsupervised for what Charlotte swore had been no more than ten minutes, during which they had pulled up every last turnip and replanted them upside down with?—
“Lucie.”
Charlotte had stopped mid-sentence. Her voice had changed to something careful and quiet.
Lucie looked at her.
Charlotte was not looking at her face. She was looking at Lucie’s arms. At the place where the short sleeves of her shift ended and her bare skin began, and Lucie followed her gaze downward and saw what Charlotte had seen.
Bruises. Dark against the soft brown of her skin, wrapping around both upper arms.
“Oh,” Lucie said softly, barely a sound at all.
Charlotte reached over. Slowly. Carefully. She fitted her hand around Lucie’s upper arm, her fingers settling lightly against the marks the way a hand might fit into an outline drawn for it, and her expression went utterly still. Her gaze shifted to Lucie’s other arm, and then back to the first, as she slowly withdrew her hand.
“Lucie.” Her voice was barely a murmur. “What happened?”
The silence that followed was heavy and close, and in it Lucie could hear the building settling around them, the faint creak of old wood, a bird somewhere beyond the window.
She did not deny that something had happened. There was little point when the evidence was plain to see. She only let out a slow breath through her nose and said, quietly, “It has been dealt with. It will not happen again.”
Charlotte’s eyes came up and met Lucie’s. They were bright, and the stillness in her face was cracking at the edges. “But who—” She stopped. Drew a breath. Started again. “I hesitate to even suggest it, because I cannot think—it does not seem possible—but …” Another pause, longer this time, her brows drawing together. “Kazrian has been here so often, and I know the two of you have been working?—”
“No!” Lucie sat up at once. “Charlotte, absolutely not. He would never. Notever.”
