“I thought we were?”
“Come out a way farther and lie back.”
Julianna did as she was told. She closed her eyes as she allowed the dipper to lower her. The buoyancy conferred by the water was novel. Such a curious sensation. She wasn’t exactly floating, as her attendant’s arms stayed beneath her back, but she was nevertheless. . . light. She kept her eyes closed and concentrated on the way her body was moving. Gentle waves had her bobbing up and down. The effect was probably moderated by her minder, but it felt rather like being rocked.
A memory rose to the surface of her mind, suddenly, almost violently, like a whale clearing its blow hole. Her father, rocking her just like this. She’d been very young, and very sick. He had an issue of the magazine propped up on a stand, and he’d been reading it out loud. He had taught her that a final proofread was best done aloud. One could hear errors that one’s eyes slid over when reading silently. She still employed that technique.
As she floated, Julianna thought about senses. About hearing birds one could not see. About how she had seen Effie speak without hearing him yet had known what he was saying.
Howhehad appeared to hear thoughtsshehad not spoken aloud.
Look at the sky while you’re out there, Jules, and I shall, too.
She opened her eyes.
Chapter 5
Nightmare Scenario
Effie waited a long time for Julianna, but he didn’t mind at all. In some ways, he had been waiting his entire life for Julianna, so what was a few more minutes?
The most surprising thing about all of this was that her hair smelled of roses. When he’d picked her up and twirled her around, there had been no mistaking the delicate floral scent. Effie hadn’t expected that. If anything, he’d have thought her hair would smell of ink. But then, he hadn’t expectedher. Least of all here, in Brighton, but also in general. He had never expected to be confronted with Julianna in the flesh. He had never dared even to wish for such a thing.You can’t miss what you don’t let yourself want.
But then she was there. Julianna, whose hair smelled of roses and whose skin was pale like the linen paper she used for her letters.
Another unexpected detail: her laugh, as he’d twirled her. She had a high, girlish, lilting laugh that had been utterly shocking—a great deal more shocking than roses. The Julianna of his imaginings had a low, knowing laugh that was seldom heard because her standards for bemusement were uncommonly high.
She had smelled of roses and laughed easily and indeed had looked very little like his painted version of her, yet he had recognized her immediately. There wasn’t a reason in the world he should have, but when his eyes saw a woman alone, gazing at the Pavilion, something inside him had been inspired to undertake further study. All the descriptive bits added up: the dark hair, the height, even the worn brown half boots—she’d written to him a few months ago about needing a new pair. The descriptive bits had been necessary to achieve a positive identification, but alone, insufficient. So he’d taken a step closer, and examined the nature ofherexamination. There was something about the quality of her attention as she gazed at the Pavilion with a mixture of wonderment and skepticism, something abouther, something ineffable but simultaneously so very Julianna-esque, that had him calling out to her before he could think better of it.
And now he was here, on a bench waiting for her.
As before, he saw her before she saw him. She looked the same as she had when they parted ways, with her gray dress and her gray-ribboned bonnet. But beneath that bonnet, her hair must be wet, no? She must have coiled it or braided it and pinned it up while still damp. Julianna had always complained that she didn’t like the way her hair curled when it was down. He could only imagine that tonight, with an assist from sea salt, and from having been pinned up wet, her curls would be extra chaotic. Wild.
He reached into his pocket to see if he had his fan with him. He often carried it in situations in which he wanted to make a fashion statement. It was a prop.
Now, though, he required it for function. He was very warm. He feared his face had turned as pink as the setting sun.
Once again, he wondered:Is this desire?
If so, desire was quite discomfiting.
She caught sight of him, and she smiled. Her smile was so at odds with her dreary attire that he almost laughed. Not at her, but at the contrast. And at the very idea that she had a secret smile. He wanted to flatter himself that the secret smile was reserved exclusively for him, but he could not reasonably do that. He would have to be satisfied thatthissmile, here and now, was for him.
He rose as she approached. “How did you find it?”
“I was transported.”
He was so very, very glad. “Perhaps you can go in again. How long are you staying?” He should have asked that already. The answer to that question was everything.
“I’m not sure.” She paused. “A few more days at least.”
This was . . . all wrong. They sounded like they were making idle conversation at a party.
He’d gotten ahead of himself. Or fallen behind. Or something. He cleared his throat. “Did your fictional marital status hold up?”
“It did.” She held up the finger with the dull ring. “I don’t know that I needed it, though, or that the dipper who attended me even noticed. Nothing was said about it.”
“What did you talk about?” He wasn’t sure why he was asking, except that he wanted to be the one who’d been there, witnessing her first foray into the sea.
