“Oh.” A flush crawled up her neck as she realized she was still bare from the waist up, arms crossed over her chest. “Well, yes. That was certainly… kind of him.” She glanced around the room, scanning for her shirt.
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen—” She gestured vaguely at herself, pressing her arms more firmly against her skin in emphasis.
“No, miss.” The man’s gaze dipped, his mouth edging into a knowing grin.
The look sent a crawling sensation down her spine as the silence stretched between them.
Her stomach churned, but she pushed down the feeling, forcing herself to focus. This she could deal with—puffed-up servants, passive-aggressive little power plays. This was familiar ground.
She lifted her chin. “I hope you don’t expect me to traipse about the city in nothing but this skirt?”
The man held her stare, unmoved.
“I’m not going anywhere until you find me something to wear.” She raised a brow, daring him to challenge her.
His jaw flexed, the tendons in his neck going taut before he grumbled through clenched teeth. “Oh, very well.”
He stalked across the room toward a large armoire in the back corner, yanking open one of the drawers with more force than necessary. After a brief rummage, he pulled out a shirt and tossed it toward her.
“Here.”
She caught it, the fabric soft against her palms. Even before she unfolded it, she knew it wasn’t just any shirt. “This is… Caelith’s?”
“Yes.” The man’s tone was flat. “The shirt belongs toLordCaelith.”
“Oh.” She hesitated, fingers clenching around the luxurious material.
“Well?” The man tapped his foot impatiently. “Put it on already. I don’t have all day.”
She narrowed her eyes, then pointedly gestured toward the door. “A little privacy?”
His lips pursed, and for a moment, she thought he might refuse. Then, with a long-suffering exhale, he turned on his heel, presenting her with his back.
“As if I haven’t already seen the whole show.” He barely bothered to keep the words quiet.
Her mouth fell open. Then she snapped it shut. She refused to give the little toad the satisfaction of a response.
Instead, she turned away, shaking out the oversized shirt before pulling it over her head, the scent of Caelith still clinging to it—spiced citrus, darkwood, and something richer underneath. It made her stomach turn, but she shoved her arms through the sleeves and squared her shoulders before following the man toward the door.
The walk through the estate was a blur of polished floors, impossibly tall windows, and heavy drapery meant to impress. Emmaline barely registered any of it, her body sluggish, each step sending a dull throb ricocheting through her skull.
Dear Lyra, she felt like death. By the time she reached the glider and climbed in, she was nearly swaying on her feet. Without another word, the toad clicked the door shut behind her and soon the city was blurring past the windows.
“How do you know where I live?” She pressed her forehead against the glass, the cold helping.
The man didn’t look at her, just shrugged. “Lord Caelith makes it his business to know many things.”
A fresh wave of nausea curled in her stomach. She forced the bile down and didn’t ask anything else.
By the time they reached her neighborhood, she barely managed to step out of the carriage without staggering. She had only just steadiedherself when something small and heavy came flying toward her—a velvet bag, landing against her chest with a soft thud. Her fingers closed around it, the unmistakable weight of coins pressing against her palm.
“What’s this for?” She looked up.
The servant leaned back against the glider’s frame, watching her with something unpleasant glinting in his eyes.
Dread sank in her belly.
“I hope he, um—Lord Caelith—didn’t think that… umm.” Her voice faltered. She squeezed the bag, her grip tightening as she fought against the sudden, burning sting behind her eyes.
