“I need more than that,” I say. “Who are these people? Why do they think you’re someone you’re not? Why aren’t they suspicious?”
He pours himself a glass of wine—of course it’s wine at this hour, because Alder Hawke has never been ruled by a clock—and raises it lazily. “Sweetheart, the less you know, the safer you’ll be.”
“Spoken like every man who’s ever lied to my face.”
He smiles like I’ve complimented him, like my outrage is a cute little display he can fold neatly into his morning. “You’re getting room service in a castle. Doesn’t that count as a win?”
“No. A win would be not being confused for medieval escort Barbie.”
His smirk grows, infuriating and smug. “Admit you’re enjoying this.”
“I don’t have a choice,” I shoot back, my grip tightening on the fruit in my hand.
Clara clears her throat. “My lord, the council awaits.”
Alder sighs as if playing lord in a fairy tale is taxing. He rakes a hand through his golden hair and turns to me with that lazy half-grin that always means he’s about todo something wildly annoying. “We’ll talk later. Try not to get into any more trouble while I’m gone.”
He follows Clara into the attached room. The door clicks shut behind him, and I’m left standing there, clutching a piece of fruit and absolutely drowning in the knowledge that nothing—absolutely nothing—is what it seems.
Twelve
Apparently, taking a bath in a castle is a lot like beingat a spa—if that spa was designed by a Gothic architect with a flair for drama and a questionable relationship with candles.
The tub is enormous, claw-footed and made of something that glints like moonstone. Steam curls through the air like a lover’s sigh, and the oils poured into the water smell like citrus and spice. For a few blissful moments, I soak in silence, letting the heat lull the ache from my muscles and blur the edges of the chaos still echoing in my mind.
I dress quickly afterward, tugging on the simple cotton dress Not-Elsie left folded over a nearby screen. It’s soft and freshly laundered, and although it’s a maid’s uniform, it feels…safe. I snag a croissant from the breakfast tray and duck into the hallway before Alder can come back and order me to stay where he can see me.
It’s not lost on me that I’m actively sneaking away from my boyfriend like a teen from their parents, but Iwould rather wait to have an honest conversation with myself about that when I’m back in the land of electricity and indoor plumbing.
The castle halls are an eerie blend of grand and grim. All labyrinthine corridors, haunting echoes, and foreboding shadows. It’s exactly the kind of place where the heroine would get swept off her feet by a darkly brooding hero with a secret—and, despite my best efforts, I know exactly which brooding hero my thoughts keep drifting back to.
“For heaven’s sake,” I scold myself and take a bite of croissant. “Being thought of as an investment property and an image softener isn’t sexy.”
But, being rescued, literally carried away from danger, and then kissed like the ending of a rom-com…
“Get it together, Gemma.”
I follow the scent of something warm and roasted through the maze of corridors and eventually find a spiral staircase, its stone steps worn from centuries of use. I descend, the temperature rising and the delicious smells intensifying with each step. At the bottom, I’m met with light.
The kitchen is unexpectedly cheerful, sunlight streaming through a row of wide windows that look out onto the castle grounds and endless ocean. It’s beautiful, almost surreal, like it doesn’t belong in the same world as the cold, oppressive halls I just left behind.
For a moment, I allow myself to sink into it, the warmth of the space wrapping around me like a soft blanket. This, right here, is part of a world I don’t mind falling into.
Copper pots hang from iron hooks, their surfacescatching the glow of a massive hearth at the center of the room. Steam drifts from various pots and kettles, the air filled with the rich scents of fresh bread, roasted meat, and something sweet that makes my mouth water.
Silver gears and steam-powered contraptions line the walls, their polished surfaces gleaming despite being frozen in place, as if waiting for some unseen signal to start again.
I pop the last bite of croissant into my mouth, savoring the buttery flakiness and wishing I’d grabbed at least one more. As I brush the crumbs from my borrowed dress, a plump woman with wild blond curls and a smudged apron barrels past me with a pot balanced on her hip, shouting an order before I can so much as blink.
“Fetch that sack of onions from the corner and get peeling!”
“Oh, no, I don’t—” I stammer, shaking my head. “I don’t work here. I’m—”
“Too good to work in the kitchens, are you? Think peeling onions is beneath you?” She slams the pot down on the counter, snatches a knife, and starts chopping carrots.
“No, that’s not what I—” I try again, but the sharpthwackof the blade hitting the wooden board punctuates her conversation.
“Some of the finest women I know started out scrubbing pots and peeling onions. You think that work is beneath you? Find another castle. This one’ll chew you up and spit you out.”
