Page 122 of Twisting Beauty

And I knew he’d not easily forgive me for it. Maybe not ever.

His punishment started the next morning. He didn’t speak to me. He didn’t even look at me when I walked into a room.

I became invisible. Worse than invisible, I became a pariah.

Chairs got pulled away before anyone could sit too close to me. Boys who held my eye too long in corridors found themselves shoved against lockers. A lad who’d smiled at me in neurology came back from the bathroom with a split lip and a story about a doorframe and would not look at me for the rest of the period.

Lorcan never crossed the room toward me. He never had to.

The only male allowed near me was Finn, and only when he was already near Nuala. Even he would only nod at me sometimes.

Aoife clocked the silence on the second day. She was pleased by it. Of course she was.

She started turning up wherever Lorcan was with that polished smile and that lipsticked mouth, circling him while smirking at me.

She caught me between classes on Wednesday.

“Knew he’d get bored of you,” she said.

I rolled my eyes even as her words stung. “You can have him.”

Nuala stepped between us, made a buzzing noise at Aoife like she was a wasp, and waved her off with a scowl that could have stripped paint.

Aoife went, but slowly, with a smug smile on her overly made-up face.

At lunch on Thursday, I watched her drift to his table, her fingers sliding over his sleeve as she lowered herself to the bench next to her.

“Don’t.”

His single word was flat and cold enough to peel the smile straight off her face.

But he never once turned toward me.

I told myself this was easier. No summons. No games. No demands. No knife at my throat. No corridor ambushes, no orders dressed up as questions. Easier.

It meant that at night I could search the rest of the rooms in the manor in peace, searching for something. Another secret room. Hidden documents. Something that would help me unravel Alistair’s empire.

I went back to reporting my movements to Deargán. He didn’t mention Lorcan or our argument at the party again.

I caught myself listening for violins that didn’t come. Watching doorways he wasn’t blocking. Measuring every room by whether he was in it before I registered I was doing it.

It was my fault. I’d crossed a line. I’d walked into his mother’s room without his permission. I’d violated the only thing he had any tenderness left for.

I hated the emptiness of his absence.

I hated that I missed him.

The smell of wormwood and green anise pulled me out of sleep, the heavy pipe organ note pressing in behind my closed lids.

No.

My eyes snapped open.

Alistair was sitting on my bed, his weight making the mattress dip toward him.

He was dressed like he’d walked out of a business meeting, charcoal three-piece, waistcoat buttoned, tie still knotted at his throat as if he hadn’t been to bed. His weathered hands rested on his knees, the signet ring catching the moonlight.

He was just sitting there, watching me surface.