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“I’m not surpris
ed,” Ainsley said. “It looks like it hurts terribly.”
What hurt terribly wasn’t her eye. It was the fact that she could finally admit her love for Marcus, but she couldn’t see him. “Ainsley,” she said, her voice cracking.
“Your father did this.” Ainsley didn’t ask. She just gathered Cecelia in her arms, and Cecelia nodded into her shoulder. “Someone should horsewhip the man every time he picks up a bottle,” she ground out.
“He’s sick. I know he’s sick,” Cecelia explained. “He’s been so sad since Mother died.”
“Has he ever tried to stop drinking?”
“He’s tried more times than I can count. What am I going to do, Ainsley?” she asked.
“You can’t keep this a secret,” Ainsley said.
“I can’t tell anyone,” Cecelia cried. She didn’t want to see the pity on their faces. Nor the sneers. Nor did she want her father to be judged.
Ainsley wrung her hands together. “I can’t, Cece,” she finally said.
“What?” She couldn’t have heard her right.
“I can’t keep your secret. Not this time.”
“I don’t understand.”
Ainsley took Cecelia’s hand in her own and squeezed tightly, so tightly it nearly hurt. “I love you too much to let this continue.” She grabbed her bonnet from the bed and put it on, tying it tightly. “I’m going to talk to Allen. I need some help with this.”
“You can’t, Ainsley.” Cecelia rushed to follow her from the room. “You can’t tell anyone,” Cecelia called to her friend’s retreating back.
Suddenly, Ainsley turned back to her. “I can’t not tell anyone. Don’t ask me to do that.” Her eyes shone with unshed tears.
Then Ainsley turned and fled through the front door.
Cecelia walked downstairs, her feet heavy on the treads, and sank down on the settee. Mr. Pritchens flopped down beside her. “Finally,” he breathed.
She reached out and blindly took his hand, unable to see through her tears. “Finally,” she repeated.
What if Marcus was too hurt by her rejection to come and help her?
“He’ll come,” Mr. Pritchens said. She didn’t even need to explain. “I feel somewhat sorry for your father when he does. But Mr. Thorne will come.”
Seventeen
Marcus spent the day riding the land. He hadn’t checked on his holdings or the spiders that knitted their clothing or the mill or anything else in months. He still had holdings on this land, and he needed to take better care of them. He spoke with his tenants and made a list of things they needed, just as he’d done in the other world.
He’d kept track throughout the day and made a mental list of things he needed to check tomorrow.
By the time he returned home, the sun had set and it was pitch black outside. The moon was hidden behind dark clouds, and the stillness of the night was nearly ominous. Even the crickets had stopped chirping. Something was wrong. A hush in the land of the fae was never a good thing.
Marcus threw his reins to a waiting groom and walked briskly to the front door. He found his family, every last one of his family members, sitting silently in the front room. “Who died?” he asked as he looked from one to the other. None of them jumped up to tell him anything, but they all looked decidedly uncomfortable.
“Someone had better start talking!” he shouted.
His father stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Did something happen to Grandmother?” he asked, his chest hurting all of a sudden. He dropped into a chair.
His grandmother bustled around the corner. “I’m here, darling,” she said. “I don’t know why he assumed it would be me,” she said playfully, her eyes sparkling.
