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My words die as her first two fingers cover my lips. She leans close enough for me to smell the residual bergamot on her breath when she speaks.
“Up until last week, we didn’t even know each other’s real names,Francis.”She pushes the vial into my palm, the cool glass contrasting with the warmth radiating from her slim hand. “You don’t know anything about me.”
Her voice is soft, almost regretful, but her footsteps are sure as she turns and walks away from me, leaving me standing in the doorway of the life we’ll never have.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
AIKA
This time when I wake up, it’s in our new bedroom filled with tapestries of cream and white and gilded iron fixtures. Albino furs rest on the floor, while pale marble and brick line the fireplace and tables.
If I set a single finger on anything, I worry I’ll smudge the pristine room with the ash and soot and blood that permanently mar my skin.
At some point in the middle of the long, stars-forsaken night, Remy finally joined me in the oversized canopy bed. I can tell by the sound of his breathing that he’s awake now, but we’re both still pretending the opposite.
Especially after yesterday. I can’t shake the feeling of lying against him—the familiarity of it. The obnoxious comfort I find in his nearness, in spite of myself.
But as long as Madame is in the picture, we will always be dissonant chords, incapable of harmonizing.
And she will always be in the picture.
When the maids finally let themselves into our suites, I hear the scuttling of their footsteps as they clean up the glasses and trays from last night’s dinner before a tentative knock sounds on our bedroom door.
Then I’m ushered into a bathtub. Once I’m clean and dry and slathered in a lavender-scented oil, they move on to painting my face and braiding my hair.
I feel Remy’s eyes on me as I step into my dress, lingering longer than they should. I can’t blame him for it, not when I track him, too, my eyes sliding from his broad shoulders to his trim waist until his manservant steps into my line of sight.
It’s odd, this feeling of being so intimately familiar with him but living like strangers. Knowing every dimple and scar and muscle on his body but not being able to touch them. Not like I used to.
We haven’t spoken much since I handed him the vial last night, promising him that I wouldn’t make him live like this forever. He seemed surprised, like he thought I would happily trap him in a sham of a marriage where he would always be in danger and could never have children.
There isn’t much time to dwell on any of it, though, since it’s time for what is sure to be another exciting family breakfast.
Sure enough, I’ve only managed to take two delicate bites of my buttery, flaky croissant when Grandmère makes her first comment of the day about our future heirs.
Even though the comment is expected, the pastry turns to ash in my mouth.
Remy tenses at my side, and I know we’re both remembering the nursery, the vial, the celestial-forsaken crib with its intricate animal carvings and its family legacy.
Taking a deep breath, I force myself to focus on the meal in front of me. The warm baked pumpkin with butter, cinnamon, and crusted sugar. The steaming mug of bold and delicious coffee. The lemon scones with clotted cream and raspberry jam.
And more tender, salted pork belly that I could eat for the rest of my life.
It isn’t even a lie when I tell Grandmère that I was too distracted by the delicious meal to focus on her question, asking the servants to offer my compliments to the chef.
Her astute gaze lingers on me as if she knows I’m deflecting, but thankfully Paule appears and refills her gin martini—her preferred first meal of the day. His smile tells me the timing was no accident, and I give him a grateful nod.
Before the conversation can pick up again, a soldier strides into the room. He bows at the door before Jean waves him over. His tone is low, but I’m certain I make out the wordfire.The king’s face falls, and he rubs his temples.
“What is it?” Remy asks, genuine concern lining his features.
Instead of answering, his father sighs and takes a long sip from his water goblet, dismissing the guard with a gesture. The man bows again, turning to leave.
“Just an update,” Jean explains. “Nothing new.”
My brow furrows, and the queen takes note.
“We received reports of another fire early yesterday morning,” Katriane says, adding clotted cream to her scone.
