by Lili Valente
“What happened next?”
She closes her eyes. “She took the bag off my head and started talking really fast. Later, I realized she was probably in a hurry, but I thought she was angry. I was so scared that I didn’t hear most of what she said at first. I mean, I heard it, but I couldn’t make sense of it.” Her lids crack, and she reaches for her water glass, taking a sip. “That’s when she gave me a drink—from a silver flask. It was just water, but it had a lingering sweetness to it. It calmed me down, and I started to think maybe she didn’t want to hurt me, after all.”
I want to pull her into my lap and promise her I’ll never let anyone scare her like that again, but I sense she doesn’t talk about this often—maybe ever—and that if I interrupt it won’t be easy to get her started again.
“Then she told me about my family, that my ancestors had done terrible things, and about the curse on the firstborn of each generation. But she didn’t seem mad, then, just sad. I guess I looked skeptical because that’s when she told me what she’d seen in the future for me and my sisters. It was comforting, to hear their names…”
She trails off, her gaze darkening. “But then she said that she would see me again, in the woods, but that she might not know me when she did. And then she said something about bad blood or sick blood or something, and I got scared again. I’ve always hated blood, and I didn’t ever want to see her again.” She laughs beneath her breath. “Obviously. I mean, it wasn’t the worst kidnapping in the history of kidnappings, but—”
“Still terrifying,” I agree. “So…did you? See her again?”
She shakes her head. “No. Never. When I started crying again, she took me back to the playground, made me promise not to tell anyone what had happened, and left. I ran to my nanny, fully intending to spill everything, but I couldn’t get the words out. My stutter was worse than ever. By the time I got control of myself, I’d realized that none of them were scared. My sisters hadn’t even noticed that I was missing, and Nanny said I’d only been out of her sight for a few minutes.” She shrugs, her shoulders slumping. “After that, I wasn’t sure if I was crazy or what, so…I kept it to myself. I tried to talk to Zan once, not long after, but she thought I was making it up. She knew I had a big imagination. I was always zoning out at dinner, and Mother would have to wiggle her fingers in front of my face to snap me out of it.”
I push my plate away, too, and reach for Lizzy’s hand across the table. She stiffens but allows me to wrap my fingers around her much cooler ones. “I’m sorry that happened to you. And I’m sorry you’ve had to carry the weight of it alone. But you’re not alone anymore. This woman can’t hurt you. You’re not a child, and you’ll have backup.”
She exhales and pulls her hand away. “No. I don’t want this. I just want to stay here and finish my collection and…” She trails off, her lips turning down.
“And?” I prompt.
“And hide,” she whispers, staring down at her lap. “From my mother and…everything else.”
“You’re too brave to hide, and you deserve answers, to know who this woman is and whether or not anything she said can be trusted.”
Spoiler alert, it can’t, because she was a nutcase.
But I do my best to keep my opinion from showing on my face. The only way I’m going to get her to agree to this is by taking the woman and the curse seriously.
She lifts her gaze and shakes her head. “No. Not now, anyway.”
“Now is the time. I won’t be here later, and you know you won’t do this alone.”
“Sure, I will,” she says, not even trying to sound like she’s telling the truth. “I promise.”
“You shouldn’t make promises you don’t intend to keep. That’s dishonest.”
“My fingers were crossed,” she says, pulling her hand from behind her back and holding it up for me to see. “And you don’t get to call me dishonest, not after your stunt earlier tonight.”
“We’ll start tomorrow,” I say, ignoring the barb. This isn’t about me. This is about her and her future and giving her a life to look forward to and take seriously. “I’ll do all the research and the driving. You can sew in the car.”
“I get carsick without medicine.”
“I’ll buy you medicine.”
Her brows pinch together. “How many times do you need to hear no before you believe I’m serious?”
“Fine.” I lift my hands in the air in surrender. “Stay here and stay doomed. I’ll call your parents in the morning to let them know you’re safe, and then I’ll start for home.”
“My parents don’t need a phone call,” she snaps. “And if they do, I’ll call them.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, syrupy sweet, “but I wouldn’t feel right leaving you alone up here without letting your parents know exactly where you are and how to reach you. I’ll be sure to give them the number for the landline so they can call and check on you regularly.”
“Bastard,” she whispers. “You’re blackmailing me. I opened up to you, told you all about my crazy family, and now you’re using it against me.”
“Because I care about you,” I say, willing her to see that it’s the truth. “Because I want to, need to, help you.”
“Well, I hope you also need to sleep alone tonight,” she says, standing and tossing her napkin onto the table by her plate. “And to do the dishes alone because I’m no longer enjoying your company.”
She bolts for the staircase, and I call after her, “Don’t stay up too late. We’ll be leaving early.”
“I hate you,” she grumbles as she starts down the stairs.
“Is that a yes to a road trip?”
“Fine, yes,” she says, adding in a louder voice as the top of her head disappears from view, “but I’m never telling you anything personal or private ever again.”
“We’ll see about that,” I murmur, stabbing another stalk of her leftover broccoli, enjoying it a little more because it was once on her plate.
I’ve got it bad for this woman, and I’m perfectly willing to sleep alone for a few nights if that’s what it takes. I don’t want one night with Elizabeth Rochat, I want more of her future than that.
But first I have to convince her that she has one.
12
Elizabeth
Shortly after sunrise, I awake to a hot cup of coffee wafting back and forth under my nose. “Wake up, Elizabeth,” says Jeffrey. “The first day of the rest of your life is calling. I want to be on the road by seven.”
“Pointless waste of time,” I grumble, pushing up to sit against the pillows as I fumble for the mug. “But this smells heavenly. Let’s stay here, drink pot after pot of coffee, and work by the fireplace, instead. I’ll teach you how to sew seed pearls. Every man should know how to sew seed pearls. Just in case.”
“In case of?”
“In case you have a seed pearl emergency.”
“You can teach me how to sew at the hotel tonight,” he says. “I booked a room near the Rue village center.”
My eyes widen over the rim of the cup, and I swallow too fast, hot liquid scalding my throat. “Are you insane?” I finally sputter. “I agreed to this stupid quest so my mother won’t find out where I am, and you want to deliver me to her doorstep? My parents live just outside of Rue.”
“So, we’ll stay in town. We won’t go anywhere near the castle. You said yourself that your parents never leave the house.”
“It doesn’t matter. If we set foot in the town center, they’ll know about it. Probably within ten to fifteen minutes.”
“No, they won’t,” he says, throwing open the curtains to let in the watery light of the early morning sun.
“Yes, they will. People gossip in Rue. Almost as much as they drink. After ski season is over, there isn’t anything else to do there. Someone will see me out with a strange man and race to see who can call my parents first.”
“And then what?” He turns back to me, his hands propped on his hips, drawing my attention to the dark fabr
ic encasing his strong legs. He’s already dressed and looking damned good in jeans and a faded, long-sleeved blue T-shirt. Though, not as good as last night in pajama pants and no shirt.
No shirt…
Shirts really are overrated.
“Lizzy?” he says.
“Hmm?” I murmur, having already forgotten the question.
Why must this infuriating human be so lovely to look at? I swear he makes me want to start designing menswear, just to have an excuse to get at him with my measuring tape and measure every inch of him, again and again.
“I asked what happens then? When your parents find out you’re in the village?”
Dragging my focus away from Jeffrey’s hips, I meet his steady gaze. “I’ll have to go home and face the music.”
“Why? You’re a grown woman with free will and your own source of income. You aren’t obligated to do everything your parents tell you to do.”
I arch a brow. “When’s the last time you disobeyed a direct order from your mother?”
“My mother doesn’t give orders. She makes polite requests. As for when—last night. She wanted me to come home for the ceremony. Instead, I stayed here with you. If your parents find out we’re in the village and make contact, you’ll simply assure them you’ll be home as soon as we’ve concluded our business.”
I bite my lip and curl my toes beneath the covers. “Fine, I’ll wear a disguise. I have a wig in my sewing bag.”
He sighs.
I bristle. “You don’t know them, Jeffrey. They aren’t like your parents. They’re old fashioned, and they expect children to obey. Even grown children who foot most of their bills. And they’re exhausting when they’re upset. I promise you, it’s easier not to rock the boat.”
“And still, you sent Sabrina in your place.”
“But that was worth it,” I say, taking another sip of coffee while the words I’ve left unspoken hang in the air.
That was worth it because it was for Sabrina, who’s hopefully going to live a long, happy life. Standing up for myself has diminished returns, especially now that there’s less than a year left until my birthday.
I refuse to buy into Jeffrey’s misplaced hope. Sabrina and Andrew are going to end up together, it’s only a matter of time.
That prophecy will come true and then…
“Not going to think about that, either,” I mumble into my mug, ignoring Jeffrey’s, “What was that?” as I swing my feet over the edge of the bed.
“I’ll be dressed and ready in fifteen minutes.” I down the last of the coffee in one gulp and hold my cup out to him. “Thank you.”
“There’s more where that came from,” he says, the words making me think of things more scandalous than coffee. Things I shouldn’t be thinking about because Jeffrey is no longer on the Maybe We Should Do It list. “Do you want a cup for the road?”
“Yes, please,” I say as I hurry into the bathroom to brush my teeth. That’s the only good part of this stupid road-trip plan—I won’t be spending nearly as much time alone with Jeffrey—behind closed doors, with so many beds and other flat surfaces around, just begging for us to bang on top of them.
As I return to the bedroom to dress in my tightest jeans and a black, short-sleeved turtleneck sweater, I swear I hear the bed whisper, “Yes, please, bang on me!” and the carpet beneath it add, “Oh, me, too! Me, too.”
“Ridiculous,” I mutter.
The bed and the carpet are ridiculous and so am I.
I’ve already made my decision about banging Jeffrey—that I’m not going to do it. These forbidden thoughts tumbling around in my brain are a waste of headspace that I need for other things, like figuring out which part of my work in progress will be easiest to sew in the car.
After packing my smaller sewing tote with a corset and embroidery tools for the front seat—the rest of the collection can ride in the trunk—I find my red wig at the bottom of the bag and take it with me to the bathroom. I style the bob cut as best I can without hairspray or combs and apply heavier makeup than I usually would to make up for the way the brassy color washes out my face. I add thick black eyeliner and my chunkiest silver jewelry to the ensemble and finish the look with large reflective sunglasses.
When I step back from the mirror, an edgy designer stares back at me where once mousy Lizzy stood. I’ve worn this same get-up every time I’ve been called to Paris for in-person meetings at Princess Intimates Headquarters. No one but my immediate superior knows my true identity. The rest of the staff knows me as Thalia Thick, an eccentric mute who delivers consistently solid work that always falls just short of landing a designer contract.
But not this year.
This is my season, I can feel it.
That’s what I should be focusing on. I need to finish strong and mail out a collection that’s going to blow my boss’s socks off. I don’t need to be ghost hunting with Jeffrey.
Seriously, we might as well be looking for phantoms or fairies.
We’re never going to find the woman who took me when I was a child, especially not in Rue. If the woman was local, I would have run into her again at some point, but I haven’t. Not once in the past eighteen years.
I remind Jeffrey of this as he puts a travel mug of coffee in my hand and collects my sewing case from the top of the stairs, pausing only briefly to shoot my new hair and outfit a sideways glance.
I admit I’m a little let down about that. I didn’t want him to give me a hard time about my disguise, but I thought he might notice that I’m definitely sexier as Thalia than I am as Lizzy.
“We’re going to find her,” he insists without my having said a thing out loud. “Or someone who knows where to find her. Trust me.”
My forehead wrinkles. “Were you born this confident?”
“Yes,” he says, striding out the front door.
“There’s such a thing as too much confidence, you know,” I mutter. “It’s called hubris. It makes people do dumb things, like fly too close to the sun.”
“We’re leaving in two minutes, Icarus,” he calls back, proving he’s not only gorgeous and confident. His hearing is excellent and so is his recall of tragic Greek heroes.
“Some people have all the luck.” I step into my boots and zip them up before collecting my purse and the keys I intend to leave in my car in case the owner needs to move it before we get back.
Or on the off chance someone might want to steal it.
Now that she’s going to be a queen, I doubt Sabrina will be driving much, and if she does, she’ll drive something far grander than a Volvo with a sticky clutch. And Jeffrey is right—I’m a danger to myself and others when I’m behind the wheel.
Probably best for the planet if I hang up my driving gloves and take the bus for the rest of my time on earth.
However long that might be.
Maybe longer than you thought, a hopeful voice whispers in my head. Maybe Jeffrey is going to help make everything better.
But he already makes everything better—so good that, no matter how irritating he can be, I can’t imagine only having six months left with him. And that’s part of the problem. Those good feelings are dangerous and the hope he makes me feel is more dangerous, still.
That hope could hurt us both. Badly.
13
Jeffrey
I’m going to have a wreck.
Drive off the side of the mountain.
I’m going to kill myself and Elizabeth, months before her twenty-sixth birthday. On the coroner’s report, they’ll list “Redhead Sewing Lingerie” as the cause of death.
God help me, I need to keep my eyes on the road, but I can’t stop sneaking peeks at the passenger’s seat, where Lizzy—newly redheaded and wearing enough eyeliner to make me have vivid, 1960s-themed sex fantasies I’ve never had before—cradles a corset with a deep V in the front of it in her lap. She’s working magic on the silk fabric with her needle, adding pearls in a pattern that makes it look like someone scattered flower petals across it
, but it’s the V that’s driving me crazy.
I can’t stop imagining Lizzy in that plunging V neckline.
Lizzy with her breasts spilling over the of cups of the corset, soft and plump and begging to be kissed. I want to wrap her in that lingerie and then unwrap her slowly, piece by delicate piece, until she begs me to put us both out of our misery.
It’s miserable to be this close to her in those tight jeans and tending that seductive scrap of fabric and still be wearing so many clothes.
Add in that tight shirt of hers, the one that shows the curves she usually hides under layers of billowing fabric, and the chances of my eyes staying on the road until we get to Rue are slim to fucking none.
I have to do something to get my thoughts back on task.
“How long did you say the woman walked? Between taking you from the playground and arriving at the place in the woods?”
“I don’t know,” she says, not looking up from her work. “Maybe ten minutes. Maybe longer. It felt like a lot longer, but children are bad with time.”
I grunt. “I wasn’t.”
“Sure, you were,” she says. “You just didn’t realize it. Children’s time-passing-meter is easily thrown off by boredom or fear or how long it’s been since they’ve had a snack.”
My stomach growls at the mention of food, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Lizzy’s lips curve. “I told you we should have stopped for second breakfast in the last village,” she murmurs.
“I’m not a hobbit.”
She sighs. “No, you’re not. Sadly.”
“Why sadly?”
“Life seems so much easier for hobbits, doesn’t it? They seem so content in their shire, tending their animals and families, never worrying about what adventure they might be missing by staying home. If you were a hobbit, we’d be back in the cottage with snacks instead of wasting our time looking for people that might not even exist. And I wouldn’t have had to take car sickness medication that makes me sleepy.”
