“Yes, my lady,” said Violet.
“I won’t be needing you until then,” Lady Patience said. “And close the drapes. Lettie.”
Violet let go of the tie and its heavy oversize tassel, undid the bed’s other two deep crimson drapes, and, holding her breath, hoping Lady Patience had no more tasks in mind, backed quietly out of the room and gently closed the door.
Out here on the vast grounds of Hollyhock Manor, Violet was engulfed by the darkest dark, maybe even darker than the memory of the night she’d found Booker’s body.
But although she couldn’t see her own feet in front of her, Violet felt almost relaxed for the first time since she’d arrived on Outworld 5730. If you could be relaxed wearing a floor-length dress and hugging an itchy shawl around your shoulders to keep warm in the slightly chilly night air.
Violet wondered how cold it’d get here, or if it got cold. She’d accepted the job and left Los Angeles on such short notice she hadn’t had time to do much research, and since her wardrobe was all supplied by the majestic and she wouldn’t be allowed to wear anything else, she hadn’t had to think about what to pack, and hadn’t.
It’d been scary enough to get on the transport—she’d spent her entire thirty-three years up to that point in Los Angeles—for the week-long journey to the planet where most of the better-thought-of majestics took place, and she hadn’t been prepared for that, either.
Why had Booker lied to her? Something else she hadn’t been prepared for. She’d never find out, since the deceitful son of a bitch himself was atomized, but Violet couldn’t understand and wanted to.
She walked out past the manor’s grand entrance and into the open field just past a stand of trees. None of the outworld’s three moons was visible and the stars were clouded over. The farther out into the field Violet got, the darker it got. Utter blackness, almost palpable in its saturated intensity.
Maybe she’d get lost. Maybe she’d accidentally wander into another majestic and instantly find a much better job there, one with actual lines and opinions and interactions and without the duties of a servant.
Maybe the woman playing Vernie Dalston would have an emergency—not something devastating, but something urgent enough that she’d absolutely have to go home—and Jewel Allman would reassign Violet to the much better role since there’d be no one else to play it and Vernie was essential to the balance of the participants.
Maybe Booker would be alive, tell her the truth, and be the person she’d thought he was. Maybe she’d ignore his charms and avoid marrying him altogether. And maybe that would’ve been enough for her to convince the producers of Mirage that she was the one they were looking for.
Wasn’t there a lake or something at the end of this field? She’d seen something like that on the map, which she’d studied on the transport, but it was so so bloody dark out.
That way, she decided, and headed that way, where the insufferable Lord Trevelton, brandishing a candle, was striding around the lake’s perimeter.
But at least there was a lake. Even if it came with someone Violet had promised herself she’d stay away from.
Chapter 7
Trevelton saw her as she sat on the low stone bench on the lakeside. That couldn’t possibly be the ultraboring Lady Patience’s ultrafascinating lady’s maid, could it?
He’d walked the lake’s perimeter six times now—this was the seventh circuit—and he was certain the walk, the cool night air, the inadequate atmosphere of this lousy outworld, and a case of near-starvation had all served to help him forget her.
Certainly, there were plenty of other players he had yet to meet and others who hadn’t yet arrived. Sumner Dobbs, the Earl of Saybrook, for one glaringly obvious example.
That could be anybody sitting there, really. An enticing silhouette at the end of the circuit, wrapped in a shawl, hidden, unrecognizable, luring him on. But he heard no siren’s call. He heard nothing but a slight disturbance as a bird briefly touched on the lake’s surface.
He slowed down his quick pace as he approached the woman, giving himself time to remind himself why he’d unloaded most of his assets in order to afford attending this silly entertainment. It wasn’t to get involved with a professional actor, someone who probably went from majestic to majestic, playing different parts, having a new dalliance at each stop, living the life of a vagabond.
After this was over with, assuming he lived through it, he’d go back to what was left of the family estate in Northumberland, resume being himself, Ephraim Croft, and spend the rest of his life chipping away at a complete forgetting of why he’d come to Outworld 5730 and what he’d done after he’d gotten there. Assuming he lived through it.
Yet he was a much better swordsman than Saybrook, although he wasn’t as confident with a pistol despite the hours of practice he’d put in once he’d learned that Saybrook would be attending this majestic and his plans had taken shape.
It was the lady’s maid, he saw as he approached the bench. She’d been sitting in complete darkness. What fool would come out here without so much as a candle?
She stood as he approached and curtsied as he said, “If it isn’t Lady Patience’s slave.”
“Yes, my lord,” Violet said.
“All alone,” he said, his words punctuated by the lake’s waves running into the shoreline.
“Yes, my lord.”
“And is she still unwilling to reveal her sacred name?”
Trevelton thought if he were home in Northumberland instead of here at so-called Hollyhock Manor he’d be spared this entire scene, be spared seeing this woman who’d already made inroads into his mind and soul, be spared having his heart laid open again.
Once was more than enough for that. And it still wasn’t over with, if it ever would be, if even revenge could excise the pain. Although revenge would alleviate it, he was certain of that much.
“Violet Aldrich, my lord,” said Violet, curtsying again.
He took her hand and put it to his lips, not really making contact.
“Violet Aldrich. Tsk-tsk. You should have at least a candle with you at this late hour,” Trevelton said with wry derision. Everything in his body felt alive in a way he’d hoped never to feel again. A series of waves washed up on the shore, making small splashes.
“Yes, my lord,” Violet said.
“Surely you can come up with something more than that, Violet Aldrich,” Trevelton said. Or was her role restricted to those few words?
“Yes, my lord,” Violet said.
“Come then, my verbose friend, and accompany me on my last four circuits.”
Trevelton had decided he’d make eleven circuits of the lake, and nothing, not even Violet Aldrich, would prevent him from doing so. Unlike some other people, he always kept his word, especially the promises he made to himself.
He held out his arm and Violet hooked hers through it. As though she’d been walking arm in arm with him for months or years. Or a lifetime. Very disconcerting—and unwanted.
Trevelton put this uncomfortably familiar sensation down to the difficult journey, to the laughable clothing he was wearing, to having to hear everyone call him Trevelton instead of Ephraim, to the lack of decent air, to not having eaten since yesterday.
They walked together briskly around the lake, which neither of them could see the entirety of, since Trevelton’s candle lit only a small part of their path and was only occasionally reflected in the moving water.
When he noticed that Violet was having to take skip-steps in order to keep up with him, he deliberately quickened his pace. If this woman were going to cause him to veer from his purpose even momentarily, then she would have to pay some price herself. Even if she was nearly a foot shorter than he was and had no candle of her own.
“Have to keep up, Violet Aldrich. It’s a rough world out there,” he said, increasing the pace yet again.
“Yes, my lord,” Violet said, her words spoken in short gasps.
“Too fast for you?” Trevelton said, ta
king even longer strides.
“Yes, my lord,” Violet said, then quickly, “No, my lord.” She was running now to keep up with him, and he was taking such pleasure in her obvious discomfort that after the ninth circuit, he stopped, disengaged his arm from hers, and sat on the stone bench where she’d been earlier.
“Keep going, why don’t you?” he said, leaning back and stretching out his legs. “Make the last two circuits for me. There’ll be a guinea in it for you, m’dear.”
Chapter 8
Violet did keep going—straight back in the direction of the manor house, right past the bench where she’d been sitting before this fake lord had dragged her around the lake, turning what might’ve been a relaxing stroll into an out-and-out, debilitating foot race.
Right past the lord himself. That there’d actually been people who flounced about in cravats and tailcoats, expecting others to call them my lord, was unbelievable. Maybe that was something Jewel Allman had invented in order to humiliate the lower-level actors. Violet wouldn’t put it past her.
Violet had to get back to the house immediately. The thin slippers she was wearing were inadequate to the task of walking slowly, much less quickly, and she was, for the first time since she’d discovered Booker’s dead duplicitous corpse two months ago, overtaken by an uncontrollably ravenous hunger.
She’d go to the kitchen, which she was relatively certain she knew how to locate, find something—anything—and swallow it whole. Or two, if there were more of this any-something.
“Such a poor sport,” said the resonating baritone of Lord Trevelton, who’d easily caught up to Violet and was suddenly by her side. She didn’t acknowledge him.
“Really. Most women would’ve gladly walked around the lake path twenty or thirty times just to please me,” he said.
“Let them,” Violet said.
“My lord,” Trevelton said. Violet imagined he was grinning as he said this, so she remained silent. It was late, she was cold and hungry, and the majestic didn’t really start until tomorrow. No matter what anyone else thought. Including Jewel Allman herself. And it’s not like she was nearby, at the ready to criticize Violet’s historical etiquette lapses. In fact Violet hadn’t seen Jewel since they’d landed.
Violet wished she’d been sent to a majestic in a time period she was more familiar with. Maybe even to the twenty-seventh, where should could’ve said a few lines, maybe milked a cow or two, if that’s what they did in the twenty-seventh, gone to one of those community songfests that were so popular back then, after which she could’ve contracted the plague, played at becoming sicker and sicker, and eventually fallen gracefully to the shaggy earth, where her black, swollen face would make a nice memory for some cruel player who couldn’t get enough of death, disease, and suffering.
The rise that she’d easily walked down in order to get to the lake was much harder to ascend, she was discovering, and she struggled as the frivolous dandy known as Lord Trevelton stayed in step with her, despite her progressing at what was probably a quarter his usual speed.
Violet was glad it was so dark, because she couldn’t see his handsome, mocking features, no doubt delighting in her struggle to get back up this unimpressive hillock. So unimpressive that she’d hardly noticed it on the way to the lake.
But now . . . She reached down and took off her slippers. They were no help anyway, were certainly not keeping her feet warm, and she thought she might have better traction in her bare feet.
As she hopped about, first on one foot, then the other, trying to keep her balance on the gentle rise, she was sure she heard the marquess, or whatever ludicrous title he had, chortling.
When she finally reached the top of the shallow hill, Trevelton took a large step forward, blew out his candle, and positioned himself in front of Violet, who tried in vain to sidestep him. It was as though he were an entire barrier wall.
“You’re just a servant girl, after all,” Trevelton said. Violet couldn’t see his expression in the darker-than-ever darkness. For all she knew, he meant it. She’d heard rumors that some of the paying players at the majestics were their role and could be quite nasty about it.
Violet and Trevelton stood, facing each other but unable to see each other, halfway between the lake and the manor house. Neither moved. The silent night air was easier to hear than their breaths.
“Why are you doing this?” Trevelton said in a whisper.
“Why are you doing this?” Violet said, whispering back. “My lord,” she added in the most insincere tone she could summon.
“Not to meet up with the likes of you,” Trevelton said.
“Nor I,” Violet said. “Most certainly not I.” She crossed her arms in defiance, even though she knew he couldn’t see her.
She was months, maybe years, perhaps decades away from meeting a man who made her heart pound so loudly she was certain that not only could he hear it but the people who were in the manor house could as well. The people in the next majestic over, miles away.
She was here not to be carried away on a current of useless infatuation but to finish paying off the smooth dead liar’s debts and restart her life. And prepare for a part in Mirage when the next cycle started. A lead, perhaps. They’d have to see her talents the next time. After she’d returned. After this was over with.
After the world got even blacker and less distinct and abruptly disappeared.
“Violet,” she heard someone’s voice call from very very far away. From back on Earth, maybe. Or from one of the three hidden moons of Outworld 5730.
Chapter 9
Damn it all, Trevelton thought as he missed catching Violet while she collapsed onto the ground. He could hardly see her even though she was right in front of him, and he had nothing to relight his candle with.
Fainting. How patently, pathetically, bathetically melodramatic. Although he almost admired how seriously the actor playing Violet was taking her part. Almost. That she’d thought to do something so period-appropriate. But really? Out here? On the first night? In the blasted dark?
He knelt down in the damp grass and prepared himself to later put Etterly in his place after the admonishments that Trevelton expected to get from him when he returned to his room with stained breeches, making more work for his valet, who he assumed had to use Regency-era cleaning methods instead of just tossing the things into the saniwash, like someone living in the ever-receding present would do.
“Violet,” he said, and she didn’t move. Excellent acting, but she was truly overdoing it now. He pushed against her arm. “Get up, Violet. You’ve made your point.”
Although he wasn’t too sure what that point was. That she was a helpless maiden? That he’d driven her past her limits? That walking around the lake twice and climbing a shallow rise was too much for the lady’s maid’s delicate nature?
Hell. What if she’d died? He leaned over and put his hand under her nose, or what he thought would be her nose, to see if he could feel her breaths, but there was nothing.
If she’d died on him. He did not need this complication. And Saybrook not even arrived yet.
Wasn’t it enough that Violet’s very existence had already distracted him beyond his capabilities to rein in? Was her death going to make his purpose even more complicated?
If she were breathing, he couldn’t hear it or feel it. He put his head on her chest to listen for her heart then, and it was beating so strongly he thought it should be delivering enough blood for a stable of racehorses. Yet she was lying there inert. Acting, he was certain now.
To hell with her. He got up and started walking back to the manor house by himself, sure she’d leap up and follow him, since it was somehow even darker than it’d been just a few moments ago, and being alone, lying on the wet grass in that thin dress couldn’t be all that entertaining, no matter what effect she was hoping to create.
He walked quickly and didn’t look back, knowing she’d be following him.
Actors, he thought. Only the desperate would want a job i
n a majestic—having to be on, playing their part all day, all night, even with only the other actors present. Getting lousy pay. Having to portray a servant or a maid or a victim or a whore or whatever else they had these people do. These actors.
The darkness increased again, although that seemed impossible. How could it be any darker than the already impenetrably deep black night?
But when Rafe felt the first raindrop, he understood that he hadn’t imagined the encroaching blackness. It was caused by an infamous 5730 black storm, which would obliterate everything in sight.
Almost instantaneously he was soaked through. Etterly would really be furious now. Walking about the grounds at night, destroying his clothes. And where was that damn actor?
He stopped walking and looked behind him, where he could see absolutely nothing. He couldn’t see even his own hand reaching out to feel for Violet Aldrich, who most definitely should be right there. But she wasn’t.
“Violet Aldrich!” he called out. His voice was drowned under the increasing deluge. “Get up, damn you!” He felt around behind him, but there was no one there.
Was it possible that Violet hadn’t been acting? That she really had collapsed? Bloody hell. He walked slowly back in the direction, he hoped, that he’d come from, careful where he stepped, since he hardly wanted to tromp on her.
“Violet!” he said again, but he was really talking to himself, since other than the insistent drenching downpour, it was now not just impossible to see anything but to hear anything as well.
Her heart had been beating. He was certain of it. Although he hadn’t felt her breaths on his hand. Had that been his own heart he’d heard when he leaned down? Being so close to her, and he hadn’t touched a woman since . . .
Trevelton got down on his hands and knees and crawled through the rain and now wind and sopping-wet grasses until he got to the top of the hillock, where Violet Aldrich was still arrayed in the very place he’d left her. Still inert.
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