I return to the ballroom only on occasion, to keep tabs on Elliot from afar. Although I’d rather keep my distance for the remainder of the evening, I’m prepared to intervene if needed. Thankfully, he appears perfectly capable of performing his duties without my assistance. I catch him in several conversations throughout the night, but most importantly, he dances with Imogen as planned. From the far end of the room, I watch as he turns Imogen around the dance floor in an exuberant polka. Her glowing smile shows no hint of resentment over being slighted over the first dance.
Good. Hopefully she’s forgotten by now. My eyes flash to Elliot’s face, taking in his composure, his smile. He seems comfortable, happy even. Is that how he looked when he danced with me? In the moment, it felt like so much more.
I shake my head and slip into the hall. After this song, it will be time for supper, so I should probably check the dinner table one last time—
Something catches my attention, a soft sound coming from one of the staircases that leads to the upper bedrooms. My first reaction is a spike of panic. If a guest goes exploring and sees the state of some of the unattended rooms…the gossip that could spread regarding Mr. Rochester’s secret frugality could be detrimental in securing Imogen’s opinion of his wealth.
But my second reaction has me moving from panic to pain, for the closer I get, the more I’m certain the sound is of whimpering. Crying. On quiet feet, I climb the stairs until I see a small shape silhouetted against the dim light from the hall above. As I draw near, the figure lifts its head and I recognize Micah. I all but run up the remaining steps and sit at his side, throwing an arm over his heaving shoulders.
Guilt swarms my stomach as he leans closer to me, his whimpers growing stronger. The children should be in bed by now. Could the music be keeping him awake? Or is he upset that he isn’t participating? All residents were invited to both the dance and the dinner, but almost all chose to keep to themselves and take their meals in the kitchen as the food becomes ready.
“What’s wrong, Micah?” I whisper.
“It’s my mother,” he says, voice trembling. “I can’t remember what she looks like. I can’t remember her at all.”
My heart sinks as I recall what Blackbeard and Gray told me about the poor children being abandoned by their mothers when the curse was laid. I pull him closer, and he wraps his arms around my middle. “I’m so sorry. It’s been so long since you’ve seen her, hasn’t it?”
“But the memory was there just this morning. It’s the only one I have left from…from before. And now it’s gone.”
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. Could this be the curse at work? I know children rarely maintain their earliest memories, but the way he describes the loss of this one chills me to the bone.
He lifts his head and stares at me through tear-glazed eyes. “What will happen if the curse isn’t broken? Who will I be when my memories are all gone? I won’t remember I even had a mother. I won’t remember you, or why I’m at this stupid house, or what bread tastes like. I won’t remember anything at all!”
I hush him, stroking his hair until he lays his head back against me. The front of my gown becomes sodden from his tears, but I don’t care, especially when tears of my own stream down my cheeks to meet his. A deep ache throbs in my heart as I hold and rock the boy, feel him cling to me like I’m the last real thing in the world. When he calms and rubs his eyes, I offer to walk him back to his room. He accepts, and we walk side by side, solemn and silent.
As we continue down the hall, my mind swarms with terrible thoughts. I’ve considered the ramifications of the curse before, imagining what would happen if left unbroken—time catching up to Elliot, Blackbeard, Gray, and the rest of the pack, resulting in skin that grows sallow and wrinkled in a span of a minute, shriveling until it falls off their bones. However, after learning the children would be spared from sudden death, given their younger years, their loss of memories never horrified me the way it does now.
With every step I take with Micah at my side, my resolve hardens, grows firmer, brighter. We are breaking this damn curse. If I could simply hold a knife to Imogen’s throat and force her to say the words, make the sacrifice, I would. Considering it must be made of her own free will, I’ll have to ease off the knife play, but still…I’m speaking to her tonight if it’s the last thing I do.
Micah opens the door to his room, revealing a large space with four narrow beds. I’m surprised to find it so neat and well-kept and wonder what it looked like before I forced the manor’s residents to adopt cleaning duties. Three of the beds are occupied with small bodies, filling the room with the sound of their soft breathing. I bend down to bring myself eye to eye with Micah and place my hands on his shoulders. “It’s going to be all right, Micah.”
His lower lip trembles and he wraps his arms around my waist. I stroke his back until he reluctantly pulls away. “Will you sit by my bed until I fall asleep?”
I know I should get back downstairs and make sure supper is going well, but…this feels more important right now. “Of course.”
He gives me a sad smile, then climbs into his bed. I tuck the blankets around him and settle onto the floor, resting my elbows on his mattress. A tender feeling wraps itself around my heart as I watch the boy fall asleep. I’ve never considered myself a maternal woman, never craved the joys of motherhood—not even before I swore off matrimony. But as I watch the rise and fall of Micah’s chest, sounds of puppy-like whimpers coming from the dreaming children in the room, I think I understand how it must feel to care for someone small and vulnerable. Though I’ve known these little creatures for less than a month, they’ve found their way into my affections.
One of the children stirs, then slowly rolls to the side, facing me. It’s the little girl. She appears to be a year or two younger than Micah. In human years, at least. She blinks at me a few times, and I give her a gentle smile, hoping my presence won’t startle her. Then she sits up and frowns at me.
With slow, cautious steps, I make my way to her side. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” I whisper. “Micah had trouble sleeping, so I kept him company so he could fall back to sleep.”
She cocks her head to the side, then gives a small nod and begins to lie back down. Like with Micah, I tuck the blankets around her. “The king already did that,” she says with words slow and sleepy.
“Oh.” My heart leaps in my chest. “Does he…do that often?”
“Every night. I guess you can do it again though. I like my blankets cozy like that.”
I finish tucking her in and am about to leave when her eyes lock on mine, a hint of panic in them. “Do you want me to stay until you fall asleep?”
She nods. “The king always does. He tells us stories too. About wolves and mountains.”
“I’ll stay,” I say and sit at the edge of her bed.
She closes her eyes, pulling the blankets up to her chin. A few seconds later, they flash back open and she lifts her head. “Can I have a name?”
“A name?”
Her gaze darts to Micah. “You gave him one. I want one too. The king calls me Tiny and I think I’d like a different one better.”
I feel a pinch of regret. When I first gave Micah a name, it was to win his favor, secure him as a potential ally against my captor. But now it seems out of taste to rename the king’s household with human names. Then again, it isn’t so much renaming them, but giving them something aside from a shorthand title.
“Please,” she says. “It isn’t fair he gets one.”
“Very well,” I say with a sigh. “How about…Jenny?”
“Jenny,” she echoes, then brightens with a wide smile. “That’s pretty.”
“Just like you. Now, go to sleep before we wake the others.”
“They should get names too, you know.”
I reach out and stroke a lock of strawberry blonde hair. “They will, Jenny. Now sleep.”
“Will you tell me a story? One about wolves like the king tells us?”<
br />
I ponder for a moment. “I’m not sure I know any about wolves, but I know one about a boy and a dog.”
“That will do, I guess.”
She settles back down, and I tell her an abbreviated version of the story, keeping my voice to a soft whisper. However, in my version of the tale, the dog doesn’t die. In my story, the dog lives. They both do. And they live each day happier than the one that came before it.
33
I return to the ballroom the same way I first entered it earlier tonight—like a general at war. With Micah and Jenny, I had my shields down, my armor set aside as I let them climb into my heart. There they remain, alongside Elliot and everyone else I’m determined to save from this wretched curse. But once again, my armor is on, my false persona like an iron tank, my jaw clenched as my lips are armed with the ammunition required to further my scheme.
It appears I’ve missed the whole of supper, as the ballroom is full again, the dancing back in session. That must mean Elliot has managed to neither offend nor eat his guests in my absence. It takes me a few minutes to spot the king, but I find him standing amongst the crowd, chatting civilly with Imogen. I wait to make my next move, watching for the perfect moment to get Imogen alone. But as the song comes to an end and new couples form, Elliot extends his hand for Imogen’s. The next song must be the gallopade.
Sure enough, when the music starts, Elliot and Imogen begin to prance and turn. I edge closer to the dance floor, weaving quietly between chatting bodies. I catch strains of conversation, much of which involves the king.
“Mr. Rochester and the eldest Coleman daughter…”
“They’ve danced twice now and conversed all evening.”
“Do you see the way Miss Coleman looks at him?”
“An engagement can’t be too far off.”
“…if I had the wealth of a fae royal. What is his royal lineage anyway?”
When I reach the other side of the room, I assess the dance floor again. I’m pleased to find Nina, dancing happily with the man I recognize as her fiancé. Then I spot Amelie, dancing with none other than my beloved bookseller, Mr. Cordell. I’m surprised to find his dance moves so elegant despite his age. Regret tugs at my heart, and I wish I hadn’t been so busy all evening. Other than orchestrating a quick introduction between him and Elliot, I haven’t had a chance to stop and chat with Mr. Cordell. I’ve been dying to share my thoughts about The Governess and the Earl and hear his thoughts as well. Then again, I’m not sure I have it in me to talk about books tonight. Not when such an important mission rests upon my shoulders.
“Ugh, I wish my mate were here,” Foxglove says, sidling up next to me with two glasses of wine. He takes a sip of one, then hands me the other.
I’m about to refuse—I am working, after all—but consider it just might be what I need for my tightly wound nerves. I accept the glass and take a deep sip, feeling the sweet liquid warm my stomach at once. “Your mate, you say?”
“His name is Fehr. A djinn. He stayed behind while I took this job, which is probably for the best. He’d be far too much of a spectacle for this town, if you know what I mean. His forearms alone would inflict carnal desires upon anyone.”
I chuckle. “Is that so?”
“Trust me, honey. In fact, you should visit us after I return home. We reside at Maplehearth Palace, on the border between Fire and Autumn. Queen Evelyn would love to meet you, I’m sure.”
I can’t imagine why the Queen of the Fire Court would be pleased to meet me at all, but the sentiment warms my heart just the same.
“You could get some sun in Fire and then cool off in Autumn. Get a break from this dreary snow.”
I’m about to argue that snow isn’t so bad, but I stop myself. Since when do I defend snow? Then something else steals my thoughts—the awareness of how many different courts lie just beyond the borders of this one. Although I’ve only ever been in Winter since arriving in Faerwyvae, I know there are eleven courts in all, each hosting a different climate and terrain. Perhaps I don’t have to leave the isle to experience the sunshine I cherish from my childhood. And, considering how Foxglove speaks about Vernon compared to other cities and towns, maybe I don’t have to go as far as I thought to ditch the stifling bonds of human society. What if the freedom I’ve been craving is closer than I think?
Like a magnet, my gaze slides toward Elliot. But there, of course, lies nothing but a dead end. A goodbye. And that’s only if I can get Imogen to break his curse. Otherwise, it will be worse than a goodbye. It will be—
I refuse to think about it, pulling my false persona closer.
“Think about my invitation. It shall remain open, both to you and,” he grimaces, glancing at the dance floor, “even your prickly employer.”
My pulse quickens, and I turn to face him with a frown. The way he said that almost sounds like…like he expects Elliot and I are together. I quickly remind myself that the fae have very different ideas about romantic entanglements, and his statement could mean nothing. Perhaps, like Amelie, he’s guessed Elliot’s secret, nameless identity. If that’s the case, of course it makes sense for the king to be welcomed to another monarch’s palace. Before I can summon a response, Foxglove gives me a wink and turns away, disappearing into the crowd.
I puzzle over his words but quickly wash them away with a hearty swallow of wine. The song comes to an end, and I drain the rest of the tantalizing liquid. Then, setting my empty glass on a nearby table, I return my attention to the dance floor and join in the applause, my eyes trained on Elliot and Imogen. After they exchange their expected bow and curtsy, he guides her to one of the chairs at the other side of the room. Keeping out of sight, I watch as they share a few words, both bearing smiles on their lips. Finally, Elliot leaves, which seems to surprise Imogen, for she half-rises from her chair before settling back down with a distant look in her eyes.
I don’t bother looking where Elliot goes, and instead take my chance to approach Imogen. Her face brightens as I stand before her, then quickly falls again. “Oh, it’s you,” she says, clearly still bitter over the dance I unintentionally stole with Elliot.
“Will you walk with me?”
She turns up her nose, refusing to meet my eyes. “Don’t you have work to do?”
“I’m on a break,” I say, doing my best to remain calm and impervious to her bristly attitude. “Besides, I wanted to speak with you in private. As a friend.”
She scoffs. “As a friend, you say?”
I stifle a groan. It seems I’ll need to butter her up if I am to get her alone. Taking a seat next to her, I force wistful warmth into my voice as I say, “I can’t believe how smitten Mr. Rochester is with you.”
“What’s not to believe?” she shoots back.
“I’ve never seen someone go to such great lengths to win a woman’s favor. First, he learns to dance just so he can impress you. Next, he gets so nervous that he’ll disappoint you that he coerces me—a far less stunning prospect—into letting him practice on.”
Slowly, she turns toward me, assessing me through slitted lids. “Practice, you say?”
I nod. “You should have seen how terrified he was. He told me he’d rather get all his worst steps out with me, so that when he danced with you it would be nothing short of perfect.”
She puts a hand to her chest, her cheeks turning pink. “Oh, did he truly say that?”
Thank the saints I can lie. “He did. I hope that doesn’t make you think less of him. He’s otherwise so strong and stoic in everything else. But when it comes to you, I daresay you enchant him.”
“Oh Gemma,” she says, leaning forward and gathering my hands in hers. “I can keep it to myself no longer. I’ve fallen very much in love with him. I understand now that you know his inner workings far more than anyone else. At first, this irked me, but now…well, just tell me, please, do you know his heart? Does he feel for me what I’m beginning to think he does?”
The lie is on the tip of my tongue, but my sinking stomach
makes it impossible to do anything but nod.
Still, it has its intended effect, sending Imogen swooning so deeply, I fear she might melt off her chair. When she recovers herself, she leans toward me again, squeezing my hands even harder. “Do not keep me in suspense, my dearest friend. He will ask for my hand, won’t he? When you first told me about him, you said he sought to be married in a matter of months. Is that still true? How soon will it be?”
My head spins with her questions, and I know I can put it off no longer. It’s time for the final phase.
I pull my hands from hers and rise to my feet. “Come, Imogen dear. We must speak in private. Let us collect your coat and take a turn about the garden.”
Once we’re both properly bundled, I lead her outside to the back gardens. We find a few couples strolling along several of the paths, and it takes a while to find an unoccupied one. Steering clear of Elliot’s rose courtyard—which has been blocked off by statues and large potted plants to keep out any potential guests—we make our way to the far corner where we link arms and begin to circle a large topiary in the shape of a fawn.
“You’ve kept me in suspense long enough,” Imogen says with a slight tremble to her voice. “Tell me at once what you brought me here to say.”
I take a deep breath and slowly release it, creating a white cloud in the chilly air. The cold feels like a comforting caress against my overheated skin. “Imogen, there’s a secret I must tell you about Mr. Rochester. He isn’t who you think he is.”
She nearly trips as her head swivels toward mine. “Oh, no. No, this can’t be—”
“He’s so much more.” This quiets her, creates the suspense I need to build the final piece of my scheme, the one that will topple her over and pin her in its clutches. I pause and face her, taking her hands in mine as I prepare to deliver my next words. Guilt tugs at my heart, for what I’m about to say goes against Elliot’s wishes. At least they weren’t woven into the terms of our bargain. “Imogen, Mr. Rochester is the Unseelie King of Winter.”
Curse of the Wolf King: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling (Entangled with Fae) Page 24
