Author: Lindsey Pogue
Date: 2022-05-18 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Dystopia; Romance
Description: The Collector is coming to claim what he's owed. Centuries ago, the skies turned black, and for 300 years, Londoners survived in the dank, underground tunnels of the city. Until one day, a stranger from a faraway land offered to save them. Though it wasn't without cost . . . and he has come to collect. When Selene is taken to Master Blackburn's infamous estate, she fears she and the orphans she's sworn to protect will meet a gruesome end, like so many others before them. But the beastly landowner is not all there is to fear, and Selene soon learns nothing in Briarwood is as it seems. Travel be
Publisher: Roar Press LLC

City of Ruin

A Ruined Lands Novel

By Lindsey Pogue

Copyright © 2022 Roar Press LLC

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author, except as used in book review.

This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events or incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to places or incidents is purely coincidental.

Cover Design by Deranged Doctor Designs

Edited by Lauren McNerney

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Centuries Ago…

Prologue

1. Selene

2. Selene

3. Selene

4. Selene

5. Selene

6. Selene

7. Greyson

8. Selene

9. Selene

10. Selene

11. Selene

12. Selene

13. Selene

14. Selene

15. Selene

16. Selene

17. Selene

18. Selene

19. Greyson

20. Selene

21. Selene

22. Greyson

23. Selene

24. Selene

25. Selene

26. Selene

27. Greyson

28. Selene

29. Selene

30. Greyson

31. Greyson

32. Selene

33. Greyson

34. Selene

35. Greyson

36. Selene

37. Selene

38. Greyson

39. Selene

40. Selene

41. Greyson

42. Selene

43. Selene

44. Greyson

45. Selene

46. Selene

47. Greyson

48. Selene

49. Greyson

50. Selene

51. Greyson

52. Selene

Epilogue

Other Books by Lindsey

About Lindsey Pogue

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my beta team and proofreaders…You are all amazing, and I cannot thank you enough for supporting me, book after book. Story after story. Deadline after deadline.

You help my characters come to life and the pages shine!

And a very special thank you to my Patreon supporters for your contribution to this project. Selene wouldn’t have such a striking cover without you.

Shelby Sanders

Charlene Ferry

K Webster

Conrad Jellison

Helen Mays

Fred Oelrich

Tamara Pankonin

Laurie Keyser

Amanda Eide

Stephanie Edwards

Laura Price

Katelyn Bobbitt

Nicole Underwood

Sabrina Hatfield

Melinda Leininger

Julie Traina

Mindi Travis

CENTURIES AGO…

In the wake of the ingenuity, commerce, and progression that swept the continents, the world began to wither. The skies blackened, water turned to poison, and the earth began to quake. Rich or poor, young or old—there was no escaping the great Shift. And in such darkness and discord, the dead soon outnumbered the living.

When the Black Country was no longer safe, its people fled. They sailed to distant shores, trying to flee the toxins that leached from the lands. Queen Victoria was the first royal to perish, followed by all thirteen of her children. Albert, Prince Consort, was left to rule a dying country plunged into chaos. A man of science and innovation, he led what remained of his people to the underground railways and aqueducts of London to escape the detriments above.

But amidst his heroism, Albert, devastated by the death of his entire family, withdrew into a deep depression. Conflict ensued, and unfit to rule, he relied upon his closest confidantes to govern his underground kingdom. Eventually, after great suffering and turmoil, the royal council found a way to not only sustain life below ground but to thrive, garnering a love among the people far greater than that for the unfit king. And so, the day Albert died, the British monarchy perished with him. The Council of Four elevated men of skill, outranking those of nobility with little to offer the new order.

For nearly three hundred years, the Council of Four battled uprisings, bouts of illness, and starvation in the dank labyrinth of the tunnels. All hope of life above ground was nearly lost until one historic day, seventy-five years ago, when everything changed.

Men from faraway lands discovered the flailing underground city, and offered it knowledge of the reborn, breathable world above in exchange for men to work the lands the explorers claimed as their own. Accords were brokered, districts were formed, new laws were set in motion, and with the Council of Four at the helm, New London emerged from the ruins, greedy to rebuild what was left of their once great city.

PROLOGUE

SELENE

Peering through the cracked open door, I watch my father hovering over my parents’ bed. His eyes are wide and his mouth is pursed as he stares down at my mother. Blood stains her lips, and sweat still dampens her brow, but her chest no longer heaves. And her lungs . . . they no longer wheeze.

While she is the one who is dead, my father looks much the same. He is disheveled, his tawny hair hanging messily in his face, and his gaunt cheeks are pallid from lack of sleep. Limbs hanging at his sides, he simply watches, like he’s suspended in a moment that will never end.

“The world is changing, Selene, and you are meant for more than this place,” my mother told me not two nights ago as she struggled for breath. “I’ve seen it in my dreams. There will be darkness. There will be fear. But there is hope and goodness—you must trust in that. You must fight for it. You must fight for all of them.”

I’ve cried countless times, locked in the house during the weeks she’s been sick, and now, with her fair hair turned to sweaty, gray clumps stuck to her face and chapped lips, I know she will never open her eyes again. She will never explain the meaning of her dream, and tears cloud my vision once more. My mother is gone forever.

I wipe the dampness from my cheeks and straighten, just a little, as my chin begins to tremble. She would want me to be strong.

It’s only then I realize my father isn’t crying at all. He doesn’t even look sad so much as he looks afraid.

My father’s servant stands behind him just as emotionless, yet rests his hand on my father’s shoulder. He blinks, staring at my father with concern. “He has come,” James says gently, and my father’s shoulders stiffen. I’m so taken by the tender moment between master and servant, I almost miss the look they exchange. As my father rests his hand on James’s, a flare of anger envelops me.

My father forbade me from being in my parents’ room, yet James is; my father would not think to console his own daughter, but he shows such gentleness to a servant?

“Selene,” my brother whispers in my ear, making me jump. When I peer at him, his eyes are fixed on my father through the cracked door. It’s only then I register the sound of someone pacing in the downstairs entry.

“Come,” William says urgently. “Be silent.” He takes my hand and tugs me along the landing to the servants’ stairs in the back. Panic fills me as I register the tremulous edge in his voice, but I remain quiet.

Ammonia and mint from my mother’s medicines fill my nostrils as we hurry past the kitchen, where I can hear the maid weeping. But William pulls me along without faltering, then stops at the back entrance and hands me a man’s full-length coat from the coatrack. Hastily, he gathers my blonde hair atop my head and situates a cap over the tumbling heap.

“Tuck your hair into the hat,” he demands in an anxious whisper. My brother’s gaze flicks toward the entry of the townhouse, where my father speaks to someone, his voice muffled by a labyrinth of narrow hallways and sitting rooms. Though a stranger’s angry baritone replies, I can barely make out what they are saying as William bustles about, tugging me this way and that.

“—and have come to collect what’s mine.”

“You could not wait a single moment? My wife has only just died.”

“And there was no love lost between you, Sinclair. Don’t trifle with me. I’ve waited long enough. You got what you wanted, and now I want what was promised to me.”

“Selene,” William rasps, and when I look at him, he nods toward the back door.

Though I want to be as strong as my mother, I can’t help my ratcheting panic. “What’s happening, Will?”

“We must go,” he says. “Now.”

“But—” I glance anxiously in the direction of my father’s voice as William cracks the door open, peers outside, then pulls me from our townhome, toward the outskirts of the fallen city. “But Mother—Father—”

“She is gone now, so I must see to you.”

I blink the tears from my eyes and follow my brother blindly into the cold. The day is thick and dreary, seeping into my bones and making me shiver as we hurry away from the only home I’ve ever known.

William leads me through the alleyway, separating our home from another stretch of apartments. He surveys every shadow, ensuring it’s safe, though from whom, I don’t understand. As he pulls me into the street, I chance a look behind me, spotting the blur of my father through the sitting room window, speaking to a looming sort of man with dark hair.

I stumble, and my brother curses. “Be careful,” he gripes, and I’m forced to leave the visage of my father behind.

“I’m not allowed to leave the house,” I remind him, my voice a petulant whine, but William ignores me as we wind through the streets.

Though the city has awakened from years of slumber underground, nearly three centuries of weather ravaging the world have left New London in ruins, and I stumble over a crack in the cobblestone.

“Apologies,” William mutters gruffly as he turns to help me straighten. But within seconds he continues pulling me along the fissured sidewalk toward the center of town. His steps are heavy and determined.

“Where are we going, Will?” It’s more of a command this time than a question. I stumble again in William’s haste. Though the Expansion Movement has rectified parts of the city, there is still much in dangerous disrepair.

“To Master Orson and his wife,” William says as he leads me onto the main street. I nearly run into a man on his horse coming around the corner of a collapsed saloon. My heart stills, and fear prickles over my skin as the horse sidesteps us. The man curses, eyeing me strangely when a strand of blonde hair falls in my face. I try to tuck it into my cap again before my brother herds me along.

“Will—” I yank against him. “Tell me what’s happening!” I demand. “I don’t want to go to the orphanage.”

“You must,” he says. “Just for now—”

“Will!”

He whirls on me. “It is the boom of reemergence, Selene,” he growls. “In a time when heirs and able bodies are more coveted than coin. What do you think that landowner was coming to collect?” William points toward home. “He’s come for you, Selene, to be his breeder. And Father is to blame. He can’t protect you, so it falls on me to do so now.”

Gaping, I search my older brother’s face, looking for a sign he’s lying or mistaken, that my father would protect me, but I only see fear in William’s eyes. “What has Father—”

“He traded you the first chance he got in order to climb the ranks, because he only pretends to be a man of worth. You will be safer with the Orsons. Mother has seen to it.” His blue eyes mirror mine—wide and beseeching. “Selene, you must trust me in this.”

“But—” I whimper, my mind whirling as I peer down the bending, shadowed road with mounting apprehension. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“It’s only for a little while,” he promises, but I know my big brother, and I hear the uncertainty in his voice. “I’m waiting to hear from one of Mother’s contacts—someone who can help us get to the coast. So come, the Orsons are expecting you. And it’s what Mother wanted.” He glances toward our home and his nostrils flair. I can see the sadness behind his eyes, the sorrow and hesitation.

“William,” I whisper, reluctantly accepting my fate, even if it terrifies me. “What if you never hear from them?”

A man rolls a creaking cart of crumbled bricks down the street in our direction, and as my brother pulls me under the eaves of an abandoned building, I nearly trip on the hem of my skirt.

“Please, don’t argue with me about this.” My brother’s gaze shifts over me, full of regret. “You are growing up, Selene, and Father’s acquaintances in the Council are noticing. For now, the orphanage will keep you hidden.”

I understand my brother’s meaning perfectly. We can breed armies and cities, my mother once said. Without us, men are nothing. Having just celebrated my eleventh birthday, I am, by law, of a tradeable age to work until I am sixteen and old enough to produce children.

I straighten, feeling a passing man’s questioning gaze on me keenly.

William leans in, peering into my eyes pleadingly. “These men have no land—no wealth or power—without heirs. Only young women like you can abate their greatest fears. If you don’t stay with the Orsons—if Father finds you—he will sell you to a stranger, just like the slaves they purchase each season.” William licks his lips and his expression softens a little. “Mother has helped Master Orson in the past. He owes her. And you know I would never leave you—you know I will come for you when it’s safe. For now, I need you to trust me. Trust Mother. She would not want you thrown to the wolves.”

I don’t trust any of it, but I nod because William wants me to, and I don’t have any other choice.

He must register my disbelief, because he squeezes my hand and pulls me into him. “We’ll go to the Screaming Woods, if we have to, but I will not leave you in the orphanage.”

The thought should terrify me, since the woods are known to be haunted, but I would rather live among ghosts and vengeful spirits with William than be anywhere else without him. “You promise?” I rasp, sobbing into his chest.

“I promise.” He kisses my temple and I inhale him—sweat and clay from the brick factory.

My heart breaks all over again as a sinking sense of dread fills me. My mother is dead. My brother is sending me away, and my father . . . I don’t even know what to think of my father.

William straightens, looking like the strong, work-honed seventeen-year-old that he is, and tucks another escaped tendril back into my cap. “Now,” he says, clearing his throat. “We’ve got to get you different clothes before I take you into the heart of the city.” He exhales, waiting for my acquiescence, and when my chin dips ever so slightly, we continue down the winding streets.

I glance down at my red velvet skirt swishing at my feet. It’s only then that I realize how much I stand out among the men bustling through the city, their clothes soiled and torn and hanging from their sinewy limbs.

As my brother gestures toward the seamstress, I can’t help but ask, “Won’t they come looking for me?”

“They will never think to look in a poorhouse.”

I’m about to ask my brother what will happen when they realize he is the one who has hidden me, when he leads me through the door of The Depot. A rush of dank, moldy air accosts me, and our footsteps cease to echo on the cement floor, muffled by the clothing lines of nondescript work uniforms, some of them freshly laundered, others only partially sewn. Buttonholers and framework knitters all glance up from their machines, their faces drawn and lifeless.

“Isabel is Mother’s friend,” William whispers as he ushers me along.

Tearing my gaze away from the women, I quietly follow.

“She knew this day might come. She’ll be expecting us.”

An older woman, churning a vat of dyed clothes, pauses as we approach, her eyes widening. A brass-colored curl falls in her face, and sympathy, or maybe it’s sorrow, immediately fills her blue eyes. “Oh, dear—”

“It’s time,” my brother says. “We need—” Before he can get another word out, the world roars. The ground rumbles, the clothes hanging around us tremble, and I hear the breaking of glass and the cracking of stone.

“Selene!” William wraps his arms around me, covering my body with his as the pitched roof I stare up at buckles, and darkness descends.

1

SELENE

NINE YEARS LATER

The sun sears relentlessly against my skin. It’s the first day in nearly a month that the cloud cover has dispersed, much to my chagrin. Without the dense fog to hinder our duties outdoors, Mistress Orson has us excavating the graveyard, scouring what little unchurned earth is left for human remains. Because fogless days are so rare, there is much work to be done from dawn until dusk.

I should appreciate the reprieve manual labor provides from the monotonous tasks we’ve grown so used to in the bonehouse; the picking and cleaning of remains, and the stench of the kiln room that permeates my nose, even outside in the breeze. But I don’t.

Wiping my arm over my sweaty brow, I glance quickly at the children, ensuring they aren’t sickening in the heat. All of their faces are red with fatigue, their brows damp with perspiration, but though their chests are heaving, they don’t look close to fainting. Yet.

Nell’s hands leave bloody prints on the shovel as she scoops another spadeful of soil out of the hole she stands in. Roman works tirelessly, lost in his own world; his thirteen-year-old body is already honed from so much toiling. Evie’s eyes are red-rimmed from the crumbled headstone that fell on her foot. And while Beatrice and Jon dig absently, accustomed to their miserable lives, they work without complaint alongside me.

As my charges, the children are the closest I have to family in this dreadful place, and I fear the day they will be taken from me, like everyone else. A familiar spur of resentment burns hotter than the sun under my skin at the mere thought, and rolling my sore shoulders, I get back to work, biting through the sting of my blistered palms.

“If you want your supper, you’ll work faster!” Mistress Orson calls in her shrill voice. Even as she paces near me with long strides, I can barely hear her over the three dozen huffing orphans, our shovels scraping through the rocks, and exhumed bones clattering into the wheelbarrow.

For two decades, the Bedlam Cemetery has been mined for human remains, and though it was once a mass graveyard full of Londoners who’d lost their lives to disease, it’s now an empty boneyard riddled with holes. With such little sunlight in a fog-plighted land, fertilizer is even more important than the men who work endless days in the factories, and the women who work beside them when they aren’t repopulating the great fallen city.

“Stay focused!” Mistress Orson thwacks a child on the back with her crop, and I grit my teeth. She adjusts the spectacles perched on the tip of her pointy nose and continues to pace. Everything about her is wraithlike, from her waspish voice and narrowed teeth to her lean frame and crooked fingers. Had I not seen her bleed before, I’d wonder if she weren’t one of the ghosts haunting this land.

I heave another spadeful of upturned soil out of my way, flexing the blisters on my hand as I curse the Council for their power-hungry ambition.

Sometimes I curse my mother for dying and leaving me to this fate. Sometimes I curse my brother for dying in that earthquake. But mostly I curse myself for not dying beside him.

I wish the Shift had finished what it started centuries ago, and we’d all become bones consumed by the earth. There would be no one left to disentomb those lucky enough to have escaped a fate where both breathing bodies and the dead are traded like currency.

2

SELENE

I gaze through the window at the mist-cloaked cemetery. I should be working alongside the children, but my mind is too restless. A temporary reprieve from the unrelenting sun has turned into days of working indoors once again. The hissing steam, hammering, and grinding of bones have become an all too familiar melody that echoes in the hospital’s kitchen.

On the days we’re stuck inside the Bedlam Orphanage and Workhouse, processing fertilizer for the Farming District, I find it all too easy to lose myself to the fog shrouding the world. The windows steam with the heat of the kiln, and I wipe the condensation away. The blisters on my hands have healed, replaced with cracked skin from soaking and scrubbing laundry, and callouses have re-formed on my fingers from cranking the grinders ad nauseam with the children.

There’s movement in the fog, and I shiver despite the heat permeating the room, then watch and wait to see what might appear.

The land is riddled with stories of ghosts and apparitions, of haunted woods and creatures left behind to survive in the toxic elements. I sometimes convince myself I see them—the dead—walking in the thick gray; through the mist and shadows, between the trees and ruins. It’s easy enough to believe because death still lingers here. It stalks the shadows of the ruined buildings, threatening to collapse, and rides in with the rumbles of the shaking earth. Death breathes down our necks as we work our fingers to the bone to rebuild the once thriving city, and creeps in with the fog that kills our crops without proper sunlight. Where millions of people once flourished, a few thousand of us pray to get through a single day in New London.

The lights flicker, submerging everything in darkness for a heartbeat as the coal-powered generators hiccup.

Having loitered at the window long enough, I’m about to turn away when three children emerge from the fog. Beatrice and Roman haul a handcart toward the sorting room where Henrietta’s orphans discern what bones need to be cleaned before they can be processed to powder. All of their clothes hang too large or fit too small, and the hollows of their cheekbones protrude just enough to show they aren’t starving, but they are never full either. Yet, despite the tasteless porridge they are forced to eat, and our unfeeling masters, Beatrice still smiles, and my heart warms a little.

Tucking a loose strand of hair back into my braid, I eye the animal carcasses collected in the cart. Rats. Cats. Foxes. Birds. Even a dog, whose corpse looks weeks old, has been laid out as an offering. Despite the gruesome task, Beatrice says something that makes her brown cheeks part with a wider grin, and Roman’s curly hair flops into his face as he laughs, playfully shoving her shoulder.

The shawl hanging around my shoulders bunches in my grasp. This could not be what my mother, or my brother, intended, and yet, her words have never left me. There will be darkness. There will be fear. But there is hope and goodness—you must trust in that. You must fight for it. You must fight for all of them. These children need me, perhaps as much as I need them.

“You’re not holding it right, stupid,” Jon chides behind me. “Do it like this—”

“Don’t be rude,” I reproach, my gaze never leaving Beatrice and Roman as they disappear into the death room, as the children have deemed it, the sorting house door swinging shut behind them. “And get back to work.” I glance back at the children playing at the table. They look sheepishly at me, and I hide my smile. “Hurry now, before you get into trouble.”

The truth is, the children’s bickering has become a strange sort of salve on my soul these past four years they’ve been in my care—a daily comfort and a reminder that I am no longer alone. For now.

For five years, I’d held my breath, waiting for whatever would come on my sixteenth birthday. Because William never took me away like he’d promised. He couldn’t. And my father never came for me. And while everything did change the day I turned sixteen, it was not as I’d expected. I was not sold to the highest bidder to work in the City District’s factories, like the other young women. No, to my mistress’s displeasure, I was kept and promised to be cared for by Master Orson himself, though it wasn’t without a cost of its own.

“What is this?” The brittle floorboards protest behind me. “Selene!”

I spin around as Mistress Orson shrieks my name. She grabs Evie by the arm, nearly pulling it from her socket, and drags the little girl from the table bench to her feet. Production at the fire wheel beyond them halts as everyone—children and caretakers alike—watch with unease.

Mistress Orson wrenches the nine-year-old in front of me, and Evie looks both shamefaced and frightened as her watery, blue gaze shifts from the headmistress to me.

“Is this you doing your duty, Selene?” Mistress Orson hisses at me.

Evie’s face blooms bright beneath the dust coating her cheeks, and narrowing my eyes on the headmistress, I have to bite back a reproach. Despite my empathy for Evie, I flash her a you know better look and refocus on the irate woman in front of me.

“While you’re over there daydreaming again,” Mistress Orson continues, “your charges are—look at this!” she practically shouts as she takes a scraping knife from the little girl’s hand. “Playing on my time?”

I press my mouth shut as I reach for Evie, guiding her protectively to my side. I can feel Mistress Orson’s glare blazing against my face before I meet her gaze again.

“Surely,” I start, keeping my tone in check as best I can. “You can’t begrudge the children a little distraction. They haven’t had a break all day.” But Mistress Orson doesn’t know the meaning of joy, and she hasn’t the slightest ounce of compassion.

“You don’t receive my generosity, food, and board for playing, Selene. Or for daydreaming. Unless someone else has taken it upon themselves to ready the bone powder for shipment tomorrow and I’m unaware?”

“No, of course not,” I say with little conviction. I know better than to leave the children to their tasks unsupervised; but if I cannot find focus after being cooped up for days, how can they?

“Perhaps going to bed without supper will help you all to remember how precious food is, and how lucky you are to have two square meals every day, when so many others go hungry.” The headmistress wags a gnarled finger at me. “I could’ve sent you to the laborers, Selene,” she reminds me. “I still can and they would offer me a pretty penny for you, bum leg and all. Perhaps I should, despite my husband’s protests.”

The children whimper at the thought, and I purse my lips again to keep my tongue from lashing out and worsening the situation. “I assure you, that won’t be necessary,” I grind out. Even if Master Orson would try to keep me, there is little he could do if the headmistress breathed a word about me—an able-bodied woman of good breeding—to the wrong ears. Because at the orphanage, I don’t serve the Council of Four’s purpose, I’m simply one man’s pet and plaything.

“We’ll get back to work immediately,” I assure her, and nod to the children, urging them to return to their tasks. At least here we work in a protective, steel-framed asylum with reinforced rooms to sleep in, safer than many of the buildings still needing to be retrofitted in New London. “I’ll make sure we fill the barrels to the brim today. We will finish the task.”

Mistress Orson eyes me up and down, her distaste at my mere presence as obvious now as the day I was placed under her and her husband’s care. A mangled, gimpy little girl they didn’t even know would survive after the accident. “See that it’s done, Selene, or I will ensure the children work on Sunday, dawn to dusk, while everyone else is resting.” There are a dozen threats in such words that come so easily to her.

“As I said, we’ll see that it’s done. Won’t we?” I glance at the children and they nod as one.

Mistress Orson doesn’t seem convinced as she turns with a stomp of her foot, her starched skirt swishing around her legs, and she heads toward the other orphans working at the far tables across the kitchen.

She calls her work in the poorhouse “charitable”, but I’ve read enough in my twenty years to know that charity is much different than servitude, and that the price we must pay for their meager gifts of porridge, hole-ridden clothes, and drafty beds, make them no gifts at all.

“I’m sorry,” Evie whimpers, her eyes welling with unshed tears.

Heaving a sigh, I nod to the scraping table, where the children have assembled structures made of bones, and shake my head. “It’s done,” I tell her, but there is no ire in it, simply exhaustion. “Come, we have much work to do. I will help.”

Evie and Jon blink at me, twins in a world where having a single child is both a blessing and a curse; more mouths to feed, and yet more hands to put to work in order to survive this desolate landscape.

Nell, fourteen years old and the eldest of my charges, clears her throat. “Sorry, Selene—”

I wave their remorse away. “What’s done is done.” I walk over to the bench to sit beside them. Though my knee gives me fits, I move well enough. “Come,” I add more softly. “I know it’s difficult, but we must stay focused. If we don’t have to work Sunday, I will read to you.”

“But—Mistress Orson said no more—”

“Don’t worry about that now,” I tell them as I weave my hair back away from my face. “I will speak with Master O—”

The world bellows, the ground rumbles beneath our feet, and the workhouse fills with a cacophony of screams as everything creaks and shakes around us. Nightmarish memories threaten to swallow me, and it’s all I can do to reach for the children.

“Under the table!” I shout, and they move without a second thought.

Though I can gauge the magnitude easily enough after twenty years, and know that we are safer in this hospital than we would be in most places, it is Beatrice and Roman whom I pray for. But I know it’s likely for naught as I hear the echoing crack and crumble of the sorting house, and another part of my heart threatens to tear to pieces.

3

SELENE

My knee aches in the drafty water tunnel, running beneath the hospital. As always, the cold wreaks havoc on my battered joints, and the stifling memory of pain and claustrophobia from that day long ago sends a chill shimmying over my skin. I still feel the crunching of bone as ruins crumbled around me, and the earth’s roar, reverberating in my ears. I can still feel the very moment William’s hold on me became lifeless. Unable to breathe in all the dust, I was certain I was dead too.

“Selene?” Henrietta says, startling me.

I turn, the bare bulb flickering in the tunnel, making the wash pool glitter. I take the wet stockings she hands me to hang on the line. Even the stench of tallow, wafting through the tunnel from the boiled bones above, does little to take away from Henrietta’s innocent beauty. Her dark lashes flutter around bright eyes. At only sixteen, I wonder how long before the light in her green gaze dims, and worry lines form instead. For even if she did not lose any of her charges in the quake two days ago, it might only be a matter of time before she does. Or perhaps she’ll be sold first.

Tears prick the backs of my eyes as I think of Roman’s curly, ashy brown hair and how his big, mischievous blue eyes will never shine again. I’ve seen dozens of children cycled through the orphanage in my time, but lost only two charges—the first was Caroline, the hardest for me to soldier through. And now, Roman.

I swallow thickly as I think of the children in the church with Sister Sarah, granted a half day reprieve after processing their own friend for the kiln. But in spite of the heaviness thick in my heart, a part of me wonders if Roman and Caroline were given a mercy over the fifty-seven others I’ve watched be shipped off to God only knows what sort of merciless fate.

“Thankfully, there are only four aprons and two petticoats left,” Henrietta says with a gratified lilt, and I blink my sadness away; there is no place for it here.

I snap the stockings onto the clothesline, along with a dozen pairs of others, drab gray petticoats, and stained aprons.

“If I have to wash one more load this week,” she continues, “I might actually scream.”

“The children needed a reprieve. I appreciate your helping me today.”

“As if I had a choice,” she mutters, but there’s no annoyance in it, just the depressing truth.

“Wait—” I straighten a little. “Henrietta, where are your charges while you’re down here?” It sounds like a complaint, though it’s anything but.

Henrietta glances over her shoulder and hands me a wrung out petticoat. “They are picking through the rubble for useable brick and stone with one of the other crews. Or at least, four of them are.” Her voice saddens, and clearing her throat, she turns back to the laundry basket. “Theodore and Jeffrey were sold to a landowner in the Manufacturing District this morning.” She submerges an apron in the rushing water.

My breath hitches. “The Collector?”

She shakes her head. “No. I guess I should be grateful for that, at least.”

“Still, I’m sorry,” I whisper, understanding all too well. Although the children are put in our charge to keep in line, friendships and bonds are easily forged when all we have is each other.

“Don’t be,” she says brusquely. “It’s not a labor camp at the quarries or a steel factory, where they would surely die before their twenty-fifth birthdays.” She shakes her head. “Their fate could be far worse.”

Henrietta’s words are true, but I know that doesn’t lessen the sting; she will never see them again. And until she is sold away herself, she’s expected to take on new charges and act as if the previous children in her life never existed at all. I swallow thickly, wishing time would slow, because Nell’s time is coming far too soon.

“It’s not Sunday,” Henrietta muses. “So how did you manage to send your rascals to chapel?” She meets my gaze. “Mistress Orson has been working your charges longer days than the rest of us without reprieve.” She shrugs. “It’s surprising, is all.”

I sigh and take the dripping apron Henrietta hands me, unruly blonde hair falling from its braid and into my face. My hands feel like cracked leather as I wring out every drop I can manage before hanging the apron on the line. Once again, the lights flicker, leaving Henrietta and me in momentary darkness. With a distant clang and rumble, the lights flicker on again.

“It’s to punish me,” I finally say. Henrietta glances up at me, absently scrubbing another stained apron with what’s left of the soap. “The way Mistress Orson overworks the children,” I clarify. “She says it’s to keep us occupied from our sadness, but I know it’s because Beatrice is too injured to work, Roman is gone, and more than that, she hates me.”

Henrietta snorts and hands me the apron to hang. “Well, you are her husband’s favorite. That doesn’t come without repercussions.”

“Not by choice, and not without cost,” I mutter, and my flesh crawls with unease.

I can feel Henrietta’s gaze on me as she rises to her feet, drying her hands on her apron. “Nothing ever is,” she mutters with a sigh. “Nothing.”

4

SELENE

Clacking silverware echoes in the spacious dining hall, and though we’re used to eating in silence, tonight feels regrettably somber.

The children and I sit in a long line of many at one of the bench tables stretching the length of the room. Nell and Jon sit to my right, Beatrice and Evie to my left. While three of them at least make a show of eating, moving their porridge around in their bowls, Beatrice doesn’t even try.

I take in the sight of her for the dozenth time. Absently, she picks at a loose thread in the makeshift sling I tied her arm in. Her eyes are swollen and red-rimmed, her dark cheeks streaked with tears.

“I know it’s difficult, Bea,” I whisper, so as not to bring too much attention to us in the room’s silence. “But you must eat something.” I don’t need to seek Mistress Orson out to know she’s glaring at us. It’s her sole purpose to ensure we eat and sleep just enough to refuel our bodies so we can work hard for her at the dawn of each new day. And while I’ve bought us all the time I can to grieve for Roman, the children go back to work tomorrow, and I fear it will be more grueling than usual. “You need your strength.” I am not the only one worried about Beatrice, nor the only one who is sad. The other children’s eyes are on us, and gently, I clasp the elbow of her arm that isn’t broken and squeeze. “Please, Bea,” I beg. “Eat. For me?”

Beatrice finally looks up from her untouched meal, her chin trembling. I know what it’s like to lose a friend; I know what it’s like to fear you are dying, only to find you are the one who lived. I know what it’s like to want to hate the world and grieve, but instead are forced to shove it all away.

A loud thwack reverberates down the wood-planked table and we all jump, heads snapping up to the sinister Mistress Orson, glaring at us over the rim of her spectacles. Her eyebrow rises in displeasure. “Why has no one touched their food?” she says coldly. Though her beady eyes scan over the children, they finally land and narrow on me. “Is your supper so unsuitable?”

“Of course not,” I tell her coolly. “The children are grieving—”

“The children,” Mistress Orson clips out, “are children, and they are supposed to be well-behaved and do as you say, Selene. Isn’t that why we keep you around?”

I clench my jaw tightly, biting back a seething retort.

“If you’re not good at your task, then perhaps a replacement is in order—”

“No—” Evie cries.

Mistress Orson slaps her correction stick on Evie’s hand, making her flinch with a swallowed whimper. “Silence!” Her cross expression levels on the little girl, whose eyes squeeze tightly shut as her nostrils flare. Ire burns hot inside me, and I nearly shout, but I know Mistress Orson will win if I do. She wants me to make a grievous error in judgement; I can feel her holding her breath in wait.

“You will eat every bite of your porridge,” she says callously, looking at each of the children as she pushes her glasses up the bridge of her beaklike nose. “Or you will only get one meal a day for the rest of the week.” Hate blooms in my chest because I know she means it, and it won’t be a generous portion either. Her husband might own the orphanage in name, but it’s his hag of a wife who runs it.

I clench my hands under the table, school my features, and dipping my chin, I tell the children to do as their mistress says.

Eventually, even Beatrice finds her appetite, and they spoon their porridge into their mouths without another word.

“Good.” Mistress Orson’s gaze snaps to me. She needn’t say anything because I know it’s all a show—a reminder that despite her husband’s standing and his favoritism toward me, she is the one who wields power over all of us. “Your bowls will be empty when I return.” With that final unspoken threat, the horrible woman walks away from the table, leaving us in abysmal silence.

It’s all I can do to remind myself that as much as I hate the Orsons, there are people far worse out in the world, men like the Collector, whose reputation is more terrifying than my worst dreams.

Just as I take a bite of porridge, a throat clears behind me. I glance back to find young Charlie, Master Orson’s page boy, standing there. I know what he will say before he even opens his mouth, and nausea churns my stomach.

“Master Orson wishes to speak with you,” he says, and I wonder if Charlie, barely thirteen, knows what his master asks of me each time I am summoned. He averts his gaze in answer. Poor child. One more reminder of how we are all helpless pawns in this place.

An all too familiar mixture of dread and repulsion sloshes around in my stomach, but I ignore it and rise to my feet. “I’ll return soon,” I tell the children, but my gaze lingers on Nell’s. We exchange the unspoken understanding that she is in charge in my absence, and though I don’t require an escort, I follow Charlie toward Master Orson’s wing of the building.

I can feel the headmistress’s glare burning a hole through me as I pass her. Instead of taking up her objections with her husband, I will bear the brunt of them later.

The clink of utensils dissipates from the dining hall as Charlie’s and my footsteps echo in the stark corridor of white painted bricks and metal bolstering the walls and rafters. I’ve walked this path dozens of times over the years, up the stairs to the master’s quarters. I could find my way in darkness, if I had to. We pass Master Orson’s beloved library and the diverging hallway leading to the oldest rooms of the asylum, now our sleeping accommodations. It doesn’t escape me that after centuries, Bedlam is still a prison in all the ways that matter.

When we arrive at Master Orson’s study, Charlie stops at his closed door. It’s white like the hallway, metal and cold, and I can’t suppress the shiver that wiggles up my spine.

“Master,” Charlie says, rapping his knuckles on the door. “Selene has come.”

“Enter,” comes his gruff voice. Charlie looks briefly at me before he turns the knob and gestures for me to go inside. The scent of stale tobacco smoke fills my nose, and I can practically feel Orson’s sour breath on my skin already, but I hold my head high, clasp my hands in front of me, and step inside without ceremony. There is no prolonging what’s to come.

Master Orson, broad-shouldered and looming, sits at the desk as if it’s just another day. His pipe is pursed between his lips, smoke billowing from his mouth. The sheen of sweat on his bulbous nose is illuminated by the overhead lightbulbs, and behind him, on the chaise beneath the window, is his wiry-haired mutt, Locklin, named after our gracious savior himself.

For years, Master Orson has kept to his own chambers in the observation room, overlooking the courtyard where the sorting house is now only a pile of rubble. I assume anything is better than sharing quarters with his wife. Not for the first time, I wonder if he has ever loved her, or if their marriage has always been one strictly of necessity.

As I step farther in, he glances up at me, his lips parting in a wolfish smile. “Ah, my lovely Selene.”

I stand at his desk, watching his bushy eyebrows pinch together as he does a final scan of a sheet of paper with the Council’s seal on the top. “I think your charges are rested well enough,” he says, as if he actually cares. “We don’t want them getting too soft.”

Unable to resist, I huff at his words, and he sets the paper aside, looking up at me. Orson’s pupils dilate, and my spine stiffens.

“Nothing is easy, my dear,” he says, his mustache twitching as he sucks on the end of his pipe. For as important as the man deems himself, he only smokes stale tobacco that smells like a hamper from the laundry room. “It’s good that children learn these things at a young age, like you have.” Smoke billows around him as he exhales.

“The children are well aware,” I counter, my tone clipped. Though I know Master Orson holds power over me, I feel strangely powerful in his presence as well, because I know what he wants and how to wield it to my advantage.

He stands to his full height, a foot taller than me, and rests his palms on his desk as he leans in. “There are some perks, though, are there not?” The unspoken agreement between us glimmers in his beady brown eyes—the agreement he lords over me the same way his wife lords the children’s fates.

“Perks?” I repeat, lifting a defiant brow. My gaze locks on his as he stalks around the desk like a hyena ready to play with its kill.

“Come now,” he says, setting his pipe on the desktop as he stops in front of me. He waves Charlie away, who I’d forgotten was standing in the doorway. Once we’re alone, Orson’s eyes dart to me, more fiendish this time as they rake over my face, down the loose strands of my hair to my shawl-covered chest. “There are worse places to be, and far crueler masters,” he taunts. Orson is close enough I can smell days-old tobacco clinging to his vest and trousers. The sheen of sweat on his brow glistens, making my stomach churn, and even the mole on his nose seems to laugh at me. “Don’t you think?” He runs the back of his finger down my arm, and though the younger, innocent girl buried inside me wants to cringe, it’s easy enough to ignore her.

I don’t answer him, because Orson’s right. If he was a crueler man—or perhaps more intelligent—he’d have his way with me and give me nothing in return. At least here, in this awful place, I know the demons I face. It’s when the children are finally old enough to be sent away that I worry what will become of me. Master Orson will keep me, yes, but without the children who have become my family, I won’t want to survive this.

“So,” he starts again, crossing his arms over his chest. His shirt is dingy and ink-stained. You would never know he is of the wealthy working class. “Since you and I are in the business of favors, your charges got their respite, and now I would like to collect on mine.” I hate the lust in his eyes, glazed over as he takes a lock of my hair between his fingers. He doesn’t scare me like he did when I was sixteen, but my skin still crawls every time I see that look.

“My reward for such generosity,” he prompts, and leans closer until his stomach brushes against my smock.

“Yes, you’ve been very generous,” I agree, more bored and resentful than compliant. Generous is not a word I would use to describe him. “But I wonder—”

Orson’s eyebrow rises, and the infatuated sheen in his gaze clears a little as he braces himself for my next request.

“Would you extend your kindness once more?” I stare into his eyes with a lifted brow of my own.

“More favors?” he grumbles.

“More favors mean more rewards,” I remind him. “And I would like to read to the children.”

Orson watches the way my mouth moves as I speak, as if he’s barely listening—too distracted by what he might do with it later. “My little wren and her love of books,” he says to himself, and his smirk reveals yellowed, smoke-stained teeth. “You are quite something, Selene. But then,” he says, brushing the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip. “You already know that, don’t you?” His tone is deliberate, and I ignore the flash of panic that sparks through me, my expression giving nothing away. “You think me a fool, and perhaps I am, because I like our little game. It’s the only thing that brings me joy in this ghastly existence.” He scrutinizes my face.

My breaths quicken, and I wonder if this is the day he will stop playing the game and become the devil I know lurks just beneath the surface.

“I will grant you your request,” he finally concedes, and I exhale through my nose. “But first—” He walks over to the door of his study and swings it shut. “You must repay your current debt.”

5

SELENE

The cold seeps in through the old windows, a draft whistling in with it, and the lights flicker in reply. Loose parchment pages rustle, along with a stirring of musty old books.

“And so,” I say, flipping the page of the ancient, leather-bound tome. I take my time, absorbing every word I read after paying such a lofty price for this time with the children. “The good man drank his chocolate and then went to look for his horse. But passing through an arbor of roses, he remembered Beauty’s request to him, and gathered a branch on which were several.”

Nell sighs, settled against the moth-eaten divan so contentedly it’s as if she might even fall asleep. Nell’s long red hair is braided back, but unkempt around her cherub face, and her soft brown eyes crinkle as she absently pulls little Evie closer to stave off the ever-present chill of the orphanage. I imagine this old library before it was used for storage, when the fireplace flickered and roared, instead of being stuffed with dust-covered crates.

“Immediately,” I say, continuing the story, “the man heard a great noise and saw such a frightful beast coming towards him that he was ready to faint away. You are very ungrateful, said the beast in a terrible voice. I have saved your life by receiving you into my castle, and, in return, you steal my roses, which I value beyond anything in the universe—but you shall die for it. The merchant fell on his knees and lifted both his hands. My Lord, said he, I beseech you to forgive me, indeed I had no intention to offend in gathering a rose for one of my daughters.”

Jon stirs in the corner of my eye, Beatrice’s bruised face contorting as he jostles against her bad arm. When she looks at me, waiting for me to continue, I clear my throat.

“My name is not My Lord, replied the monster, but Beast. You say you have got daughters—and I will forgive you, on condition that one of them comes willingly and suffers for you.”

“What if none of the daughters will come?” Evie whispers, and peers up at me, her frightened blue eyes shimmering in the dim light. I can’t help my smile.

“Beauty will go, stupid,” Jon mutters. “You already know that.”

Evie frowns at her twin before snuggling closer to Nell again.

“There’s no need to be cruel,” I scold Jon, glowering at him. I want to remind him that his sister could be taken away from him at any moment and he will regret being so mean to her, but I know he’s exhausted, impatient, frightened—all of us are every day—and after the week they’ve had, I can’t bring myself to say more about it.

“Not to worry,” I murmur, leaning closer to Evie’s ear. “Beauty will take her father’s place. It is a love story, after all. She will fall madly in love with the Beast. Now,” I say, situating the book back in my lap. The springs in the old divan are sharp against my bottom and back, but it’s easy enough to lose myself in the story once more. “Where were we—”

My words falter at the sound of familiar, heavy footsteps in the corridor.

“Predictable,” Master Orson says gruffly as he steps through the doorway. He doesn’t even look at the children as he snaps his fingers. “I have need of you, come.” He nods from me to the hallway.

“But, we agreed—”

“This is not a game,” he growls, and stomps toward me, face flushed and anger raging in his eyes. Whatever fondness or playfulness was in his demeanor earlier is gone.

I’ve seen this look on his face, but only once before. His wife has upset him. “If I have to deal with that shrew’s wrath because of you, you’re going to make it worth it.” He yanks me to my feet and the book in my lap tumbles to the floor with a thud. Orson is an ogre in many ways, but he’s never been a brute with me, even if the promise of it edges his voice if I push him too far, so this . . . this is not like him.

I recoil at the thought of what comes next, and panic. “Perhaps later—” I glance frantically back at four pairs of wild, fear-filled eyes. “After the children—”

“Fuck the children,” he growls, his grip tightening on my arm as he hauls me toward the door.

“Master Orson,” I grit out, pulling away from him without thinking. Whatever the consequences, I can’t go with him; it feels as if I’m being led to slaughter. I don’t want to be his for the taking, not like this. Not with so much anger in his eyes. But as his impatience flashes to fury, I worry I’ve only made it worse.

“Master Orson!” an anxious voice calls from down the hall, and we both glance at the doorway. “Master Orson—” Henrietta sputters to a stop in the hall when she sees us, taking the sight of me in before she registers the children huddled on the divan.

I close my eyes, breathing a sigh of relief. Whether purposely played or simply lucky timing, she might’ve just saved me.

“What is it?” he growls.

“It’s—uh—Master Blackburn has just arrived, or rather, he’s on his way. His steward is in the office with the mistress. She’s asked that all the children be lined up in the dining hall, immediately. Master Blackburn needs able bodies for his estate.”

Bile rises up my throat. “The Collector has come?” I barely eke out the words, regretting them the instant they’re uttered. The children all but stiffen, and the air is sucked out of the room. They know the Collector comes to the City District for laborers often. They’ve heard the tales of his monstrous treatment—that many of his workers have died from being overworked, that they haunt the land and manor in which he lives, hundreds of souls in unrest. And even worse, he killed his two wives . . . If he can do such a thing, what wouldn’t he do?

Forgetting Master Orson’s wrath, I tear my arm away from him and blink back at the children. Please God, don’t let the Collector take them.

A peel of whines and whimpers fills the room as Nell tries to calm them.

“Enough!” Master Orson snaps his fingers and gestures for the children to jump to their feet. “Now, go.” When the children look at me, helpless, Master Orson barks, “Don’t look at her! Do as I say!”

They startle, and Nell urges them out of the room, her eyes shifting to mine with a plea that makes my palms sweat and my heart race. No, not yet. Not now, after everything they’ve endured this week.

“But—” I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to think what might be done. “You’re already shorthanded. Surely it’s in your best interest to keep everyone you have.”

Master Orson’s eyes narrow on me as he steps closer, and I swallow thickly, taking a step back. But I’m met with the wall and I have nowhere left to go. “My best interest, Selene, is no concern of yours.”

I brace myself with one hand, my fingertips numbing on the cold brick as Orson looms in front of me with his menacing frame. He eyes me up and down, assessing me from frayed skirt hem to heaving chest as his hands twitch at his sides.

Orson snatches my jaw in one hand, making me flinch, and with the other, he trails the crook of his finger slowly down my arm. Even in long sleeves, it feels as if I’m bared and all too seen by him. “I know well enough what my interests are. And might I remind you, you have no place here among the children, you haven’t for years now. If it weren’t for me, you would be at the mercy of men like Blackburn.” In the moment, alone with Orson and the punishing glint in his eyes, I’m not sure my future here will be much different. He misreads my disgust. “Don’t worry yourself, you aren’t going anywhere.”

His gaze slithers over me again as he licks his lips, and leaning in, Master Orson inhales the scent of my hair. His eyes flutter closed with a groan as he tilts my jaw with bruising force, and I hold my breath.

But I can’t do this. Not right now.

Heart racing, I reach beside me for the closest volume in the bookcase. White-knuckling the binding, I pull it out and clock Master Orson with it upside his head. I know I shouldn’t have, but I am dead anyway, if the children are purchased and taken from me.

Master Orson curses, grabbing the side of his face, and I hurry out of the room, my limp not slowing me in the slightest as I race for the children.

6

SELENE

Master Orson shouts my name, his anger bellowing down the hallway as I run faster. All I can think is don’t take Nell. She is too beautiful, and I worry about what the Collector might do to her once he has her. But to hope he takes Beatrice or Evie and Jon instead—that he might separate the twins—only makes my eyes burn and my urgency a living, clawing thing inside me.

“—hearty stock enough for whatever you deem necessary. They may give you fits here and there, but nothing a good whap won’t cure, I assure you—”

I practically stumble into the dining hall to find all thirty-nine children falling into a line along the front dining tables. Mistress Orson’s voice tapers off as everyone’s eyes focus on me, and a communal sigh fills the space as my charges register my presence. My heart bleats for them, sensing their fear.

I barely register the two men standing with the headmistress, all of their gazes shifting to Master Orson as he stumbles in after me, rage contorting his features.

Muttering fills the room, though I’m not sure who it comes from.

“Quiet!” Mistress Orson shouts as her gaze rakes over me and then her heaving husband.

He ignores his wife’s glower and walks over to the man with a stubbled jaw and a wild black mane, windswept around his face.

The Collector.

There is a shadow to his dark eyes I do not trust, a broadness and stiffness to his shoulders that makes me think he is poised but ready to unleash hell at any moment. To murder someone. I remember his dead wives, and despite how young his appearance, the horrible deeds in which he’s capable of precede him. Even his clothes seem ominous and otherworldly, with leathers and fur embellishments adorning his pants, vest, and cloak. He looks more brute than man, and he’s utterly terrifying.

Wrapping an arm around each of the twins, trembling beside me, I hold them closer.

The Collector’s eyes meet mine in the flickering light of the room, and a sudden chill rakes over my skin as the air turns impossibly sinister.

As Mistress Orson and her husband prattle on, the Collector stares down his nose at them, not the slightest bit pleased.

“These children—” the mistress continues, pointing to my charges with an all too delighted gleam in her eyes. “They would work hard for you. They are the best workers we have. And this one,” she says, pointing to Nell. “She’s a pretty, fair-faced one. Or Selene, there. She is beautiful, if you ask me. She would be a perfect—”

“Wilma,” Master Orson warns as the Collector growls, “Yes, well, I didn’t ask.” The lines etched in his furrowed brow seem to deepen as he looks at me again. Then he points at Beatrice. “I will take that one—”

“But she’s injured,” I say without thinking. “What use can she be to you?”

The Collector’s attention cuts to me, affronted by my impertinence. Somehow, his eyes narrow sharper on me than I thought possible, and he juts his chin at me. “How is it that the Bedlam Orphanage is housing a woman?”

My stomach sinks as I try to determine whether his question is filled with intrigue or incredulity. He eyes me up and down, careful and calculating. Though I tell myself I don’t want him to notice me at all, I can’t help but bristle as he addresses me as if I am not standing in the room, able to hear him.

“We don’t,” Mistress Orson stammers. “Well, not as a rule, Master Blackburn.” She gestures to me. “Selene is the eldest at twenty. The rest of the children leave when they are sixteen to go to the laborers and other estates, just like the other establishments.” She nods to Henrietta, whose time is quickly approaching. “But Selene is, uh, a favorite, you could say.” Her eyes flick to Master Orson, shining with displeasure. “Her family were acquaintances and died in the tremors nine years ago. Of course, we graciously took her into our charge. She helps us tend to the children now that she’s grown.”

Master Orson steps protectively closer to me, so much so I can smell the stale smoke on his jacket again, reminding me of my fate in this place. I ignore his gaze on me, slippery as it feels against the side of my face, and watch the Collector, unable to look away from him.

There’s a drawn-out moment as he eyes me far too closely, his demeanor as frigid and unrelenting as snow blanketing this dead, already barren place in winter.

As if he can sense the changing tide, Master Orson grips my arm, asserting his claim on me. “We would gladly release any of the children to your charge, sir. But Selene is not available for purchase.” I have never wanted Orson’s protection before, but I find myself strangely grateful for it, despite what wrath awaits me. “She is needed here. All the other children, however—”

The Collector holds up his hand, the pistol I hadn’t noticed at his hip glinting in the light as his cloak rustles. “She will be of use to me,” he says, as if they have no choice in the matter, and his gaze shifts to me again.

“But—” Orson starts, and a single glare from the Collector silences him. I’ve never seen anyone wield such power over the Orsons before, but I don’t have time to revel in it.

I knew this day would come, but now that it’s here, I can barely stomach it. And that it would be him that claims me next only spurs my desperation. “Sir,” I bite out, the weight of what I will say next sour on my tongue. “I will not suit you.”

“Selene!” Mistress Orson hisses as Henrietta gasps, and Master Orson stiffens beside me.

The Collector’s hand clenches at his side, his rage barely contained, and I swallow thickly. “You presume to know my intent,” he grits out. The stretch of silence as he deliberates my fate makes my palms itch and perspiration dapples my brow. My heart thuds as if I’m digging myself a hole, deeper and deeper.

Though the Collector does not scold me, his jaw twitches and his eyes narrow so slightly I almost don’t notice.

“I have to agree, sir,” Master Orson says, the first to break the quiet. “It would be unwise to take Selene. As you can see, she doesn’t know her place and—”

“She is mine,” the Collector says coolly, his words clipped and ringing in the air.

“You can’t,” Master Orson reproaches, his chest heaving.

“I can, and I will. I have the Council’s notary to purchase anyone I wish—”

“No,” I plead. “Please.” I pray there is the slightest decency in him I’ve found in no one else since my mother and brother. “Don’t take me. The children—”

“Collins,” the Collector says over his shoulder, as if he doesn’t even hear me. The man standing near him in similar, less decorative attire steps closer. His hair is sandy brown and his face, despite his master, looks almost kind as he takes the sight of me in.

The Collector doesn’t spare Collins a glance as he adjusts his cloak around him. “Pay them,” he says, flicking his hand toward the Orsons, as if he isn’t purchasing a human being. And as I realize that it’s me—that this is what it feels like to be worth whatever coins are in his purse—my throat burns and I’m near tears.

Collins frowns slightly as he processes his master’s words, though I can barely tell as my eyes blur. “Of course, sir.” He pulls out his coin purse, prepared to negotiate my worth. Collins loosens the drawstrings, the gold threads glimmering in the flickering lights. “Just the woman?”

The Collector’s eyes meet mine, black and soulless. “All five of them.”

“Now, look here—” Master Orson protests.

Mistress Orson looks a mixture of befuddled and elated.

The children whisper with both relief and fear.

And I blink, my mouth agape. No words escape in my shock.

All of us?

The Collector’s eyes don’t waver, and I fear what I see shining in them as he stares at me. Something fearsome and unfamiliar.

While I may have evaded the monster in the library, I’ve replaced him with another far more distressing and unknown, and I don’t know if I’ve just saved us, or doomed us all instead.

7

GREYSON

Midnight clomps through the rutted streets, his hooves echoing in the bowels of the ruined capital. As his black mane catches in the breeze, mold and feces, distant but accosting me all the same, assail my senses.

Despite the frigid evening, I feel no chill. Maybe I’ve grown too used to it to notice, or perhaps I am as hardened inside as this city. As much as I loathe New London, it seems fitting that I’m here amidst the rot and ruin, as if I belong.

Letting Midnight lead the way, I scrub the mist from the scruff on my face and glance down an off-shooting road, assessing the crude outlines of the City District. It’s easy enough to imagine the black sky that shrouded this place centuries ago; the abysmal existence of Londoners. The toxic fog may have lifted, but what isn’t rotted, rusted, or crumbled to nothing has been patched together with what little resources remain, leaving a decrepit city and society as impoverished as it was before.

The distant sound of metal clanking against metal and creaking pulleys whispers in my ear, a reminder that in this life, there is no rest for the wicked, nor for the weary. And every minute I remain in this fetid city, is another minute I’m likely to fall behind.

I eye a man huddled under the eaves of a closed tunnel to the underground capital. His tattered trousers are tied in a knot around the stump of his missing leg, and what’s left of the rest of him is all bones, protruding from his thin tunic. I’m not certain he’s even alive until he shivers in the cold as Midnight walks past.

My lip curls in disgust, and I toss my cloak at the man, unable to stomach the sight of him. He stirs slightly, but I nudge Midnight onward before I have to look the bag of bones in the eyes.

Yes, this district is a godless place, and thanks to my grandfather, I have my hands in all of it. Had he not woken the hidden city during his exploration, it would still be underground, and the power mongers and landowners would have no one to exploit.

The fog thickens as we pass the crumbled London Wall, and I spot the multicolored brickwork of the illustrious bathhouse. Even with its domed roof and broken, stained glass windows, it’s a sight to be seen in the deteriorated landscape. A nod to a life far more fanciful than this one, standing the test of time—barely. Within its fractured walls is every pleasure man or woman could want in this meager life. For me, however, it isn’t a palace of desires, it’s a place to collect the many debts owed to me.

Dismounting Midnight, I peer up at the inky sky and exhale a heavy breath. The purpose of the trip to the orphanage was to purchase children, not a woman. My brow furrows with irritation.

As I tie Midnight to the rusted gatepost, I think of her—the woman. I’ve seen over a hundred orphans and slaves with eyes filled with fear and hopelessness. But never in my twenty-nine years have I seen dread outshone by such fierce and dangerous determination. It was impulsive to take her, and impulsiveness, I have learned, I usually come to regret.

Cloying incense fills my nostrils as I head through the arched doorway of the bathhouse. Moonlight, muted and gray, filters through the dome atrium as I step into the courtyard. The giant bathing pool has long been empty, and is an oasis of canopies and fainting couches, adorned with plush and colorful accents. Though the city uses electricity, lanterns flicker along the balcony, illuminating the upper tier, and I admire the green vines that wind their way along the balustrade. The tiled floors are cracked from years of quakes and weather exposure, but they’re swept clean and polished under my boots. Despite Chauncey’s penchant for scheming, he’s kept his word and made this place profitable. Good. One less reprobate to lord over.

When I spot Chauncey conversing with Edward Draven’s steward outside one of the privacy tents, I stop and wait. I’m not surprised to find Draven is in the city, leaving his estate, situated far too close to mine, to be managed by others. For such a power-hungry man, he trusts too easily in others to ensure he keeps it.

As soon as Chauncey spots me, he stiffens, schools his surprise quickly, then makes his way over. His perfectly trimmed mustache twitches with dismay because he knows I’ve come to collect one of many favors he owes me. With hair as black as his suit, combed back and tied at the nape of his neck, you’d never know he was a crook. Everything about him is tailored to fit his rotund frame, and he looks every bit the part—master of the most successful desire palace in the City District.

He lifts his brow as he stops in front of me. “Blackburn,” he says, eyeing me closely. “This is a surprise.”

“It’s good to see my investment is still standing,” I say. “After the size of that last quake, I worried it was all for nothing.”

Chauncey glances around his palace. “I’m not so easily toppled, sir,” he says.

“Don’t I know it,” I mutter, laughter from the rooms above filling the space like a distant hum.

Chauncey peers behind me, as if looking for someone. “So, what is it? Have you brought me someone new?”

I shake my head. “I have an inquiry to make.”

Chauncey’s eyebrow arches. “An inquiry?”

I nod. “The confidential kind.”

“Ah.” He glances behind me once more. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you alone. Where’s Collins?”

“On his way back to Briarwood.”

Chauncey’s chubby cheek lifts with a smirk. “More wretches for your collection?”

I ignore his jest as I survey the eyes locked on me from the balcony. Women, some of them even pleasant to look at, have come out of their rooms and whisper above.

Chauncey nods in the direction of his study, and I follow him. The cheer of a distant crowd grows louder as we weave our way through a labyrinth of hallways. “It would seem you’re doing quite well for yourself.”

He looks back at me, considering something carefully by the looks of it. “Is that your none too subtle way of preening your own feathers?”

We pass an open bath chamber where the crowd jeers inside another drained pool turned into a fighting ring. It’s deafening. Spectators cheer and shout and wave their fists around the perimeter as two men fight inside, both scrappy and young.

We pass another chamber, and as the door opens and a man hurries out, the copper basin of the distillery gleams in the electric light emanating inside. “Whiskey?”

“Gin too.” He shrugs. “You’ve been gone a while.” Chauncey motions to a large arched doorway with chipped tile work framing it. Opening the door, he steps aside for me to enter.

Inside, his study is draped with moth-eaten silks that gleam in the lamp light, and the scent of mint and tobacco clings to every surface. On cue, Chauncey saunters over to his desk and pulls a cigar from the side drawer, offers me one, only for me to decline, then lights up. He takes a couple of puffs, smoke swirling around him, then exhales a deep breath.

I help myself to a glass of whiskey from his cupboard.

“So,” he prompts. “What can I do for you? You like to collect favors, not call upon them.”

I stare at him over the brim of my glass as I swallow the contents in a single gulp. It burns like hellfire, and I pour myself another. “I need information about a ship,” I tell him, tapping my finger on the glass. If there’s anyone in this city who has the connections I need to suss out information, it’s Chauncey.

His eyes narrow. “A slave ship?”

I take another gulp of hellfire. “Something like that. It would be coming from the north.”

“More slaves for the infamous collector,” he muses. His chair creaks under his weight as he sits back, puffing out another plume of smoke. “If you’re coming to me for this, it must be—”

“It’s the Berkano,” I say, in no mood for games.

Chauncey’s eyes widen. “I see.” He nods to himself. “It’s going to take some time—”

“Just see that it’s done. Immediately,” I tell him. “You owe me far more than that.” I peer around his grand lodgings. “And I want four casks of whatever you’re distilling sent to my estate. As well as any useful information you learn about Edward Draven.”

Chauncey smirks and dips his chin. “As you wish.”

With a derisive sound, I set my empty tumbler on his desk, anxious to catch up with Collins and my newest acquirements. “Don’t let me down, Chauncey. Your livelihood depends on it.”

8

SELENE

It’s been hours since we left the City District, the children and I crammed and jostling inside the coach. We have only stopped once for a brief reprieve, but neither the children nor I dare complain. Not when velvet cushions pad the bench seats, even if they are threadbare remnants of the world before. And despite the knocking about in our haste, the five of us are warm, and I can’t recall the last time we were allowed to rest for longer than our six hours of sleep each night. While I don’t miss the arduous workday, I’m fidgety in such idleness. I try to soak it in and treasure this momentary lull, because whatever the Collector has in store for us will be far worse than the orphanage.

Gazing through the coach window, I hum a song for the children that my mother once hummed for me. But it does little to soothe the foreign and unsettling world around us, shrouded with fog too thick to see through as we drive on.

I’ve never been to the Manufacturing District, a death trap where laborers go to die. Wherever the Collector’s estate and whatever conditions await, I’ve heard enough whispers about the man to know he has enough slaves to rival all of New London, and that many of them disappear just the same.

“Lean to the right!” Collins calls to us from atop his horse outside the carriage. He and the driver have seen to our hasty travel in the Collector’s absence.

“Hurry, children—over to this side,” I tell them, and Nell and the twins huddle closer to the right of the coach where Beatrice and I are already sitting. Wrapping my arm around Jon, I chance a glance out the window, gulping thickly. As I suspected, it’s another bridge in disrepair I can see far too easily over. I gulp again as we pass over what looks like a sinkhole rather than a creek bed in the night shadows below. Only when I can feel the sloshy road beneath us again do I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Where is he taking us?” Evie squeaks out.

I force myself to smile as best I can. “To our new home,” I tell her. “And no matter where it is, or what we must do there, we will be together. That’s what matters. Isn’t it?” I try to believe my own words, but my skepticism rings, even to my ears.

Evie nods, if a bit reluctantly, and I try not to think about my fate with our new master. Fearing I already know what it holds, it’s easy to find comfort in his absence. His man Collins has been all business, but not cruel or harsh toward the children, and I take a slight comfort in that. Perhaps it is he who will oversee our duties and the Collector will own us only in name.

As the night ticks on, the children are tossed in and out of sleep. For me, sleeping means our new, uncertain reality will come far more quickly, so I try to resist the pull as long as possible. The past nine years of exhaustion are stacked against me, however, and I’m unable to keep my eyes open in the respite of the moving carriage. Eventually, I drift to sleep as well.

Somewhere in my mind, I hear Master Orson’s angry protests as we’re herded out of the orphanage. I see his cheeks ruddy with rage, while his wife’s bright eyes practically gleam with delight as we climb into the carriage. I hear Orson’s threats about rights and property, and Collins’s easy rebuttal regarding the Council of Four’s landowner decree. But the Collector isn’t an average landowner, even if he is one of many in a long line of beasts at the helm of this fallen empire. His brutish family is responsible for stirring the sleeping wolves. Now they herd and trade us like sheep, all for the Council’s vision of a prosperous New London.

Eventually, I’m roused by a small moan, and eyes flitting open, I take in the outlines of the children, their forms almost an ethereal glow in the inky dawn light.

Lost in a dream, Jon’s arms squeeze protectively around his sister, and I realize that as cherubic as the nine-year-old twins appear, with their gold spun hair illuminated in the early morning light, their youth was stolen from them long ago—before their father didn’t return from the workhouse one ill-fated night, and before their mother died of the fever. Their innocence was lost the day they were born into this world, like the rest of us.

My heart aches as I consider Nell’s path ahead, because despite her tattered shawl wrapped tightly around her wasted frame, nothing can hide her femininity—not soot or stench or shabby clothes. She is beauty personified, and somehow the world hasn’t yet dulled her ocher eyes or rosy cheeks. Her ginger hair glows in the pale shadows, and I worry more than ever what the future will hold for her. The Collector now has two women of legal age to add to his menagerie, if he even regards such laws. And when I think about his dead wives, I know he will not be kinder to us than he was to them.

But it’s Beatrice I worry about most of all. Gently, I brush the crook of my finger against her soft, brown cheek. It isn’t only her arm that is broken, but her soul, and there is no sling or salve I can conjure to heal it.

I don’t know what’s worse, having everyone you hold dear taken from you throughout your life, or having nothing or no one at all. Roman was her companion and brother in all but blood, her best friend and the only family she’s ever known. In thirteen years, they’d never been parted, not since they arrived at the orphanage the same week they’d been born. And now he is dead.

Fleetingly, I question how many children the Collector had planned to purchase, if he only brought with him a small carriage. Or was the carriage meant for him, and that is why he is not with us? I can only think we are not walking because we would slow the journey, and the knot in my stomach tightens as our unknown future looms closer.

I lift the drape covering the window and peer out at the woods surrounding us. Less ominous in the waning darkness—beautiful, even. The trees are dense, and through the fog I can see green everywhere, no longer the dreary gray. That gives me a reluctant sliver of hope.

A shout emanates ahead, and I brace myself against the window as the carriage jerks to a halt. The children startle awake, and as I utter whatever reassurances I can, the coach door flies open.

“Come,” Collins says, and he steps out of the way, gesturing for our exit. “We’re resting the horses for only a moment. Stay on the road—stay close.” He nods at the wide-eyed children. “Ensure they take care of business and do it quickly. Master Blackburn expects us to arrive at Briarwood before midday. We won’t stop again.” The man’s words are curt, but they aren’t unkind. He turns brusquely, and apparently, Collins is the exception to the rule, because he disappears into the dense wood four strides later.

My legs and back protest from sitting for so long as I climb out ahead of the children. They follow, the coach creaking as it teeters. The damp chill of the morning air clings to my clothes and exposed skin, and I grip my shawl tighter around me.

Whatever Collins says, we’re not defecating where everyone can see. “Let’s go,” I say, glancing at the children. They peer up and down the muddy road into the foggy horizon with wide eyes. Like me, they seem awed by the wilderness, having seen nothing like it before.

If it’s the five of us running away that Collins is worried about, there isn’t anywhere for us to go. And, until now, I hadn’t even thought about it. Not with four children in tow, and no clue where we are.

“Come.” I take Evie’s hand and nod toward the forest, in the direction Collins disappeared.

“Where are we?” she whines, and Jon grumbles for her to shut up, their voices clinging to the morning silence.

“Enough,” I rasp. “Stay quiet and stay together.”

“He told us to stay by the carriage,” Nell whispers, glancing at me as she falls into step.

“Yes, well, we deserve some privacy, don’t we?” I shake my head. “I’ll remain out here so they know we haven’t run off. Help Beatrice, will you?”

Nell nods and hurries into the trees, taking Evie’s and Jon’s hands in hers.

“Be quick about it, and come directly back,” I tell them.

Turning my back to the children, I give them some privacy. The world is a purplish haze that blankets the trees. I can’t see the boughs above as much as hear their indistinct creaks echoing in the surrounding woods.

A night animal hoots in the distance, drowning out the children bickering behind me, despite my request to keep quiet. The cloud cover glistens in the muted morning light, ethereal and hauntingly beautiful as it gives way to hanging shadows.

When time stretches on for too long, I clear my throat. “No dawdling,” I tell the children, watching three white horses paw in front of the black, paint-chipped carriage. Their breaths puff in the air.

The longer the children take, the more I fidget. And when I realize their bickering has ceased, I turn around, walking farther into the trees. “Which part of quickly—” My stomach drops, and bile rises in my throat.

The children’s big, tear-filled eyes are wide and shimmering in the morning light. Evie and Nell whimper as the men grasping hold of them cover their mouths.

Three. Three menacing thugs leering at me with mussed hair and rumpled clothes that look as if they’ve been roused from sleep. Two elk are strung up from the boughs behind them. Hunters? Vagabonds? Bandits? The oldest man is grim, with a bushy, gray beard, and the two younger men—one with greasy red hair, the other short and stockily built—look unnervingly pleased to see me. Like ruthless, dirty ogres, they clutch the children against them with white-knuckled grips.

Nell and Evie have knives pressed to their throats. And the redhead grips onto Jon and Beatrice both. A numbing horror fills all the children’s eyes.

I swallow thickly, at a loss for words. “Wha—” I wet my lips. “What do you want?”

“I’ll be the one asking the questions,” the older man grumbles. “This blade is sharp, and I wouldn’t want to press too hard—”

My palm flies out the instant his fingers twitch the grip of it. “Please—don’t,” I plead, the words strangled in my throat. “We have nothing to give, nothing to offer you.”

He nods in the carriage’s direction. “A three-horse coach suggests otherwise,” he smirks. “How many of you are there—”

I shake my head. “Please,” I breathe. “They’re only children.”

“I won’t hurt them, if you tell me who you’re traveling with—”

“They are traveling with me,” a deep timbre growls from the shadows. All of our heads snap to the Collector, stepping out of the mist from between two tree trunks. His buckles clank on his heavy boots, and his steps crunch the debris as he eats the space between us with a slow, determined stride. He is the picture of wrath and collectedness all at once as he aims his pistol at the men.

Vaguely, I register the sound of his horse panting and pawing somewhere behind him. Then I hear more footsteps behind me.

“And as you can see,” Collins adds, “we are not unarmed. Let the children go, and perhaps Blackburn will let you live—”

“B—Blackburn?” the redhead stutters, and slowly, he steps away from Nell, as if he’s seen a ghost. “I—we—”

I motion for Nell to come to me, and the other two men let Jon, Evie, and Beatrice slip from their grips as well, though the older man, I note, seems to do so reluctantly.

“Don’t move,” Blackburn tells them, and I feel a wash of gratitude for the Collector as the redhead holds up his hands in defeat.

“We weren’t gonna do nothing,” the stout one says.

The older one doesn’t take his attention off of Blackburn and me, as if he’s trying to put pieces of a riddle together.

“Honest,” the redhead adds. “We just wanted whatever coins they have—”

“Well, they belong to me,” Blackburn retorts, stepping closer. “Therefore, whatever they have is mine as well. You would steal my possessions?”

I clench my teeth as the speck of warmth I felt for him smolders. Despite knowing we belong to him, hearing him say it so possessively is a reminder that this is the Collector, not a mere man, a fact I was foolish to forget.

“P—please,” the red-haired man splutters. “We’ll leave. Honest. We were just—”

“On my land,” Blackburn finishes for him. “Hunting my wild game and trying to take what is mine.” Blackburn pulls the trigger before he even finishes his sentence, and as the shot cracks through the air, I shriek and hit the ground, the forest floor damp against my knees. The red-haired man falls down, dead. His eyes are wide but empty, and his mouth is open, the words he would have uttered never leaving his lips. Blood oozes on the ground.

I forget my horror as the children scramble toward me. I gather Jon, Evie, and Beatrice into my arms. “It’s all right,” I promise, and it is, for now. I turn them away from the dead man lying on the forest floor. “Come, let’s return to the—”

Another crack rings out, another thud as a body falls to the ground, followed by the break of debris, crunching under desperate, retreating footsteps as the third man flees. I’m trembling with nerves and can barely think as I herd the children back to the road.

“Find him!” Blackburn commands, and the pounding rhythm of Collins’s footsteps immediately follows.

The driver gapes at the five of us as we exit the woods.

After Nell helps Jon and Evie inside the coach, I grip Beatrice’s arm to give her leverage. She winces, but is too unnerved to protest. “Sit there, Bea—”

“Were you not told to stay by the carriage?” the Collector roars behind me, and I spin around, nearly running into his chest.

“And force the children to defecate in front of your men?” I snap reflexively. “And—” I stagger a breath, wondering where this ire has come from and why I’m not cowering away from such a looming, imposing man who looks as if he might strike me.

“And what?” he prods.

My heart is fluttering, my blood racing in my veins, and a distant voice tells me to shut my mouth and climb into the carriage, but his words taunt me. “If you were so worried about your belongings, perhaps Collins should have warned us it was dangerous in the woods.” I don’t know where such rashness comes from, but I can’t help the words falling from my lips as I turn and climb back into the carriage.

The Collector grips the doorjamb. “You were given a command,” he fumes. “Listen next time, or all of you will suffer the consequences.” His chest heaves and the mist on his skin glints in the subdued sunrise as something terrifying flashes in his gray eyes.

Recalling the men’s faces when they learned who he was, I remember myself and clear my throat, tucking my unkempt hair away from my face. Master Blackburn could easily shoot me right now, if he felt so inclined.

“Do you understand?” he growls.

“Yes.” I practically seethe the word.

Though his jaw ticks, he takes a step back from the carriage, shutting the door swiftly. Blackburn strides toward the front of the carriage, and only when he’s out of view do I take a deep breath. I can feel the children’s eyes on me, but I hold up my hand, needing a moment to settle my nerves and swirling thoughts.

I would never speak to Master Orson the way I just spoke to Master Blackburn, who is far more terrifying. That I could be so reckless makes me feel sick to my stomach, because the consequences he speaks of will come back to haunt me. I just pray it isn’t the children who suffer for it.

Swallowing my guilt and self-deprecation, I exhale again, vaguely hearing mutterings from the driver’s perch, and I strain to listen.

“—not find him,” Collins says, out of breath. “But he headed toward Northshire.”

There’s only a brief pause.

“I’ll deal with Draven later,” Blackburn says. “We must continue onward. Bart will be waiting.”

“Will you give him the twins?” Collins inquires, and my hand flies to my mouth, as if I can hold in my devastation.

“He’s only expecting one child,” Blackburn replies, and Evie and Jon cry out as his words reach their ears.

Nell gathers them closer, her arms wrapping around them possessively. I’m not sure if I hate Blackburn more for separating the two children, or for giving them away to someone else so easily. As I remember the Collector isn’t known for his kindness, I pray the child left with Bart will be far luckier than those of us that remain will be.

9

SELENE

The fog thins as the morning stretches on. The children have fallen into a silence so riddled with dread, I don’t dare speak should my words shatter what modicum of strength we have between us. All I want to do is reassure them we’ll remain together, that I will figure something out, but I know I can’t promise such things. This day was always coming for us. I just hadn’t expected it would go quite like this. So, instead of empty platitudes and comforts, I prepare myself for what comes next: saying goodbye to one of them, likely forever.

“Come here,” I say, unable to stand the quiet a moment longer. The last thing I want to be left with is regret. I wave Evie and Jon to come sit with me. Beatrice seems to sense my thoughts, and claims their empty spot by Nell, giving me more room with them.

As if they are still six years old, I pull them both into my lap and kiss the crowns of their soft, blonde heads. Their hair tickles my nose and chin, and I close my eyes, squeezing them against me as I inhale their scents.

Jon sniffles, though his quiet sobs tell me he’s trying to be strong, and I love him all the more for it. Evie cries softly into my breast. Her warmth and the weight of her against me breaks my heart into a thousand little pieces.

“Look,” I say, clearing my throat. I move the window covering with my little finger. The hills are green and rolling in the dim morning, at least what we can see of them, and dew makes the world glow like low lantern light. “It’s a beautiful day. And do you know what they say about those?”

Both children peer out the window, blinking their tearstained lashes. Jon shakes his head. “I’ve never seen a beautiful morning,” he whispers.

My heart cracks even more. “Neither have I,” I realize aloud. “Which means something good will come of today, no matter how frightened we might be.”

Jon stares blankly out the window, his small fingers playing with the fringe of my long hair. “I don’t want to leave you,” he says with a croak in his voice. “Please don’t let them—”

“You know it’s not up to me,” I answer softly, carefully, and I look at Evie, who is the quietest she’s ever been. “I wish I could keep all of us together and live in a little cottage in these beautiful hills.”

“We could all live happily ever after, like one of the fairy tales in Master Orson’s books,” Nell adds, her thoughts wistful and far away.

“We will have to meet in our memories and dreams instead,” I tell them. “We are safe there, always.” I brush Evie’s hair from her blue doe eyes and then look at Jon.

He nods ever so slightly, and I wonder if he’s tucking the rare occasions we’ve hidden ourselves away, desperate for another storybook adventure, safely in his memories. Or when our fingers hurt from grinding and hammering and digging so much, we took turns making up our own stories to pass the time and find an escape.

“Wherever you are going,” I continue with conviction, “I know you will find new friends. You will not be alone.” I tell myself I’m certain of it. No master only has one laborer, servant, or slave, and it brings me comfort to hope that whoever Jon or Evie meet next might look out for them the way I have.

I’m about to offer more words of comfort—whatever I can muster—when I spot the ruins of a large estate shrouded in fog, and feel a pang of relief at the distraction. “Look,” I whisper, smiling as the children inch their way to the windows.

“Is that a castle?” Evie asks. “Like in Cinderella?”

“I believe it used to be,” I tell her. “But time has forgotten it.” Awe fills my voice. New London is in ruins, but out here, in the sweeping landscapes, it feels like an entirely different realm.

“Do you think a princess lived there once?” Nell whispers.

I smile, though it’s sad. “Perhaps. Whoever she was, she was a fancy lady.”

To think of the old society ruled by those who were simply born with privilege seems like such an impossibility. There are no lords and ladies, not like there used to be.

My mother had taught me about the old ways, about the estate her great grandmother grew up on, and the wealthy family she’d married into against her will. But it was all for naught, because everything fell and the lands were deemed unclean. Everyone, rich and poor alike, was forced away from England or underground, and only skilled folks had something to offer Prince Albert and his council, trying to salvage his fallen kingdom.

As we continue onward, the outline of the castle disappears into the fog, and with it, my drifting thoughts.

“I wish we knew where we were going,” Beatrice says, and she sighs as she leans her head against the window. “At least then we’d know whether to be afraid.”

Blackburn’s dark eyes flash to mind. Yes, be afraid, I want to say. Even though he’s been no more unkind than our masters before him, the darkness coiled in each of his steps is bone-chilling. He is every bit the brute his grandfather was when he sailed to our shores decades ago in search of new beginnings, tearing open the city and creating the festering gash it has become. Blackburn only knows power and greed, and with the Council of Four holding his lineage in the highest regard, he has all he could possibly want or need in our country.

Dread fills me once more as the carriage crosses an iron bridge. Coach wheels echo and clink over it, and I might consider the bridge’s intricate design and craftsmanship exquisite, if it didn’t lead to an unwanted end.

A brick compound emerges beyond, smoke coiling its way from stacks and outbuildings. Men, and even a few women, wheelbarrow limestone and scrap metal from piles scattered between one foundry and another. It’s one of the most perilous employments, and the two big men carrying a wrapped, human-sized form between them only punctuates the danger and steals my breath. It’s all I can do not to gasp aloud.

This is where he’s taking the children? There isn’t a face that’s not coal-streaked, or a brow undampened with sweat despite the cool morning air.

“I don’t want to go,” Jon cries into my chest, and tears prick my eyes.

“I know, but you must,” I tell him. I’ve pushed the Collector too much already, and I fear his patience with me is running thin. “The future is always uncertain,” I tell him. “Just like yesterday, when we were eating porridge in the dining hall at the orphanage, today we are in a new place, and will meet new people. Of all these men and women, I know you will find a friend and someone to look out for you.”

He sniffles, and Evie wraps her arms around us both.

I squeeze her closer. “This is Master Blackburn’s foundry. We might see each other again.” The words feel false, but I press on. “You’ll see. We must hold out hope.”

Jon nods, but I can tell he doesn’t believe it. I don’t blame him. I tell myself I have hope, but it’s borne of desperation.

As the carriage jerks to a stop, I can’t swallow away my own cries, no matter how strong I try to be. The laborers outside continue to call to one another, straining as they push their wheelbarrows. Even if the world doesn’t stop, it feels as if it should fall to pieces around us.

The coach door flies open and Collins is standing there. Beyond him, Blackburn converses with a very large man with arms as thick as my torso and shaggy black hair. The man looks surprised to see us, but recovers quickly and nods to Blackburn, before the Collector continues toward the corpse being hauled away.

The large man meets my gaze as he approaches.

“Bartholomew will take the boy,” Collins tells me as I wipe the tears from my eyes. Everything in me shouts to do something—to make a scene or grab the children and flee—but there is nowhere to go.

“And the others,” Bartholomew adds, stopping a few paces from the coach.

My eyes widen. “What?”

Collins and I both look at him.

“All the children,” Bartholomew repeats.

My mouth falls open. “You’re taking them all?” I’m not sure if it’s relief or dread making my voice quiver.

Bartholomew dips his chin, and though his face is smudged with soot and his features are harsh and angled, there is a kindness in his eyes—a promise. Suddenly, it’s not a fear for the children that consumes me, but fear for myself. We are being separated, and while the children are staying together, I don’t yet know my fate.

“Come on then,” Collins says a bit more softly, and he motions for the children to climb out. I can feel Nell’s and Beatrice’s gazes on me, the pregnant silence as they wait for me to say or do something, but I can’t take my eyes from Bartholomew. His stare is intent on me, but sympathetic as a silent conversation passes between us, two people who have known this hard life and understand the children’s fears. “All will be well,” he says, and that gaze of his promises he will look after them. Though his large, looming frame and obvious strength should terrify me, it’s a relief to know he can actually protect them, should it ever come to that.

A watery smile parts my lips, and I glance at the children before stepping down from the carriage to say goodbye. “It’s okay,” I rasp, meeting each of their sad expressions, but I actually believe it this time. “You’ll be together—everything will be okay.”

The smoky air is cool and clings to my exposed skin despite my cheeks, eyes, and chest burning with emotion. Metal clanging inside the factory ricochets through the morning, and the children peer around with wide, terror-filled eyes.

I look at Bartholomew. “Beatrice,” I say, my voice shaking. “She’s injured. It must heal properly or—”

“I’ll see to it, miss,” he assures me. “My wife and I know the healer.”

Another swell of relief bubbles up inside me, and I have to blink my tears away. “Come here,” I say, and pull Evie against me. “You take care of your brother for me, okay? Be sure to keep reading, if you can. And tell each other stories.”

She nods against me, crying into my hair. “We will.”

“Good.” I stand and wrap my arms around Nell. “Take care of them for me,” I plead quietly in her ear.

“I promise,” she sobs. “We’ll be okay.” Her strength makes me choke out a happy, proud sob of my own. “I know you will.” I kiss her cheek and straighten. “Beatrice, keep them in line for me,” I tell her with a forced smile. “And be careful of your arm.”

She nods, but says nothing, her tightly pursed lips quivering.

Clearing my throat, I look at Bartholomew. He dips his chin again. “Go with this nice man,” I tell them, because drawing out our goodbyes will only make everything harder.

He holds out his hands to each of the twins and looks at Beatrice and Nell. “It’s warmer inside. And I will show you where you will be living. You can meet my wife.” That they would live in a factory makes me sad, but their life would’ve been no different in New London. At least the presence of this man and his wife puts me at momentary ease.

“Goodbye, Selene,” Jon cries, and runs to me once more. He grips onto me one last time.

“Goodbye, Jon,” I whisper in his ear. “See you in our memories.”

Evie comes over and kisses my cheek, then finally allows Nell and Beatrice to lead her away. My vision blurs as I watch them, reminded of how cruel this life is, that we should be used to such sadness and fears. And yet, my heart still breaks. The children look back once before disappearing inside.

“They will be cared for here,” Collins says quietly, startling me. “Bartholomew and his wife are good people.” My heart lightens a little. “And there are plenty of children in Emberbrook—they will not be alone.”

Though I appreciate Collins’s words, it’s at that moment I decide I hate Master Blackburn. He is a slaver, a man who would collect human beings to build his empire—who would collect children—and there is no kindness, or honor, in that.

10

SELENE

I barely notice the jostling, squeaking carriage in the quiet absence of the children. I’m too consumed by what I knew would come—what I’ve tried to brace myself for these past nine years. It feels as if I’ve failed the children somehow, and the hole in my heart burns with every beat, and my chest is almost too tight to breathe.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I’ll likely never see them again, and I’ve never felt more alone.

Hammering and people calling to one another echoes in the distance, and I hold my breath. Dozens of workers take form in the haze of daybreak, their clothes clinging to their sweat-dampened bodies. Men, women, and even children haul bundles of wood, and buckets. Laborers climb roofs, jerk wenches and pulleys, and pound what look like slabs of steel, piercing the air with each metallic clank.

We drive past frame after frame of outbuildings being constructed, and the work site stretches on and on until the woods thicken once more. So much green. So much I cannot see through the mist.

A figure shifts in the fog, a man’s face and dark hair flashing into view between two trees in the forest. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I hold my breath, but as the carriage continues onward, I see no one. My heart pounds, wondering if it was my imagination, or more bandits, like the men from the road.

I’m grateful as the forest gives way again, only this time, to an overgrown graveyard scattered throughout a gnarled beech tree grove. All the weathered headstones are eroded and worn by time, save for two. Lichen crawls its way over the engraving on the largest of them, and I squint, trying to read it, but the carriage rolls forward and the headstone disappears behind the trees once more.

A rut in the road sends the coach lurching forward, and I brace my palm on the window as I’m nearly tossed from my seat. “For all that is—” My breath catches in my throat as a sinister limestone face with a gaping, fang-lined mouth peers up from the overgrowth through the window.

I blink, realizing it’s the head of one of many statutes littered among the remains of a toppled chapel. I can’t balk at the beauty of what’s left of the intricately carved, arched windows and stained glass. The colors are beautiful, surrounded by so much drabness, illuminating the solemn gray morning.

The carriage turns down a gravel lane, and my looming future feels fresh upon me. Blackburn rides somewhere ahead, and Collins leads our procession on his chestnut horse, a dozen paces in front.

I could jump out of the carriage here and now, and run. Now that the children are gone, I could take my chances with fate. A small voice tells me the children are close, and I should not risk it. But, oh, how tempting it is. My fingers twitch on the door handle before I clasp them in my lap.

A hysterical laugh bubbles up inside me as I realize that, for all my brother’s effort to hide me from powerful landowners, I’ve still managed to become one man’s plaything after another’s. William died in the process. Yet here I am, riding to the estate of the most notorious landowner of them all.

We follow a tree-lined path, passing what looks to be another castle. I cower in its shadow. It’s nothing like the ruins we’d seen on the side of the road, and my heart nearly stills. This one still looms, its facade a wreckage of structure and stone. Vines grow over much of it, coursing and curving like veins, breathing life into what little remains. A single stout turret, cracked and eroded by time, is only an echo of its former glory. The castle’s windows are glassless and gaping, and save for the light filtering through the holes in the roof, everything inside is menacingly dark. It’s a husk of a place, a dangerous place. Every raised hair on the back of my neck tells me so.

We pass a murky pond and drive through an unkempt pergola, grown over with thistle, until finally, we stop in a square courtyard. I steel myself, realizing we’ve finally arrived at whatever impending fate awaits. It’s no factory, but the estate house is far from welcoming.

I stare at the lichen-covered walls. Its eaves line the angular roofs like angry brows, and the row of metal-braced, brick chimneys stacked along the center gives me pause. There must be a dozen rooms at least, and my mind spins with possible reasons I’ve been brought to this place. To be a servant? A plaything? Or will I be a breeder?

The driver pounds on the outside of the coach, making me jump. “Out you go, miss!” he calls, and I swallow thickly. The carriage wobbles as he dismounts his seat in the front, and I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. The children aren’t too far away, I remind myself. I can brave whatever I must, for them.

The carriage door opens, and an impatient Collins stands there, not the driver. “Well?” Collins prompts. He gestures toward the manor, ominous against the gray sky. “Don’t you want warmth and a meal? You won’t find any of it out here.”

While that sounds pleasant enough, I can’t help but wonder what such luxuries will cost me. With no other option, I climb out of the carriage, the whole thing creaking as it settles back into place. The three horses heave with exhaustion, and the driver barely gives Collins a moment to latch the door shut when he clicks the steeds onward. They turn in the courtyard, then disappear through the archway. I survey the rest of the grounds and note that the pond is barely visible through the willow trees in a wooded area to the right of the manor.

“This way,” Collins says over his shoulder, hurrying toward a heavy, wooden double door. I notice Collins’s horse milling about, unattended as if he’s waiting for his master to return, and reluctantly, I follow Collins toward the main entrance. Unlit torches mark both sides of it, and I have little time to take much of anything else in when the doors open, and a woman in a white bonnet and a gray, woolen dress and apron steps out. Her expression is one of surprise when she sees me, mouth agape. The woman’s gaze shoots to Collins as I take in her pointed nose and anxious blue eyes, wrinkles crinkling the corners.

Collins clears his throat, and a cacophony of keys jangle as she takes a step back for us to enter. I can feel her attention fixed on me as I pass.

Evergreen fills my nose as I peer around the foyer, taking one hesitant step and then another. The entry is narrow, with a grand staircase leading to the upper floors directly ahead, then fanning to the left and right. Uncertain where to go, I stop at the foot of the stairs and the dread that’s been pooling inside me for hours froths anew.

I am to be bred. I feel it with every churn in my stomach. It’s the only thing that makes sense, and while I shouldn’t be surprised, I can’t help the wash of panic that asphyxiates me, and the sudden need to run away from this new cage, gilded as it may seem.

“I—what’s—” The woman stutters as she closes the door behind Collins.

He hands her his hat and removes his cloak. “This,” he says, his eyes meeting mine, “is Prudy, the housekeeper. She runs everything in this place,” he explains. “Prudy, this is Miss Sinclair. The master asked me to bring her to you while he speaks with Gibson in the stable.”

Miss Sinclair. I haven’t heard someone call me that since I was a child. How odd that sounds on a stranger’s lips.

“I thought he was going to New London for workers,” Prudy says, still confused. “The master knows I need no more staff—I can barely find things to do for the ones I have. What am I to do with this one? Unless . . .” she hedges.

I can’t help the furrow of my brow as I stare between them, speaking about me as if I’m a lost dog the master has brought home.

“It’s not as if I chose to be here,” I assure Prudy, far too exhausted and put out to mind my tone. “I didn’t ask to be someone’s slave.”

Prudy’s eyes widen as big as saucers this time, and she rests her fists on her hips. “A slave is it?” With a quirked eyebrow, she looks at Collins. “She’s a mouthy one, isn’t she?” She harrumphs. It’s not a question, but a statement.

Collins looks amused by this, and he clears his throat. “Miss Sinclair is to be Paige’s companion and governess,” he explains, only this time, Prudy and I both gape at him.

“What?” we say in unison.

The door flies open as Blackburn strides through, divesting his cape immediately, and handing it to Prudy. He glances between the three of us, his eyes lingering a heartbeat longer on me, before he removes his gloves. “Is there a problem? I want her cleaned and fed before supper.”

“A governess?” Prudy asks, which provokes a scowl from Blackburn.

“She can read and write, and she is good with children. Not another word about it.” He levels an accusatory glare on Collins, as if they’ve had this conversation before.

I lick my lips, uncertain what to think—I’m not even certain I remember how to breathe until I swallow reflexively.

“Come then, child,” Prudy says, resigned, and she leads me up the staircase. Metal posts support the balustrade, glinting in the candle and torch light lining the walls and tables of the low-lit room.

I follow silently, filled with a numb sort of confusion. Or is it astonishment? A warm house where they want me cleaned and fed? Taking care of another child? Nowhere in my wildest dreams or farfetched imagination did I consider that possibility.

I run my hands up the dark wood banister, noticing the cracks and worn grooves. It’s only then I register the steel reinforcements keeping this place standing.

“You are to stay at this house,” Blackburn’s voice rumbles up the staircase. “And the garden grounds.” I’m not certain he even knows my name, but his brusqueness is undoubtedly aimed at me.

Pausing mid-step, I look down the staircase at him. His eyes are fixed on me in warning.

“Don’t wander away from the house,” he reiterates, and I can tell he’s thinking of the mishap on the road. “And never go into the castle.” Do you understand? goes unsaid as Blackburn stares at me unblinking.

“Hurry now,” Prudy calls behind her. “I’ll show you to your room.”

Though I’m desperate to know why I’m not allowed in the castle on the other side of the pond, the severity of Master Blackburn’s gaze is palpable. So, I follow Prudy, too tired and confused by this situation I find myself in to question what any of it means.

11

SELENE

The stairway creaks in protest as we climb the bend. Despite the size of the manor, the interior is draped in tapestries and bolstered in cold metals, making it feel far less spacious.

Tree sap, sweet and crisp all at once, is thick in the air, almost enough to cover the underlying dampness that seeps through the paneled walls and tapestries, and as I stare dumbly down at each step I take, all I can think is, the governess?

I hadn’t anticipated that. So, he hasn’t brought me here for breeding, but for teaching—teaching what, I can’t fathom. And companionship, of whom I assume is a young girl . . . The way he purchases and moves children around like sacks of grain, I would never have assumed he had a young ward of his own. Or is it his daughter? That the infamous Collector could be a father makes me wary, and suddenly, I’m eager to meet her. She can’t possibly be pleasant. Or perhaps she’s lived in fear of her father her whole life.

Collins and Master Blackburn converse below, their voices muffled until a door slams shut.

“Make haste,” the housekeeper says as I find my mind wandering behind her. “We weren’t expecting you, and there is much to do.”

A soft hum meets my ears as we reach the landing, and I peer around the horseshoe of doors on the second floor. Only two of the rooms are open. The humming slips through one that is slightly cracked.

“In here,” Prudy clips out. An elderly woman steps out of the only open door at the end of the hall, halting when she notices us.

“Rosemary, this is the new governess,” Prudy says, but I can’t tell if it is amusement lacing her voice, or displeasure. She doesn’t sound unkind as much as she sounds skeptical, which gives me pause. Both women, I notice, have a purple square stitched on the breast of their dresses, just barely peeking out of their aprons.

Rosemary’s deeply creased brow furrows as she takes the sight of me in.

“Pray tell, Miss Sinclair.” Prudy turns to face me fully. “What is your name, child?”

I glance between the two women as they eye me closely. Their surprise by my arrival stokes a plume of new questions I’m yearning to ask. “Selene,” I answer, clearing my throat. I never thought I would feel more scrutinized by the servants than I would by the master of the house himself, but I feel inadequate beside them, and something tells me I need to be in their good graces if I’m to find any semblance of comfort here. “My name is Selene.”

Prudy looks at Rosemary and nods toward a room two doors down from where the humming emanates. “I’m putting Miss Sinclair in the tapestry room for now. See that warm water is brought up for a bath, would you? And—” Prudy looks at me again, taking in my attire and disheveled state. “Clothes.” She meets Rosemary’s gaze. “From the trunks.”

“Right away,” Rosemary says with the dip of her head, but I don’t miss the slight pop of her brow before she can hide her surprise. Rosemary hurries past us, leaving me alone once more with the scrutinizing housekeeper.

Keys jangle as Prudy unclips one from the ring at her waist and unlocks the door. “This will be your room,” she says, pushing the door open as she enters. It’s dark, and the air is stuffy, as if the door hasn’t been opened in months. I step inside, dust instantly tickling my nostrils.

Prudy watches me from the corner of her eye. “I would’ve prepared the room, had I known to expect you,” she qualifies, and walks over to the heavily draped windows.

“This is far more luxurious than what I’m used to, I assure you.”

Prudy tugs the drapes open to let in the muted daylight. Dust motes fill the air, and the room seems to come to life a little. “It’s been years since I’ve had my own room,” I muse, peering around. I take in the tapestries stacked on the bed and hanging on the walls—ships in tumultuous seas, woodlands, and many of a woman with wind-blown red hair amidst the white-topped mountain. Some of the wall hangings look newer, while others are moth-eaten and moldy.

I can feel Prudy’s eyes on me as I take the sight of it all in, only this time when I look at her, her face softens slightly.

“I thought Master Blackburn purchased me for another reason,” I confide. “So . . . all of this is so much more than I expected.”

Her head tilts slightly as she studies me for a drawn-out moment, then she moves on. “I’ll see that the room is cleared out as soon as possible.” Prudy nods to the soot-stained hearth. “And that Martin gets your fire started to chase the chill out of the air.” She bustles around the room as if she’s already ticking things off her mental list of things to do.

“Thank you,” I breathe, looking at the giant four-poster bed and burgundy-fringed canopy. I can barely see a ruby-colored comforter peeking out from beneath the tapestries as Prudy comes over to remove some of them. “We use them to insulate the house,” she explains. “The weather is always cool, and the steel that bolsters the house keeps it constantly chilly inside.” She sifts through the tapestries, organizing them by quality.

“It’s a good house,” she continues. “Safer than most, so don’t worry yourself about that. The master has seen to it.” Her eyes meet mine. “Do you know the history of the Blackburns?”

“I have heard stories,” I admit vaguely.

“Yes, well, the short of it is that the Blackburns have lived on this estate since they sailed here nearly a century ago. The estate was in disarray when they arrived, and had long been abandoned, of course.”

I eye the black and white portraits from another lifetime, images of a young girl and her betrothed, or perhaps her brother, lining the hearth. Her clothes are layers upon layers of fabric, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. And for all of her frills and fancy hair ribbons, she does not seem happy. None of them do.

“This land was close enough to the coast,” Prudy continues, “and yet far enough away with hills, woods, and meadows aplenty—ripe for expansion, which is what the Blackburns came here for. So, as part of their negotiations with the Council when they began to reemerge from underground, this land was bestowed upon the family, never to be given to anyone else.” Prudy stares at me, pausing with a stack of tapestries slung over her arm. “There were stipulations, of course.” Her eyes narrow thoughtfully before she continues with a lift of her shoulder. “None of that matters right now. The family has always lived in the castle, but there is little left of it now, as you have probably seen. None of us go in there, not after . . .” She trails off.

“After what?” I whisper, holding my breath.

“After what happened.” Prudy won’t meet my eyes, and she clears her throat.

“Something horrible?” I step closer, beyond curious as I pretend to examine the tapestries.

Prudy nods reluctantly.

“That’s why Blackburn forbade me from going there?”

“Aye, it’s for your own good,” she says, more coolly this time. “Master Greyson has done what he can to keep what’s left of this house safe for us—but take care, Selene,” she warns, her eyes fixing on mine. “Nothing is certain. Nothing is safe.”

A gust of wind whips through the room then, sending chills over my skin. “Greyson?”

Prudy blinks. “Greyson Blackburn,” she clarifies.

“Oh.” Hearing his first name feels like I’ve learned a secret, though I’m not sure why. Greyson Blackburn. Slave collector. Father.

“I prefer the manor house anyway,” Prudy continues, and she seems to have warmed up to me slightly as she prattles on. “It’s far less to fuss over.” She mutters the last part, folding and resituating the unused tapestries, exposing the grand bed beneath. “I’ll have your comforter dusted and fresh pillows brought for you.”

“Thank you,” I say, and smile to myself as I brush my fingers down the heavy, brocade drapes. I’m in a manor house, not a tunnel or an asylum or an orphanage. I can barely comprehend what I thought I was coming here for and where I stand now, in a grand room of my own. Dusty as it is, it’s . . . mine.

“I forget what it was like.” Prudy sighs beside me. I hadn’t realized she’d come to stand there.

My brow crumples with confusion.

“Life before this place,” she explains.

“Are you from the ruined city?” I say with a lilt of surprise. Perhaps it is one of many things we might have in common.

Prudy nods. “But it’s been many years since I’ve stepped foot in New London.”

“You like it here?” I ask her, and walk to the window. She has much power if she runs the household, which means Blackburn must trust her greatly.

Prudy is thoughtful for a moment. “It has its hardships, I won’t lie to you about that,” she says cryptically. “But life before this place was far worse, and I count myself lucky to be here. As should you.” Her tone is somber and not entirely comforting. I’m not sure how horrible her life was before coming here, but I don’t believe working for the Collector is easy.

I gaze out at the exquisite view of the pond. When the children’s faces flash to mind, however, covered in soot and sweat like the other ironworkers, the weight of the entire day, melded with the guilt of living in such luxury, settles over me.

“Will they be okay?” I croak. Tears burn the backs of my eyes.

I can feel Prudy’s gaze on me.

“The children,” I whisper. “Will they be okay at the factory? Is he cruel to them?”

When I finally look at her, understanding lights her eyes, and Prudy reaches for my arm, squeezing me gently. A waft of bergamot meets my nose as she steps closer. “Don’t worry about the children, miss,” she tells me, but there’s a look of something in her eyes that makes me feel uneasy. I don’t know if it’s sympathy or some sort of regret.

“But they will be okay, won’t they?”

“There are many dangers in the foundry. I won’t lie to you. But if it’s Bartholomew and Victoria, Master Greyson has left them with, they will do what they can to ensure the children are cared for,” she promises. With a final squeeze, she lets my arm go. “You must worry about your life here now,” she adds, smoothing down her apron. “You will bathe and rest, and then you will meet Paige.”

I’d almost forgotten about the girl. “Is that who was humming down the hall?”

Prudy nods absently as she gathers a small stack of the tapestries to take with her.

“What’s she like?” Another pang of sadness tightens my chest as I wonder if Blackburn separated me from the children so that I could care for his child without competition or distraction.

“She’s a pale, freckled little thing,” Prudy says affectionately. “But a bright child. She sings and loves to play. Though . . . ” She pauses. “That child has known much loneliness,” she admits, almost to herself. Prudy traces the flower petals of the tapestry in her hand, studying the bright colors embroidered on it as sadness shadows her face.

“Did you make that?” I step closer to admire the craftsmanship. “It’s the most beautiful piece in here.”

Prudy stirs from distant memories. “Heavens no.” She pats it and holds the stack in her arms tighter to her. “Mistress Blackburn did.” She walks out to drape them on the balustrade, and all I can think is which one? Though I know Blackburn is ruthless in many ways, knowing he has a daughter makes it harder to believe he would kill his wives.

Prudy comes back into the room to bustle about some more.

“There are rumors,” I tell her, though it sounds more like a question than a statement. One I am hoping she will shed light upon.

“There always are,” she mutters, pushing a copper tub in front of the unlit fire as a man, I assume Martin, and two women come in with buckets of steaming water.

Prudy mutters something to them under her breath, and running her hands down her apron again with an air of contentment, she heads for the door.

“Did he really kill them?” I blurt, just before Prudy disappears from sight. All the servants freeze, their eyes darting to me. Eventually, they look to Prudy for guidance.

Slowly, she turns to me, the air in the room thickening. “We don’t speak of Mistress Blackburn, or Constance, Selene,” she says, her words carefully measured. “Ever. And you would do well to remember that around Master Greyson.”

12

SELENE

I absently seek the warmth of a small pair of legs, or a bony shoulder to nestle into. But my fingers only brush cool linen as I stir awake.

My nose is cold, and when I open my eyes, my breath is visible in the darkness. Only the coals of a fire glow in a hearth, and it takes me a moment to remember where I am, and why the air nipping at my skin isn’t tinged with the leathery-sweet scent of charred remains.

I snuggle deeper into the plush blanket tucked around me, the enormous bed beckoning me back to sleep. But as my foot absently searches for another, I remember the children. When my eyes open this time, a sense of dread teases my mind.

Sleep evades me, chased away by shame. While I sleep in this overstuffed bed of painstakingly plucked goose feathers, or some such thing, the children are living in unknown conditions. In the care of kind strangers, but in what environment? Are they cold? Afraid? I think of Jon and his nightmares. And little Evie, who could never fall asleep without me on the nights I was summoned by Master Orson.

I shiver as a draft howls through the room, making the embers in the hearth hiss and stir. Sitting up, I tuck my hair behind my ear, only to realize it’s knotted and unkempt, and that I don’t remember falling asleep.

Fingering my white chemise, the softness foreign against my skin, I recall Rosemary leaving me after my bath to dress for supper. Only . . . I eye the lavender dress she’d draped over the end of the bed, still waiting to be worn.

The room shifts and settles, and something creaks outside my door, stealing my breath. I glance around the room. These are not the noises I am used to, but exhaling my nerves, I tell myself it’s only night shadows and wind sounds. When I notice my water tub is empty, it dawns on me that someone came to collect me at some point, only to see I was asleep. People in the room while I sleep is nothing new, but that they are strangers has me nestling deeper into the blankets. Having people tend to me like this—pouring me baths and lighting fires—cannot come without a cost, and it unnerves me to think what that cost may be.

Another eerie howl sends a chilly draft whipping through the room again. And as my heartbeat quickens, and the rumors of hauntings and horrible misdeeds resurface, I convince myself my imagination is getting the better of me, and I force myself to sit up and take a deep breath.

As I contemplate building a fire to stave off the cold, my stomach rumbles. Save for stale hunks of bread during the carriage ride, I’ve eaten nothing, and my hunger consumes me tenfold. After another rumble and another hunger pain, I eye an emerald robe hanging on the wall by the door. Deciding food is all that will sate the cavernous void in my stomach, I climb out from under the comforter.

The sharp claws of night leach from the floor beneath my bare feet, and I shiver as they rake up and over my skin. I curse, stubbing my toe on the trunk at the end of my bed in my haste, but as the cool air swallows me, as if it’s feeding off my warmth, I can’t don the robe quickly enough.

With a final shiver, I cinch the sash tightly around my waist, wondering what the hour is. I need stockings or slippers if I’m to manage another step, and to let in a little light, I pull the drapes aside. Though the wind howls and the trees outside bend as if they might break, the pond sparkles in the moonlight. It’s rare that the clouds part in the city, giving way to a world above the gray, and even more rare that I’ve seen a full moon. The way the world glows in its presence is ethereal and mesmerizing.

I’m not sure how long I stare as my mind drifts, hoping the children might see the moon too. But then I feel it, a hair-raising sensation, and my arms wrap protectively around me of their own accord. A presence. Someone is out there, watching. Every nerve ending tells me so.

Fighting the urge to snap the drapes shut, I scour the shadows edging the pond, squinting into the darkened trees and overgrown bramble. Whether it’s to prove to myself it’s only my overactive imagination, or to prove to myself that it’s not, I have to know if someone is out there.

The reeds along the pond quiver. The water ripples. The willows dance with each gust of wind.

My breath catches when a figure forms between two trees.

The male figure from the woods?

I blink, uncertain it’s not tricky night shadows. But when the breeze stirs once more, the draped creature flutters. My hand flies to my mouth with a gasp, trying and failing to come up with a reason an earthly being would be out there this time of night. It is not the man I thought I saw. It’s something else.

A fringe of leaves, blowing in the wind, seems to sweep the form away as suddenly as it appeared, as if it was never there at all.

I jerk the drapes closed, gripping them tightly as I squeeze my eyes shut. What sort of place is this? None of the tales about this land are happy ones. Whether person or angry spirit, something was out there, peering up at my window, watching and waiting. For me. I don’t know how, but I know it’s true. Remembering the flickering forms stalking the gravestones back at Bedlam, I wonder if I might have summoned this creature up the same.

My stomach rumbles again, reminding me it’s been nearly empty for the past three days. While a part of me doesn’t want to leave my room for fear of what awaits me outside these walls, I know that once the house is awake, any freedom I have in this moment will be gone.

Tightening the sash around my waist, I rally my courage, find a pair of wool-lined slippers, and creep toward the door. Realizing how foolish it would be to wander a foreign, unnatural place like this unarmed, I pause, hair tumbling over my shoulders. I snatch the iron fire poker from the hearth, appreciating the weight of it in my hand. Then, carefully and as quietly as I can, I open the door. I don’t breathe or blink for fear of what awaits me on the other side.

When I’m met with muted, flickering light in the hallway sconces and a quiet house, I walk onto the landing. No one stirs. The rest of the doors up and down the hall are closed. Everything is dark and quiet, and as my stomach rumbles again, I make my way toward the stairs. The kitchen, wherever it might be, will surely have something to eat.

I’m not halfway down the first stretch of stairs when I hear it; muffled voices below. Or is it the howl of the wind again? I pause and strain to listen. Silence, at first, then another whirl of wind, but I hear nothing more. The icy air seeps through every crack and crevice in this place, antagonistic in the way it taunts and urges me back into the safety of my room. But with the poker slick in my clammy hand, I lick my lips and reluctantly continue down the staircase.

The dark wood banisters are cool to the touch, and the stairs, though solid beneath my feet, have been patched up in places, scars left by quakes and storms over the years.

Old paintings of lords and ladies line the walls, some images more tattered and faded than others after centuries of neglect. Some paintings, however, look newer than the rest, and I wonder whose hands painted such remarkable artwork.

Descending another few steps, I eye a row of sleek purple banners with a woman’s profile cross-stitched on each of them. She’s important, a symbol. A sigil. The Blackburn sigil. And realizing the servants wear the purple square on their clothes to mark them as his makes my lip curl.

Then a striking image of a young man with dark hair and piercing blue-gray eyes gives me pause. The wall is lined with portraits. At first, I think it’s Blackburn looking back at me, but as similar as the portrait is to him, the eyes aren’t dark enough, the man’s gaze not grave or menacing. His brow not quite so furrowed. I notice another portrait, one with the same characteristic, but this one far more severe. Blackburn. One a portrait of him in his youth, perhaps, the other as he is now—dark and alarmingly stern. His eyes glare straight through the canvas at me, and I take a step back. Clearing my throat, I hurry to the bottom, worried I’ll lose my nerve if I linger too long.

The vestibule is lit by a dim lantern on a side table, which is welcoming, and I glance to the right, where the doorways to three rooms are dark. To the left, the hallway extends much farther, and light glows from one of the rooms. I leave the darkened doorways to explore when my own shadow won’t spook me, and taking the lantern from the table in one hand, gripping my poker in the other, I head down the hall to where I hope to find the kitchen.

The more I stop to assess and explore the paintings and open doorways, the more my grip on the iron poker loosens. When I find the largest of the rooms, I hold out my lantern and step inside. Despite the flickering shadows, I can see how grand it is, with decadent brocade paper lining the walls and two stone hearths—one on each side. Dark wood furniture and a crystal chandelier that’s missing adornments on some of its tiers gleams, and a piano in the corner catches my attention. I think of my mother at ours when I was younger. I haven’t felt the cool slickness of keys against my fingertips in so long, I barely remember the sensation.

Ignoring the lump in my throat, I wonder if Paige plays as much as she hums, but I leave those ponderings for tomorrow and continue down the hall. Light glows from one of the rooms in an off-shooting corridor, and unable to resist, I move toward it.

I pass a marble bust on a pedestal against the wall, a man with half of his head crumbled away. There are more paintings, older and faded, and passing a mirror, I freeze. Is this what I look like now? It’s not as if I’ve never seen my reflection in glass or the water’s surface—or even a clouded old mirror—but never have I seen myself so clearly.

I’m not sure if I’m more horrified by my blonde, untamed mane that hasn’t been combed in days, or my pale, gaunt face. I set the lantern on a pedestal, and running my fingers through my hair, appreciating how soft and clean it is, I stare at my profile. Is there nothing untouched by so much bleakness and gray? I run my finger lightly over the darkness beneath my steely blue gaze. I look tired and older than my twenty years.

Dropping my hand to my side, I push the thoughts away and continue toward the lit room, lantern in one hand and poker in the other. I’ve heard no voices, so I am not surprised to find no one’s inside when I peek around the doorway. I am, however, surprised to see it looks more lived in than the other rooms, with the same rich brown woods and a grand fireplace. A fire roars in this one, and shelves line the walls on both sides, crammed with books. A desk is situated in front of a heavily draped window, and a high-backed chair with a coat discarded on the back of it is angled in front of the hearth. Its cushion is timeworn, and a pedestal table sits beside it, a single book resting on it.

I don’t know if it’s the warmth of the fire beckoning me inside, or my unruly curiosity, but before I know it, I’ve discarded the lantern on a shelf, and run my fingers over the worn bindings of tomes stretched around the room. I can’t help my grin, even if I’m likely to never read them. So many books. So many stories—easily double that of Master Orson’s collection.

I stop at the fire, eyes fixed on the painting hanging above it. Unlike the ones of the master in the stairwell, this portrait is Blackburn and a red-haired beauty, sitting in the straight-backed chair beside him. She looks as though she holds a secret in her amber eyes, a happy one, and Blackburn looks, dare I say, content.

The hard set of his jaw is akin to real life, and the luster of his glossy dark hair shines combed away from his face. I prefer it windblown and hanging in his eyes as I’ve seen, and such a thought sobers me. But then his eyes draw me in again—the metal gray captured perfectly. And his mouth curves slightly, as if he is trying not to smile.

The Collector smiling? Now there’s a thought.

Despite the gruff Master Blackburn I’ve seen so far, and the reputation that precedes him, he seems more human in this portrait, with his wife beside him. Though which one, I can’t be certain. Still, it’s hard to fathom he would hurt her.

But paintings are merely the artist’s interpretation—commissioned interpretation, I remind myself—and can be easily manipulated. Still, I lean in, staring into the metallic silver mixed with blue that captures Blackburn’s eyes so well, as if I might read his true character.

“Looking for something?”

I spin around, lifting the poker defensively. The master of the house stands in the doorway, the firelight making those same gray eyes glow like liquid steel, and his shadowed features narrow sharper than I remember at the iron poker in my hand. “Am I supposed to be frightened?”

Swallowing, I lower my hand and take a deep breath. “You shouldn’t sneak up on someone like that.”

He frowns, his black eyebrows drawing together. “You’re in my study, going through my things,” he says carefully. I’m not sure if it’s anger or distrust in his voice, but his annoyance is clear enough.

“I was looking for the kitchen,” I explain, but the words sound ridiculous passing my lips, and fully aware he and Orson are men bred of similar cloth, I have the instinct to flee.

Skeptical, Blackburn strides past me to his desk. His movements are confident and almost graceful as he sets an empty glass beside a crystal decanter, more embellished and fine than Master Orson’s had been. Yes, Blackburn is lord of this estate and manor, and he exudes it. But as his smoking jacket billows, the cool night air wafts off of him like he’s been outside, and I stiffen.

Apprehension coils through me. The thought of anyone outside my window is unnerving, but that it might’ve been him seems far more terrifying than any creature. Suddenly, I’m acutely aware I shouldn’t have wandered in here, because now I am alone with the Collector.

“Perhaps,” he starts, as if sensing my readiness to escape, “if you’d come to supper, you would not be so hungry.” His tone is harsh and disapproving.

“I was weary,” I explain, having not given his anger because of my absence any thought until now. “It’s been a very long few days.” I know I should be grateful I’ve been given such lodgings and the role of governess, even if I don’t have the slightest inkling of how to be one. But I can’t help the bitterness in my voice as he seems to disregard all he’s accomplished in just a handful of hours: purchasing slaves, uprooting and separating us all with a few coins and a mere whim.

Blackburn pours himself another glass of amber liquid, as if it’s just another evening for him, comfortable and basking in the warmth of his roaring fire. “I’ve been accommodating, have I not?” he says roughly. “Paige was expecting you, and I—”

“Accommodating?” I quip, unable to ignore the conceit in his voice. “You act as if you haven’t just shattered the lives of five people—that you didn’t send the children to possible death at that foundry, ripping the one person who has ever cared for them away.”

Blackburn’s glass stops halfway to his mouth and his eyes bore into me. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” he says, but it’s not a question.

“No—”

“I have no need for a herd of children in this house, Miss Sinclair. I have need of a governess. And I kept the children together,” he adds. “It seems you’ve overlooked that in all of your blustering. Besides,” he continues, “I find it hard to believe that, after seeing your . . . situation at Bedlam, you would prefer to have stayed with that ogre and his shrew of a wife. That the children be up for the taking—working in the mines, bone crunching and laboring every day until their fingers bleed. The gods only know what else,” he mutters.

I picture the billowing black smoke, thick in the air from the factories the children are now slaves to. “Is that how you see this?” I rasp with disbelief. “That you did all of us a favor, bringing us to your foundry and your land?”

“Of course I did you a favor,” he growls, lifting his glass toward the doorway. “You have a room, a bed—a roof over your head. You, a woman of good breeding—yes, it’s obvious, Miss Sinclair,” he says as my eyes widen. “And you’re more foolish than I thought, if you would lie to yourself and claim you prefer your life, being preyed upon in that asylum, over what I can provide you here.” As he continues, my thoughts linger on one single thought: what he can provide for me?

Good breeding . . . His words roll around in my head, and I have to wonder if his need for a governess is genuine.

“It astounds me how ungrateful you seem,” he continues, and the longer I remain quiet, the more irritated he becomes. I blink myself back to a dark room with an insidious man who has already lost two wives, and might lure me into a false sense of comfort in order to claim another. In a time when heirs and able bodies are more coveted than coin, what do you think that landowner was coming to collect? My brother’s words from a lifetime ago elicit a potent mixture of alarm and . . . fury. He’s come for you, Selene.

“No,” I breathe. Shaking my head, I white-knuckle the iron poker. “You make yourself sound like a liberator.” I try to keep the revulsion from my voice, but it’s impossible. “As if you have done some wondrous deed in bringing me here. But I know your reputation, Master Blackburn, and I’ve seen the dozens, though you probably have hundreds, of slaves working your land and running your factories—people who have no choice but to work their fingers to the bone, for you. Forgive me if I’m not grateful to be one of them.”

He seems wholly unaffected by my words as he peers at me over the brim of his glass. And that he leans so casually against his desk, as if I am more amusement to him than anything, only infuriates me more.

Finally, Blackburn sneers and shakes his head of wild black hair. “My laborers would have to work somewhere for someone,” he says coolly, and he takes a prowling step closer, his lip curling slightly. “You have been here less than a day and understand nothing of this place.”

“I’ve seen and heard enough.”

“You miss Master Orson, then?” he states with a smirk.

I grip the fire poker until the coarse iron cuts into my flesh. “I prefer to know the monsters I’m surrounded by.” I point to the painting of him and his wife above the fire. “I know about your wives, and I would rather be out there with the masses, than in here, with you.”

Blackburn’s face reddens, his gaze shifts to the portrait before snapping back to me, and the sudden fire filling his eyes is terrifying, as if barely contained. “If this new life set before you is so abhorrent that you’d rather work with the laborers instead of this household, I will happily arrange it.” He says it so coldly, a chill rolls down my spine.

“I would,” I tell him, though there is no vehemence behind it, no certainty. “This place is shrouded in death.”

“Fine,” he says in a low growl. “Consider it done.” Slamming his glass down, he stalks closer. “If you think me such a monster and want to be treated like the other slaves, then I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.” Blackburn rips the poker from my grasp and tosses it to the side. It clatters loudly to the floor as he grips my upper arm, tugging me out the door.

I nearly stumble as he pulls me through the corridors and toward the stairs. I’m too stunned to fight back at first, too frightened. But I am tired of men and their games of power.

“Let . . . go!” I shout, and shove at him, trying to tear my arm from his grasp as he pulls me up the staircase. The tighter he grips me, the harder I pull against him. I twist and tug, uncertain what I’ll do once I get away, but I have no time to ponder it.

Wrenching myself from his hold, I stumble down two stairs and fall to my knees. I wince and cry out as pain ricochets through my bones, stirring old injuries as my knee screams.

Only as my panicked breaths subside and I open my eyes do I remember Blackburn. He’s standing on the step above me, peering down with wild eyes and pursed lips. His chest heaves and his hands fist at his sides.

“You will go to your room, if you know what’s good for you,” he says with barely restrained control. It is a threat, a bone-chilling warning, and I heed it willingly.

Climbing to my feet, I hurry as fast as my throbbing knee will allow up the rest of the stairs and into my room, slamming the door shut behind me.

13

SELENE

Ear against the door, I grip the handle and wait with bated breath for Blackburn to burst through and teach me a lesson. But as he stomps closer, all is suddenly quiet. The floorboards creak beneath his feet, and I hold my breath once more.

One heartbeat.

Two.

After the third, his heavy footsteps descend the stairs, the front door slams shut, and I rest my head against the cold wood, exhaling my relief. Perhaps he’s going to lurk around the pond again, but the moment I think that, I push the thought away. It makes no sense that he would peer up at my window, not when he could come in here at will. Not in his own house.

His dead wives, however, a distant voice whispers.

I rake my fingers through my hair. I don’t know what is wrong with me, or why I’m so reckless around him. Even if every rumor I’ve heard about Blackburn is false, he is still the Collector—I’ve seen that for myself, and more terrifying than that, he is the keeper of my fate. And the children’s.

I turn around, stumbling as my knee screams at me for being so careless. Even if I want to attribute my fall to Blackburn’s beastliness, I know I cannot. Not entirely. I taunted and poked at him, and I chide myself for it.

Dread fills me with each passing moment as I stand in front of the dead fire in the hearth. I may be cold now, but what if he makes me a laborer? What will my life be like then?

Crouching to light what might be my last fire in my last night in this room—perhaps in this house—I realize the fire poker is downstairs in Blackburn’s study. I grab a log from the dwindling stack beside the fireplace and use it to break the remaining coals apart. Small flames flicker to life, and though they give little heat, I lay the log on top, hoping it will catch.

I should not have let Blackburn’s words affect me so deeply. I should have known he was aware of my past in some capacity, especially if he wanted me to be his daughter’s companion or governess. More than ever, I have to consider he wants more than that from me, though. He brought up my family’s lineage for a reason.

I hold my hands to the burgeoning flames.

Even as thoughts of breeding skitter around in my mind, I can’t help but think Blackburn would tell me if that is his intention, forthright and without reservation. I know Blackburn’s blunt enough for that. And unlike Orson, who was easy to manipulate, Blackburn knows there is no reason to scheme when it is he who holds all the power.

But none of that matters now, because I’ve squandered whatever opportunity he was giving me by bringing me to Briarwood, and I know, whatever happens next, I can only blame myself.

I’m not sure how long I stare at the dimly lit fireplace, but morning light eventually filters in around the edges of the curtains and the house stirs awake. The creak of hurried footsteps echoes across the landing, and the passing whispers and chatter between Prudy and the other maids is muffled through the door. I wince a little as I rise to my feet, my knee still sore from hitting the stairs, though it feels good to stretch it.

Opening the drapes, I peer down at the pond, no longer edged with ominous shadows. Since my old clothes are nowhere to be seen, I climb into the lavender dress that was left at the end of the bed, resolved to accept whatever the day will bring.

The gown is heavy but magnificent, like nothing I’ve ever seen, let alone worn before. The purple fabric is velvet, weightier than the wool I’m used to, but it’s warm and comforting in a way that soothes me. Its bell sleeves are lined with fur, and beautiful mountains are embroidered on the bottom hem.

Tightening the leather stays up the front, I find the dress fits me far better than my woolen, gray frock, if a bit snug in the chest. Even with the back not cinched all the way, I can tell the length is too long, the bottom puddling at my feet, and I worry I’ll ruin the needlework.

The vanity mirror, no longer covered in tapestries, glints in the muted daylight, and I brave a look at myself. Save for my unruly hair, I feel like a doll. But as uncomfortable as I am to wear such a dress, it’s also exhilarating. Running my fingers through my blonde tangles, I dare to think I might even look pretty in purple, in spite of my rudimentary braid as I weave back my hair. Is this what a governess looks like? Using an old scrap of lace I find on the vanity, I tie the end and tuck a final loose strand of hair behind my ear with a sigh.

A knock at the door startles me, and I wonder if this is where I’m torn from this dress and this room, and told to leave this house. I clear my throat. “Yes?” I step forward as the handle jiggles and the door slowly opens.

A little girl with wavy red hair pulled back out of her face pokes her head in.

She’s quiet as she takes the sight of me in—she looks timid, even.

“You may enter,” I say, and open the door farther to see the girl more clearly. She’s in a simple green dress with similarly embroidered designs on the hem and sleeves, but it lacks the fur and stateliness, which makes me feel even more out of place.

“You must be Paige,” I say, straightening a little.

She nods wordlessly, and we study each other for a few breaths. Her features are pale, red-tinged and angular, her skin slightly freckled—so different from her father’s broody darkness. Then, recalling the painting above the fireplace in his study, I see where the girl gets her pixie-like appearance from. Blackburn can’t be more than thirty years, but he’s already been widowed twice. Something tells me Paige’s mother is the one in that painting, but the question remains, was she his first or second wife?

“My name is Selene,” I offer, and hold my hand out to her.

Paige blinks at me, her head tilting to the side. “You didn’t come to supper,” she says quietly, and ignores my proffered hand. She looks almost sad, and I remember Prudy’s words. The girl has known much loneliness. My shoulders droop as my heart sinks a little.

“I know, and I am very sorry for that,” I admit. “I wanted to join you, but was so tired from the journey, I fell asleep. It wasn’t intentional . . . I hope you can forgive me.”

Paige purses her lips in indecision. “Benjamin told me it was because you don’t like me, but Prudy said that isn’t true.”

“Of course it’s not true,” I say, annoyed with this Benjamin, whoever he is. “How could he know such a thing when I haven’t even met him, or you, for that matter?”

Paige shrugs, her eyes roving through my room, taking in every nook and cranny, save for me.

“Well,” I start, sitting on the edge of my bed. Though I don’t know the little girl in the slightest, it feels strangely apt to have her in my presence. “That is not why I was absent. I can promise you that. And I am very excited to finally meet you.” And it’s true. There’s something about having a child living in the house that makes the whole place feel less ominous.

Paige bites her fingernail, her green eyes finally drifting to me. “Are you going to still be my governess?” she asks. “I haven’t had one before. But I would like to have a friend.”

I pale, the nurturing side of me wanting to reassure her I’m not going anywhere, especially if it’s to prove Benjamin wrong and give this lonely little girl a companion. But I can’t, because Blackburn might very well make good on his promise to cast me out.

“I’m not sure what today will bring,” I admit, “but I’d like to get to know you all the same. Come—” I pat the space next to me. “Tell me all about yourself. I love making new friends.”

Tearing her finger from her mouth, Paige wipes her hands on the front of her dress and walks over, climbing up beside me. Her eyes wander over me as she considers something. “Do you have many friends?”

Though grief tightens my chest, I try to smile. “I used to.”

A flicker of confusion twitches Paige’s brow. “What happened to them?”

“Well,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “They came here with me from New London, but . . . they are with Bartholomew now.”

“At the iron factory?” she asks, incredulous.

I nod. I’m not sure why, but I’m surprised she knows the names of the slaves here. “With him and his wife. My friends’ names are Jon, Evie, Nell, and Beatrice, and I’ve known them for many years.” I take in her curious, big eyes and little slope nose. “Jon and Evie are closest to your age, I think. They are nine.” Even if they are similar in age, however, Paige’s eyes are not shadowed by a hundred lifetimes lived.

“They are children?” Paige frowns with confusion. “Children don’t usually go to the factory.”

“And why is that?” I ask, holding my breath.

“Because it’s not safe. Papa tells me I am never to go to the factories, especially not alone.”

Of course the factory is unsafe, that much was obvious the moment I saw the centuries-old, monstrous structure, and the dead body being carried out, but that the children are usually taken some place else—that Jon, Evie, Nell, and Beatrice were treated differently—makes me uneasy.

“Paige,” I hedge, bracing myself. “Where does your father usually take the children when he brings them here?”

“With the fieldworkers,” she says. “Or the farmers—they go live with families all over the place, but never the factories.” She fingers the fox fur around my sleeve, her little legs kicking as she contemplates something. She can’t be over six or seven.

“Well,” I say, clearing my throat again. Once more, the children are all I can think about. “I wish you could’ve met them before they were taken away,” I say, wanting to fill the silence. The reassurance in Bartholomew’s gaze is all that’s keeping the tears from tumbling down my cheeks. “Evie and Jon are twins, and—”

Paige looks sad at the mention of it, and drops her hands back into her lap.

“What is it?” I ask softly, and I’m about to squeeze her hand when the door opens farther, and Prudy barrels inside. Martin trundles in behind her with a stack of firewood. My gaze is drawn to the poker Blackburn had torn from my grasp last night, gripped in Prudy’s hand.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” she says as Martin tends to the fire behind her. Prudy doesn’t bother asking me why the fire poker was in the study as she leans it against the fireplace. “And I’ve been looking for you, missy,” she says, finger wagging at Paige. “You weren’t in your room when I went to fetch you.”

Paige looks away with a blush. “I wanted to see if the governess was awake yet.”

“Ah, yes. Well, now you’ve seen that she is,” Prudy says, eyeing my attire as I rise to my feet. “And haphazardly dressed, it would seem.” She comes over and motions for me to spin around so she can finish the ties in the back I wasn’t able to reach.

“It’s time for your breakfast,” Prudy tells Paige. “Head down to the kitchen—off with you.”

My stomach rumbles on cue, and Martin, Paige, and Prudy all look at me in tandem.

My cheeks burn as I clear my throat. “It’s been a while since I’ve eaten,” I admit sheepishly.

“You can come eat with me!” Paige chirps with a burst of animation.

I look at Prudy, uncertain what I’m allowed to do.

She dips her chin in acquiescence and tugs on the back of my dress for good measure. “Off with you too, then.” Starved, I practically salivate at the thought of breakfast, whatever it may be.

As Prudy straightens my bed, I reach for her.

She pauses and looks at me. “Well, what is it?” she says tersely, businesslike but not wholly unkind.

“What happens now?” I ask, my voice a whisper of dread, hinging on her next words.

Her eyes shift over my face. “We’ll discuss a routine once you and Paige have had a moment to get to know one another.”

My heart nearly soars. “You mean he’s not sending me away?”

Prudy frowns. “Master Blackburn?”

I blink at her in answer.

“Hmm.” She lifts her eyebrow wryly, scanning me with fresh eyes. “I was wondering why your poker was in his study this morning.” She holds up her hand. “I think it’s better I don’t know what happened.” With a sigh, Prudy waves my question away. “The master has said nothing to me, but then I haven’t seen him yet this morning. You’ll have to take that up with him when he returns.”

“Returns?” I ask. “Where did he go?”

“He’s in the castle, most likely,” she grumbles, and I can tell she disapproves.

“The castle?”

Prudy ignores me and collects my discarded night clothes. The castle is the one place Blackburn forbade me to go, and yet it is clearly not off limits to us all. As a dozen reasons why spring to mind, I can’t help but wonder what the master is hiding.

“Come on,” Paige says, linking her fingers through mine. “Your stomach sounds angry. Cook can make us some eggs and toast.”

With the promise of food that isn’t porridge or stale bread, it’s suddenly all I can think about. Allowing Paige to pull me out of the room, I forget all about the secrets surrounding this place. For now.

14

SELENE

“You need a flat one, like this,” Paige says, and she picks up a rock that’s rounder than it is leveled. “Or it won’t skip.” I watch intently as she situates it in her small fingers, then skids it across the water. Or rather, she tries to. The rock plops and plummets to the bottom, sending a wave of ripples toward us.

“Well . . .” She sighs. “It was supposed to work.”

Although it’s a foreign concept to me, I understand what Paige is trying to do, and I comb the damp earth and fallen brush for a rock that might be better suited.

“You do this often?” I ask, trying to distract her from pouting.

Paige shrugs. “Sometimes. But Papa doesn’t do it with me anymore.”

I look at her, trying to imagine Master Blackburn as any sort of father. I refrain from asking her if he reserves his hostility for his slaves and servants, or if he’s just as brusque with her. “What sort of father is he?” I ask instead, picking up a few stones before discarding them for being too oddly shaped.

“I don’t know,” she says, and shrugs again. “I’ve only had one. What are they supposed to be like?”

Finding two flattish rocks, I walk over to her at the water’s edge. “Here, try it with one of these.” I open my palm for her to choose.

Paige analyzes each of them thoughtfully, then picks one and shows me once again how to hold it. This time, we fling our wrists and throw our stones across the pond together. Her rock skips three times before disappearing beneath the surface, and mine only twice. Both are enough to make Paige beam up at me.

“Good job!” she cheers.

I smile back. “I had an excellent teacher.” I watch the water’s settling surface. “Jon would love to do this,” I think aloud. “And Evie would try, and he would chide her for doing it poorly, I’m sure.” It’s a whimsical thought, but a small smile tugs at my lips. “But I guess bickering is what siblings do.”

Paige’s openness fades, and eventually, she’s frowning. “They do?”

“Yes, I guess so,” I tell her with a nudge. “I used to have a brother, but he died many years ago. Perhaps that’s why I miss my friends so much.”

This idea of friends seems to trouble Paige.

“Who is Benjamin that teases you?” I ask.

“Ms. Fairchild—the cook. Benjamin is her son. And he’s not very nice,” she grumbles.

“Well, I’ll share my friends with you, okay? If ever you meet them, I know they will love you.”

“Really?”

I nod. “I think you would like Beatrice best, though. She likes to be outdoors, just like you do. And then there is Nell, who is a little older. She was like a sister to me,” I whisper. “A confidante.”

“What’s that?”

“I suppose it’s a best friend,” I explain. “Though I never thought about it like that until now. They were always . . . just”—I shrug—“my charges, I guess. The children I looked after in the orphanage.”

“An orphanage? You mean a place for kids without parents?”

I lift an eyebrow. “You know what an orphanage is,” I muse. “Have you ever seen one?”

“No, Papa won’t let me go to the city. He says it’s dangerous, that there are highwaymen and people in the city who would take me from him.”

Since kidnapping is rampant in the city, I don’t doubt Master Blackburn would keep his precious child as far away from the city as possible.

“Maybe we can visit your friends soon,” Paige says, surprising me. “They aren’t that far.”

“No?”

She shakes her head, and I dare to hope that’s possible.

“I would love for you to meet them.”

“I do want new friends,” she says dully. “Benjamin doesn’t count. And I get so bored all the time.” She skips another rock, this one bouncing only twice before she heaves out a woe is me sigh.

I smile inwardly. “I know you don’t like being stuck here, Paige. But life beyond your home is very hard and frightening. Your father is right to keep you away from the city. There are bad men there.”

“Did you live with a bad man?” she whispers, and I see the fear in her eyes. “Is that why Papa brought you here?”

I want to tell her that her father is one of the most notorious bad men in the country, but I flash her a weak smile instead. “He was not a good man,” I concede.

“At least you are here now, and safe,” Paige offers, and I have to refrain from laughing aloud. She knows nothing of my fears, nor will she.

We walk in silence along the pond’s edge, her question about fathers lingering. I remember little about my father, only that he was always working and away on business, and that he would have traded me—his only daughter—to a stranger. “I think fathers are supposed to make us feel protected and special,” I finally answer, and once again, I can’t refrain from prodding her for answers about the infamous Collector. “Is that how Master Blackburn makes you feel?”

“Yes,” she says easily, then she looks at me, that pouty frown in place again. “Did your father die? Is that why you were in the orphanage?”

Instead of telling her the truth, I nod. And I guess, for all I know, my father did die—killed by the landowner who didn’t get what was owed him, perhaps, or in the giant quake that took my brother, and nearly took me.

“What about your mother?” she asks. “Did she die too?”

“She did,” I whisper. “She was very sick. And I miss her and my brother the most.”

Paige looks away as she kicks at a branch on the ground. “My mother is dead like yours,” she says, and there’s anger in her voice, but I can’t tell if it’s directed at someone or life in general. “But we aren’t supposed to talk about it.”

This time I’m the one who frowns. That’s the second time I’ve been told that. “Why not?” I hedge. “She was your mother. I think she would want to be remembered.” I’m not sure if it’s curiosity or sadness that stirs my need to know the truth, because more than wishing Paige might shed light on one of the countless mysteries and secrets that shroud this place, that she isn’t supposed to speak of her own mother is heartbreaking.

“Because it makes Papa unhappy.”

“But aren’t you unhappy about losing her too? She’s your mother, after all.”

Paige lifts her shoulder and her mouth screws up in the corner. “I didn’t know her like he did.”

Unable to help myself, I ask, “And what of his other wife? Did you ever know her?”

“Miss Knightly?” A flicker of surprise crosses Paige’s little face. “She didn’t like it here, I guess.”

I straighten, practically salivating for her to go on. “How do you mean?”

“Well, she didn’t stay long. I woke up one day, and she was just . . . gone.” Paige says it with sadness, but not with fear, and I wonder if that means Miss Knightly isn’t dead, like the rumors say. Or perhaps she is and Paige doesn’t know. Either way, I refuse to make her dwell in the hurtful past for my sake, and I don’t press Paige for more.

“I’m certain Miss Knightly would rather have stayed with you, Paige,” I tell her, and when Paige and I meander in a heavy silence for too long, I continue, “What did she look like?” I ask instead, taking in Paige’s red hair and freckled face. “Your mother, I mean.” I’ve seen the portrait in his study, but it’s all I can think in the moment to divert her attention.

“Papa says I have her hair and eyes,” she says proudly.

“Well, that’s wonderful,” I explain. “That means she will always be with you—you will always have a part of her, just like I’ll always have a part of my mother.” I point to my blue eyes and my slightly pointed nose. “And I’m glad not to have my father’s nose,” I confide with a grin. “It was much larger than mine.”

Paige giggles, blushing a little. “I’m glad I don’t look like my papa too. His face is scratchy. And Prudy tells him he should cut his mane of hair, but he never does. She said it will hide some of the gray.”

“Surely he’s not so old,” I say with a laugh. Imagining the fearsome Master Blackburn’s expression if he were to hear his daughter say such things is immensely entertaining. But it’s that glower of his that chases away the amusement, and something dark and curious settles in its place.

I consider how striking Blackburn is. It’s a cruel, callous sort of beauty, but there’s something about how gruff and unrefined he is that I find alluring, and the sudden notion of the smallest, barely perceptible attraction to him makes me shamefaced, surprised, and wholly disappointed with myself for finding any such beauty in a monster.

I peer up at the looming castle across the pond, at the shadows lurking within. The roof is missing in different areas, and the windows that still have glass gleam in the morning light, hiding whatever lurks from within.

“What are you looking at?” Paige asks, startling me as her shoulder brushes my arm.

I nod to the castle. “I was curious what’s in there,” I admit.

“We don’t go in there—well, no one except for Papa.” I hold my breath, waiting for her to continue. “That’s where it happened,” she mumbles. She pulls absently at a reed and hisses in pain.

“What is it?” I ask, crouching to look at her hand. There’s a cut in her finger where crimson trickles through.

“It stings,” she says with a grimace.

“Don’t worry, I know just the thing.” Untying the lace ribbon from my hair, I wrap it around her finger. Loose strands fall in my face as they unfurl from my braid. “The pressure will help,” I promise her.

Paige looks at me with a small smile, then stares at her finger. But I’m not so easily diverted. I glance up at the castle.

“What happened in there, Paige?” my words are soft and careful, willing her eyes to meet mine.

“It’s where the spirits took them.”

I frown and hold my breath. “Took who?”

“My mother and Henry.”

“Who is—” I swallow my words when I notice a looming shadow in one of the castle windows. Just as I realize it’s Blackburn staring down at me, he disappears and I hear a roar and a crash emanate from inside.

My heart pounds in my chest, and I rise to my feet. Did he hear our conversation? It’s not possible, and yet something angered him. Taking Paige’s hand, I pull her against me. Her eyes are wide and glistening.

“Come,” I tell her, pulling her toward the house, though I can’t help but look up at the window once more. “You can show me the rest of the manor,” I prompt, wanting to get out of Blackburn’s sight. Whether it’s his anger seeing me after last night, or seeing me with Paige, I’m not sure, but I can practically feel the repercussions of whatever I’ve done to cause such a reaction creeping in on me. The closer the unknown slithers, however, the more I fear I must find a way to stay.

15

SELENE

By midday, all I can think is that I can’t leave Paige now. I’ve already lost my charges to the foundry, and to be separated from Paige as well, when she clearly needs a companion, feels wrong. She’s already known so much sorrow; I can see it in her eyes and feel it clinging to the house and the servants. She’s in desperate need of a friend, and if I’m honest with myself, I am too. And perhaps, with her help, I might even be able to see the children again.

Though I hate to admit it, it’s to Blackburn’s credit that he’s brought her a companion. The thought feels foreign, but it’s true. No matter what I’ve lived through, I can’t imagine being so young and alone in a place where secrets and death skulk in shadows.

While Paige bathes after getting muddy in the garden, I know I must seek Blackburn out. Having heard his voice in the halls earlier, I know he’s returned from the castle, and though I don’t want to be anywhere near him after his outburst this morning, there is no way around it if I’m going to beg him to stay in the manor with Paige.

Wringing my hands, I make my way down the stairs, stopping when I see Martin, hunched over with age as he shuffles closer. I can imagine he’s served Blackburn for many years, and wonder how, exactly, he got his limp. But more than anything, I bet he knows where I can find the master of the house.

When Martin notices me waiting for him at the last step, he stops to regard me. “What is it, miss? Do you need more wood for your fire?”

I smile warmly and shake my head. The truth is, I don’t know how much longer it will be my fire. “No, thank you, Martin. I was wondering where I might find Master Blackburn.”

Martin nods down the hallway. “In his study with Mr. Collins, miss.”

I nod in gratitude, and as the old man continues past, I reach for his bony arm. “Uh—Martin?”

He looks at me, his eyes clouded with age.

“Is he—um—in a mood?”

Martin blinks at me and though he doesn’t smile, his features soften a little, and he lifts a shoulder. “Isn’t he always, miss?”

With a sigh, I lift the velvet of my dress and head for the study, praying Collins is still in there, and I won’t have to speak with Blackburn alone.

As I hurry toward his study, I consider my plan. Ask for forgiveness for what I said last night? Or for whatever I did to upset him by the pond today? Regardless, I must act humble and do what is needed to remain here with Paige, no matter what it costs my pride. No matter how dangerous it feels to stay.

I lift my head to stave off the sudden shiver threatening to disarm me as two gaunt-faced servants pass me in the hall, punctuating the unsettling pulse of this house. One carries a basket of wood, her left temple and cheek marred with scars. The other clutches an armload of folded garments, and she has a limp far worse than mine or Martin’s. Though they have clearly been marked by events in their pasts, the question is who has marked them. Having seen Blackburn’s easiness in pulling the trigger in the woods and his many outbursts, the answer seems clear.

The servants offer me small smiles and slight dips of their heads in greeting as they pass, but the way their eyes linger on my dress gives me pause. If they think I’m dressing above my station, I wouldn’t blame them for it. I’ve felt uneasy since arriving, and every moment that ticks on brings about new questions and uncertainties, why I’m being treated above my station blaring loudest of all. I can’t help but wonder what I’m missing.

As I approach Blackburn’s study, my stomach a snarled knot of nerves, Rosemary steps out of the room. Our eyes meet as she heads in my direction.

“Hello, Rosemary,” I say, glancing furtively at the study door. “Is Master Blackburn within?”

“Aye, he’s with Mr. Collins, miss.” She bows a slight curtsy. Such formality has me straightening in complete surprise, and she scurries away before I can ask her if I dare bother him now. I prefer to risk his wrath while Collins is present, however, so with a heavy exhale, I continue to the study door. It’s cracked, just barely.

“—in all the years you’ve known me,” Blackburn rumbles, and I lean closer to listen. “What has been my top priority, even when it doesn’t suit me?”

“Your task, of course,” Collins answers easily.

“Exactly, and I will not change course now. We can’t afford to fall behind.” There’s consternation in Blackburn’s voice, and I linger in hesitation, not wanting to interrupt. “With more envoys overseas and trading routes being established, the Council of Four is keeping a close eye on all landowners.”

“Yes,” Collins murmurs. “And Draven would be eager to report any missteps. Especially since I’ve heard Northshire is struggling to meet the Council’s supply request. He would love nothing better than to shift the attention back to you. But once the ship arrives, we’ll have more hands and workers.” Collins’s words fill me with disgust, though I know I shouldn’t be surprised to hear the Collector is waiting for more slaves to add to his menagerie. “Which reminds me—” There’s a shuffle of footsteps. “A letter arrived as I was coming in. I told Prudy I’d bring it to you.”

I hear what sounds like the crack of a wax seal, the crinkle of paper, followed by silence.

“Though production numbers continue to climb,” Collins reads, “not all amendments to the accord have been honored. Expect a proxy . . . within a fortnight to discuss.”

There is more silence and the pounding of what I assume is a fist on Blackburn’s desk. “Draven,” Blackburn grits out, his rage barely contained.

“It would seem so,” Collins agrees.

“Send word to Chauncey,” Blackburn orders. “Tell him to keep an ear to the ground. I want to learn of anything suspicious about the Council. I need to know their plans for me.”

“Yes,” Collins says quietly. “Of course.” As footsteps draw closer, I scurry back, tweaking my knee with a grimace.

“Collins?”

He must hesitate, just shy of opening the door. “Yes, sir?”

“Do it quickly.” Once again, Blackburn’s tone brooks no argument or room for questions. Collins flings the door open and steps into the hall, stopping short when he sees me approaching, both of us wide-eyed with surprise to see one another.

“Selene,” he says, glancing toward the study. “Have you been standing here long?”

“No,” I say with a practiced calm. “I am coming to see if I might have a word with Master Blackburn.” The lie is also the truth and comes out easily, a skill learned after so many years in the inquisition of Master Orson. Though, I’m not sure I can quite quell the fear, knowing Collins is leaving me alone with Blackburn.

Heavy footsteps precede him as he steps out of his study. Formidable and striking all at once. His eyes flash with fury when he sees me, and it’s clear he hasn’t forgotten my offenses last night. He seems to grow a foot as he straightens.

Collins worries the side of his cheek and clears his throat. “Uh—good day,” he mutters, leaving me in the looming presence of our master.

“Good day,” I whisper, but it’s all I can do to keep my head held high standing in front of Blackburn, with a terrifying, volatile look in his narrowed gray eyes. My resolve quickly shreds to pieces, and my mouth is moving to fill the sudden silence. “I—” I clear my throat. “I know you’re angry with me.” His gaze sears through me, and I pick nervously at my fingers gripped behind my back. “But I was hoping you might allow me to stay here, with you—” I shake my head. “With Paige,” I clarify, my fingernails stinging as I pick more feverishly.

I don’t know if I imagine it, but his back seems to straighten minutely, and I rush to continue. “Paige came to me this morning,” I explain. “And I—well, I’ve spent some time with her, and I would like to know her better. I think we could both use a friend.” I’m not sure where that truth comes from, but his menacing glare has my nerves bumbling all over the place.

Blackburn peers down his nose at me, as if I could forget my life is in his hands, and lifting my chin, I hold my breath and meet him stare for stare.

“That dress,” he says, so eerily calm, it’s utterly terrifying. “You will take it off and never wear it again.”

“Wha—what?” Confused, I glance down, my hands smoothing the front of the gown, almost protectively. “I—”

“Now,” he commands. His eyes bore into me, making me squirm, and all I can feel are my cheeks flaring crimson, even if I don’t understand why.

Spinning around, I stalk toward my room, pushing past the pain in my leg. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt smaller—or more exposed. Does he think I am trying to dress above my station? That I am trying to upset him? I felt out of place the moment I put it on, and yet, it was all I had—it was what was left for me to wear.

It’s a cruel sort of joke Prudy is playing, and as I consider I might not have as many new friends here as I’d imagined, I tear at the stays of the dress, unable to loosen them fast enough as I rush up the stairs. My eyes blur, and I’m beyond desperate to rid myself of everything in this horrible place.

16

SELENE

When I arrive at my room, the door is open and Rosemary is tending to the fire. Stays already loosened, I tug the sleeves from my shoulders, grumbling as I struggle, when Rosemary spins around.

Her gray, pinned-back hair falls into her eyes. “Oh, miss—” She abandons her fire poker and wipes her hands on her apron as she rises.

“Why did you make me wear this—” I rasp in a desperate struggle against the heavy fabric. Suddenly, it’s claustrophobic. Too thick, the furs too opulent, the embroidery too fine, and tears prick my eyes. “Why did Prudy—help me!” I tug harder. Rosemary hurries over to assist me. “Why did Prudy put it out for me to wear, if it was only going to anger him?” My voice cracks as it all bubbles up—the cauldron of fear, anger, and resentment erupting over, until I can no longer contain it. “I shouldn’t be here,” I cry, though it’s more of a shriek.

“Shh. It’s okay, miss. Let me help you.” Her hands are cool and calloused, yet somehow comforting. And with nimble fingers, she loosens the stays in the back.

“Why was he so angry?” I whisper, inhaling a steadying breath as the entire dress falls to the floor before Rosemary can catch it. Without its weight, it’s as if I can breathe again.

“Don’t worry, miss.” She drapes the gown over her arm and pulls my shift back onto my shoulder. “I’ll get it sorted right away.”

Hands covering my face, I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing in and out to steady my nerves. None of that went as I’d expected it to. I’d thought he’d yell at me, that perhaps I would need to beg for my place in this house, but it’s as if he wasn’t even listening to me. It’s as if all he could see was red.

“I’ll be back, miss,” Rosemary says softly, and when I drop my hands, she is gone.

Standing in my shift and nothing more, I stare dumbly around the room. I don’t understand any of it. There are too many mysteries here. I can barely keep my wits about me.

A draft zips through the room, and I gather my robe from the foot of my bed and shrug it on. Plopping down on the mattress, I tell myself my circumstances are not worse than what I’d expected. In fact, they’re far better in appearance and luxury. But then why does the foundry seem a kinder fate? My nerves are too raw, perhaps. My mind too heavy from not enough sleep. I have dealt with men like Blackburn before. I should not be surprised, nor allow him to affect me so much.

But as I try to talk myself away from the edge of hysteria, the truth rears its ugly, taunting head. It’s a lie. I have never met anyone like Blackburn—not powerful and shrewd and terrifying. With my father’s colleagues, I could pretend I didn’t understand their advancements, and I had my mother and brother to protect me. With Master Orson, I could beguile and outwit him half of the time. With his wife, I could use kindness, however fake it might’ve been, as a shield that would protect me, even if it was only momentarily. But Blackburn is a tempest, unpredictable, roiling, and on the verge of striking at any moment.

As another draft rakes over my skin, I notice the flames flicker in the hearth, giving me pause. It’s only then I realize the draft isn’t coming from the door or the old window, but from somewhere near the fireplace.

Rising to my feet, I wrap the robe tighter around my waist and study the fireplace as I draw closer. It is plaster and stone, and while there is a crack in the wall beside it, that isn’t where I feel the draft coming from when I place my palm against it. Another cool waft stirs out from the wall and breezes past me. In the absence of hanging tapestries, I spot a crack in the paper—a crack that’s too perfect, too straight. If it’s a seam in the faded burgundy and gold stripes, it’s oddly placed.

Reaching out, I run my fingers along the break in the wallpaper, the surface cold to the touch, and as the draft whistles through this time, swirling around me, my suspicions are confirmed. “A passage.”

Heart pounding with a dangerous concoction of intrigue and unease, I run my finger up the seam again, until it’s too high to reach and disappears into the crown molding. Where does the passage lead and when was it opened last? That someone might have come through it while I slept only amplifies my discomfort after today—no, the discomfort I’ve had since I arrived, and I have to know where it leads.

Placing my ear against the wall, I listen, hearing nothing but a distant whir of more wind. With a bit of force, I press against the wall in different places, trying to feel the slightest movement or shift beneath my palms. When there is none, I lean harder, using my shoulder to brace myself to no avail. I examine the wall for hinges or a hidden handle—something to lift or pull or to give me leverage. But I find nothing.

Sighing in frustration, I take a step back. Then another, staring at the wall for something I’ve missed. It’s then I realize this is the only wall in the room without metal bracings, which means Blackburn knows it’s here, and he left it accessible when he retrofitted the manor.

Imagining the person outside my window, and the possibility that they might know this door exists, has my heart stuttering in my chest and my pulse pounding again. I must know where this leads.

Only two paintings adorn the wall—an elegant portrait of a little baby in a faceless mother’s arms, and the other of a horse in a field, the style a bit more rudimentary. There are no tapestries, only the mantle, so it must be a fitting or latch on the fireplace.

Running my hand over and under the mantle, I find nothing. No loose pieces or uneven surfaces, only a dusty candlestick. I scratch my head, trying to think. No latch or obvious key. There is no handle. There must be some way to open it from in here. Then I notice it—a short, wrought iron poker hanging on the stand with the others. But it’s tapered and flat at the end, and far too short to stoke or prod a burning fire.

Without thought, I grab it, hoping I’m right as I stare at the seam in the wall. The thin metal fits the slit snuggly, but it fits all the same, and with a little extra gusto, I push it up carefully, then down a bit, the poker scraping through the seam as I wait for it to hit some sort of latch.

The moment I feel the tension is the instant I hear the click, and the door snaps ajar, ever so slightly. It opens toward me without protest, and using the poker, I pry it wider to peer inside. I’m not sure if I should be more unsettled to know the door opens and closes so silently, or by the narrow, foreboding stone tunnel engulfed in darkness stretching out before me. It smells dank and forgotten, and I shiver. It’s a gamble to go inside, but I must know where it leads, and who, if anyone, might use it to enter my room.

I light the dusty candlestick on the mantle, questioning if that is its intended purpose to begin with, and with a heavy exhale, I spare a final glance at my bedroom door and step inside. I don’t have the guts to shut the door behind me, so I leave it open. If Rosemary returns before I do, at least she’ll know where to find me.

Using the flickering light of the candle, I inch my way through the passageway. My shoulders touch the walls if I step off kilter, but other than how creepy it is and how fusty it smells inside, it’s not overly frightening.

My steps are swallowed by the shadows as I make my way down the twisting path. I do not know which part of the house I am walking through, nor for how long I’ve followed the path, before I find a stone staircase and follow it down to the first level of the manor.

It seems to twist and wind forever, but when I arrive at the bottom, I discover the corridor to my quarters is only one of many offshoots from the first floor. I pass a few of the diverging stairways, which I assume lead to other rooms, and continue along the main passage. It’s the same size, but it feels warmer somehow, and intermittent light filters in ahead. Slits in the wood, I realize as I draw closer.

Lingering at the first one, I peer into what I can see of the instrument room with the piano and harp. It’s dark and empty, as usual, and anxiously, I continue onward.

I pass another closed room, shrouded in darkness, before I come to a glowing chamber that filters brightly into the passage. With bated breath, I gaze through the hole and immediately stiffen.

A fire blazes in the hearth and papers are strewn across a desk, but it’s the portrait above the fireplace that makes me gulp down a breath. Master Blackburn’s study. I’ve never felt like a voyeur before, and in this house, even if learning I have such access to Blackburn’s private room gives me a surge of relief, it terrifies me as well. He’s not in his study and all I can think is he’s in here, walking the passageways, where he will catch me spying.

As the thought plagues me, I spin on my heels and hurry back in the direction I came. I pass the instrument room and another staircase, but as I come upon two more, I can’t recall which one is mine. I was so consumed with where I was going, I didn’t think to mark the path back.

Glancing between the two routes, I consider how long I had to walk and decide to take the farthest stairway. I hurry up the stairs, the flickering candlelight illuminating the same rafter and rogue spiderweb I’d come across before. It isn’t until I get to the door to find it’s closed that I worry I’ve chosen the wrong path. Or that I’ve been shut out.

Shaking my head, I exhale the increasing panic, telling myself I can easily push the door open. Uncertain who I might find inside, waiting for my return, I ever so carefully lean against the door and nudge it open. It’s heavy but moves silently, and the moment light filters through from the wrong side of the room, I freeze.

There’s no noise at first, and I hope that whoever’s room this is won’t even know I’ve intruded, but as I turn away, a growl rumbles from inside, a thud immediately following.

I slap my hand over my mouth to stifle a shriek as a blur of a shadow whirs by the cracked doorway, stopping at the oversized hearth. It’s Blackburn. He braces his arms against the wall, peering down into the fire. I can only see part of him, but his hair is wild, his tunic untucked and hanging off of him, as if it’s come loose in his fit of rage. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and . . . they are stained with crimson.

The moment I realize it is blood, I turn away from the secret door, not bothering to pull it shut as I dash down the corridor. My knee aches, and I stumble a few times in my haste, unable to ignore the possible horrors Blackburn might’ve committed.

I backtrack when I get to the main floor again, and choose the passageway before Blackburn’s. Seconds bleed into minutes and time stretches fearfully long before I see light ahead and my four-poster bed comes into view.

I nearly sob with relief when I step foot inside, and heave my body into the door to latch it shut. I discard the candle on the mantle, almost dropping it as I search the room for something to wedge against the door, should Blackburn follow. Eyeing the trunk at the foot of the bed, I tug it with all of my might, grimacing as I heave, until it’s close enough to prevent him from entering.

Heart pounding, I peer around my room with a hysterical laugh. A trunk will not stop him, but I’m uncertain what else to do. I begin to pace, determined to get a hold of myself before I make another rash decision.

Above my own mutterings, I hear voices in the hallway. Rosemary. Rushing for the door, I open it to usher her in, but as she reaches the top of the stairs, Blackburn’s door down the hall flies open.

“Prudy!” he bellows. His eyes meet mine across the landing as Rosemary steps into my room. I scuttle back, allowing her to shut the door behind her, closing us both inside.

“Apologies, miss—”

“There’s a passageway,” I tell her, as if I’m confessing a secret.

Rosemary stops short, blinking at me, and then peers at the wall. “Yes, miss,” she says. “There is.”

Her features crumple as she takes in the moved trunk, clearly confused. “It’s rarely used these days. How did you find it?” Her tone is curious, but she doesn’t seem angry or concerned. Watching me, she drapes my old frock on the end of my bed.

“There was a draft, and I—I was cold.”

“It’s no wonder, miss. Your fire’s died out. Here,” she says, and nods to my dress. “Change. I’ll tend to the fire. Master Blackburn wants you downstairs—”

“Why?” I blurt, my breath catching in my throat. He could have heard me scurry away—might know I was in his corridor.

Rosemary frowns at me over her shoulder.

“I mean—” I swallow. “I just spoke with him an hour or so ago. I’m not sure what he could need to see me about.” I tug the roughly hewn, threadbare sleeves over my arms and onto my shoulders, their weight and familiar fit comforting.

“Supper, of course,” Rosemary says, and she adds two logs to the fire. “You’re to collect Paige and be down there at seven sharp.”

“Supper?” I hadn’t expected that, especially after his reaction to my wearing the violet dress.

“Yes. You missed it last night, so you better not be late,” she warns, and motions for me to turn around so she can fix my appalling hair that’s come loose in my running through darkened tunnels. She pulls a cobweb from the crown of my head with a lifted brow. “Master Blackburn is very particular about dinner time.” I meet her gaze in the vanity mirror as she tends to me. As we both know goes unsaid.

Wiping the cobweb on her apron, Rosemary fusses with my hair, tucking the loose bits back into the braid, oblivious to what I’ve just encountered. I want to tell her—to clarify what I’ve seen—but uncertainty stills my tongue. I have a feeling the less information about me that gets back to Blackburn, the safer I will be.

With a whispered thank you, I watch Rosemary exit my room, and wonder how slowly the time will pass while I wait and stew for whatever comes next.

17

SELENE

After Paige shows me the schoolroom and her favorite hiding spot in a nook under the stairs, and teaches me an elementary tune on the piano I’m not likely to remember, we make our way across the manor to the dining hall so we are not late for supper.

As more time passes since my adventure this afternoon, my frayed nerves seem to settle. I tell myself I have no idea what I’d really seen in his quarters. It could easily have been wine or wax from the letters I saw strewn about his desk when I’d peeked inside his study. It could have been a number of things, but blood, even if Master Blackburn is threatening, seems like a stretch.

“Did you hurt yourself?” Paige asks as she steps onto a bench lining the hall. Standing nearly shoulder to shoulder, she walks beside me, her hand on my shoulder as she glances down at my leg. “You’re limping.”

“Oh, I—” I decide to keep this afternoon’s clumsy labyrinth adventures to myself. “It’s an old wound that acts up sometimes. Nothing serious,” I promise.

“What happened to you?” Paige jumps off the end of the bench, very unladylike, and I smile, because I would undoubtably do the same if I could.

“I was in an accident,” I confide. “A terrible one. My leg was caught in some rubble. I’m lucky to still have it.”

“Was it an earthquake?”

“Yes.” I nod, sighing a little. “It was.”

Paige heaves out a sigh of her own. “They scare me,” she says. “My friend Rupert died in one last year.”

“Oh, Paige.” I turn to her. “I’m sorry you lost your friend. I hope you have wonderful memories of him, at least.”

Paige’s mouth quirks into a sad smile as we wander through the foyer. “We used to race from the church to the stable, and I always won. But . . . I think he let me.”

I smile at the lovely memory. “How gentlemanly of him.”

Paige shrugs. “Prudy always said his father brought him up right.”

“I see. And what happened to his mother?”

“She died, like mine—” The clock strikes, startling us as it resounds through the entry, and I realize Paige and I have stopped outside the room of books.

Glancing at the time, I note we have a quarter of an hour until supper. “Paige,” I say, eyeing the candelabra on the closest table. “I want to see the library.”

The gray afternoon turns inky with night, so I take the candelabra, careful not to drip wax everywhere, and step inside.

“Haven’t you been in here?” Paige asks as she follows.

“No, I haven’t had a moment yet.” I inhale the scent of musty books, wax from the tallow candles, and lingering woodsmoke. Setting the candelabra on a table in the reading nook, I bypass the furniture draped in cloth, and peruse the bindings illuminated on the shelves, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, save for the large, drape-drawn window. “I didn’t realize there were so many.” The old bindings beckon me closer, and I imagine I could read one a night for the rest of my time here and I might only get through a single shelf. My fingers itch to touch each of them as I stroll past, slowly making my way around the room.

For a moment, I lose myself in the possible escape that lies within each one of these pages. Some of the bindings are so old and discolored, I can’t tell what they are. Some are publications of plants and other natural findings. Histories and theology. But names like Aristotle and Jane Austen give me pause. “This is remarkable,” I breathe. “I’ve never seen so many books in one place. It’s even more than what I saw in your father’s study.”

“Father says the people who once lived here were wealthy and well-traveled,” Paige explains, pulling one book from a lower shelf. When some of the pages fall out, I cringe inwardly but continue my perusal around the room.

“We should have our lessons in here, instead of that gloomy chamber in the east wing.”

“But it’s all dusty.” Paige’s face sours as she touches one shelf, immediately wiping the residue off on her green dress.

“Then we should clean it up,” I tell her. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with a little dust.”

When I reach the corner of the room, I strain to see what the glow of the candles doesn’t reach. “These look newer than the rest,” I muse, and hurry back for the candelabra. Curious to see what new books have been added to the forgotten collection, I bring the candles closer. The row of leather bindings brightens as the shadows dance away, and I lean in to study them. The edges are rough against my fingers, the spines well worn, though the tomes themselves are thin, like journals, perhaps. Setting the candelabra on a nearby table, I pull the last book crammed in the row.

As I flip through the pages, I realize it’s not a journal or a book, but pages and pages of lists. My intrigue wanes until the names and numbers I see begin to make sense.

My throat burns. “People,” I rasp. The blood in my veins turns cold, leaving me trembling, and I trace my finger down the entries, one page and then another, name after name, age after age, until finally . . .

Evie Black—9yo, 5 bills

Jon Black—9yo, 5 bills

Beatrice Commings—12yo, 5 bills

Nell Elliot—14yo, 5 bills

I hold my breath.

Selene Sinclair—20yo, 67 bills

Bile rises in my throat and I take an unsteady step backward. Sixty-seven bills? Blackburn paid sixty-seven bills for me? That I am surprised I’m worth so much makes me sick, and that it’s as much as a townhome in the most renovated area in New London only worsens it. It’s one thing to know we were all purchased, but to see it written down as if we’re nothing more than livestock sears away all the fear and the apprehension I’ve felt in being in this place, replacing it with loathing—loathing for Blackburn. Loathing for the Orsons. Even for my mother and brother for not being able to save me, and my father for reducing me to such a life.

You should be used to this, a voice tells me. I know the ways of the world. I’ve lived this life for nine years. Nothing should surprise me anymore. But it does. Still.

“We’re going to be late,” Paige says, stirring me from desperate thoughts. “Papa doesn’t like it when we’re late.”

With a shaking hand, I shove the journal back onto the shelf, telling myself I have to compose whatever it is I’m feeling until I can get through dinner. I must. As it says right there, my name among hundreds, I am a slave here, easily bought and sold, just like everyone else.

“Selene,” Paige hedges, her voice quiet as she stops beside me. Her face is as stricken as mine. “What’s wrong?” I can hear the fear in her voice.

Shaking the horror from my mind as much as I can, I force a smile, watery as it is, because I don’t have time to process this now. Not when Blackburn is waiting for us at the table.

When the clock on the wall ominously chimes again, marking the seventh hour, I force my nerves down and straighten my shoulders. It’s time to dine with the Collector.

18

SELENE

When Paige and I enter the dining hall, there are three place settings, but no Blackburn.

“You sit here,” Paige chirps, nodding to the chair across the table from hers. Blackburn’s head-of-the-table seat looms between ours, but I do as I know I’m expected and take the seat to his left.

“I wonder what we’re having for dinner,” Paige ponders aloud, unfolding her napkin onto her lap. I do the same as I take in the finely woven table skirt, the hammered copper plates, and the crystal goblets that match the water jug in the center. I’ve never seen anything more ostentatious than the finery adorning the table, but as my stomach growls loudly in the quiet dining hall, Paige and I giggle, and momentarily, my unease is forgotten.

Our laughter stifles immediately, however, as the door on the other side of the room opens and Blackburn strides in. A flash of a memory surfaces at the sight of him—Blackburn in his quarters in front of the fireplace, covered in what looked disturbingly close to blood. Though my heart skips a few beats, it’s almost too easy to assume I’d imagined it as I study his fresh clothes and the way his black hair is raked back in damp, thick waves, away from his face.

He glances between Paige and me. “Don’t stop laughing on my account,” he grumbles, and stops at the bar to pour himself something to drink. The crystal decanter clinks against his glass, a sound that sends unwanted memories and a familiar discomfort over me as I’m transported back to Orson’s stale, smoky study.

Having wasted enough years and sleepless nights on that man, I clear my throat, refusing to sit so restlessly in Blackburn’s brooding silence. “So,” I say, looking at Paige. “Which of the books that we discussed today would you like to read?” I ask, though I realize Blackburn hasn’t told me I can stay in the house. Since I’m joining him and Paige for dinner, I wager he’s accepted my request, despite being angry at me at nearly every turn, and I focus on my pupil. “Well?” I prompt, lifting my eyebrow. “Which will it be—a seafaring adventure, or a fairy tale?”

Paige sighs. “I don’t know. They both sound all right. I just read what Prudy makes me read for my studies.”

“Well, The Little Glass Slipper, the story of Cinderella, was the children’s favorite,” I add. “We used to find time to sneak away to read whenever we could.” The memory scores raw wounds, but I smile anyway. “Perhaps we should start with one of those.”

I glance at Blackburn, suddenly curious if I’m even allowed to speak of the children now that they’ve been taken away—if that will upset him like everything else seems to.

He simply stares at me from where he stands across the room, his thoughts somewhere else, so I continue. “They are both lovely stories. Perhaps we will find a copy of one of them in the book room.”

Paige’s brows draw together.

“Well,” I say, taking a sip of my water. “What is it?”

She glances at her father, as if she’s worried about propriety.

“Go on, you can ask me.”

“Well—how come you can read?”

I frown, though I’m not sure why I’m surprised she’d ask such a thing. I imagine most servants can’t read. I’m about to answer when Blackburn clears his throat. “Paige,” he starts with a hint of amusement. We both look at him as he takes a sip from his tumbler and pulls his chair out to join us at the table. “You’ll find that your little governess is not like the others I’ve brought here.”

My eyes flick to his.

“Then, I guess we can read one,” Paige says with a shrug. “But I don’t really like reading very much.” She sighs and brushes her thumb against the condensation of her water glass.

“Yes, life is arduous, Paige,” her father tells her when she sighs again. “You must get used to it.”

She looks at him, perplexed. “What’s arduous mean?”

“Toilsome. Grueling. Demanding,” he explains. “Your life is very difficult, I know.”

Paige’s face sours. “It’s just reading,” she says, missing her father’s sarcasm by leagues.

“Then perhaps your grumbles are unnecessary,” Blackburn counters, taking a sip from his glass again. His eyes flutter closed for the briefest of moments, as if the amber liquor coats his insides, bringing him a sense of comfort.

There’s a shuffle as Prudy and Rosemary enter the dining room. Blackburn leans back as Prudy sets his plate in front of him, and though I notice him glare at her, I’m uncertain why. A silent conversation exchanges between them, and it’s only as Prudy looks at me that I notice a bruise on her temple and beneath her eye, darkening the wrinkles on her face.

The moment she averts her gaze from his, I feel her shame like it’s my own. This time, when my blood runs cold, it seems to catch fire just as quickly. I knew he was a monster, but to see the jackal that lurks beneath the surface firsthand is something I cannot ignore, for it both terrifies and infuriates me.

I bite the inside of my cheek as Rosemary sets my plate in front of me. My hunger has shriveled to nausea. The impulse to lash out and chide Blackburn for doing something so cruel dances on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down with two gulps of water, and focus on the roasted pheasant and vegetables on my plate instead.

Do not push him.

Do not push him. I tell myself over and over to keep quiet. Prudy and the servants in the hall today with scars and limps are all proof of what might become of me.

I take another long, cool sip of water.

It’s quiet as Prudy and Rosemary bring out a basket of fresh bread and some jams. Blackburn takes a sip of whiskey before cutting into the savory, glistening pheasant on his plate. I fork some into my mouth absently. It’s delicious, yet I no longer have an appetite. Instead, I drink what’s left of my water and pour myself some more.

“I taught Selene to skip rocks today!” Paige beams.

“Oh,” Blackburn says, as if he hadn’t been watching us from the castle window. “And how did she do?” When he looks at me, waiting for Paige to regale him, I find my accusatory stare is already fixed on his brooding face. Blackburn stares back and lifts a wry eyebrow, expectant.

“She did better than I did my first time,” Paige explains. “And she’s really good at finding the flat rocks.”

Registering the quiet shush of the room, I realize they are both waiting for me to say something. “I had a good teacher,” I say gently, finally looking back down at my plate. I push the vegetables around, contemplating what to do when my mind and heart pull me in so many directions.

There are a few more scrapes of forks and knives on the plates before Blackburn speaks again. “Your clothes,” he starts, pointing his knife at me. “Prudy will have some new ones made for you.” Though the offer of new clothes is surprising, I know it’s not for my wellbeing so much as his. “And,” he continues, “if there is anything else you require, you only need ask—”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.”

Blackburn pauses mid-cut of his meat, but I don’t look up from picking at my food.

“Do you dislike pheasant?” he asks, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

Paige glances between us, chomping on her carrots, her plate half-empty.

“If there’s something else you prefer,” he continues, “I can speak with Ms. Fairchild—”

“It’s lovely, thank you.” I push my plate away from me. “I’ve simply lost my appetite.”

His stare is liquid fire against my face, but I refuse to look at him, fearing what I will see. I don’t want to lose the anger that emboldens me and keeps me from fleeing this place, leaving Paige alone with her monstrous father.

“Tomorrow,” Blackburn starts again, forking another bite of pheasant, “I’ll arrange for you to see the estate.”

I can’t help but look at him this time, surprised he would allow such a thing.

“Paige can go with you, if you like. But you should be familiar with the land and tenants—with how things are run—if you are going to live here. And everyone should know who you are.”

Whatever Blackburn’s hidden agenda, I know it has less to do with me and more to do with whatever he’s planning. Something with the slave ship, perhaps. Or with the Council and production—I’m not sure what, but I’m not so naive as to think he would offer me so much for nothing. “If it pleases you,” I reply, forcing myself to be obedient when all I want to do is tell him I hate him, like a petulant child.

Blackburn dabs his mouth and drops his napkin back in his lap. “I would’ve thought you’d be happy to get away from the manor for the day. I know how much you hate to be caged up and feel indentured. Don’t you wish to see the wilderness and meet some of the people that put food on your plate?”

“I would, thank you,” I tell him, but the words are lifeless and forced. I can’t bring myself to feign anything more than politeness.

“Then why are you sulking?” he says brusquely. “You’ve gotten what you asked for—you are to remain with Paige despite the fit you threw last night. I’ve requested the carriage prepared for your outing and arranged for you to see—”

“And I said thank you,” I grind out, looking at him with disdain. I hate that he can speak to me as if it’s a normal day in a life where I am not a toy to him, in a life where he doesn’t beat his servants and lose his temper and collect people as if they are trinkets to sell at market. “I will be obedient and do as you wish, but you cannot make me pretend to feel at home here, to be happy.”

Blackburn drops his fork, the clatter filling the room, making both Paige and me jump.

“Please, enlighten us with your miserable life here, so that Paige and I might enjoy our meal without you glowering and brooding the entire time,” he drawls, pushing his plate away.

I feel it then, the bubbling of emotions. The fear is overshadowed by the anger and exhaustion and hatred of men like him. This is a game for him. My nostrils flare as he waves at me to explain.

“In truth?” I ask, knowing I should keep quiet.

“Please, don’t hold back now.” He sits back in his chair, clasping his hands in front of him.

“You are a horrible brute who rules us all with fear.” I turn in my seat to fully face him. “And despite how terrified I am of you and this awful place,” I admit, “it makes me sick to my stomach to pretend otherwise. I can’t smile and ignore that you have pages upon pages of names of the people whose lives you’ve stolen from them—humans who are worth no more than a pocket of coins to you. People who you have collected for your own gain—”

“That’s enough,” he says with a razor-sharp edge. His knuckles whiten into fists and he doesn’t take his eyes from me. “Paige, finish your dinner in the kitchen.”

I glance furtively at Paige. The thought of her being sent away makes me deflate a little, and it’s only then I realize her presence provided me some comfort and courage.

“Now, Paige,” Blackburn commands.

She scoots herself away from the table and scampers out of the dining room with her half-eaten plate.

“A slave collector and brute?” he recounts with feigned amusement the instant Paige is out of the room. “Since the moment you stepped into my carriage, I’ve offered you nothing but protection, luxuries you’ve never had in your life, and whatever kindnesses I can afford.”

“But to what end—” He holds up his hand, silencing me.

“You, Miss Sinclair, have done nothing but instigate a quarrel at every turn. Can you not simply be grateful—”

“Because you haven’t struck me yet like the rest of your slaves?”

“Stop calling them that—”

“Why?” I jump to my feet, my chair clattering onto the rug. My hair falls from my braid into my face, but I barely notice. “You are the infamous Collector, aren’t you? And you buy people. That’s what they are—that’s what all of us are to you, no matter what you tell yourself.” I inhale a deep breath. “You purchase us and we do whatever you require. And buying me new clothes to look like a governess changes none of that. It only makes you feel better.”

Fury, white and hot, burns in his eyes as he stalks around the table toward me. I hold my breath, wondering what I will do if Blackburn strikes me. He stops mere inches from me. “You speak as if you have somewhere else to go,” he seethes. “You must really miss that malodorous orphanage and the greedy gaze of—”

“At least at Bedlam, I knew what lurked in the shadows. Here, there is nothing but ghosts and death.”

His eyes flare as if I’ve slapped him.

“You know nothing about me, about this place—”

“Nor do I wish to.”

Blackburn shakes his head and grits his teeth as if he’s exasperated with me. “You are a spoiled, reckless woman who’s no doubt brought more hardship upon yourself, and those children you claim to care so much about, because of it.” He flings his arm toward the gardens, just beyond the wall. “If I am so horrible, then go,” he growls. “Leave this place. I would be glad to be rid of you. You are far more trouble than you are worth.”

My breath catches in my throat, my anger fizzling away in confusion.

“I said go,” he snaps. “You are free to leave this horrible place.”

An unmistakable hope fills me, and I speak carefully. “You say that, but I know you don’t mean—”

“If you knew half as much about me as you claim to, Miss Sinclair, you would know I’m entirely serious.” His tone is so level it makes the hair on my arms stand on end. “So, if you want to leave so badly, do it. There are plenty of other unfortunates out there who would gladly have a warm bed to sleep in and a roof over their heads, whatever the cost.”

I blink at him, fear swallowing me as I seriously consider walking out the door. The indecision is crippling, and I bite my lip. Stay and live in fear or worse. Leave and face endless uncertainty.

“What, no place else to go?” Blackburn taunts, smiling cruelly. “Just as I thought. You say you want your freedom, but presented with it, you are too frightened to claim it.”

My lip curls, my spine straightening in defiance.

Again, he gestures toward the door. “No one is stopping you.”

Fingernails biting into my palms, I seize the freedom only he can grant me, and march out of the dining hall, nearly colliding with Prudy.

Adrenaline whirs in my ears as the world blurs around me, and I can’t stop myself from breaking into a run toward the front door. I grab my tattered shawl from the hook and fling the door open, stepping out into the howling wind. I let it wash over me as I inhale my freedom, a strange mix of relief and fear making my feet move, taking me deeper into darkness.

19

GREYSON

Indecision wars within the little governess, puckering her brow as she bites her lip. I hate that I notice it. I hate that I want her to leave, taking the weighty decisions that rest before me with her . . . I wish it, as much as I hope she will choose to stay.

My stomach churns at the thought, and guilt swallows me all over again.

In haste, Miss Sinclair rushes from the room, nearly running into Prudy before she disappears down the hall.

My chest heaves, my fists clench at my sides, and all I can think is how much I loathe myself for bringing a spoiled, ungrateful, headstrong woman into this house—into Paige’s life—only for her to leave. I knew from the start that Miss Sinclair was a risk, and I ignored it, once more giving in to the poisonous promise of hope.

The front door slams shut, punctuating her decision, and Prudy looks at me.

“Not a single word,” I command, and taking the decanter and my glass, I storm past her.

“But, sir—”

“What?” I snap, and spin around. “What do you want me to do, Prudence? You heard the woman. She doesn’t wish to be here, and I am done wasting time.”

“It’s just—” Prudy wrings her hands, and I’m five seconds from shouting again when she finally says, “A storm is brewing.”

Only then do I register the howl of wind, the branches of the dogwood scratching against the window.

“Where will she go?” she prompts.

Though my instincts nudge me to go after the ungrateful wretch, I know she wishes to see me as much as I wish to see her right now, and my pride has been battered enough. “Prudy,” I say, low and steady. “The blood-sucking proxy will be here within the week. I’m done worrying about one woman who doesn’t even want to be here. No more distractions.”

There’s a sadness in Prudy’s eyes I refuse to give in to.

“If you’re so worried about the girl, you go after her,” I grumble, and with a gulp from the decanter, I march away to lick my wounds.

20

SELENE

My heart is hammering, my pulse racing, and I’m shivering as I wrap my shawl tighter around me, bracing myself against the angry wind. Blackburn was right. I have no place else to go, but even if I risk death in this weather, I refuse to turn back. Everything about Blackburn and this place screams danger and death.

Certain I can’t get far in the windstorm, I slip through a servant door of the old castle, practically rusted off its hinges. The entry is a short hall giving way to a dark room made more ominous by the moving shadows pouring through the windows. The wind lashes over my clothes and exposed skin, and I hurry for the next chamber, hoping it’s more enclosed.

I shiver as the cool air settles around me and the dank atmosphere sets in, bone-chilling without a fire to warm me.

As the wind continues to howl, it brings with it a barely perceptible moan that I tell myself is only my imagination again. Nothing more. Pushing the trepidation aside, I explore the hall and another room, but the wall is cracked and crumbled in areas, allowing the wind and sprinkle of rain to seep inside and tug at my frock and loose hair. Continuing down another hallway, I find a chandelier, crashed and shattered on a rotted dining room table, and I realize how much more devastated the castle’s interior is than it appears from the road. This entire side of the castle is nothing but a crumbled ruin consumed by the wind.

I spot a staircase and carefully climb it in search of a windless, dry place to rest and collect myself.

The landing is bowed and splintered in some areas, but there is a clear pathway through the littered hall of broken busts and eroded paintings—so many paintings—until I get to a few more rooms. One of them has a locked door, so I move on to the next. There’s a hole in the roof where the rain is pouring through. I continue to the next, finding no real reprieve from the cold, until finally, I come to a room at the end of the hall, its door creaking on its hinges. Pushing the door open, I step inside. It’s drafty but concealed from the elements.

Leaning my shoulder against the wall, I allow myself a moment of relief to have found some place relatively safe to sleep. I tuck my loose hair behind my ear as my pulse settles, and peer around.

The room is like a forgotten tomb, but it was beautiful and grand once. There’s a four-poster bed with a tattered lace canopy, and the peeling floral wallpaper boasts stateliness from a more lavish era.

I stop in the middle of the room. Pink lips, strawberry hair, and bright green eyes stare at me from a weather-ravaged painting, leaning against a massive hearth. I know those eyes. I’ve seen those eyes staring back at me from the portrait in Blackburn’s study. Only the painting was only a third of the size.

Suddenly, I see this chamber for what it once was. Hers—theirs, perhaps. And as I take a step closer, I notice what looks like old stains—perhaps years-old blood, discoloring the rug. Heart thudding in the base of my throat, I stare at the portrait more closely, at what looks like angry slashes or tears across her face and the way the canvas seems to weep as it peels itself away from what used to be.

I don’t know what comes over me, but I itch to touch it, so I reach to unfurl a piece of the image, hanging like a shield over part of her face.

“What are you doing?” His voice is so low and virile, goosebumps give rise over my flesh.

I spin around, gripping my shawl tighter around me as if it can save me.

“I told you not to come here,” Blackburn growls, discarding his lantern as he advances on me.

“How could you kill them?” It’s tremulous, and I should run from him, not question a murderer about his dead wives, but I can’t prevent the fear from clawing its way in and forcing the words out.

Blackburn steps closer, backing me into the bedpost—ramrod straight and cold against my spine. He’s so near, I can smell the whiskey on his breath and see the clench of his jaw in the flashing shadows.

If I thought the Collector was frightening before, it’s only now that I hold my breath in fear of what he might actually do to me under the cover of night. His gray eyes are molten silver, filled with fire and fury in the lantern light, and I am sickeningly aware of how easily he could reach out, grab hold of my neck, and squeeze.

When Blackburn moves the slightest amount, I flinch and flee on instinct. My feet are moving faster than I can anticipate, and I nearly stumble over a broken chair, catching myself on the doorframe, and run down the stairs. I register nothing more than the frantic beat of my heart as it pounds like an amplified drum in my ears.

In seconds, I’m outside again, ready to die in the storm if it means I will never be one of his victims.

21

SELENE

I follow the cobbled drive until it turns to a dirt road, slick in the rain. In my haste, I hadn’t thought to find and steal a horse, though I regret that now.

Despite the whisper in the back of my mind to turn around, all I can do is move faster. Part of me is tempted to live in the constant fear of that place, to be warm and safe in the manor, but I know it’s only an illusion.

The minutes feel like torturous hours as the wind gnashes at me, tugging at my dress and my hair. As I march on and the storm worsens, my face stings as if lacerated by a hundred whips of Mistress Orson’s correction stick. Freedom feels like a penance, and the farther I trek, the harder it is to remember why Briarwood was so terrible—to recall why any of it mattered, especially when a little girl needed a companion, and I wanted to be that for her.

My eyes blur with tears, and I think they are playing tricks on me when I see a form standing in the road. The creature I’ve seen outside my window—the thing that has been watching me. It walks out of the shadowed path ahead, a dark and ominous figure that moves like it’s part of the wind.

“What do you want from me?” I shout, or at least I try to. Instead, my voice comes out as a croak. A warble. I’ve never missed the cold, dank orphanage so much, or the blaze of the kiln in the bone room. At least I could protect myself. My clothes are drenched and hanging from me, and my feet are so cold, I can’t feel my toes submerged in a mud puddle.

As the figure moves closer, I veer from the road, heart racing as I double back. I will hide in the stable until I know what to do next. I will find the outbuildings in the fields and wait out the storm. Maybe one of the workers will help me . . .

But the farther I wander and the more vehement the rainstorm becomes, I realize I will not find the field houses and outbuildings. I’m not going to stay in the stables because I don’t know where I am. The trees are sparse and the hills are muddy moors, studded with rocks and thorn scrubs that pull at my wet frock.

I slip in the mud and fall onto a boulder, my wrist screaming as I land on it to brace myself. The wind stings my eyes, and with no shelter, I know I can’t stay here, not drenched in rain and barely able to find my footing. But despite my determination to find shelter, there is nowhere to hide among the brush and shrubs and granite stones.

You wanted your freedom, here you have it.

As my foot slips on a mossy rock, my ankle twists and I stumble. When my shin hits the ground, I scream in pain, wondering if death isn’t better than this. I’ve never felt so forsaken, and I can’t help the sob that escapes me.

My hem is tattered and torn, and though it’s wet, I tear at it with all of my trembling might, until I’ve got a strip long enough to tie around my bleeding shin and ankle. I curse myself for being so bold and foolish. For being so brash.

I think of the children, knowing I’ll likely never see them again now.

Then I think of Paige. I’d promised her I would be her friend before I ran out the door, not bothering to look back. My heart aches and my eyes sting. I’m exhausted, but I know I deserve whatever comes next.

So cold I can no longer feel my toes and fingers, I curl into myself, pulling my soaked skirt over my legs, letting the storm envelop me. My only grace as the cold seeps deeper into my bones is that I will soon be too tired to feel it or care, and the thought of losing myself to oblivion has never been sweeter.

With the wind a turbulent gale around me, I shiver for so long I don’t even notice it anymore. Eyes too heavy to keep open, I allow lethargy to take me under. I barely hear the crunch and clack of a horse’s hooves in the distance. The echo of voices—or is it someone shouting? I think I should open my eyes, but I’m too tired to manage it.

I’m not sure where the warmth comes from. Or why the world feels as if it’s swirling. But I ride with it, every jostle and every step. I let the heat soak through the cold, sending a fresh wave of chills over me, a delicious one that makes me yearn for more.

Forcing my eyes open, I blink into the rain, realizing I’m wrapped in someone’s arms. They are strong and grip tightly around me.

Realizing who must have me, I peer up at the stubbled jaw of Master Blackburn as he squints through the rain, focused on the road ahead. The water drips from the hood of his cloak, and a horse’s hoofbeats clack somewhere beside me.

He came for me. While a distant part of me shrieks with fear, I can’t bring myself to care. The warmth of his arms is all-consuming, and I have never felt more ashamed or foolish in all my life. The monster has become the knight, and my eyes break once more with tears.

“I’m sorry,” I croak, though the words are barely audible. “I’m—” I try again.

“Rest,” he says, his voice low and unexpectedly soft. “I’m taking you home.”

22

GREYSON

I stare into her green eyes, gazing back at me from our portrait above the fireplace, and sift through every decision I’ve made that’s gotten me here. I try to reconcile how it’s come to this. The anger. The indecision. The guilt.

My purpose has always been clear, but the path carved before me is a bramble of uncertainty, and I don’t know what to do. Every impulsive decision I’ve made recently barrels down on me with the cold hard truth: you are playing a dangerous game, Blackburn.

Bracing my hand against the mantle, I close my eyes and lower my face to the fire, blazing in the hearth. As I allow my heartbeat to steady, and the heat of the fire to seep into my bones, I search for meaning in all of this. For direction, because in all my years, I’ve never been so wound up or scattered as I am with the little governess. I’ve never been so off course.

Nor so frightened. At least, not in many, many years.

I glance at my grandfather’s portrait on the mantle. “You’ve cursed us, old man,” I grumble. His eyes seem to glint with eager optimism, just as they did when I was a boy. I was as naive as him back then, but the years have shown a man’s dreams are also his damnation.

With a sigh, I peel my wet cloak from my body and toss it over the chair behind me. My focus must be on the Council’s visit, on placating them until I get word of the ship.

A light rap of knuckles on the door, followed by the shuffle of footsteps, means Prudy has come, likely to tend to me—or to scold me. It’s difficult to say which.

She sets a tray of tea on my reading table. “Drink some of this,” she orders, as motherly as ever. “It will warm your bones.”

The flickering firelight illuminates the feathering bruise on her temple, and I grit my teeth. “Are you going to tell me?” I grumble. I can’t help the edge in my voice, a lethal combination of shock and rage.

She waves my concern away. “Martin forgot to bring in wood for tonight’s fires.” She shakes her head. “You know me, impatient as ever.”

“You went to do it yourself.” I run my hand over my face, tired of this same story. “Then he still hasn’t organized it,” I guess, though it’s more of a certainty.

Prudy pours me a cup of tea, barely meeting my gaze because she knows how I feel about this. “Yes, well, it was my own clumsy fault. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, and I can’t see a thing in that shed—”

“No more excuses for that man, Prudy. If he’s not fit for his duties, find him different ones. We can’t afford any more accidents.” My voice is grave, borderline irate, but the woman’s heart is too big for her own good.

“As you wish,” she says.

I huff. “You say that, but . . .”

Her gaze holds mine as she hands me the teacup. I can’t deny the steaming scent of bergamot is far more comforting than I’d expected. Closing my eyes, I take a sip, reveling in the near scalding heat as it coats my throat.

“What is it?” I say, feeling Prudy’s stare on the side of my face. I turn back to the heat of the fire.

“Perhaps,” she hedges, clearing her throat. “Perhaps we can have one of the children you brought back with Selene take over the fires and—”

I shake my head before she can finish.

“Forgive me, sir, but it might make her . . . less begrudging.”

“Save your breath, Prudy.” I hold her weary gaze for a heartbeat, considering the idea only briefly. “They remain together. That was what Miss Sinclair wanted. I won’t have them moved around, upsetting the routine and splitting them up. Bart doesn’t need more distractions—the gods know none of us do.” I mutter the last part, wondering when my daily decisions became those of estate and household matters.

Reluctantly, Prudy nods.

“And about the damn dress,” I say coolly, trying to swallow my simmering outrage from earlier.

“Yes, I heard you were looking for me,” she says quietly. “I was in the village, having Bronson check for breaks.” She lifts her bandaged wrist. “I didn’t mean to overstep. Constance’s things were donated, there was nothing to offer the girl. And, well, I thought enough time might’ve passed, and you would want Selene in something other than that hideous frock. So, Rebecca’s old wardrobe made sense.”

Taking another sip of tea, I stare into the flames. “If it’s new clothes she needs, Prudy, find some—acquire Victoria, have some made—whatever you want, but Rebecca’s things are not to be touched.”

I don’t know if Prudy’s silence is borne of pity or indecision, but I don’t give her time to argue with me. “How is she?” Though my pride flares, reminding me the little governess brought this on herself, I can’t help my concern either.

“Rosemary is drawing her a bath. I’m going up to tend to her now.”

The flames crackle in our silence, and Miss Sinclair’s words from supper fill my muddied mind. At least at Bedlam, I knew what lurked in the shadows. Here there is nothing but ghosts and death. Her accusations had hit me as sharply as any slap, because in this, at least, she was right.

“It was good what you did,” Prudy says, stirring my thoughts again. “Going to find her.”

I blink into the fire. “Was it?” It’s only a whisper, and I hate how weak it makes me feel.

“You know it was,” Prudy says softly. “Now, I’ll leave you to brood.”

With a swish of her skirt, Prudy heads for the door, her keys jingling slightly.

“Prudy.” When I look at her, a delicate graying eyebrow lifts expectantly. “Bronson has a salve that will help it heal faster,” I tell her, nodding at her face. “See that you get some.”

She dips her chin. “Of course, sir.”

Once Prudy is gone, I stare up at my dead wife’s portrait again. Her eyes are frozen in time, but so vivid and expressive, it’s as if she’s still here, haunting me and alive in this place. She clings to my thoughts, tempers my moods, and whispers to me when I close my eyes.

I heave out a breath. “I don’t think I can do this,” I tell her. I hate the hoarseness of my voice, but hate what I fear might come to pass far more.

23

SELENE

The hot water soothes and steams over my skin as Prudy tends to me, and I hug my knees to my chest. Though my bones still feel cold and my ankle and knees ache, I have never been happier to be in a place, or felt as safe, strange as it is to think such a thing after running away from it.

“Thank you,” I breathe. “For your kindness.” I turn my face to hide my shame.

“It was the master who went after you,” she says.

“But you are taking care of me now.” Forcing myself to meet her gaze, I gently take hold of her hand, squeezing it slightly. “No one has ever taken care of me before. Not like this. Not since my mother.” My eyes blur as I realize this is the first time in nine years I’ve felt comfort from anyone other than the children.

“It’s nothing, miss. Though I can’t fathom what on earth got you so riled up that you would willingly run out into a storm like that.”

I stare into the flickering flames roaring in the hearth a few feet away. “I lived in Bedlam nearly all of my life, and I never felt as unsettled as I do in Briarwood.” I shake my head, not fully understanding it myself. “At least at the orphanage, I knew what to brace myself for and what to expect. But here . . . I don’t know what to trust or what to think. There are so many secrets, and I fear what I don’t know and cannot see.” I look at her, baffled by my own thoughts. “Isn’t that strange?”

“Oh, I don’t know, miss,” she says with a tired sigh. Prudy runs a comb through my hair, and I close my eyes, remembering the way my mother used to do it. “We all fear change—I know I did when I first came here. I wasn’t sure what to expect. But as the days go on, you begin to settle in and feel at home.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think I could ever get used to fearing each move I make will result in some sort of gruesome punishment.”

Prudy’s hand stills and she blinks at me with what looks like confusion.

“I knew he was angry about you leaving me the dress,” I admit. “Then I saw your face . . .” My voice is hoarse from the wind. “How long before that is me?” I huff a laugh, though it’s more exhaustion than amusement.

Prudy’s blue eyes round to saucers, and she covers her mouth. “Oh dear,” she rasps, and my breath catches in my throat.

“What is it?”

“That’s what you think happened?” She looks horrified. “Oh my. It’s quite a misunderstanding, I can assure you of that.” She dips the rag into the water again, then drips the warm water over my shoulder. Despite my confusion, I revel in the heat of it. “Master Greyson would never lay a hand on me—on any of us. He knows what I’ve come from, and he is many things, but he is not a tyrant.”

I stare at her, certain I’ve missed something, that I must not have heard her correctly. “Yet . . . he collects slaves. And I’ve seen how marred you all are—I’ve seen his wrath far too many times—”

“You keep saying slaves, miss,” Prudy interrupts, her brow furrowing. “Regardless of how it appears to the outside world, I thought it was obvious when you met us.”

“That what is obvious?”

“That we are content here, miss. We are safe. We have a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and a warm place to sleep.” She stares at me, expectant, as I stare dumbly back at her. “Just because he has purchased us in a world where such a thing is a requirement, not a choice, doesn’t mean we are slaves, not at this estate, at least. For many of us, it is a far better existence than we ever thought possible. We choose to be here because Master Greyson offers us protection in exchange for working for him. And even if he is gruff most of the time, he has never been cruel. It would defeat the purpose of his duty.”

“What’s his duty?” I ask, far too hungry for answers to curb all the questions that have been prodding away at me over the past few days. “Why so many slaves or servants, if not for the reasons the infamous Collector is known for?”

Some sort of secret, small smile parts her lips. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

I frown. “Ask him what?”

“Everything. All of your questions.”

I laugh. “He will not tell me.”

She lifts her eyebrow. “Why not?”

Because I am a servant.

Because he is the slave Collector.

Because he is the master of this grand estate and owes no explanations to someone like me.

But the longer Prudy stares at me, pity gleaming in her eyes, the more abhorrently naive I feel. “No,” I say, shaking my head. I refuse to believe I’ve simply assumed too much about him and it’s all been in my head. “He’s been cross and unwelcoming since I arrived here.”

“Perhaps that’s true,” Prudy admits, and exhaling, she takes a lock of my wet hair in her hands. I can feel her eyes tracing the curvature of my face. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but she smiles, if a bit sadly. “The world is a cruel place, isn’t it?” she muses. “We are told we are free, and yet we are born into poverty of which only the powerful and wealthy can raise our station or exploit our needs. It has been so for all of time, I think. Only now, it’s a bit different. Now we are worked to the bone in order to make this new world liveable and better. But for who?” Prudy’s hand drops to my shoulder. “Regardless of Master Greyson’s temper, it would benefit you to remember that whatever your life was before you came to Briarwood, it is not the life you have now. In time, you will see that. It is not easy here, of course, and it isn’t always kind, but it isn’t merciless or punishing, not like you’re used to. He is a fair man despite the impression he’s left on you.”

With a sigh, she rises to her feet, running her hands down her apron. My eyes fix on the right side of her chest. “The purple patch,” I say. “You said he protects you. That’s how he does it—how he claims you as his.” Before, it seemed inhuman to mark them in such a way, overtly boastful and conceited even. But if what Prudy says is true, and this estate is so different, then Blackburn’s name would no doubt keep his servants safe. Her silence is all the answer I need, and the fear that registered on the bandits’ faces in the woods is proof enough.

“Come,” she says, and motions for me to rise from the bath. “The water is cooling. You must stay warm.”

The water cascades down my body as I stand, and a shiver runs through me. I think of the draft coming from the passageway I’d found, but Prudy drapes a blanket around my shoulders and I melt into its heavy warmth before I can think to ask her about it.

“You should get some rest.” Prudy stokes the fire, but I barely hear her as I consider what other holes exist in my mind—what other fictions and fantasies have shaped my thoughts and feelings about Blackburn and this place.

“What of his wives? You said we are not to speak of them, but I’ve heard—”

“His wives?” Prudy pauses, poker in hand.

“There are tales of their horrible endings throughout the city—stories about the terrible things Blackburn has done, that he killed them.”

“Well,” she starts with a huff of discontent, and puts the poker back in its place. “I can’t say much for all the rumors, but I will say this.” She holds my gaze, and I brace myself for what’s coming. “Mistress Blackburn—Paige’s mother—did meet a tragic end, as did Miss Knightly, but it was not the master’s doing, no matter how much he blames himself for them both.”

My heart flutters with surprise. “Blames himself?”

Prudy waves my impending questions away. “That’s all I’ll say about that. They aren’t my stories to tell.”

“But Mistress Blackburn was his first wife?” Prudy had all but said it, but I must know for certain.

She nods. “Yes, she was the love of his life.”

“And Miss Knightly?” I press, praying Prudy will give me at least one more piece of the puzzle.

“Miss Knightly was supposed to be a solution, but she became part of Master Greyson’s curse instead.”

My head tilts of its own accord. “His curse?”

“That’s enough, now,” she says swiftly, and rises to her feet with an achy groan. “Come on now.” She gestures to the seat in front of the fire.

“Wait,” I say stubbornly, entitled to this explanation at least. “I need you to answer one more thing.”

With a huff and a resigned droop of her shoulders, Prudy looks at me, waiting.

“Why did you bring me the purple dress? He was so angry when he saw me in it. I thought it was a cruel joke.”

Prudy’s expression softens and her eyes fill with regret. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she admits. “I apologize, miss. Perhaps I am tired of the past being shut away. For Paige’s sake, and Master Greyson’s, I wish we could all move on. But I know his burden is great, and I should never have pushed him. Especially after what happened to Miss Knightly, he isn’t ready, even if he’s trying to be.”

“What is his burden, Prudy?” I say quietly, willing her to tell me.

“Uh-uh.” She shakes her head. “No more questions. Talk to the master about it. I’ve probably said too much as it is.”

More secrecy. More questions—I’m practically drowning in them, but as Prudy pulls my comforter down, I know she won’t answer any more of them tonight. “Sit by the fire while your hair dries,” she commands, and I do as she requests, curling up in a chair close to the flames. She pours me a cup of tea, and despite my exhaustion, I feel the weight of my impulsive, rash decisions more than ever. It’s not the heat of the fire that blazes over my skin, but more shame and regret.

Prudy draws the drapes and futzes about behind me as I lose myself to the flickering flames and close my eyes to their warmth. I will it to heat my bones and comfort the hollowed parts of my soul.

“You better get some rest,” Prudy whispers, exhaustion heavy in her voice as well. Not only is she running the household, she’s worrying about me, and fussing after Blackburn and Paige.

“I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused, Prudy. I know I’ve made things very difficult for you—for all of you.” I hold her gaze, hoping she will forgive me.

Prudy pats the top of my head in answer and heads for the door. “Good night, miss.”

“Good night,” I whisper.

I wait for it to click shut behind her, but it doesn’t, and I peer over my shoulder to find her still standing there. “Will you stay?” she asks from the doorway. “Now that you understand?”

Her question makes my heart ache because now, more than ever, I want to. “I’m not sure Master Blackburn will want me to,” I admit with a sad smile. “I have proven more trouble than I am worth. He said so himself.”

“Of course the master wants you to stay,” she says with so much certainty, I’m baffled by it. And that she would speak so freely on his behalf. “He brought you to live with us, didn’t he? He will look past this if you can.”

“I’ve now broken two promises, one to him and one to Paige,” I remind her.

Prudy’s brow furrows, and I can tell she’s choosing her next words carefully. “There is still much you don’t know, and I’m certain Master Greyson will explain with time. Until then, trust me when I say he wouldn’t have ridden out to find you if he had no intention of allowing you to stay here, should you decide to do so.” She shrugs. “If you don’t, Collins can arrange to take you wherever it is you wish to go. And that,” she says with a pointed finger aimed at me, “is from the master’s mouth, not mine. He doesn’t wish to keep you here against your will. There are many evils in this world, child. Lord knows we’ve all seen the brunt of it in one way or another. But Master Greyson isn’t one of them. You’ll see that soon enough.”

24

SELENE

By morning, my body is aching, and I feel as if I could sleep for hours. But Rosemary has other ideas when she comes in and pulls the drapes open. “Come on, miss. Time to get up.” I hear her prodding the fire before she tosses another log on. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to someone waking me without a siren, slamming of doors, or a shout to get up and get to work. I’ve never even slept past sunrise until now. And still, it takes sheer will to peel my eyes open. And sitting up is an entirely different feat.

“There’s an outing planned for you and Miss Blackburn.” Rosemary pulls my blankets back and the cold nips at every inch of me, forcing me fully awake.

I groan, as petulant as it is, and I rub my face. “An outing?”

“Master Blackburn wants you to see the estate today.” She claps her hands, making me jump. “Up! Up! Hurry now.”

I glare at the universe as she scuttles out of the room. “When did you get so animated?” I grumble under my breath, and realize she’s left the door open in her wake. Cold air continues to seep in and I can hear the house waking. In order to shut the world out, I’d have to get up to close the door. Clever, Rosemary.

I notice a plain but pretty red and cream-colored dress draped over the foot of my bed. I nearly groan again, wondering whose old clothes they are making me wear now.

My sleepiness pervades, and I am about to pull the covers over my head for a few more minutes when Prudy bumbles in, shutting the door loudly behind her. “Aren’t you up yet?” she says, as if I’ve had more than a moment to fully wake. “Come,” she waves for me to stand. “I’ll help you with your dress. I know you’re tired after last night, but there are things to do today.”

My bare feet touch the cool rug and a chill zips through me, along with the pain in my ankle, making me wince. I’d forgotten about that, and I get no sympathy from Prudy as she waits for me to hand her my nightgown. I’ve brought all of this on myself, of which I’m acutely aware.

Goosebumps give rise as I pull my nightgown over my head, exposing myself completely. Every inch of me, scraped and bruised, is on display, but between my exhaustion and Prudy taking care of me last night, I’m beyond inhibition.

“Whose dress is this?” I step into it, soft like felt, and the scent of heather fills my nose. I admire the simple embroidery, mimicking the needlework on the violet dress from yesterday. Though this one is lovely, it’s understated with simple lines and layers. Even the fur on the bell sleeves is less ostentatious, and I admire its subtle decadence.

“I requested it be made for you yesterday, while I was in the village having my arm tended to,” Prudy says. “And a few more are coming.” She cinches my stays in the back, and I grip the bedpost to steady myself.

“You had it made for me?” That surprises me, but if I’ve learned anything in the past few days, it’s that this place is full of them.

Studying my reflection in the mirror, I admire how snug the dress is around my waist before it flares a little to hang around my feet. It doesn’t puddle so much at the hem but touches the ground just as it should. This one feels a perfect fit. “Thank you, Prudy.” I can’t help the awe in my voice. “I haven’t had a new dress in many years.” I run my hand down the front of it, studying the workmanship in the mirror.

Prudy’s eyes meet mine and she winks at me. “A new dress can make all the difference,” she replies, and then her eyes widen in horror as they fixate on my hair. “But you’ll have to remedy that wild nest first, if it’s to suit you.” She hands me the copper-toothed comb she used on my hair last night. I blow a strand of hair from my face. “Brush that mess out while I check on Paige, and I’ll braid it back for you so that it will actually stay back this time.”

As Prudy hurries away, warmth spreads throughout my chest. Was I really running from these people only yesterday? I nearly died in the moors, and for what? The list of names in the row of ledgers flashes to mind. I know there is much I still don’t understand, and that I should trust Prudy if she says the master isn’t a villain. But there are still so many holes, I find it hard to wade through it all.

Ignoring my aches and pains, I comb through my hair, parting it for Prudy when I notice Paige, partially hidden in the doorway. She watches me as if she wants to come in, but isn’t sure I want her to, and the uncertainty in her eyes pains me.

“Good morning,” I say brightly, though I’m not sure it covers the regret in my voice. “You can come in, if you like.”

“I didn’t know you came back,” she says meekly, inching her way in. Her hair is a red mess, yet to be tamed this morning. She glances around my room as if she’s looking for a sign that I might be ready to leave again, and forgetting my hair, I walk over to her.

“Yes, I came back. I’m sorry for what happened last night at dinner.” I stare into her big green eyes and search for what to say—how to explain the chaos of my mind. “I was afraid, coming here to a strange place. Afraid of everything new that I don’t understand. But Prudy helped me see how things work around here, at least a little better.” As the truths that came to light last night resurface, I realize I must speak to Blackburn, and thank the very man I was running from for saving my life. My cheeks already burn with mortification.

Paige looks at me warily, like she isn’t sure she can trust me.

“I promise you this—if I ever must leave, I won’t without saying goodbye.” Desperate to lighten the mood, I nudge her a little. “Even if your father gets me riled up. You have my word, Paige.” She studies my face, and I wait for her to grasp my sincerity and see it in my gaze as I cup her cheek. “Will you forgive me for not being a very good friend?”

Finally, she nods, fingering the long sleeves of my dress. “Did Victoria make this for you?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit. I run my hands over the soft fabric once more, admiring it. “Is she the dressmaker?”

Paige shrugs. “She’s Bartholomew’s wife. She makes clothes for all the children that come here. And she makes my dresses too.”

Instead of fixating on all the children that come here, I realize Victoria likely made or is making new clothes for Evie, Jon, Beatrice, and Nell too, and the thought makes me smile. “Well, she did a lovely job, didn’t she?”

Prudy claps, startling us as she hurries in. “Rosemary will tend to your hair, little one. Hurry now.” She shuffles Paige toward the door. “We’re meeting Gibson at the carriage. I’ve already packed a picnic for you.”

Before I know it, my hair is woven into a golden crown of braids, I’ve donned a matching red cloak, and Paige and I are heading down the stairs toward the door.

“It’s Sunday,” Prudy explains as she creaks the massive front door open. She nods us through. “Everyone rests today, but there is still plenty to see. Gibson will show you some of the beauty in this place, and you’ll be home in time for supper.”

But as Prudy prattles on, herding us toward the carriage, Master Blackburn catches my attention down the drive, where he and Collins are mounting their horses.

Uncertain when I will see him again today, I take a step in his direction. “Sir?” I call, and though my voice disappears into the foggy morning, Blackburn stops just before climbing into his horse’s saddle. He glances at me and then the carriage.

He and Collins exchange a few words, then Blackburn walks toward me. No matter which light I try to see him in, it’s no stretch to imagine him as a brute from a faraway land with his chiseled profile, long strides, and the kingly air he always has about him. It makes him as captivating as he is intimidating, and that realization is unsettling.

I hurry to meet him halfway, moving as fast as my sore ankle and knee will allow.

Blackburn’s brow twitches and his eyes darken as he stops a stone’s throw away, taking in my injury. “You were hurt?”

The hint of alarm in his voice is disconcerting, and I wave it away. “I will be fine.” Even after learning what I have from Prudy, it’s difficult to reconcile Blackburn the villain with Blackburn the man.

“We have a healer. I’ll have Gibson take you to him.”

“No—it’s fine. Really. It was my doing. You needn’t—”

“I insist,” he says. “You already have a lasting injury in your knee. I would not have your ankle be another one.” Even if his face is an unreadable mask of consternation, his concern is audible.

Gratitude fills me, and I have to swallow the ball of surmounting, unwanted emotions away. “Thank you, Master Blackburn. I know I don’t deserve it.”

His brow twitches as if he’s not sure what to make of that. “You may call me Greyson,” he replies.

“I couldn’t—”

“I prefer it,” he says curtly, but I think it’s borne of awkwardness, not anger. “Hell, Prudy does.”

I nod, because after what he did for me last night, I can’t deny him such a small request, even if it feels painfully intimate. “Look, I know my promises mean little,” I begin, determined to rid myself of this guilt so we can move forward. “There are many things I don’t understand about this place—things that frighten me.” I think of the image of him in a crimson splattered tunic and the rage I’ve seen more often than not in his eyes. “But I understand things a bit differently now, and I—I know my place, and I’ll try not to burden you, not anymore.”

Blackburn looks at Prudy as she ushers an eavesdropping Paige into the carriage. He dips his head, a bit distractedly, but it’s as if he understands my meaning. “Good. Perhaps today will go smoother then.”

I nod and turn to leave.

“Selene.”

My eyes dart to his. I’m not sure why, but my name on his tongue makes my cheeks flush.

Blackburn taps the gloves in his hand against his leg, and I wait with bated breath. “I should hope you won’t abandon that fire inside of you completely,” he finally says. “We could use a little spirit around here.” His eyes linger on mine for a moment longer. “Just a little,” he clarifies, and there’s a surprising mixture of intrigue and . . . something I can’t quite pinpoint in his gaze.

A heat stirs inside me, one I’ve never experienced before, and finally, Master Blackburn dips his chin and turns for Collins. He doesn’t look back as he mounts his horse and the two men ride away, leaving me with a spark that simmers in my blood, heating my skin in a way that frightens me.

25

SELENE

The muted morning light filters through the clouds, illuminating the stained glass window in the church ruins. The headstones dotting the graveyard are still damp from last night’s rain, and everything seems greener and more alive. Maybe it’s because of what I know now, even if it’s not everything, but the world sparkles with the promise of a new day.

The carriage jostles down the bumpy, soggy road, but it’s easy to settle into the moth-eaten seats, and I lose myself to the impressive landscapes as we drive on.

“Does your ankle hurt?” Paige asks, and only then do I realize I’m absently rubbing the wrappings.

“It does,” I admit, lowering my dress hem to cover my ankle. “But only a little. I’ll be fine.” I sit back in the seat, admiring the meadows that give way to a dense copse of dogwoods and enormous sandstone boulders.

“At least you don’t have to walk far today,” Paige says, and I realize she knows far more about our outing than I do.

“Where are we head—” We jolt as the ruddy road turns to metal, and we cross the iron bridge over the rushing river. I stare at the black smoke rising from the foundry’s brick chimneys as it comes into view.

“Emberbrook,” Paige answers with a smile.

I’m confused, but only for a moment until I remember. “The children are here.”

Paige’s head bobs up and down. “Papa knew you’d want to see them.”

“I . . .” My mouth hangs open as her words register. “Your father wanted me to see the children?”

My palm presses against the glass as the carriage continues past the brick foundry. “He is many things, but he is not a tyrant,” I whisper, remembering Prudy’s words. Still, as I picture Blackburn looming over me in the dining room last night, the rage in his eyes and dangerously sharp edge in his voice, it’s hard to fathom such a kindness. But then, there was genuine concern in his voice this morning . . .

Confusion and shock turn to excitement, however, as we draw closer to the village, and all my apprehension falls away.

Small brick and stone homes line both sides of the cobbled road, gardens and overgrown vegetation between some of them. Storefronts dot the sidewalks ahead, and I realize this is the hub of the Briarwood estate, Blackburn and the manor only its figurehead.

“So,” I murmur, peering around. “This is Emberbrook.” First, we pass a brick mason and butcher shop, then a cider house, and a bakery. Most of their signs are faded, and many of the buildings are cracked and look ready to crumble despite the steel framing that holds them together.

I blink a few times, awed by how quintessentially old-world it still seems as we pass more homes and storefronts. “This is where all the foundry workers live?”

“Yep.” Paige nods emphatically as she peers out at the few people walking about. It’s only as some of them head into a chapel that I remember it’s Sunday.

People watch the carriage, eyes wide and curious, as we continue through the village, toward a larger house set off the road. Its brick facade boasts more windows and three chimneys, making it grand compared to the others. As the carriage slows in front of it, I dare to hope it’s where the children live—rooms enough for each of them—when voices, chirping and gleeful, meet my ears.

Leaning to the other window, I spot the children on a slight hill, kicking a ball back and forth. I barely have time to make out their faces before they spot the carriage and come running. They are a blur of limbs, laughter, and new clothes—simple brown pants and skirts, like those of the other children who follow—and all of them, both familiar faces and new, are smiling.

“Selene!”

I wave as I fling the door open, and the pain in my ankle is forgotten as I step out. Beatrice wraps her good arm around me first, the other still in a sling, though it’s better than the one I made for her.

“I knew you’d come visit us!”

“Where have you been?”

“I’ve missed you!”

Jon, Evie, and Beatrice talk over each other, and as they embrace me, I inhale their fresh scent. Soap and dirt and something indescribable that is uniquely them. “I’ve missed you too,” I whisper, squeezing them closer. I kiss the top of Evie’s head and exhale the heavy weight of worry that’s been coiling inside me for years—worry I’ve held on to since I realized I’d grown attached to them so soon after we met—and I feel weightless.

“Have you all been good?” I ask, finally taking a step back. Though it’s only been days, it feels like an eternity since I’ve seen them.

“Yes,” Evie answers. “Well, all of us but Jon—”

“Hey!” He smacks her arm. “I have too.”

“No, you talk back to Victoria whenever she wants you to get cleaned up.”

I give Jon a warning look, and he rolls his eyes. “If she is kind to you, you must be kind to her,” I tell him, but I can’t be too stern, not when the children look well rested and fed. Not when I can’t stop smiling. “You all look wonderful,” I tell them. “I’ve been fretting for nothing.”

“What did you think we’d look like?” Jon asks.

“I expected—well . . .” I sigh. “It doesn’t matter.” Taking Evie’s hand, I rise to my feet, ignoring the pain shooting through my leg. “So, tell me everything. What have you been doing? Have you been working hard? Because it looks like you’ve been playing in the dirt all day.”

“It’s Sunday,” Beatrice says with a smile. “They don’t make us work on the day of rest.” That she smiles at all is a miracle.

“I’m very glad to hear it.” Utterly content, I tuck a dark, unruly curl behind her ear as a door creaks open behind us.

Nell steps out of the house and onto the porch, wiping her hands on the apron she wears. “Victoria said you’d come,” she says, and hurries down the steps. Flour streaks Nell’s face, and her rosy cheeks widen as she grins.

Tears of relief burn my eyes, but I blink them away.

“I didn’t think it would be in time for breakfast, though.”

My head tilts with surprise. “You’re making breakfast?”

“Well . . .” She shrugs. “I’m helping, at least. Victoria is teaching me. She’s got a lot of mending to do, and a lot of cooking with the other ladies, so I’ve been learning how to do both.”

“Cooking and mending?”

“Yes.” Nell nods, and there’s a sparkle in her bright brown eyes I haven’t seen before. I think it’s pride. Pride that she can be useful, that Victoria and the others would take the time to teach them skills beyond those promised in servitude.

“I like cooking best, so far. And since you already taught us to read, I’m helping Victoria learn.” Nell beams with more pride. “We’ve been practicing a little before bed. Hopefully we can teach the others.”

I’m not sure my heart can swell much more and I brush the crook of my finger over her cheek. “And what about the rest of you?” I say, glancing between them as we meander toward the house. “Are any of you working in the foundry?”

“Nell and I are,” Beatrice supplies. “Well, in the food house, that is, with some of the older ladies, and Victoria, when she’s not mending.”

“And what about you two?” I ask, running my fingers through Jon’s floppy hair. “What do you do to help?”

“We help clean up after lunch,” Evie says proudly.

“And me and the other boys help load the coal for the furnaces,” Jon adds. “And we tend to the horses that pull the carts filled with iron.”

“You work with the horses?” Eyes wide, I shake my head. “So many surprises.”

“What about you?” Nell says, glancing at the carriage behind me. “Where did he take you?”

“Oh!” I spin around and find Paige peering out the coach window, watching us with unease. “Paige, come—meet my friends!” I call to her. “I’ve told Paige all about you,” I explain as I hurry to her. “Forgive me.” Taking her hand, I help Paige out of the carriage. “I lost myself for a moment.” Her eyes shoot from me to the children, and we head toward them. Her little hand squeezes mine, but I note her curiosity and excitement seem to outweigh her apprehension.

Beatrice and the others stare at Paige, just as curious.

“Paige, this is Jon and Evie. They are the twins I told you about.” Though Paige is a couple of years younger, she’s nearly as tall as they are. “And this is Nell,” I say with a nod. “And Beatrice.”

Paige eyes Beatrice’s arm. “What happened to you?”

Beatrice lifts her sling slightly. “I was hurt in a quake,” she explains.

Absently, Paige picks at the leather belt on her dress and glances between the children. “Do you want to be my friends?” she asks, and I bite my lip so as not to smile. “I can show you how to skip rocks, and you can come over and meet Midnight—”

“Well, hello there, Miss Paige.” A rich alto meets my ears, and a woman with dark skin and beautifully long, braided gray hair steps down from the porch behind me.

“Victoria!” Paige runs to her and gives the woman a side hug.

“You’re so big—when was the last time I saw you?” Victoria’s smile is wide and welcoming, and when her eyes meet mine, she dips her chin.

I smile in return, feeling more gratitude for this woman than she can possibly comprehend.

But her expression is a knowing one as she leads Paige back to us. “You must be Selene,” she says, offering me her hand. Her fingers are long and elegant, but rough against mine. I sober a little, grasping once again how much has changed since I arrived in Briarwood.

“And this must be your handiwork.” I gesture to my new dress. “It’s so beautiful. Thank you. I hadn’t expected such a gift.”

Victoria chuckles softly. “I’m just happy it fits.” She takes a step back to look at me. “Prudy didn’t give me much to go off of.”

“It’s perfect,” I promise her.

Victoria nods with satisfaction as she scans me once more. “Well, I’m glad to hear it.” With another smile, she glances at the children. “Paige, I think Oliver heard you coming,” she says with a wink.

The freckles on Paige’s cheeks lift with a giddy grin. “Come on!” she shouts, and waves for the children to follow. “Come meet Oliver.” The three of them scamper off, jumping over hay bales and weaving around outbuildings as they head toward a large stable.

“Don’t run. You’ll spook the horses!” Victoria calls out.

Beatrice follows, not as excited, but there’s a pep in her step that wasn’t there before we arrived at Briarwood.

“Beatrice, make sure they hurry back for breakfast, would you?” Beatrice nods, and Victoria turns her attention to me. “An old draft horse,” she explains. “He’s huge and harmless, and Paige absolutely adores him.”

Nell laces her fingers with mine. “Are you all right?” she asks with quiet concern. She tilts her head, assessing me.

“Yes,” I promise, squeezing her hand with a smile. “I’m simply . . . processing, that’s all. I didn’t know we were coming here. And I’ve missed you so much.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’ve been so worried. But I’m glad it was for nothing.”

“I’ll leave you two to catch up,” Victoria says as she turns back toward the house. “Take your time. I’ll ring the bell when the biscuits are finished, and you can come in for a bite to eat before Paige and the children show you around Emberbrook.”

“Thank you,” I say over my shoulder. Victoria waves her hand, and I follow Nell to a little garden area to take a turn, my mind awhirl with elation.

26

SELENE

My heart is full, and I’m strangely content when we leave the Bartholomew home to continue our tour of the estate. While a part of me doesn’t want to leave the children, the other half, divested of worry, fills with anticipation, and even a little shame.

I don’t know how I will face Blackburn tonight at dinner when it’s just the three of us again. The accusations I’d slung at him last night at the table seem so horribly outrageous now, after the good he’s done in bringing the children here—in bringing me here.

As the carriage continues down an unmarked lane, toward a crumbled stone village, mortification burns in my chest once again.

“I liked them,” Paige says, a rejuvenated trill in her voice.

I smile to myself, relief and contentment still overflowing in me. “Good, I’m glad.” I glance at her. “They liked you very much.”

“How do you know?” The muted afternoon sunlight glistens in her strawberry hair.

“Because I know them better than I know anyone,” I promise, and with a growing smile, Paige peers out the window as we continue down the road.

We don’t get much farther before the carriage shudders and lurches to a stop.

“Christ!” Gibson shouts, and I open the door and peer toward the horses. Gibson jumps down, mumbling something as he attends to the wheel.

“Is it broken?” I ask as I step down from the coach. My feet squish in the damp earth.

Gibson glances up from the wheel, buried halfway in mud as thick as churned butter. “Nah, miss, but it is stuck. Both of them are.”

Bending down, I peer under the carriage at the farthest wheel and see that he’s right.

“Can I help somehow?” I ask, uncertain how he’s going to get us out of this. “I might be able to urge the horses forward while you dig out the wheels?”

“It’s no worry, miss. It happens all the time.” He points down the lane. “If you and little Blackburn want to head on, I’ll meet you at the village once I get this sorted.”

“Are you certain?” Glancing around, I realize I do not know where we are.

“Aye. It’s only a quarter mile down the road. I’ll be with you shortly.”

“I know the way,” Paige boasts proudly, and she takes my hand. “Come on, then.”

Gibson winks at his young mistress, and with an encouraging nod from him, I obediently follow.

Sidestepping the muddiest parts of the road, we make our way down the wooded path.

“Does your father mind you traipsing around the estate like this? It would be an inconvenience to anger him after I promised to behave.” I chuckle to myself, and while I hope he won’t be upset, I can’t deny I’m more eager to walk the wild, bending road in a place so beautiful and foreign to me, than to get off my throbbing ankle.

“He won’t mind—Look!” she says, dipping with a squeak to pick up a flat rock. “It’s perfect for skipping!”

“It sure is. You should keep it.”

Paige nods and happily stows it in her dress pocket for later.

Suddenly, I remember the figure by the pond outside my window. And how it stood in the path during the storm last night. Whatever uncertainties I had that it might be Blackburn are gone, and I can’t help but wonder if Paige and I are truly alone. Appraising the landscape with fresh eyes, I search the rustling leaves and creaking boughs above for something insidious, but I don’t see anything, nor do I feel its presence.

“Paige,” I start, uncertain how to proceed without frightening her. “Have you ever seen anything strange in the manor or around the estate?”

She looks at me, her lips pursed and her eyes a tad fearful. “Like what?”

“Old houses have silly stories and strange happenings, don’t they? And Briarwood is very old.”

Paige is thoughtful for a moment, which gives me little hope that my answers lie with her, and finally, she nods. “There was a noise in my room once,” she says, and I can tell she’s reaching for a faraway memory. “It woke me from my dream and I saw the drapes moving and shouted for Papa.”

“What was it?” I hold my breath in wait.

Paige’s face sours and she sticks out her tongue. “A giant rat. Papa killed it for me. And he let the field cats come into the house after that.”

“A rat,” I say, unable to hide my disappointment. I’ve seen more rats in my lifetime than I could possibly count. “Well, I’m glad you haven’t seen any more of them.”

Turning my thoughts from the mysterious figure, for now, I let Paige regale me about her time with the children as we continue on our walk. She chatters about Jon’s grumpy manner and asks about Beatrice’s broken arm, though I spare her some of the details.

“When will we get to see them again?” Paige asks, bouncing on her tiptoes.

“Well,” I start, realizing I have no idea. “I guess that’s up to your father. But hopefully soon, especially since you’re so fond of them.”

“We can ask him at dinner,” she muses.

“Yes, that’s a wonderful idea.”

Paige beams, and I’m about to ask her which village we’re headed toward now, when galloping horse hooves stop us in our tracks. A tall, slender man in a dark riding coat on a brown steed appears from around the bend in the trees.

They slow when he sees us, and his horse traipses closer. Though the rider has the imposing demeanor of Master Blackburn, he is the opposite in every other way. His brunette hair is short and perfectly groomed, and his deep-set eyes widen with a sudden smile. I’m not sure I like his smile.

“Aye, little Paige Blackburn,” he says. “Look how much you’ve grown since last I saw you.” His voice is smooth and unnerving as he gives me a slow perusal. “I see you and your . . . friend are enjoying the break in the rain.” I know this man, though I can’t quite place him.

“The carriage got stuck,” Paige explains. “But we’re hunting for skipping rocks!”

“You know this man, Paige?” I ask, not taking my eyes off of him. He is on Master Blackburn’s land, so I assume he isn’t too terribly dangerous, but there’s something about him I don’t like all the same.

“This is Master Draven of Northshire—he’s our neighbor.”

Draven. I recall the name, though I can’t quite remember what I’ve heard about him. It’s the first time we’ve met, but even so, there’s something familiar that makes me want to flee.

“Guilty as charged,” Draven says ruefully. “And will you not introduce me to your lovely companion, Paige?”

“This is my governess,” she chirps. “Miss Sinclair.”

Draven’s attention snaps back to me. His brow furrows, darkening his features before a smirk curves his lips. Politely, he dips his head. “Miss Sinclair,” he purrs, letting the words roll off his tongue. “Lovely to meet you.” It’s then I realize that I’ve seen him in the woods, the man in the mist, the day I arrived.

“A pleasure,” I lie. “Do you ride Master Blackburn’s estate often?” Though my question is innocent and curious enough, I eye him carefully.

“No,” he admits. “However, I’ve just had some business with him.”

“I see.” I flash him a false smile and reach for Paige’s hand. Business or not, there is something unsettling about him, and I’m itching to be as far away from him as I can. “It was lovely to meet you, Master Draven. But we must be on our way.” I tug on Paige’s arm. “Come on, then. We have things to do.”

Paige waves goodbye and falls into step beside me. “Good day to you,” I call over my shoulder, and when I look back, Draven dips his head, his smirk etched tightly in place. My skin crawls under his blatant gaze, and though I have the impulse to hurry, I refuse to let him know he’s unnerved me.

Eventually, Draven is far behind us, and the chestnut trees grow sparser as another meadow comes into view. When I notice more cottages, half-built and sprawling across the meadow, I recall the field of workers I’d seen the morning of my arrival. I barely recognize it as the same field with the progress they’ve made since last I saw it. Two cottages look near completion, though most still stand without completed walls or roofs.

Movement near a far cottage, one that looks closest to completion, catches my eye. Paige and I pause at a rudimentary structure, sheltering stacks of lumber. Beyond it, a man with a familiar dark mane of hair and broad shoulders works alongside the others. Only, Master Blackburn isn’t wearing his smoking jacket or riding coat, as usual. His white shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and sweat dampens his back and under his arms as he lifts a beam, handing it up to the man in the rafters. Blackburn’s hair, though pulled back away from his face, exposing his stubbled jaw, is too unruly to be tamed, and I have to smile at that.

It gives me pause, and clearing my throat, I peer around the skeleton of a village instead. “What is this place, Paige?”

“The new Emberbrook, when it’s finished.”

“New Emberbrook?”

“Yep!” Paige tugs on my hand and continues toward her father. When Blackburn notices us, he tenses. “Papa wants to move most of the town here,” she explains. Blackburn and Collins exchange a few words before Blackburn makes his way toward us. I wasn’t prepared to see him here, like this, working alongside his laborers. A sudden flutter of nerves fills me as he draws closer.

“Papa was trying to save the old village,” Paige continues, “but too many of the houses are unsafe because of the earthquakes.”

“So, he’s rebuilding it somewhere else,” I finish for her.

“Yep!” Paige chirps again. “Papa says wood is safer than brick, plaster, and stone.”

I nod in understanding as Blackburn’s eyes meet mine, and my heart races as each of his confident strides eats the space between us.

“Miss Sinclair,” he says as he pushes his sleeves higher up his arms. His gaze lingers on mine a second longer before he looks at his daughter. “I was expecting Gibson to drive you.”

“We had a bit of a setback,” I offer as Paige blurts, “We got stuck!”

“Ah, I see.” His brow is thick with sweat and his hair hangs in his gray eyes as he stops a few feet away, Paige standing between us. Hands on his hips, Blackburn glances down the road as if he’s expecting to see Gibson. “Other than that,” he says, looking between Paige and me. “I trust you two are staying out of trouble today?”

“Yes, Papa, and I just made some new friends!”

He rests a hand on his daughter’s shoulder, squeezing ever so slightly with affection, and I wonder if Blackburn realizes he’s doing it. “I thought you might,” he muses, and his eyes drift to me. I tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear, realizing I must look a wreck after the mud and walking, and I glance down at my dirty hem to confirm.

“How did you find the children?” Blackburn asks, and there’s a hint of amusement in his voice.

There is no hiding my humiliation—I can feel my cheeks burning. “They are very well, thank you. And very happy where they are.” I force myself to look into his eyes. “But you already knew that.”

Blackburn’s brow twitches, and the corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“And this,” I say, gesturing at the makings of a new village. “This is what you do on your Sundays while everyone else rests?”

Blackburn peers around with a sigh. “There is still much work to be done, and I can’t afford to lose momentum.”

“There are so many cottages,” Paige says. “Who will live in all of them?” She skips over to one that is nearly finished.

Trailing behind her, Blackburn motions for me to follow him along the mud-covered path carved between foundations. “The people coming in off the ship, I suppose.”

“Is it still coming?” Paige asks, hopping up onto one of the porches as we pass.

“Yes,” he says, though Blackburn sounds anything but certain. The conversation I’d overheard him having with Collins begs a dozen questions to be answered about slave ships and the Council.

Prudy’s voice rings in my head, and I know I should simply ask him. If he’s showing me different parts of the estate, he wants me to see what is real, not what is in my head, so I find the courage to do just that. “What kind of ship are you expecting?”

“More workers,” Paige answers for him as we amble between partial structures. As modest as the cottages are, they will be large enough for a family by the time they are finished.

I look at Blackburn. His hands rest on his hips as he stares down at the slushy earth, lost in thought.

With a quick swoop, I pick a wild daffodil from the damp grass and twirl it between my fingers. “A ship with more workers?” I clarify.

Blackburn nods, but he seems reluctant to answer, which confuses me. Slaves is what I want to think, but I know that’s not exactly how things work in Briarwood. “Is the Council pushing you to get more workers?” I ask instead. “It seems strange you wouldn’t purchase them from the City District as you’ve done with the rest of us, instead of waiting for a ship to come.”

Blackburn looks at me, his eyes narrowed with displeasure. It’s obvious I’ve overstepped, and I lick my lips, tucking that pesky strand of hair behind my ear again, and glance away. “Forgive me,” I murmur. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to know or ask.” Sighing, I run my fingers over the coarse wood frame of a well. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get this right.”

From the corner of my eye, I notice Blackburn’s thoughtful indecision, before, finally, he answers. “The Council has many requirements if I am to keep my family’s land,” he starts, rubbing his jaw. “The short of it is that the more they want me to produce, the more workers I must have to ensure this estate remains in my family and true to its purpose.” And though his explanation makes sense, there’s more he’s reluctant to share. But I know better than to press him.

“Sir,” Collins calls as he strides over, as equally sweaty as Blackburn from a day of labor in the baleful afternoon. Collins dips his chin at me in greeting. “Miss Sinclair.”

“Good afternoon, Collins.” I don’t know if Collins has a family, but I assume not, since he seems to always be at Blackburn’s side.

“Greetings, munchkin.” He pinches the side of Paige’s cheek softly and winks at her as she beams. “We need help raising the rafters, sir,” he says, all business again as he tilts his head toward the cottage they’ve been working on.

Blackburn nods, his hands falling from his hips.

A funny look flashes in Collins’s eyes as he glances between us, then he walks to the well for a ladle of water.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Blackburn says, dipping his chin ever so slightly. “Gibson can show you around the new village and anywhere else you’d like to see today.” As Blackburn turns to leave, urgency bubbles up inside me.

“Thank you,” I blurt out, and though it sounds hasty, I hope Blackburn detects my sincerity as well.

He looks back at me, confused.

“For what you did for the children—for keeping them together, and for sending them to a good home.” My breaths come faster as my heart aches with gratitude. “Truly.”

Blackburn’s expression softens, if only minutely, and when his brow twitches, I long to know what he’s thinking.

“Good day, Miss Sinclair,” is all he says, and with a slight purse of his lips, he goes back to work.

That I am saddened he won’t speak openly with me is troubling and leaves me conflicted. I should not care what this man is thinking or how he is feeling, nor should I expect anything from him other than the kindness he’s already shown. But despite how I should feel, I can’t help but anticipate seeing Blackburn at dinner. He is a mystery, and I have more questions to ask him. At least, that’s what I tell myself. But the heat in my blood belies the truth, and I know it’s more than a conversation with the master I seek. It’s the gravity of his gaze that I yearn to understand, and the strength he exudes that I’m eager to be near again. The curiosity to learn more about him is far too great to keep in check, and I tell myself once I have learned all I can, the intrigue will pass.

But Master Blackburn doesn’t join Paige and me for dinner. And by the time I close my eyes to drift to sleep, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve done something to keep him away.

27

GREYSON

It’s nearly midnight by the time I’m able to unwind. My arms and shoulders are sore from working in the fields long past nightfall. I told myself the work needed to be done to stay on track for Killian’s arrival. But there’s no denying the hum of anticipation and unease I feel around the little governess, under her searing blue, reproachful gaze. The self-loathing I feel in her presence is proof of that. Especially after today.

It’s far easier to be the ferocious brute she thinks I am when she’s spewing unfounded accusations at me. But when her chin trembles and her eyes shine with unbridled gratitude, it’s almost too much to bear. Hope—dangerous and infectious as it is—rears its treacherous head once more.

Hope that Selene could be happy here.

Hope that she might see me as something more than a master . . . more than a monster.

Hope that I can let go of what was in order to save what could be. What has to be.

But the past tangles and writhes alongside the guilt at the very thought, and groaning, I refuse to give in to it. Submerging myself in the scalding bathwater, I try to ease the tension in my neck and shoulders.

Even as I refuse to dwell too much on possible futures, my drifting thoughts conjure a fiery young woman, whose flaxen hair is as unruly as she is. Who is as pigheaded as she is courageous, and as hard-edged and cynical as she is innocent.

But Selene is not innocent. That was taken from her the moment she stepped foot in Bedlam, perhaps even before then.

The Orsons’ reputation was what took me to the orphanage to begin with, and seeing her, I knew I could not leave her behind with a man like Perry. Imagining that bastard’s hands anywhere near the little governess makes my rage roil, and that she would consider life under his roof more bearable than mine was a cleaver to my soul in ways she couldn’t possibly fathom.

You are no better than him, a voice whispers, and when I can no longer bear the stillness, I rise from the water, letting the chill in the room accost my skin. I cannot be here, in this house. I yearn for air, for space, and I reach for the towel to scrub the dampness away, along with every reason I know I should seriously consider taking Selene as my wife.

For Paige. To secure my future. To secure everyone’s future.

For me. That last thought makes me sicken.

After donning a clean shirt and trousers, I brace my hands against the fireplace, staring into the dancing flames. The answer to all of my problems sleeps three doors away. What will you do next, Blackburn?

Clenching my fists, I know I must choose, even if the thought of what comes next sours my stomach. Despite those condemning blue eyes I can’t get out of my head, my lineage must come first, or all of this is for nothing.

As if I need another fear or reminder, a menacing rumble rises from the depths of the earth, and the floor shakes. I grip the bedpost and brace myself for the avalanche of motion I know comes next.

The clatter and crack of shifting walls. The shattering of objects somewhere in the room. The rattling windows and tumbling wood from the pile beside the hearth.

Then, just as quickly as the quake rolled in, the earth is steady again. “Paige!” I fling my bedroom door open and rush for her room, stepping over toppled items on the floor I barely notice in the night’s shadows.

White fear blots my vision as Rebecca’s face flashes to mind.

“Paige—” I stop in her opened doorway.

Miss Sinclair’s hair shines against the pillow, glowing in the moonlight. Dust dances in the air, and the house bustles around me, coming to life as the servants rouse from their rooms. But all I can hear is the sweet reassurances Selene murmurs in my daughter’s ear as she holds her tightly.

“It’s all right. It’s over, for now.” She repeats the words over and over, as if she is just as frightened—as if it’s all she can do to believe them herself. Closing my eyes, I grip the doorjamb and soak in the soothing sound of Selene’s voice, trying to steady my heartbeat.

“It’s all right,” she coos again, and Paige sobs into Selene’s chest, gripping onto her as if her life would end without her, and my eyes cloud with tears. I don’t want to disturb them, but I can’t bring myself to walk away either.

“Paige,” I murmur as I step into the room. Both of them startle and look up at me.

Paige jumps to her feet and leaps into my arms as I stop at her bedside. “That was a big one,” she cries through tears, gripping hold of me, afraid I will let go.

“I know,” I tell her, stroking her hair. “But you’re okay—everyone is okay.” I look at Selene as she crawls out of Paige’s bed. “Are you all right?”

She stands and runs her hands down her nightgown, visibly shaken. I try to ignore the way her shift clings to her body, unbound by ties and buttons.

“I’m okay—Just, uh, a little shaken, I think.”

Prudy calls for me, but I hesitate to leave Paige.

“I can stay with her,” Selene whispers. “I don’t mind.”

Unable to ignore my duty to the household, and anxious to see the damage that’s been done, I nod. “Thank you,” I breathe, barely audible above Paige’s tears. Kissing her temple, I brush the hair from her forehead. “You will be safe with Miss Sinclair. Stay in here until I return. You know there will be smaller ones to follow.”

Paige nods against me, and as the governess comes to stand beside me, ready to take my place, I feel the brush of her gown against my arm, and the soft scent of lilies fills my nose.

Clearing my throat, I force myself to focus and rise to my feet. “I’ll return when I can,” is all I can manage, and with that, I head out the door, determined to put some much-needed space between myself and the woman who has infiltrated my life in every way.

28

SELENE

Having not seen Blackburn around the manor or at dinner in days, I realize this must be normal life in Briarwood. Without my causing upset, the master of the house has gone back to business as usual, and Paige and I settle into our new routine of lessons and lunchtime adventures.

Due to a sleepless night and countless window checks, only to find no lurking creature outside, I rise with the sun, dress for the day, and sneak downstairs for a walk and early morning snack before Paige wakes.

Though the sun peeks through the waning clouds, mist tickles my cheeks and nose as I meander the grounds. Errant sheep, grazing on the dewy grass, glance up at me, their breath white puffs of smoke that evaporate around them in the cool morning. They grow bored with me quickly enough and refocus on their morning meal.

Licking my lips, I take a bite from my apple, reveling in the crisp crunch of it. This simple piece of fruit is a luxury I remember from childhood, and even then, it was decadent. I stare at it, dumbfounded. The shadowy apparition and wailing winds, strange and unnerving as they are, seem a small price to pay for life here in Briarwood.

As I continue on, I peer out at the glistening meadows that stretch beyond the estate, at the steam that lifts from every surface with the warmth of daybreak. Even the greenhouse that butts up to a grove of dogwoods gleams in the promise of a stormless day, and I find I’m utterly content.

Double the size of the stable, the verdant green within the hothouse is admirable, even from here, the colorful blossoms bright and beaming through the condensation obscuring the windows.

From walls to roof, it’s a patchwork of repurposed remnants, a collage of old and new, like everything else in this land—only standing because of the care Blackburn puts into the estate for his family and tenants.

It’s in that moment I decide Paige and I will learn how to tend to the plants in the greenhouse, alongside Jameson the gardener, so that we can appreciate the flora that fills our bellies, flavors our teas, and scents our bathwater and clean linens. Blackburn would approve of that, I think, but I make a mental note to speak with him about it the next time we’re in the same room together. But as weekly routines and plans for the day form in my mind, Blackburn’s face lingers too. His wild mane of hair, damp and hanging in his eyes the night of the quake, and his usual glower, one of concern instead. I hadn’t expected the way his chest heaved with alarm to affect me, or the sudden calm I felt emanating from him as he held his daughter in his arms.

Those stolen moments were everything I hadn’t known I needed to see. The man beneath the beast. Even with his outbursts and blood-splattered shirt, I can’t find it in me to be afraid of him now—unnerved, yes, but it’s different than it was. It’s the primal, pulse-pounding, stomach-fluttering kind, and I fear that more than anything.

Fully aware of how wholly inappropriate, unwanted, and dangerous my thoughts are, I wander through my favorite place on the estate in hopes of a reprieve—the garden. A place where my mind quiets, and I feel hidden within the tumbling brick walls as I appreciate the simple beauty of Briarwood.

The gravel path is pitted from months of intermittent storms, but I appreciate the crunch beneath my feet, more sturdy than the mud that cakes so much of the countryside and dirties the hems of all my dresses. With another bite of my apple, I run my other hand over the unruly pink plumes of goat beard and pick a yellow blossom from a flowering hedge. The daffodils and tiny white florets that cover the flowerbeds between dormant rose bushes glisten in the dewy morning, making it seem as if the dank city was all a horrible dream.

A rusted, wrought iron table with spindly legs sits forgotten and overgrown with withered wisteria vines, and I decide it will be a lovely reading nook for Paige and me when the sun decides to peek through again.

Exiting through the archway draped in honeysuckle, I toss my apple core out toward the pasture, and wander wherever my feet take me next. Only when the fallen steeple comes into view at the end of the lane, do I realize I haven’t explored this area yet.

By the looks of it, decades have passed since the church fell, and I try to imagine its majesty in the glory days, instead of its leftovers consumed by nature thriving around its remains.

I stop outside the church, staring through the crumbled entry. Light breaks through the splintered rafters, making the shadows glow in a red hue cast by the stained glass above. What’s left of the old pews are rotted and covered with lichen, and though I would like to see what else remains, I take a step back instead.

The other night, despite my wanting to comfort Paige, I’d also wanted to run for my life. Everything from my accident instantly flared to life, and I’d had the urge to get out of the house before it collapsed around me—before I was trapped within the rubble all over again, or worse.

My heart beats too hard, too fast, knowing all too well what that fear feels like—the painful unknown and confusion. William’s lifeless blue eyes fill my mind, and a sense of helplessness surges up with it. Torture or any other horrible fate is far less terrifying than being trapped again, unable to move with death creeping closer, like hot, foul breath against skin.

I peer back at the manor house in the distance. Days ago, I’d thought I was trapped here. And now?

I think of Paige’s grinning face and the comfort of Prudy combing my hair.

I think of the crisp apple against my tongue, the garden, and I remember how life was before I came here. The scent of burning flesh, the blistered hands and aching limbs. The sleepless nights . . . Given my circumstances, I couldn’t ask for a life better than this.

Taking a step away from the ruins, I banish thoughts of the past. I must, I tell myself, or I will never find happiness. I must trust in Paige and this place—even in Blackburn.

As the restlessness subsides and my surmounting unease fades, I smooth my hands over my dress, determined to start a new day. Walking around the limestone rubble, I stop, clasp my stomach, and stare, unblinking with a held breath. A dark form lurks by a tree in the graveyard. I’m about to call to the creature I’ve seen in the shadows, when it moves. It’s not a creature lurking at all, but Blackburn.

He stares down at a grave, his back to me. Both relieved and curious, I take a step closer, but immediately reconsider in fear of trespassing. A twig cracks under my foot as I turn to leave.

“Miss Sinclair?”

Slowly, I pivot to meet his gaze and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I didn’t mean to intrude,” I tell him. “I was stretching my ankle before Paige wakes.”

His eyes shift to my foot. “How is it healing?”

I shrug, letting out a deep breath, and clasp my hands behind my back. “It’s only a little sore now, thank you.”

Blackburn hums in thought. “Very well.” He turns back to the grave.

I’m about to leave him again when his voice reaches my ears. “Is it strange that a graveyard gives me solace?”

Staring at his back, I shake my head. “No, not at all,” I admit.

He’s quiet for a moment, then looks at me again, this time with curiosity.

I take a step forward to explain. “There was a graveyard at Bedlam. Even after we dug up all the bodies, and the bones were crushed for fertilizer, I found my thoughts drifting to the people who had once lived there. To the lives they led and the horrors they were lucky enough to escape . . . I envied them.” Realizing how gruesome that sounds, I shake the thoughts away. “I know that’s different from solace,” I admit, “but it was diverting nonetheless.”

Blackburn watches me, his black hair catching in the breeze as he picks at the top of the headstone next to him. “You have seen much in your twenty years,” he muses. “This life isn’t easy for anyone, but I know the city is full of hardships even I cannot fathom.”

“It should have felt normal, I think, since it’s what I’ve known for so much of my life . . . But it never did,” I realize. “I was terrified it would be all I’d get the chance to know.”

“And now?” Blackburn asks, picking a twig off a nearby branch as he draws closer. “Are you still terrified?” Though it’s a logical question given my blatant disdain for this place, I forget to feel the mortification of my actions, hanging instead on the unexpected chord of hope in his voice.

“No,” I admit easily enough, and that I don’t have to think about my answer in the slightest seems to please him. “I think I might even feel at home here . . . As well as very foolish,” I admit, shaking my head. “The things I’ve said to you and done—all the trouble I’ve caused.” Though I’ve thought the words a dozen times, I need Blackburn to hear my regret. “I’ve come to realize I don’t enjoy feeling trapped,” I explain.

“That much I know about you,” he muses quietly, and stops in front of me.

I smile sheepishly.

“But I don’t think you can shoulder all the blame. You didn’t receive the warmest of welcomes, nor any reassurances from me,” he concedes. “I have never been allowed to question my life and what path has been laid before me. I sometimes forget that not everyone will simply accept what’s given to them without question.” Blackburn stares at the headstones behind him, and though I can only see the back, I’m certain the stately one, less battered by time, is his wife’s. I notice the newer one, smaller but well-kept, with daffodils resting against the headstone beside it. Miss Knightly, I assume.

“Truly, I didn’t mean to interrupt your solace.”

Tapping the twig against his palm, Blackburn tears his gaze away and gestures for us to walk toward the house. Assuming Paige is awake, I fall into step beside him.

“You may walk wherever you’d like, without apology,” he says.

“Save for the castle,” I jest, and immediately, I squeeze my eyes shut. The vehemence in his eyes the night he found me in there during the storm flashes to life, and is all the reminder I need that there are two sides to this man. “Apologies. I know it’s not my place to question you.”

Blackburn shakes his head. “I should not have shouted at you,” he says softly. “I’d had too much to drink and was angry.”

“With me,” I add. “I called you names and accused you of many things. Though I hate to admit it, your anger was deserved.”

Blackburn glances at me. “The castle is unsafe,” he says, his voice not unkind. “But if you wish to go inside, that is your choice. Be warned, though, you were right about one thing. If this is a place of death, then that castle is the breeder of it.”

“Still, you go in there,” I whisper, and though Blackburn’s eyes meet mine, he says nothing. It’s quiet as we draw closer to the pond, and I feel the need to reassure him. “I won’t go in there again,” I promise him. Even if the room he frequents with the slashed painting of his dead wife calls to my relentless curiosity.

Blackburn stops at a thicket of trees. One of the willows is uprooted from the other night’s storm, and though it’s a small one, it’s singed and gnarled and ominous nonetheless. We stare at it in silence before my eyes drift to the largest willow, where I’ve seen the figure standing. As I open my mouth to ask him about it, he speaks.

“Thank you,” he says, “for taking care of Paige the way you do. She’s—” He clears his throat. “Paige has never had someone to look after her, not a—well, not a maternal figure anyway. Since Constance, I’ve given up finding a wife and fear I’ve denied Paige what she needs most. She’s never had a mother, and I know she yearns for one desperately.”

I don’t know when I will have another chance, so I risk angering him and ask, “Will you tell me?”

His eyes are somber when he looks at me.

“What happened to your wives, Master Blackburn?” I hold my breath, my lungs tightening the longer he’s silent.

“I thought we’d agreed you would call me Greyson?”

I swallow under his gaze. Calling him by his first name makes my palms sweat, like it’s a trick. “It takes some getting used to.”

His gray eyes shift to my lips before he looks away. “Rebecca died when Paige was born,” he says, his voice grim. “So did my son, Paige’s twin brother.”

“Henry,” I recall.

“There was a quake,” he continues, his voice sharper than before. “She was injured, and there were . . . complications when she went into early labor. And Constance . . .” He clenches his jaw, his eyes unfocused as he’s pulled to another place and time. “It was an arranged marriage of sorts, put together by the Council, but we were never married. We never had the chance before . . .” Greyson snaps the twig in his hand and tosses it aside. Only self-loathing could paint such misery on a man’s face.

“Did she take her own life?” I ask, assuming he might want to keep something so tragic from Paige. “Your daughter thinks she changed her mind and left.”

Greyson exhales his displeasure. “Better that than the truth. Constance hadn’t lived here a week before I was told she died.”

My heart bleeds for him and for Paige. I can’t imagine the struggle of losing both wife and child, then taking the leap to do it all again, only to have your betrothed meet such a terrible end.

Greyson is too thoughtful for too long. As a storm stirs in his eyes, hardening his features, I know I’ve ruined this quiet peace between us by drudging up the past. Abruptly, he strides past me, his gaze fixed on the ground.

“I’ve angered you,” I blurt. “I’m sorry. It’s just—I thought—” I take a frazzled breath. “I’ve heard many rumors and my mind runs away on me. I needed to ask.”

“It’s natural you would ask,” he says, but he continues walking away from me, the coolness wafting off of him.

I take a few hurried steps after him. “Please, I—”

Greyson turns to me, his eyes shifting from my lips and over my face as his jaw works in frustration. “I am not angry with you,” he says, though his voice says otherwise. “I’m—” He shakes his head and looks toward the castle. “I’m angry with myself.” Exhaustion washes over him, his shoulders sagging under the weight of all he holds.

When Greyson realizes I’m staring, he straightens. “I’m sending you and Paige away for a day or two,” he says, and continues toward the manor. “Somewhere you will be safe while the Council’s proxy visits.”

Though Greyson’s words are surprising, they do the trick and quickly change the subject. “Safe from the Council?” I hurry after him.

“There are reasons I don’t have time to explain, but it’s safer for you—for all of us—if they don’t see you. Collins will be with me, but Gibson will see to your safety.” His pace quickens toward the manor. “I will come for you when it’s safe to return.”

There’s a tightness to his voice, and suddenly, I’m worried not about myself, but for him. “What about you?”

Greyson chuckles without mirth.

“Master Black—”

He spins around, and I stop short, his chest only inches from mine. “Please,” he says with irritation. He rubs his brow, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can explain more another time, but I must meet with them, and you must not be seen.”

As I open my mouth, he booms over me. “Tell me you understand,” he says. It’s a grave command, and the look in his eyes is hard as stone, like the day he came for us.

Reluctantly, I nod, anxious about the truths I have yet to learn.

“Say it,” he says tersely. “Say you will listen and not disobey—”

“I understand,” I grit back.

His eyebrow arches the slightest bit before he turns for the manor. “Come then. The proxy will be here any day now. Collect your things, enough to last a few days. And see that Paige is ready as well.”

I try to keep pace with him, nearly slipping in a patch of mud before his hand grips my arm. His fingers are firm, the heat of his body unexpected as we stand chest to chest.

“Thank you,” I rasp, and his gaze shifts to my mouth again.

Greyson swallows. The cedar and woodsmoke lingering on his clothes fills my nose, and I release my grip on his shoulder.

Greyson blinks and lets go of my arm as well, taking a step back. “I’ll send for the carriage to be readied.” And without another word, he retreats into the house.

29

SELENE

We’re on the carriage road for a quarter of an hour before I realize we’re leaving the estate and perhaps the entire Manufacturing District behind. As the morning thickens with a misty haze, we drive through forests I haven’t seen and roads I haven’t been on. The coach creaks and groans as we ride over pits in the narrow lane, following a small river deeper into the trees.

“What is this place?” I wonder aloud. Wild hops cling to low-hanging boughs and mosses consume the rotted logs scattered around the forest floor. It isn’t long before the sunlight is consumed by a foreboding, dense fog.

“The old woods,” Paige says, and continues her humming.

“Old woods?”

She nods. “Yep. They surround Briarwood, even Master Draven’s estate.”

Remembering the bandits on the road during our journey to Briarwood, I understand the reason for the pistol I’d noticed on Gibson’s belt, and I grow more anxious. I don’t doubt this forest is equally dangerous, and if I didn’t trust that Greyson would take every measure to ensure his daughter’s safety, I might worry a little for my own.

“Do you think there are really spirits in the forest, like the stories say?” I ask, pulling my gaze from the window. Paige is lost to her humming again, and fusses with her doll that’s crudely stitched together, though not without care. Its head of coarse, crimson hair is wild and resembles Paige’s when she first wakes in the morning, and the doll’s button eyes are crossed in the center, as if she’s smiling. While I don’t think the doll is meant to be frightening, it looks rather odd.

The wind howls, a moaning cry barely audible as it meets my ears, and I peer out the window again. Of course, there aren’t spirits out here, that would be silly. But what of the eerie whispers on the wind I hear when the manor is silent? And the shadowed form I’ve seen roaming the estate? It’s hard not to believe such superstitions could be real when these lands were once inundated with the dead. That hordes of them were brought in on the death trains from the overpopulated city of the sick and dying. The truths of the past give the stories of screaming banshees and haunted happenings in these wildlands more credence than I’m comfortable with, and the farther north we drive, the rest of the world is swallowed away.

“Paige?” I say more firmly.

She looks up from her doll.

“Where are we going?” She must know to be so at ease.

Her lips part in a wide grin. “To see the witches.”

I blanch. “The what?”

The carriage lurches to a stop, and I peer out the window. There is nothing, only mist-shrouded trees.

“Gibson,” I call. “Why are we stopping here?”

His reply is lost in the whispers emanating from the woods and he disappears into the mist. “Paige,” I say calmly, not wanting to give weight to her talk of witches, but the hair on the back of my neck and arms standing on end is anything but reassuring. “The trees,” I say, straining to listen. “Why does it sound as if they are breathing?” Moving boughs, I tell myself. That’s all it is. That’s all it could be. Despite my feeble reassurances, however, my heart stops when I notice an outline in the fog, taking a blurry form as puffs of air move around it. I shout for Gibson again, only to be answered with silence. I’m afraid to look away from the window as the form draws closer. “Paige—”

An old woman materializes, stepping out of the mist and into full view. Her gray hair blows in the wind, silver against her baggy, black cape.

As the realization of what I’m looking at—of who—dawns on me, my entire body trembles. Like always, a chill shimmies down my spine, and as the witch’s gnarled fingers clutch the staff in her hand, her mouth widens in a smile.

“A witch,” I breathe in utter disbelief. “It was a witch outside my window—”

Paige leans over, finally setting her doll aside, and squints into the mist.

“Stay behind me—”

“Grandma!” she calls, then throws the carriage door open, bounding through the forest and into the woman’s arms.

“You—” I gape, my surprise making it impossible to breathe. “What?”

Gibson reappears through the fog, walking toward the coach, as if he’s the one who summoned her, but I can’t tear my eyes away from Paige and the old woman as they embrace.

Her grandmother’s light-colored eyes watch me over Paige’s shoulder as she murmurs something into her granddaughter’s ear. Finally, Paige turns, pointing to the carriage.

My cheeks flame with the heat of utter confusion and fear as they stare at me, waiting. I realize I do have to move my feet if I’m to exit the carriage, but I blink at them, trying to understand what’s happening. Why does Paige’s grandmother live in the woods? And why has she been haunting me the way she has been?

Gibson opens the door wider for me to climb out.

I silently laugh at my inability to think straight, and exhaling a ragged breath, I lift my dress and finally step out of the carriage.

The ground is soggy beneath me, and twigs and leaves crunch beneath the soles of my shoes as I step forward, watchful and hesitant. There is no path. There is no road or safe house or estate. We are literally in the middle of nowhere, in a haunted forest that moans around me as if it has a heartbeat.

Gibson nods to me. “I’ll bring in the bags, miss, after I tend to the horses.” He doesn’t skip a beat as he shuts the carriage door and goes about his tasks, like it’s a normal day in Briarwood.

I shake my head. “Tend to them where? Where are we, Gibson?”

He stops abruptly, studying me with a furrowed brow. “We’re in the Screaming Woods, miss. I’ve brought you to the earthen people. Did Master Greyson not tell you?”

“Ha!” A hysterical laugh escapes me, and I clear my throat. “No. He did not tell me we were coming to the Screaming Woods to see the earthen people.” The old woman and Paige draw closer. “I don’t understand,” I rasp.

“Then there is much to explain,” the old woman says. Her eyes are a pale crisp green, almost otherworldly, and when her lips part again, her quirk of a smile seems more intrigued than unnerving. She waves for me to follow her. “Come, child. You will be safe here.” She rubs Paige’s shoulder, squeezing her closer.

Her grandmother? I still can’t believe it.

I must say it aloud because both Paige and the woman glance back at me. “Come on,” Paige says, extending her hand. She waits with bright, beseeching eyes.

Welcoming her reassurance, I clasp Paige’s hand and let them lead me deeper into the forest. The breeze picks up and the moaning trees begin to wail again. “What is that?” I whisper, peering up at the canopy.

“It’s just the trees,” Paige says, as if that answers everything.

The boughs creak in reply. “They sound like they are in pain.”

“It’s only trickery, my dear,” the woman explains. “Chimes and so forth—nothing to be frightened of.” Though the wind sounds phantomlike, her explanation puts me at ease. “And you can call me Mona. Unless you prefer Grandmother.” She flicks a knowing look at me, and I think she is far more amused by my confusion than she should be.

We walk between ferns that litter the forest floor, and onto a narrow goat trail. The wails on the wind lessen as we continue farther down the path. I ignore the cool mist coating my skin as my mind swims with questions. “You are Greyson’s mother?” I ask, noting no resemblance.

“No,” she says more solemnly. “My daughter died many years ago. This way—” She veers off the trail, toward a village of huts and flickering lights that sparkle between trees in the thickly wooded forest. “Let’s get you situated and something warm to drink, and I will explain what my son-in-law hasn’t.”

“Yes, thank you,” I breathe. “I would appreciate that.” Awed, I take in the tight-knit village built within the trees. Some hut-like cottages are on stilts, and others are built on the ground between trees. Hanging bridges stretch between platforms before they, too, are swallowed away by the dense mist. Whatever this place is, it feels like another realm entirely.

A few dozen villagers bustle about the forest floor, tending to their livestock and warming their hands over communal fires. Some of them weave, while others sharpen blades against carving stones. Beads hang from their necks and from their hair, all of them dressed for the cold, clad in wool and furs and leathers, like Greyson, though they wear thick cloaks of earthen tones.

“Raiden!” Paige chirps as a tall, older man with a gray beard steps out of one of the cottages. He straightens, his arms opening instantly, and a huge smile engulfs his bearded face.

“Hellion!” The geese squawk and flutter out of the way as Paige runs to him. He embraces her like any grandfather might, and I wonder if that’s who he is. Raiden and Paige greet a few other villagers as Mona and I draw closer.

“Come,” Mona says, and she gestures toward a cottage with clanking wind chimes and smoke escaping a hole in the roof.

I hesitate and meet Mona’s gaze.

“We don’t bite.”

I nearly snort. “Paige called you witches.”

“Yes, well, some stories say we are,” she says with a shrug, and I step inside with her.

Juniper hits my nostrils immediately, and warmth from the crackling fire presses against my skin, a surprisingly welcome comfort. Bottles and bushels of herbs hang from the crossbeams, and tendrils of smoke rise through the hole in the center. There’s a bed draped in fluffy comforters, like the one I have at the manor that’s stuffed with feathers, and I wonder if this is where it came from.

“Who are you people, really?” I ask in astonishment.

The woman pulls a pot off the grate over the fire and pours its contents into a mug before handing it to me. She gestures to the rattan chair against the wall. “The people of the forest,” she says simply. “Or witches or earthen folk, depending on who you ask. We’ve lived off the land for hundreds of years.”

“You didn’t go underground?”

She shakes her head. “Centuries ago, when people fled for distant shores and took shelter underground in London, we farmers found other means of survival in the woods. Here, the forest is dense and protected us when the skies grew thick with poison, and the wind, cold and angry as it can be at times, never allowed it to settle for too long. Even now, it keeps us safe. So as the city continues to awaken and grow, we continue to protect these woods, for fear of what else might befall this country.”

“The moaning trees,” I realize. “And the stories.” The rumors I’ve heard about ghosts and spirits in these woods stretch all the way to New London.

Mona hums in agreement. “Man will do what it always does, destroy the world again. We are simply trying to preserve what we have here for as long as possible.”

I eye the old woman, still confused. “And you think me a threat?”

She meets my gaze.

“I’ve seen you outside my window,” I explain. “And that night in the moors—you frightened me off the road.”

“That was not my intention,” she says, having the decency to look remorseful. Averting her eyes, she tends to the fire.

“Then why have you been following me—watching me, as if you are trying to scare me away?”

“I wasn’t trying to frighten you, child. But I was watching you. That much is true.” I wait for her to stoke the fire before she continues. “When I heard you had arrived, I was curious.”

“Do you stalk all the help that come to Briarwood?”

“No,” she says, slightly amused. “But only one, aside from you, has ever arrived intending to take my daughter’s place, and that was years ago. Someone with such importance, who can endeavor to secure the Blackburn line with a male heir, is worth observing.”

My heart lodges in my throat. Mona’s too busy making a new potion over the fire to notice. “A male heir?” I shake my head. “You’re mistaken. I am only the governess.” I swallow the lump of unease swelling in my chest with a gulp of tea, but any further rebuttal fails me. Greyson admitted just this morning that after Miss Knightly died, he’d given up on marrying again.

Suddenly, the violet dress Prudy laid out for me seems less accidental, and Greyson had wanted me to see the estate and to know the tenants. It’s why he’s let me get away with so much. I have a greater purpose here, and he can’t bring himself to part with the woman who might secure him his estate.

My nostrils flare as numbing surprise wears off and indignation burns in its place. Being the governess is only a ruse, and to what end? To provide me with a false sense of comfort?

Whatever ease I’ve been settling into recently knots with a new sort of resentment. For Blackburn. For being a woman. For who my parents were and what they have put me through over the years. Convincing myself Mona is wrong feels futile as Blackburn’s words to me that night in his study about my good breeding make so much sense. Of course he would care about that. He paid over sixty bills for me, after all.

As understanding dawns in Mona’s expression, so does regret, and that look alone is all the affirmation I need.

“He’s been grooming me to be her mother,” I bite out. “And I’m the only one who didn’t know.” I shake my head. “I’m still a plaything,” I whisper. Taken from one man’s den to another’s. No wonder Blackburn was angry to see his future wife wearing his dead wife’s clothes. His beloved wife. And why he was so concerned I would disappoint Paige. I grip the mug in my hand so tightly I worry it might break, wanting to scream for being so foolish.

“Calm yourself, child,” Mona says carefully. “There are worse things than being a mother to a young girl and the head of a household and prominent family. Especially one as wealthy and powerful as what Greyson offers you.”

Anger, hot and raging, fills me, not at Greyson or Mona, but at myself. For forgetting. For hoping and assuming life here would be different. “You think I care about riches and status?” I say, and I hate the defeat in my voice, but I’m not sure there’s much fight left in me. “I’m disappointed in myself, that is all.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I questioned my instincts,” I admit, meeting her stare for stare.

“Well, whatever your instincts, you know your fate could be far worse, child. You’re old enough to understand that.”

“Old enough?” I scoff. “I am well aware of my fate. My brother is dead because he was trying to save me from it, yet here I am anyway.” I set the mug down. “It’s the humiliation—”

“This is about your pride, then?” Mona chides. “You care so little for my granddaughter, you would deprive her of motherly affection?”

“This isn’t about my feelings for Paige,” I say coolly, and rise to my feet. “Nor my lack of them. You think I should be grateful to be given such an honor and responsibility, but Blackburn promised me I was no slave here, and now I learn I am worse than that because at least those people in the fields have families and lives outside of their work. But here, I am a placeholder—a third attempt with a single purpose. Is this why Miss Knightly killed herself, because she refused to accept such a fate with a man who is consumed by the memory of his dead wife?” Mona straightens, and tears burn the backs of my eyes. I have to steady my breath if I’m to keep the only modicum of sanity I have left.

I’m not sure how long I stare into the flames before I can bring myself to speak again. “I’m to be a mother and have children—a male child, specifically, since his last two wives didn’t,” I whisper. The hopefulness for my future here that had begun to take root only moments ago, is severed, disappointment and sadness taking its place. “That is my sole purpose, but what if I can’t give him one? What if Blackburn isn’t meant to have a son?”

“Do not say such things, child.”

My eyes meet Mona’s offended gaze. “Why not? It might be true, and you speak so easily of my fate . . .” I shake my head. “None of you care how heavy the burden is, though, do you?”

Suddenly, my dress is suffocating—I feel like an imposter. Too warm and on the brink of tears, I walk out the door, pulling a deep breath through my nose.

The laughter around the communal fire dies as I stride past a group of villagers, Paige watching me as I go. “Miss Sinclair—where are you going?”

“I’m taking a walk,” I tell her over my shoulder.

“To the river? Can I come—”

“No, child,” Mona says behind me. “Let her go.” And I do just that, not bothering to look back.

30

GREYSON

My conversation with Selene at the cemetery this morning invades all thoughts as I ride toward the Screaming Woods. I should have warned her who she would be staying with, but I’d been too stunned when she’d admitted she felt like she might belong at Briarwood.

No matter how many times I tell myself that what comes next is not entirely in my control, it feels immoral. Especially because it also feels inexplicably right.

Unable to afford more distractions, I expect that in seeing Selene settled with the earthen folk, I will be more focused as I wait for the Council’s proxy to arrive within the next couple of days.

But the closer I draw to the village, the heavier the weight in my chest becomes, and I can’t quite shake it. At first, I thought it was guilt for not having been entirely honest with Selene. But something far more feral claws just beneath the surface, and I recognize it all too well.

Fear. Because in choosing to remain in Briarwood, Selene has sparked a dangerous ember of hope, and has put herself in danger, one she is not yet privy to.

Spotting the crooked chestnut, I veer off the narrow, sunken trail and ride deeper into the woods. The chimes in the boughs above fill the afternoon air with an eerie melody that haunted my dreams as a boy, though now I am grateful for them.

When I finally reach the boundary of the village, Mona is the first person I see. She cranks a bucket of water from the well, oblivious to the wind as her cloak and loose hair catch in the breeze, both of them whipping around her as if she’s as much a part of this land as it is of her.

Dismounting Midnight, I search the heads of knotted braids milling about, looking for the golden-haired governess.

“Master Blackburn,” Gibson says, and rises from a table outside the ale hut. He hurries over and I hand him Midnight’s reins.

“All is well?” I ask him, and he nods reassuringly. “Good.”

The moment Mona’s inscrutable gaze locks on me, all lightness I feel in having finally arrived turns to ash on my tongue. “What is it?” I say, and it’s not a question so much as a command. I know that look. I’ve seen it aimed at me many times before.

“Papa!” Paige runs over from her seat at Raiden’s worktable. “I want to show you the new doll I’m going to make with Grandmother. We picked out her hair and—”

I squeeze Paige’s shoulder. “You can show me when it’s finished,” I say, noting Selene isn’t at the worktable with her. “I need to speak with Miss Sinclair. Where is she?” Searching the dozens of faces walking about the village, I find she is not among them either, and suddenly, laying eyes on her feels paramount.

“Mona?” I prompt, eyebrow arched and expectant.

“You didn’t tell her why you brought her here.”

I frown, ignoring the accusation in her voice. “I told her it was to keep her safe. Do I need another reason?”

“No,” she says, her eyes flicking to Paige before they fix on me again. Mona’s glare is as sharp as her tone is careful. “You didn’t tell her why you brought her here.”

I bite back a curse, choosing my next words carefully. “What have you told her?” It’s all I can do to keep my temper in check.

“Go pick the skirt for your doll,” Mona says, nudging Paige toward the worktable with a wink.

Paige does so reluctantly, but she doesn’t argue.

When Mona meets my gaze again, it’s as hard as mine. “The girl asked why I was so curious about her, and I told her the truth—that I wanted to know who was to replace my daughter—”

“Mona.” I growl, and turn from her, running my hand over my face. “She’s barely grown comfortable enough to stay. Of course I have not told her everything.”

“How was I to know that?”

“You’ve always meddled—”

“I am not meddling.”

I shake my head, gritting my teeth to keep my voice down as I scan the village for Selene. “Where has she gone?”

“I’m not certain.”

My eyes flash with anger.

“She’s safe,” she placates, putting up her palm. “The Eyes would have told me if she’d gone much farther.” I search for the hideouts hidden in the canopy above. “She left about an hour ago, in the direction of the creek. You—”

I start in that direction, but I only get a few paces before I spin around, glaring at her. “Tell me you didn’t say all of this in front of Paige,” I demand. The last thing I can stand to do is lose the governess and get Paige’s hopes up at the same time.

“Of course not,” she hisses back.

Raking my fingers through my hair, I stalk toward the creek. I follow a set of dainty footprints in the damp earth, and can’t help the way my muscles coil so tight I have to flex my hands and grit my teeth to keep myself in check. All the progress we’ve made has likely been for nothing, and I brace myself for what I fear comes next.

When I reach the creek, I slow, searching the sandstone boulders for her. I imagine she would find solace by a hidden brook, just far enough away from the villagers she feels like she can breathe, like she isn’t trapped.

I second guess my instincts, then spot her red skirt from the corner of my eye. When I look up at a flattened boulder directly beside me, the governess is peering down, her legs crossed in front of her, wild blonde hair, never quite tamed, catching the muted sunlight filtering in through the mist.

“I knew I was missing something,” she says, and it’s so quiet, the words are almost lost on the breeze. “I was on a wild goose chase for answers. They were simply the wrong ones.”

“Selene—”

“This whole time, everyone’s been lying to me.”

“I didn’t lie to you.”

Her glare is piercing, but I have seen her rage, and this isn’t it. There is hurt in her eyes, and it makes my anger wither.

“At least, that was not my intention,” I amend, but my voice is gruff, and even to my ears, it sounds uncaring. “It was not Mona’s place to tell you.”

“Well, I’m glad someone did.” She peers down at her hands, picking at them thoughtfully. “I’m so foolish,” she says. “I’ve been angry about being a slave, and the whole time you purchased me to be your wife.” She captures her hair in the wind and twists it behind her ear. “The way you speak of Master Orson with such anger, I thought you might be different.”

“I am nothing like that bastard,” I grit out, resting one hand on my hip. I rub my brow with the other. This is not how I wanted this to go, but it’s everything I’d expected and why I’d resisted to begin with. “I don’t want to marry you, Selene—I don’t want a wife.” But the instant the words pass my lips, what I want is to take them back.

“I’m quite aware,” she murmurs.

I force myself to look at her, and my chest cinches as the injury in her eyes glitters back at me. Another regret. Another heaved breath. “I am not ready,” I confess. “And it’s dangerous, but I have little choice in the matter.”

Selene says nothing as she rises to her feet and climbs down from the boulder. I expect the fiery thing will shout or try to strike me, and I hold my breath.

“So be it,” she says, though there is no vehemence or anger, only defeat as she brushes past me.

I grip her arm. “There are things you don’t understand. Mona doesn’t know—”

“So, you don’t need a male heir to secure your estate and keep to the Council’s accord as part of your agreement?” Her chest heaves. Her blue eyes brim with emotion, and I feel the pang of it keenly.

“You know of the accord?”

“I heard you speaking to Collins,” she supplies. “And it’s why you were going to marry Miss Knightly, is it not? Not because you wanted to, but because you had to, for the accord. No matter how she felt about it?”

“Constance was different,” I say. My loathing for this situation and fear for Selene’s safety pales compared to how badly I realize I want her to accept this arrangement. To accept me. Because standing only inches from me, I notice the freckles on the bridge of her nose—just a dusting of them, unlike the star map on Paige’s cheeks. I can no longer deny that I’m drawn to this creature in the most unexpected way. “If you’ll let me explain,” I tell her, but nostrils flaring, Selene looks away, as if she can’t stomach this conversation any more than I can.

“You purchased me to be your breeder,” she says. “There’s nothing else I need to know.”

I open my mouth to refute it, to say no, but at the end of the day, that’s exactly what I did, even if I wasn’t sure I could ever go through with it. “I must have a son if I am to keep my estate. Surely you can see this is far bigger than what you and I want.”

Disappointment darkens her blue eyes as they search my face. “You mistake me, Master Blackburn.” My name is cold as stone on her tongue, and I inwardly cringe. “I’m familiar with how life works, and I’m fully aware it’s all far bigger than I am.” She stares at my grip on her arm. “Please let go of me,” she whispers.

I drop my hand like I’m the one who has been burned, and Selene steps away.

“I gave you my word that I would stay,” she says, smoothing down her dress. “That I would do as you request moving forward, and I will for all the people who live here and rely on your protection. Besides . . .” When she finally looks at me again, the spark that lights her eyes is gone. “Everyone is right. I have no place else to go.”

Her words gut me, and my stomach drops as Selene walks away, leaving me speechless. As much as I want to blame Mona for speaking out of turn, or be angry with Selene for always assuming the worst of me, the fault is mine. Had I been less of a coward and been honest from the beginning, I would not have broken her trust. And the hope I’ve dared harbor with each passing day is thrashed away by the moaning wind.

31

GREYSON

“Sir!” Collins calls, galloping up behind me as I make my way toward Emberbook. “Are you concerned he’s already arrived?”

“I know he has,” I call back as Midnight crests the hill. “A rider came to the house.” The days spent dwelling on my conversation with Selene, brooding about all the things that feel outside of my control, vanish as I focus on what awaits me at the foundry.

“So much for arriving in a fortnight,” Collins says. “This is early, even for them.”

“Never trust the Council, Collins. That’s the first thing my father taught me, and the only thing he’s ever been completely right about.” We ride closer, slowing our horses. “Draven would love nothing more than to catch me doing something nefarious, and he’s got their ear. I’m certain this visit is thanks to him.”

“Nefarious, sir? Never.”

I glance back at Collins, both of us grinning as we pull our horses to a stop.

The foundry chimneys billow with ash and smoke, and the carriage immediately catches my attention. Red and black banners whip in the wind. It’s not Hanley’s green and yellow flags that fly, Councilman of the Manufacturing District, but Tyran’s. I don’t like the unease that settles in the pit of my stomach at the sudden change of routine.

“Why is the City District proxy here?” Collins asks aloud, though it’s not a question either of us can answer yet. I know of Tyran’s proxy but have never met him, and the fact that he’s never come to Briarwood before now gives me pause.

I nudge Midnight toward the foundry.

“From what I hear,” Collins says as his horse keeps pace with mine down the hill, “Cecil is a slimy one.”

I eye the polished carriage closely, noting the mud splattered all over its once pristine condition. “Yes. He has quite the reputation.”

“And I hear he’s a talker.”

I grin. “We can only hope. Loose tongues are useful. With any luck, he’ll provide some insight into whatever Draven is scheming, since it’s Tyran’s ear Draven whispers in. But the sooner I can get him away from here, the better, Collins. If at any point Cecil leaves my side, stay with him. Watch him.” I meet Collins’s gaze. “I don’t want him frightening the workers in his efforts to uncover something he can twist and take back to use against me.”

“Of course, sir.”

I click Midnight into a trot, refusing to prolong this visit any more than I have to.

Remy, my casting foreman, walks out from under one of the brick arches, Bart in tow, to greet Cecil. The proxy steps out of the carriage, and a manservant exits behind him.

Though Remy’s expression is that of a confident, unconcerned foreman going about his duties, he knows what is at stake as much as I do. I study their gestures as I ride closer, and wonder how much information Cecil thinks he can bully from my man without my presence.

A flash of relief fills Remy’s eyes as he points in my direction. “Ah, Master Greyson!”

Cecil turns. His pale features narrow in surprise at my hasty arrival, though he recovers quickly.

I tug Midnight to a halt and dismount. “I apologize for not being here to receive you properly, sir.” I extend my hand in greeting. His servant looks at me, but only briefly, before glancing away.

Cecil’s dark, devious blue eyes flicker with disappointment, though he plasters on a toothy grin. “Master Blackburn,” he says, shaking my hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“I wasn’t expecting a proxy for another week, at least,” I lie, studying his every movement. “And to be graced with your presence—well, the Council is full of surprises today.”

We exchange a look, sizing each other up in the cat-and-mouse game we’re playing, and Cecil’s wolfish grin returns. “Yes, well, I’ve heard such glorious things about the infamous Blackburn and his great Briarwood estate. I wanted to see it for myself. And”—he shrugs—“I had some business in the northland, so it seemed natural that I be the one to visit on the Council’s behalf.”

I dip my chin. Business in the northland indeed. Draven is likely spying on us as we speak. “Of course.” I nod toward the foundry for Cecil and his man to follow. “Shall we? This is what you’re here for, is it not? You arrived on the perfect day. We’re filling one of the city’s many orders for steel bracings. You can see how it all works.”

Cecil watches me just as thoughtfully, gauging my sincerity. I have none when it comes to the Council. The council members know that. We’ve been playing tug-of-war for years, and I make no qualms about hiding my dissatisfaction with their increasing, unrealistic terms. Nor the close watch they keep on the grandson of the man who awakened their ugly city, giving them their newfound power and freedom, which they seem to easily forget.

Cecil and I are locked in a stare down until both sides smile in a truce. Neither of us says anything about it as we walk through one of the archways. Cecil’s manservant bleeds into the background, but I have no doubt Remy is keeping him in his sights.

A heatwave hits us the moment we’re inside. Little fires are lit everywhere, and embers dance in the air. Rivers of liquid iron make the foundry glow as far as the eye can see. Shouting, hammering, and tumbling limestone and scrap metal fill the air, echo through the facility, and bounce against metal vats of molten steel. The steam is sweltering, the viscous air suffocating and completely foreign to someone like Cecil, who only knows the cold winds and rains of the city.

I take my time, walking him down the aisle, letting him see how well-oiled my business is—the rebar production, the iron braces, and structure fittings the City District requires in rebuilding their fallen kingdom.

“If these are only your factory workers, you have far more slaves than I realized, Blackburn.” Cecil wipes the sweat gathering on his brow. With his red and black robes, he’s no doubt miserable in the heat.

“Do I?” I feign surprise and gesture to the production line of nearly fifty men hammering with sweat-sheened skin and well-honed muscles. They are healthy and capable and exude my strength as a landowner, and a promise that we are not slowing production anytime soon. I could not be prouder. “As you can see,” I shout over the noise. “We’ve been able to find a rhythm.”

Cecil winces with each resounding bang. “And these structures?” Cecil says, glancing at the metal beams and retrofitting.

“This facility is only partially retrofitted since we’ve had to double down on production for the Council’s expansion plans,” I practically shout. “Though I question whether or not Tyran has the capable bodies needed to maintain such a rigorous enterprise.”

“Perhaps we’ll have to borrow some of your slaves,” Cecil says with a smirk, and though he’s testing me, I don’t take the bait. “We were told you purchased more workers, which means you must be keeping up easily enough.” He gives me a strange look, as if I tried to hide from them my additional purchases.

“I do what I must in order to meet the quotas I’m given, per the accord,” I remind him. “I know Tyran and I don’t see eye to eye much—”

“Ever,” Cecil pipes in.

“Perhaps, but the question remains. What is the real reason for your visit, Proximan?” I stop and turn to face him fully. “The City District has never come to my estate. I work with Hanley. Always.”

Cecil glances around, wiping his sweaty brow. “You know how it goes—with a growing city comes new demands and . . . curiosities.”

And greedy men who want more than they deserve. I glance in the direction of Draven’s estate and think of Selene. If it’s a man who collects slaves she wants to hate, let it be him. He doesn’t know how to manage anything, only how to kill it, proving him the greatest villain of us all.

Cecil pats my shoulder and ushers me toward the exit as if he can’t escape the noise and heat fast enough. “You’ve always produced what’s been agreed upon,” he says.

“Even when it’s an impossible order.” My pace is slow, and I clap my hands behind my back, making him stew in the bowels of the foundry for as long as I can.

“Impossible? No, surely not. You’ve made good on all of our requests thus far.” Cecil grins, though I find no humor in it. It doesn’t matter if I have the largest working factory this side of the country. The request for more steel comes at a cost; one I’ve felt keenly, one that’s affected my daughter, my household, and me.

“Well,” he hedges. “I should say you’ve made good on all requests, save for one.” Cecil’s eyebrow lifts with fiendish amusement as we stop just before the arched exit. “Tell me, how does the quest for marriage go? Surely three years is enough time to find someone else to your liking?” He says it so casually, as if the topic is not the entire purpose of his visit.

My strategically placed mask of confidence slips as I wonder what exactly the Council has heard about my purchases, and Cecil notices. With a tight-lipped grin, he pats my shoulder and draws me closer, embracing me as if we’re old friends. “Yes, I heard about your slave girl,” he finally says, getting to the point.

“Five slaves—all of them female but one. It’s no secret,” I snap, growing tired of his games. “And before you make any more threats or inquiries, remember who I am, Cecil—who my family is. And I know what the accord states. The Council will not let me forget. What I don’t understand is why a male heir of my blood is so important. Draven doesn’t have one, and yet he seems so interested in my affairs. Tell me, Proximan, why is that?”

Cecil seems both amused and slightly surprised that I’ve been able to put the pieces together. He hasn’t been around me to know not to underestimate my knowledge of things. “It is our duty to take interest in everything you do, Blackburn. Especially when your success ensures our own—it is the way things have been,” he says simply. “And it is not for us to change or interpret what has already been written, no matter who your grandfather was.”

I laugh at that. “You have your proxy seat because of my grandfather. You would still be frightened by mice, feeding off one another in your tunnels, if not for him. And yet the Council would try to push me out of my birthright because my wife and heir are dead? Because Constance—”

“Yes, the business with Miss Knightly was a sad affair,” he says, but he doesn’t sound the slightest bit affected. “But tell me, how is your new governess, Blackburn?” He chuckles to himself, and it’s clear Draven has somehow learned about her—it’s the only way Cecil or the Council would know such a thing. “Silly me, I meant your slave girl.” He winks at me, and I want to throttle him. “I was hoping I would get to meet her while I was here, at least a glimpse.” The curiosity in his voice is that of a child looking under his bed, as if he’s uncertain what he’ll find. I can’t tell if it’s fear or intrigue that has him so curious.

“Unfortunately,” I grind out, my patience thinning. “That won’t be possible.”

Cecil measures his next words carefully. “Surely you—” He moves to pat my shoulder again, only this time, I clutch his wrist with far too much force, and pull it off my shoulder. The skin around his eyes and mouth tightens with pain.

“I’ve got business to attend to,” I tell him, gesturing in the opposite direction. I know I’m playing with fate by testing him, but whatever his angle, him seeing Selene is out of the question.

“Feel free to tell the Council whatever you wish, but know I will be there soon to talk to Tyran and the others myself.”

Cecil’s expression slackens as my grip finally loosens and I let go. Though I’ve surely angered him, I can’t be bothered enough to care.

“Careful, Blackburn,” Cecil grits out, and I see a gleam in his eyes that reminds me too much of Draven to have any doubts they are scheming something together.

“No, Proximan, you be careful,” I warn, but before I can threaten him further, the ground quakes. I know all too well what comes next, and as I whirl around to look at my men, a frantic Remy runs for me.

“Greyson!” he calls.

The crack in the archway above is earsplitting, and then the brick and mortar begin to crumble.

32

SELENE

As I tuck Paige back into the cot against the wall, I heave a sigh, overwrought with exhaustion and from stewing since my argument with Blackburn. Even the earthquake should have frightened me, but there is nothing that could weigh more heavily on my mind than what lies in my future. Now that I know Blackburn’s intentions, I have no doubt everything will change when I arrive back at Briarwood manor. There is nothing more to keep from me, nothing to hide.

“I wish to ask for your forgiveness, child,” Mona says quietly as she stokes the fire. The village outside grows quiet as it begins to settle again.

“For what?”

She looks at me. “For the other day.”

Though the wave of adrenaline ebbs, I know sleep is elusive, and I pull a chair next to the fire. “You did nothing but speak the truth. I should probably thank you for bringing so much to light.”

“Perhaps it was the truth, but I was insensitive.” She shakes her head and takes two mugs from the shelf behind her. “I am removed from much of your world, and I don’t always grasp what perhaps I should.” She must note my confusion because Mona continues. “Had I known how men have . . . treated you, and more about your past, I’m not sure I’d have said anything.”

My cheeks burn. “Blackburn told you about Master Orson then,” I realize, and exhale a steadying breath.

“He’s alluded to him, yes, but after your reaction, I have begun to put the pieces together.”

I peer down at my finger, picked raw around the nail. “I knew Blackburn didn’t like Orson—no one does—but I wasn’t sure if he knew all of it.”

“Men have a way of sensing these things. Especially those who feel too much, like Greyson.”

I look at her.

“Regardless, I regret that I wasn’t more delicate—the situation is not mine to bear—and I apologize. Seeing you with Paige together, I know you wouldn’t wish her any harm or disappointment.”

Though the sound of the crackling fire is comforting, it’s not enough to soothe my frayed nerves after the week I’ve had, and staring into the fire, I ball my hands into fists to keep from picking at my thumbnail.

“Here,” she says, crouching in front of me. Mona takes my hand in hers and dabs a salve over my raw fingers. “It will help it heal.” The scent of dill weed hits my nostrils.

When she’s finished tending to my hands, we sit in silence. Mona transfers some of the salve into a smaller tin for me to take back to Briarwood, and Paige breathes deeply with sleep. But when the silence drags on and I grow impatient, my thoughts boom too loud to ignore.

“My brother thought I would be safe in the orphanage,” I tell her, holding my hands to the fire.

“Safe from who?”

I smile, though it is not with humor. “The landowner who came for me when I was eleven, the day my mother died.”

Mona watches me, her eyes softer than before. “What did she die of?”

Squinting into the flames, I try to recall, but for some reason, the hurt I felt that day flares to life instead, along with the image of my father sitting beside her body, unmoved by her death, and James, his servant, standing there as if he had any right to be. Peering through that open door—it was the last time I saw either of my parents. “I don’t honestly know,” I finally say. “It was gradual, at first. Then all of a sudden—” I lift my shoulder. “She was gone. My brother took me from the house to hide me away, but we never made it that far. Your earthquakes here are nothing compared to those in the city.”

Mona glances at my leg. “Paige told me you were in an accident.”

The image of my brother’s face is hazy, and it pains me to realize my most vivid memory of him is in death. “I should have died that day beside Will, but I didn’t. I have no idea why.” I blink the tears from my eyes. It’s futile to cry, but I’m too drained to fight it. “Master Orson had been waiting for my arrival, so when he’d heard what happened, he came to claim me.”

“What of your father?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Dead, I guess. Or maybe he just thinks I am. He’s the one who sold me to the landowner my brother was hiding me from, so I’ve spent the last nine years telling myself I don’t care either way.” I clench my hands into fists again, wanting to pick until the pain hurts more than the onslaught of memories. “I think I’ve almost convinced myself I won’t be angry when I see Master Blackburn again, because he did me a favor keeping me in the dark . . . It provided me a small reprieve from what appears to be my destiny, one I clearly can’t escape.”

“Here,” Mona says gently, and when I look at her, her light green eyes are filled with compassion. “Have some chamomile tea.” She hands me a steaming mug, and the scent of hawthorn and honey wafts off of her. “It will keep your hands busy while your mind drifts.”

She pours herself a mug next and sprinkles more leaves into the pot over the fire.

“Mona, can I ask you something?”

She glances at me. “Please do. It is important you understand this place.”

“If you are Blackburn’s family, why do you stay out here, so far away from Paige? She gets lonely in that house. She could use her grandmother.”

Mona glances at Paige, then at me, and though she looks reticent to answer, she seems resigned. “I stay out here, child, because this is my home. When Rebecca married Greyson, she encouraged me to live in that castle, before it fell to ruins, of course, but it was too strange.” The mention of her daughter, saying her name so easily when, in the manor, it’s not to be spoken, feels dangerous. “It was her choice to move there. This is mine. Besides, it’s safer out here. And though I pray it isn’t so, if Paige ever needs a safe place to go, this will be it.”

Normally, I would argue that the Screaming Woods are not the slightest bit safe, but I know better now.

“What do you know about this land, Selene?” Not Miss Sinclair or child or governess. But Selene. Her saying my name feels strangely intimate.

“Nothing really. Blackburn likes to keep secrets.”

“You give him far more credit than he deserves, at least in that area,” Mona says, and it confuses me.

“How so?”

“You make him seem as if he is scheming, and it’s true, he is a clever boy, but that child has merely been trying to survive since my Rebecca died.”

The lines around her eyes tighten slightly. “He is grieving and lost, and if it weren’t for that little girl,” she says, nodding to Paige on the cot, “he might’ve given up years ago.” Almost immediately, Mona shakes her head. “No, perhaps I do him a disservice. He continues to do this for Paige, of course, but more than that, Greyson feels the weight of his grandfather’s legacy, and the hundreds of lives, now and still to come, relying on him.”

“You make it seem as if he’s trying to save the world,” I murmur, and take a sip of my tea. It’s hot and enlivens my senses a little as I swallow the floral taste.

“And you make it sound as if running a refuge is of no consequence at all.”

I frown.

“And you glower as if you are confused, but you must have noticed how different this place is than other estates, child. Even under the guise of the infamous Collector, you have felt it—the promise that hangs in the air here.” She looks at me askance. “It’s hope. And people come from all around to find it.”

“You don’t mean—” I sit straighter. “The ship?”

The corner of Mona’s mouth curves slightly.

“But why didn’t he tell me what the ship was? Why let me think it was for workers or slaves?”

Mona shrugs. “If I had to guess, because you keep running off. Greyson would have had to explain everything, and if you were to leave and tell someone what you know, all his family has worked for would be at stake. And the Blackburn efforts reach far beyond the rolling hills of Briarwood.”

“So, he lets the Council think he’s buying up slaves for their production, but . . . he’s saving them, for reasons of his own.” I shake my head. “I don’t understand what he was doing at the orphanage then. Did he know about me? Had he come specifically to purchase a wife?”

Mona chuckles to herself. “I would be surprised by that,” she says too easily for it to be anything but the truth.

“Why? If it’s a wife he wanted—”

“Not wanted,” she amends. “Needs. There is quite a difference. He put it off for nearly four years before the Council arranged his marriage to Constance, and when their plan was foiled and he’d lost another, he never spoke of marrying again. Not only because it is hard for him, but because such talk is dangerous.”

“The men who want his land would try to stop him from having an heir.”

Mona nods. “We’ve all been anxious, waiting to see how Blackburn will get out of the stipulation to marry and still keep Briarwood. Hence my astonishment when your carriage arrived and you stepped out of it.”

I frown. “You were there?”

Mona sips from her mug, licking her lips before she continues. “Raiden and I were delivering tinctures for the people of Emberbrook. And when Prudy was just as shocked to see you as the rest of us, I had to know more about you. I’d been speaking with Greyson that night of your arrival, lost track of time, and was heading back here when I stopped at your window.”

The fire had been blazing in Blackburn’s study that night of our argument, and more of the missing pieces begin to fall into place. Whatever exhaustion I’d felt before is chased away by an all-consuming need to fill in the rest of the knowledge I haven’t yet learned. Because everything Mona relays casts Blackburn in a new light, one that coaxes admiration and unexpected sympathy, not derision and regret.

“And that night on the road,” she adds. “I was on my way to Briarwood to speak with you. The last thing I expected was to see you in the sudden storm, but then you ran.”

I’d wondered how Blackburn had found me. “But . . . I still don’t understand why he picked me,” I admit, imagining what I must’ve looked like, outspoken and desperate in such an unkempt state. “He must’ve taken pity on me.”

“I don’t think he even knows,” Mona admits. “But if it were only pity, my dear, you would be living in Emberbrook with the others.” Her eyes linger on my face, shifting over my features, conveying the same thoughts that fill my mind.

“But if there was any attraction—if he thought he could care for me, even in the slightest, then why—” I stop myself. I already know why he would keep so much from me. “He wanted me to make my own choice.” I watch the fire’s flames dance in a flurry, matching the beating of my heart.

“It seems you both must learn to trust one another,” Mona muses. “And Greyson must let go of the past and trust himself as well.”

I study her expression as she loses herself to distant thoughts.

“He still loves her, desperately,” I say, in case Mona doesn’t know. “No one is allowed to speak your daughter’s name.”

Her eyes, full of sadness, meet mine.

“Do you blame him for her death?” I ask, uncertain how the relationship stands between her and Blackburn.

“Seeing the grief that plagued Greyson in the days after—that still haunts him—I could never blame him. He blames himself enough for it.”

“But why? For a complication with the baby?”

Mona stares at Paige, her chest rising and falling with each little breath. “A mixture of reasons, I suppose,” Mona whispers. “Pressuring her to have an heir to secure his estate,” she starts. “And to learn Rebecca was having twins never sat right with him, all too aware of the complications his own mother had.”

Twins. I recall the portrait, hanging on the wall in the staircase, of the man who looked so similar to Blackburn, not identical so much as strikingly familiar.

“More than anything,” Mona continues. “Greyson blames himself for not securing the castle the way he knew he should—for not moving everyone out of there.” She shifts her mug in her hands and holds them closer to the fire. “I was not there, mind you, but Prudy was. She’d been tending to Rebecca night and day, the pregnancy taking its toll on her. And then a big quake nearly shook the castle down to bones, and the distress—it only made matters worse.” Mona’s voice is distant, and having been in that room in the castle, and having lived through my own share of fear, I can imagine Rebecca’s thoughts in those final moments. Not fear for herself, but for her children. My eyes burn as I wonder if she died knowing she’d lost one of them, or if she knew one had lived at all.

“Wait.” I look at Mona. “Where is his brother?”

“Greyson is the eldest, so to speak. The one chosen to keep the estate running while Killian is off on one of his . . . adventures.”

I don’t know if it’s learning about the safe haven he protects or understanding his grief better, but my heart aches for Greyson. “So,” I start. “He lost his wife and child, and his brother has left him to sift through the rubble.”

Mona nods again. “Killian has always been a wandering spirit, like their grandfather. He does his part for the estate, but I can’t say he’s very reliable. Then again, I’m not sure one can be when sailing the treacherous sea.” She mutters the last part. “Though Greyson misses him, I think he prefers Killian gone as well. He was always an impulsive child, and unwanted attention on Briarwood is the last thing Greyson needs.”

“Mona,” I ask, one final question nagging at me. “How is it that your people are involved in this? What is it I still don’t see?”

Mona lifts the pot to refill her mug and gestures for me to finish mine so she can replenish it. “Locklin Blackburn, Greyson’s grandfather, came to this land from beyond the sea, where life is far harsher than it is here. Norseland has grueling winter storms, and is ruled by a ruthless queen and her power-hungry chieftains. It’s a land divided and rife with religious persecution.”

“No wonder we are dressed so well for the cold,” I muse, peering down at my wool, fur-lined dress. I run my fingers over the outlined mountains stitched on my belt, and I think of the woman with windblown hair I’ve seen decorating his banners and tapestries in the snowy landscapes. “Who is she?” I ask absently. “The woman on his banners.”

“Skadi, the maiden of winter and mountains.”

I look at Mona.

“A part of his ancestry Greyson still clings to. Before his grandfather arrived here, Locklin’s family were fisherman and farmers, killed during a raid. He fled after that—took a few other surviving men and women from his village wanting a new life, and they sailed away. They shipwrecked off the English coast, near one of our settlements, and the few seamen that survived were nursed back to health. My people had never met anyone else who had survived the great Shift, or the Great Turning, as Norseland calls it.”

“And your people were curious.”

Mona nods. “More than that, Locklin fell in love with the healer during his recovery, and when he was mended, she left with him to explore the Black Country. They wanted to start a family, but not near the coast, not where they could easily be found. So, she brought them here and—”

“They woke the sleeping city,” I finish for her.

Mona takes a sip of her tea. “Yes. Locklin was ambitious, high on hope and possibility of what the lush land here could provide. Earthquakes were nothing compared to the constant snow and threats back home. It may be difficult to grow crops here, but the soil is pliable and rich. And the Council of Four was equally ambitious to start over. But after nearly three hundred years in the tunnels, they knew nothing about living above ground and were hungry to learn everything Locklin could teach them. So, the five of them brokered a deal, and the rest is history.”

“And the rumors about the haunted woods began,” I whisper. “Your family has been tied to Blackburn’s ever since.”

“Yes. And the tie between earthen folk and the Blackburns was solidified even more so when Rebecca and Greyson were married.”

“How did they meet?” I ask wistfully.

“Killian was always getting into trouble. As a boy, he ran away and was lost in the woods. He had some bumps and bruises, but he’d managed on his own until we found him. Greyson came with his father to collect him, the children became friends, and you can guess the rest.”

I try to think of a young, hopeful Blackburn with love in his eyes and a smile parting his lips. But it’s to no avail.

“Until now,” Mona continues, “the Council and the Blackburns have worked together well enough. But the bigger the city grows, the more power is at stake, and men like Edward Draven itch to get their hands on Blackburn’s prosperity, doing whatever it takes to shift the scales in their favor. He’s proven that much already.” Mona takes a thoughtful moment before she continues. “Killian being away so frequently, is better for the family in many ways, but it also shows weakness and a division amidst the brothers. And Greyson having no male heir—” Her voice breaks, not so much with sadness, but with longing, and she clears her throat. “Draven has done everything he can to keep it that way.”

The repercussions of someone else taking over Briarwood are impossible to ignore. “If Blackburn ever lost this land, the workers wouldn’t be the only ones in danger,” I realize and meet Mona’s gaze. The harsh reality shines in her glistening eyes. “You and Paige . . .”

She brings her finger to her lips and glances at her granddaughter, stirring in her sleep. “I don’t tell you this to guilt you, child. Nor do I tell you this to sway you, but you should know the position Greyson is in and that, no matter what he decides to do, he is making a sacrifice. And there is your safety to consider as well.”

She and I stare at one another for so long, it turns into a comfortable silence. Her mind wanders somewhere far away, and I think of that day in my parent’s room, nine years ago.

I lean forward, elbows on my lap, and close my eyes. “You are meant for more than this place,” I say, repeating my mother’s words. “There will be darkness. There will be fear. But there is hope and goodness.” Mona’s gaze is heavy against the side of my face. “My mother told me I must fight for it, that I must fight for all of them.” I look at her. “I thought she’d meant the children of Bedlam. That I should comfort them and give them a glimmer of kindness and hope in this soulless world.”

“And now?” Mona asks, her voice a throaty whisper.

I laugh quietly, uncertain how my mother could know such a thing. “Now, I—”

A wail echoes in the night, making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, and I sit up straight. Mona and I stare at one another as someone shouts in the distance. There’s a battering of horse hooves.

“Is that Collins?” My words are drowned out by more shouting and clamoring outside, and Mona and I hurry to the door just as it flies open.

Collins is standing there, heaving for breath.

“What is it?” Mona demands as Gibson stumbles out of the cottage behind him, half asleep.

“It’s Greyson,” Collins rasps, his voice hoarse from shouting in the night air. “The quake—he was in the foundry when part of it collapsed.”

33

GREYSON

I thought I would welcome death when it came for me.

I thought I would feel a lightness as my burdens lifted. Instead, I feel a desperate panic, because all I can think about is Paige.

Paige without her mother or her father.

Paige without my protection.

I can’t allow my daughter to become prey to the Council. For her to have her life ripped away when I am no longer here to keep the wolves at bay.

And then I see Selene, eyes wide and hopeful, the way I remember them from the cemetery. Even if it was only fleeting.

Vaguely, I register the aches riddling my body, my muscles taut and coiled.

Dust, so thick I can barely breathe, weighs heavy in my lungs, and I struggle for my next breath.

There’s a chill.

A lancing pain in my head.

And then there’s blackness again.

Cold and hot. Wet and scratchy. I’m jostled awake, only to lose myself once more.

Something cool presses my temple, stirring me awake, then warmth caresses my cheek. A hand.

“Paige,” I croak, licking my lips that feel like leather and taste like ash.

“He’s stirring,” a quiet, indistinct voice rasps.

Light flickers beyond my eyelids, and though my head is pounding and it’s nearly impossible to peel my eyes open, I force myself to wake—for my arms to move, and to make sure my daughter is all right.

“Bring Paige,” a feminine voice whispers, and there’s a shuffle of footsteps.

I swallow thickly to speak as cool fingers brush my temple, a moist cloth following.

“Shh. It’s all right. You must be still. We’re not entirely sure what’s broken—”

Everything is a blur of colors as I brace myself to sit up, my leg twinging with pain.

“Easy—Paige is coming.”

Finally, my gaze latches onto waves of hair that glint in the firelight, and eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion; they glow an impossible shade of blue as they fix intently on me, filled with concern.

My breath catches, and I have to blink a few times. “Selene?” I don’t know why it’s a question, or perhaps it’s confusion. But my heartbeat quickens.

“Bronson said to watch over you tonight,” she whispers, and I can’t help but cling to the relief in her eyes. “He hoped you would wake.”

It takes me a moment to remember why I would need the healer’s help, and why I’m in my chambers—in my bed—and Selene is sitting on the mattress beside me as if she belongs there. Only then do I realize I’m holding her hand against my cheek. She must realize it too, because a second later, she slowly pulls away.

“You’ll be all right,” she promises. And when Selene leans back, she takes her warmth with her. “You hit your head in the falling rubble, and you may have fractured your leg.”

I remember the sweltering heat, the dust, and the clank of falling metal. The crumble of brick. “We were turning for the exit . . .” I remember aloud. “But the earth shook me off of my feet.” My eyes dart to hers. “Remy?” I hold my breath, watching her features shift ever so slightly. He’d called for me—lunged to push me outside.

Selene’s eyes sadden and she bites her bottom lip. “I’m afraid your foreman didn’t make it,” she says sympathetically, and brushes her thumb where she holds my arm.

My chest tightens and I look away, my thoughts consumed by Remy’s family.

“Apparently, the south end of the foundry saw the worst of it. There were a few casualties, including the Council’s proxy—”

“What?” My heart stills, but it isn’t sorrow or regret that fills every inch of me, but dread.

Selene shakes her head. “I’m sorry. They told us—”

I let my head fall back against my pillow. “They will think I had something to do with this,” I mutter, the urgency to ride to the city clawing at me. “They knew—” I wince as I try to move again. They knew about Selene, and whatever they are scheming, they will think I am trying to thwart their plans.

“I know more than anyone how much stronger the quakes are in the city. I’m sure they felt its magnitude far more than we—”

“You don’t understand,” I practically growl, though I don’t mean to. Rubbing my forehead, I squeeze my eyes shut. All I can think of is Paige again, unprotected. “They are looking for any reason to act against me—” I brace my hands on the mattress to sit up again. “Where is Collins?”

Selene reaches for me, resting her hand on my shoulder as if to soothe me. “He’s gone,” she says calmly. “He wanted them to hear what happened to the proxy straight from him, in person. To tell them you were injured and reassure the Council no foul play was involved. He even rode ahead before they could reclaim the body from the rubble.”

“Then how do you know he is dead? He could still be alive.”

She shakes her head. “I doubt that is possible,” she says, and I listen with bated breath. “I was told it will take half of the night to sift through all of the bricks. Besides,” she continues, “Collins knew you would worry, so he took the proxy’s manservant to bolster his claim. He barely survived himself, apparently. They left for the city an hour ago.”

As quickly as all my anxieties tripled, a measure of relief washes over me, calming my nerves enough to allow me a deep breath. “Good.” I exhale. It’s only a sigh, but it’s all I can manage. Collins will know what to do and say in my stead. Though, the idea of them learning I’m injured worries me as well. Flinging the blanket back, I try to climb out of bed.

“Please—stop.”

I cringe as my weight settles over me.

“You’ll only make it worse.”

I shake my head, my eyes flashing to Selene. “And if they say I am unfit? They could make their move now—”

“That will take days,” she says, her voice firm. And with a stern gaze, she presses me down against the pillow again. “There is time to think this through, I assure you. The city often bears the brunt of the quakes. Who knows what disrepair the districts are facing this very moment?”

I stare at her, hearing the truth in her words. Selene would know, and she is right, thank the gods. Whatever we felt here was five times worse there. With a discontented sigh, I stare up at the ceiling.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Selene starts again, and she dips a discarded cloth into a water bowl. “I’ve asked Ms. Fairchild to make Remy’s family some meals to send over. I know they must be inconsolable, too much to worry about—”

Her words taper off, and I realize I’m frowning. My heart feels too heavy as I think of Remy—a father and husband—gone. The last thing he’d done was to try to get me out of there, and he’d paid the price for it.

“Um—apologies.” Selene sets the cloth down as she straightens. “I didn’t mean to overstep. I thought someone should see to these things, and Prudy—”

“No.” I reach for her, but drop my arm, regretting it immediately as my body protests. “You didn’t overstep,” I tell her with a pained exhale. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to get a hold of myself and focus. After a heartbeat, I clear my throat and rub my hands over my face. “Thank you for doing that. I want them to have all that they need. I just—” All I’m certain of is my friend, who has been on this journey with me since my father died, is gone forever. “He—he pushed me out of the way.” The words nearly cut through me and tears blur my eyes.

Selene rests her hand on my forearm, lightly squeezing. “He saved you because he wanted you to live. Because he cared about you and what you do here for everyone he cares about.”

Unable to meet her gaze, to see any sort of sympathy in her eyes, I lean my head back again, the gratitude and guilt nearly swallowing me whole. A heartbeat passes. A minute. And finally, anger grips me. “Is there no end to any of it?” I clench my fists at my side. “Have we not lost enough—have we not suffered and endured enough?”

“Papa?” Paige whispers from the doorway, stirring me from dark, desperate thoughts.

Blinking the tears from my eyes, I look up and move to wipe my brow with the back of my arm, ignoring that my body feels as if Midnight has thrown and kicked me far too many times to count.

“Come in,” Selene tells her, rising to her feet. She sets the dish of cool rags on my nightstand and motions for my daughter to take her spot. Mona steps into the room behind her as Paige runs over.

“I knew you were too stubborn to die,” Mona quips, lifting her brow with amusement. Her eyes rake over me, assessing. “A little worse for wear, but still breathing, as I expected.”

Selene heads for the doorway, and though I want to ask her to stay, the relief in Paige’s eyes consumes me. The tears filling their green depths and trickling down her cheek cinch my heart until I can hardly stand it.

“Don’t cry,” I plead, wiping them away.

“You almost died,” she whimpers, but I shake my head.

“No, I’m all right. It’s just a scratch.”

Paige sniffles and drags her arm across her snotty nose.

“Come,” I say, voice hoarse with emotion as I try to clear it away. I open my arms and Paige climbs into them, wrapping herself around me. I grimace but revel in the pain as I squeeze my eyes shut. Feeling the burn in the backs of my eyes, I breathe my daughter in. I would never leave you. I love you. The words are there, but catch in my throat. “Please,” I repeat, “don’t cry.” It’s all I can manage, and as I open my eyes, Selene tears her gaze from us and steps out of the room.

34

SELENE

I barely have time to discard the bloody, tepid water bowl on the hallway table before falling into the wall to catch my breath. My heart hurts. For Paige. For the reality of what she might’ve lost today.

I know all too well what it is to be without parents, and upon finding the wagon empty in the drive, and Blackburn’s body unmoving in his bed, I thought she might suffer the same heartbreak.

How can a man so hard-edged and broken have such softness in his eyes? Such love and devotion for his daughter, even if he never allows himself to show it? I still tell myself my father loved me in his own way, despite bartering my life away. But I know it was nothing compared to Blackburn’s affection for Paige; all he’s endured for her. And the misery in his eyes nearly ripped my heart in two.

Holding my breath, I listen to their murmurs. He utters reassurances as though there are any certainties in this world. As if everything would have been okay, even if he hadn’t been.

Tears fill my eyes as the truth of my unwanted feelings ring too loud to ignore. It’s relief blooming in my chest. Relief that Blackburn is alive and that Paige still has a father. But more than that, it’s relief that the way we parted in the woods is not the last words we’ll have ever spoken, and the anger in my voice and hate in my heart is not how he will remember me.

Swallowing my unexpected grief, I take a deep, steadying breath, bracing my palms against the wall. Mona’s voice reaches my ears, and our conversation cannot be undone—my mother’s words cannot be forgotten. Though my fate in this place feels thrust upon me, it’s not wholly unwanted. I’m not sure it ever was.

35

GREYSON

I watch the fire flickering low in the hearth beside my bed, my eyes heavy but my mind unable to rest. It takes nearly two days to get to the city, which means I must stew for another three, at least, before Collins returns with word from the Council. I pray he thinks to check in with Chauncey while he’s there, to learn of any rumors about the ship, or about the Council moving against me. Though I can’t say Cecil’s death saddens me, it might be the final tipping of the scales.

And the foundry . . . I fling the blankets off, unable to sit idle a moment longer. I hate feeling like an invalid. The spicy scent of yarrow wafts off of me, like I’ve been dipped from head to toe in one of Bronson’s vats of salve. And despite my head still pounding, my insides will be overflowing before breakfast if I drink any more of Mona’s special teas.

The rug is cool but plush beneath my bare feet, and I ignore my body’s protestations as I limp my way to the window. My leg isn’t broken so much as it looks mangled by a rabid dog from Bart pulling me out of the rubble. The bruises, cuts, and scrapes on my face and torso are constant reminders of my continued inability to keep the people I care about safe, and I welcome the discomfort of them.

Had I focused more on securing the castle seven years ago, lives might’ve been saved.

Had I finished the foundry, instead of spreading my workers so thin, it might’ve held strong in the earthquake.

And that I should be the one to survive again is the cruelest of jokes, and yet, I cannot help but be grateful. The realization burns like acid through me.

I toss the drapes open, letting the early morning light filter in, blaring as it is. I don’t know why I peer past the beech tree line along the property’s edge, as if I might be able to see Northshire, but I know Draven is there, and it makes me all the more anxious for Collins’s return.

The door handle jiggles, and I hear the clank of dishes.

“Prudy—” I grumble. “I’m not the slightest bit thirsty, nor hungry.” I glance behind me to find Selene standing in the open doorway. Her hair tumbles over her shoulders like spun gold, practically glowing against the garnet dress I’ve admired on her before.

She takes in the sight of me in equal measure. And only then does it dawn on me I’m only in my night pants.

“Forgive me,” she says, glancing furtively around the room. “I thought you would still be asleep.”

“Yes, well, you have to fall asleep to stay asleep,” I mutter, and peer once more out the window. I’m not sure I have the energy to contemplate her reasons for being so attentive to me after our deplorable conversation in the woods, not when I have an estate that might now be in dire need of saving.

“Perhaps you’d like some breakfast then, since you’re already—” The china clinks together as she comes to an abrupt halt behind me.

I pivot to find her gaping at my canvases, partially covered and stacked haphazardly beside my wardrobe.

“You paint,” she breathes, and her gaze darts to me.

The absolute shock in her eyes confuses me, and I frown. “I used to. Not much anymore.” She sets the tray on the table in front of the fire, eyes glued to the discarded atrocities that should never see the light of day.

I take a hobbled step toward her, ignoring the pain in my flare of panic. “Miss Sinclair,” I say warningly as she moves closer. “Miss Sinclair, don’t—”

She tugs the cloth away and straightens. Her painted eyes, malformed as they are, stare out from the canvas.

I don’t dare admit I’ve only recently picked up a brush for the first time in years, needing to rid myself of her disdainful blue gaze that’s plagued me since her arrival.

Selene’s features give nothing away as she steps closer. She fingers the fabric of the dress she’s wearing, its painted likeness paltry in color.

“Red,” she rasps, and her hand covers her mouth. “You were painting.”

I don’t know what epiphany she’s having, but I squeeze my eyes shut, rubbing my brow in utter mortification. “You were not supposed to see those,” I admit. None of this was supposed to happen this way, and it’s all I can do to find solace in the fact that she can’t possibly deplore me more than she already does.

Selene’s gaze burns the side of my face, and with a groan, I finally muster the courage to look at her.

She tilts her head, considering something as she stares at me, as if she’s trying to understand. “They are paintings of me.”

“As you can see,” I tell her brusquely, eyes locked on hers as I brace myself for her scorn.

Instead, she turns back for the tray on the table. Confused, I watch as she pours a cup of tea before nodding to my leg. “Are you in pain?”

Yes. “No, I’m well enough.” My brow furrows, unnerved by whatever is happening. But I don’t wish to speak of the paintings any more than she seems to, so I embrace it. “I don’t need to be coddled, Miss Sinclair. There’s far too much to do.”

“Yes, well, you’re right,” she says offhandedly. “It’s already been, what, a handful of hours since you nearly died?” Her eyes flick to me. “You better not recuperate for too terribly long.” Sarcasm drips from her words, and though I give her a sidelong look, I’ve missed the curtness in her tone. “Restless or not, Master Blackburn, it behooves you to take things slowly.” She uses that damned moniker again, but the command in her voice is pleasantly surprising. It’s as if she cares, just a little.

Selene uncovers a plate of toast, oblivious.

“Shouldn’t you be with Paige, teaching her something?” I grumble. “It should be Rosemary tending to me, or Prudy. Not you.”

Her expression folds a little, and I realize how rude that sounds.

“It’s not your job to bring me breakfast,” I clarify, and then I realize she likely assumes I expect this of her. “Selene . . .” I sigh, exhausted despite my restlessness. “I know you think I’m a beastly man, but I don’t expect you to wait on me, or to serve me in some way.”

She straightens, running her hands down the front of her dress again. It’s a nervous habit I’m noticing more and more. “I know,” she says simply. “But I want to.”

My brow twitches in surprise as she clears her throat, delicate noise that it is.

“Now,” she starts again. “Would you like to eat in bed this morning, or at the table?” Her eyes drift to my chest and I tell myself it’s only curiosity I see in her gaze, nothing more.

“The table is fine,” I murmur, and walk over to it. A sharp pain shoots through my thigh as I take a step, making me stagger. I latch onto the bedpost for support with a curse.

“Easy,” Selene coos as she hurries over to help shoulder some of my weight. “There’s a reason Bronson told you not to walk around yet. Why we all have—” Her voice peters out when I glare at her, but there’s no genuine anger in it. I’m too busy noticing how she nestles under my arm perfectly.

“I can’t lie in bed and do nothing,” I grumble, and allow her to help me into the chair at the table.

“I’m sure there is plenty we can find for you to do while you convalesce. Is there work in your study I can bring up for you, perhaps? Or books you would like to read? You have two libraries full of them.” Selene uncovers fried eggs, blueberries, and a few slices of ham to go with my toast.

“Did you make this?” I ask.

She laughs—actually smiles so wide it reaches her eyes—and my heart stumbles. “Good gracious, no. I don’t know how to cook, but Ms. Fairchild saw to it to make everyone breakfast before she started on today’s meals for Remy’s family.”

The truth of all that happened last night settles in again, and I find my appetite wanes once more. Selene’s stomach, however, seems to feel the opposite.

Her cheeks blush, and her hand flies to her middle as her stomach rumbles again. “I’m not sure where that came from,” she says bashfully, and I can’t help a smile of my own.

“Sit, eat something with me—”

“Oh, I couldn’t. I’m not hungry.”

I lift my eyebrow.

“I couldn’t,” she continues to protest, but I point to the other chair and nod.

“You can, and you will. I don’t need you fussing over me, and I can’t eat all of this on my own. I barely have an appetite as it is.”

With a sigh, Selene pulls out the chair across from me. Only as the air shifts around us as she moves do I remember my absence of a shirt again, but I suppose modesty went out the window the moment she tended to me in bed.

My chest warms, reimagining her beside me when I first opened my eyes. “Thank you,” I say, cutting into a slice of ham. “You did not have to tend to me last night. Bronson or Prudy, even Mona could’ve done it. I’m sure it was unpleasant and frightening.”

Selene plops a blueberry into her mouth. “Yes, I suppose they could have tended to you,” she says, “but I wanted to.” Her voice is softer than before, less surly, and she plops another blueberry onto her tongue.

She wanted to? Though I’m curious, we nibble on breakfast in companionable silence. I don’t know where her thoughts wander, but mine return to yesterday and Cecil’s none-too-subtle threats. My gaze shifts to Selene, worried about her safety now more than ever.

“Are you sure you’re not in pain?” Selene asks, when she finds me watching her. Her voice is tentative and touched with concern. “You’re frowning.”

I push my eggs around on the platter. “The renovations should’ve been completed on the foundry,” I admit. “I left them idle for too long while we readied the new village for a ship I’m not even certain will arrive anymore.” I shake my head. Still unwilling to believe that something has happened to Killian, I curse his drunken stupor—wherever he may be—or that he might’ve allowed himself to become shipwrecked, because whatever is keeping him, he is far more stubborn than me, and couldn’t possibly be dead. I need him too much.

“Mona told me how important this place is. About your family and your brother.” Selene licks her lips, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin. “I know what this place means to everyone now, and why you do so much to protect it. But there is one piece to all of this I still don’t understand.”

I force my gaze to hers and hold my breath, praying she doesn’t ask me about the paintings.

“Why me?”

My fork stills.

“And,” she continues, “why now? You’ve managed to skirt the Council for this long. I don’t understand why suddenly everything has changed.”

Since I’m not eating much of anything anyway, I discard my fork and tear off a piece of bread instead.

“Because,” I start, uncertain even I know the answer, “the day I saw you, I knew you were a fighter. Rash perhaps, but selfless too. You had such a fierce determination gleaming in your eyes, and if I’ve learned anything in my nine and twenty years, it’s listening to my instincts. If you would fight to protect a few children, in spite of your station, what might you do for an entire estate of people just like them?”

Selene blinks at me, her eyes darting back and forth between mine, and as her lips twitch, I know she’s battling with herself.

“Come now,” I urge, leaning back in my chair. The longer she deliberates her next words, the more my interest piques. “You always have a quip or question. Don’t hold out on me now.”

Her eyebrow quirks daringly. “You knew at that moment why you purchased me, then?”

Hmm. I measure my reply carefully. “Yes, I think I did,” I confess. “However, I wouldn’t admit it to myself, not until the night you ran out into the storm.” It’s the unnerving truth, but it’s nothing more than she deserves, and I search the lapis-blue of her irises, shining in the morning sunlight. When she says nothing, I continue. “I pushed you too far that night, knowing what you would do if I tested you . . . Knowing how much easier my decisions would be if you left.”

Selene bites the inside of her cheek, her thoughts distant as she rolls a blueberry between her fingers.

“I haven’t been ashamed like that in a very long time,” I admit.

That seems to grip her. “Did you know about my lineage?”

I shake my head. “Well—” I shrug. “I had an idea. Only someone who has known and fallen from privilege would have so much resentment in their blood.”

Her chin lifts haughtily. “And you went to Bedlam. Why, if not for me?”

That Selene is asking me questions instead of ruminating on her own conclusions should make me happy, but I proceed carefully, uncertain which truths will anger her. “Collins and I made a trip to the city to collect on a debt I was owed. I had been in the city only minutes when a man with a loose tongue mentioned some orphans had died in the earthquake a few days before, and he was yammering on about Master Orson’s horrible wife and how death was a blessing.” I watch her for a response, but when Selene has no obvious quip or question, I continue. “So, we made a stop to acquire some new wards.”

“Wards,” she repeats, and her cheek lifts.

“Yes, that’s what I prefer to call them, despite what you may think. They are too young to be workers.”

This seems to please her, and I cross my arms over my chest, awaiting her next question.

“Things would have ended much differently had I not said anything,” she concludes, and I want to agree with her, but I don’t believe that either, not wholeheartedly. When she rushed into the room, the air in the dining hall shifted, and I could barely tear my gaze away.

“Mona mentioned you hadn’t gone to the city for a wife, so I was curious.”

“Yes, well, while that happens to be true, Mona doesn’t know everything, despite what she thinks.” Though I know her meddling the other day wasn’t intentional, Mona’s curt opinions have caused more harm than good.

I ball my napkin up and toss it onto the table. “Whatever Mona told you the other day about your purpose here, know this, Miss Sinclair—that was not how I wanted you to find out.” My frustration rises, recalling every flash of obvious disappointment I’d seen on Selene’s face, and I try to tamp it down. “You are not a servant here. You do not have to be my wife, and I certainly don’t expect you to carry out duties in this household the way a mistress would. In fact,” I say, and there’s a plea in my voice I hadn’t expected. “I prefer you didn’t accept a fate you don’t want. I couldn’t bear it.” The past few days blur together; I don’t know if I’ve said all of this before or simply inundated myself thinking about it, but I shake my head, suddenly exhausted. “I won’t be responsible for your misery, Selene, not when my own has been my constant companion for seven years. And I—” I hate the boorish words but I can think of no alternative. “I don’t think of you as a broodmare.”

“I know.”

“—or a breeder. I never wanted that.”

“Please,” she says almost desperate, dropping her hands in her lap.

I don’t know what she’s asking of me, so I watch her and wait for her to continue. When she doesn’t, I can barely stand it. “Please, what, Miss Sinclair?” Again, my words are harsher than I intend, and my head begins to ache.

“Please don’t think I am only here, sitting in this room or tending to you, because I feel I must.” Her eyes flick to mine. “I was—am—tending to you because I care about your recovery. Because I don’t want Paige to be without a father. And I don’t—” She licks her lips, and forces herself to look at me again. Her gaze shifts over my face, her eyes wide and so wild, I worry she might flee. “I don’t know what I see in my future, Master Blackburn, but—”

“Greyson,” I remind her. “Please.” I rub my temple.

She sighs, clearly as uncertain as I am about how to navigate this unfamiliar territory between us. “I don’t want to leave this place,” she finishes.

“And I promise, you do not have to. No matter where you—”

“No, I mean—” She bites her bottom lip, her brow twitching with indecision. “I don’t want to leave you.” Her eyes flick to me, glowing bright blue beneath her lashes.

I can’t help my scowl of shock and consternation. “You don’t seem certain.”

“Perhaps I’m not, but . . .” She throws her arms up.

Though I dare to hope once more she might truly mean it, I wouldn’t blame her if she changed her mind. There is little I can offer that would entice a woman like Selene to stay, with me. “It is a lot to decide, Miss Sinclair. There is no rush.” It’s a lie. There is a rush. Every passing day becomes more urgent than the last, but I won’t pressure her. Not if she is remotely considering it.

“Fine,” she concedes. “I will continue to think on it, but you must promise me one thing.”

“And what is that?” I ask, hesitant.

“If I am to call you by your first name, then you must do the same. And not only when you are angry with me.” She lifts an eyebrow at me.

I huff with amusement, surprised how she can unknot my nerves so easily, when all she’s done since her arrival is rile me up and make me question every aspect of myself I thought I’d come to terms with. I’m about to concede when she holds up her finger.

“And . . .” she continues.

Staring at her, I hold my breath, supposing it couldn’t have been so easy.

“You must take it easy and allow yourself to heal.” Her tone is firm. “Paige needs a father in good health. And you have seen to it that you have an entire estate of capable bodies and people you trust. Allow us to help you with whatever needs to be done so you can mend.” Her gaze narrows on me. “Do we have a deal, Greyson?”

I can’t help the smile that parts my lips. “You are quite the negotiator.” Her name stills on my tongue. She’s right—I’ve called her Selene out of frustration or desperation, but in the confines of my bedroom, speaking with such ease, it feels too . . . hopeful. “Quite the negotiator, indeed.”

36

SELENE

The afternoon is dreary, but the nip is gone from the air, and scant rays of sunlight filter through the cloud cover, as if promising a better day than the last. With a basket of provisions slung on each arm for Remy’s family, I wander the dirt road toward Emberbrook, losing myself to the song of blackbirds and the incessant hum left in the wake of so many discoveries in days passed.

I smile to myself. Paint. It was only paint on his shirt the entire time. My mind had conjured so many far more terrifying alternatives. I wonder if Blackburn—no. I shake my head. “Greyson,” I force myself to say his name aloud again. It’s the only way I’ll get used to it. Because I can’t remember the last time I called any man by his first name, save for my brother. Still, I wonder if Greyson would laugh at me, knowing my imagination was all too willing to paint him as a beast once more.

But the canvases he’d painted, though mostly unfinished, were all of me. It does him credit to learn his feelings for me have been as tumultuous as he claims. It’s far easier to look past the skirted truths when it’s obvious we are all out of our depths in this. And I can appreciate his struggle to come to terms with whatever we are or might become, because mine has been the same. Though there are likely a dozen reasons I should chide myself for thinking of him with a fluttering heartbeat and undeniable interest, I can’t think of a single one.

Shaking my head, I tell myself there are far more important things to sort out, like my future in Briarwood. As a governess? Mistress of the house? As a mother to the future children Greyson and I might have together? My cheeks flush and I stifle a laugh at the irony of it all, and how fickle I seem to be—first sick to my stomach to learn of Greyson’s intentions, and now? Sitting across from him this morning at breakfast, my acceptance to stay pouring out of my mouth as it did, I didn’t hate the idea of being his wife so much as fear the implications of it.

Even now, it isn’t my value and freedom I worry about, but my ability to be what he needs—what everyone on this estate needs me to be.

My mother’s words whisper in my ear once again. There will be fear. But there is hope and there is goodness—you must trust in that. You must fight for it. I realize there is no greater fight than what Briarwood represents. Good, free men and women. Children who would know a life outside of brutality and servitude.

Hugging the baskets tighter, I rack my brain. How could my mother have known such a future?

Wagon wheels creak down the road, and I look up, smiling as Bartholomew drives closer. Letting go of the reins, he waves one hand in greeting. “Miss Sinclair. You’ve come to see to Remy’s family?”

I lift my baskets. “Yes, I thought I might introduce myself.”

“Good, good,” he says, and though he smiles, there’s sorrow in his eyes. “It’s a sad business. I’m sure his wife, Alice, could use the distraction.”

“As I had hoped,” I say, and it gives me some comfort to know that I won’t be intruding. Shielding my eyes, I peer up at him. “How are Nell and Jon and the others? Are they all right? I heard the injuries in Emberbrook were minimal, but I haven’t had the time to visit before now.”

Bartholomew’s smile softens, his eyes crinkling in the corners this time. “They are fine, miss. A little shaken up, especially Bea, but Nell has them helping some of the other folks manage the debris to keep them occupied.”

Bea. That he calls Beatrice by her nickname fills me with happiness and regret all at once. It seems unnatural not to be a part of this new life the children have found, even if their joy makes my heart full to bursting. Forcing a broader smile, I nod. “That’s good. I’m very glad to hear it.”

Bartholomew glances toward Briarwood. “Well, I should be going,” he says with a grimace. “We were finally able to retrieve the proxy’s body from the rubble, as well as a few others we hadn’t anticipated. We can’t put off tending to them any longer.” Dipping his head once more, Bartholomew clicks the old mare onward. “Good day, Miss Sinclair.”

I step aside to let him pass. “Good day.” I don’t know what possesses me to look in the back of the wagon, but the instant I do, a cry rips from my throat. “Wait!”

I barely register the canned and jarred items clattering and shattering to the ground around me as I stare at a pale—very dead—familiar face.

37

SELENE

All I can see is my dead father’s face when I close my eyes. Skin almost blue, cheeks hollow. Hair more gray than dirty blonde, and shorn, unlike I remember. In death, he looked almost sinister, and I can’t quite comprehend it.

I’d longed for my father to claim me during the weeks of my recovery. To take me home, away from the stinking orphanage, filled with prying eyes and cruel tempers; for him to tell me he was sorry for trading me away, that we were all each other had left, and that we must stick together. But my father never came, and as the days went on, I convinced myself he’d died. Because what sort of father doesn’t search for his missing daughter?

My addled thoughts win in the end, and I fling the covers off and climb out of bed. I welcome the momentary chill, wishing it would chase away the unwanted memories before I wrap my robe around me. Finding my slippers, I make my way downstairs, determined to find something to keep my mind busy while the house is too still and quiet.

I’ve become more familiar with the manor with each passing day, and manage down the stairs well enough, heading for the lantern I know burns in the foyer. I once would have been frightened to explore the house while everyone sleeps, but tonight it’s a reprieve. Having not left my room for dinner, too out of sorts to be much company to anyone, I decide a scrap of food, and perhaps some tea, might help ease the hollowness a little.

The hallways are no longer ominous as I make my way through the house, winding this way and that. My slippers clack on the tile floor when I finally step into the kitchen. It’s cozy inside despite the cracks that etch the walls and the cold air that seeps through the windows as I pass. The copper and iron fixtures are polished and clean, just like Ms. Fairchild expects them to be when she starts every morning. The long countertops have not a canister or plate out of place, and pots and pans hang from a mess of hooks around the stove.

It’s the sourdough permeating the air that I fixate on, however, and deciding I will risk Ms. Fairchild’s wrath to indulge in a taste, I steal a chunk of freshly baked bread off the island. A pair of green eyes blinks at me from a mound of burlap sacks in the corner. The black cat meows in greeting, or perhaps protest, stretching with another mewing sound as it’s disturbed from its slumber.

I place my finger on my lips. “If you don’t tell them it was me, I won’t tell them you were sleeping on the job, little mouser.”

Unfazed, the cat goes back to its napping, and I fill the empty kettle with water from the spigot. When it’s full, I stoke the embers in the stove until they flicker with bourgeoning flames, and settle myself on the counter, happily situated beside the butter plate.

Tearing off a soft tuft of bread, I plop it in my mouth, moaning at the supple texture on my tongue. Suddenly ravenous, I stuff a larger, buttered piece in my mouth, and close my eyes, enjoying every bite. It feels sinful, eating in the kitchen while everyone sleeps, and it makes the moment even more enjoyable.

But my reverie is short-lived when I hear uneven footsteps in the hall, and I pause mid-chew. “So much for being nefarious,” I whisper to the cat as Greyson walks through the kitchen doorway. He curses as his cane snags on the lip of the entry. Hunched over on a spindly little cane, nightclothes rumpled and his hair wild and unruly—it’s almost comical. Grumbling, he shoves it against the wall, discarding it.

Unable to resist, I snort a laugh through my nose, and his head shoots up, eyes narrowing instantly on me.

I offer a guilty wave as I swallow the lump of bread in my mouth.

Greyson’s eyebrow lifts as he sets the empty decanter in his hand on the kitchen island. “Selene,” he drawls, his brow furrowing slightly. His face is scruffier, less kempt than it usually is. And even though he has been convalescing in his room, he looks tired.

“I thought I was the only one awake at this ungodly hour,” he muses.

I shrug, licking the butter from my lips as I nod to the cane he’s abandoned.

“I’m done with it,” he says, and per usual, his tone brooks no argument.

Not entirely surprised he’s being so stubborn, I roll my eyes. But when he looks at me again, his gruffness has evaporated. A dawning concern shines in his eyes. “Bart explained what happened on the road to the village today,” he says gently. “I’m sorry you had to find out that way.”

I sober quickly. “Did you know?” I ask, wary of the answer. I’d been trying not to dwell on the possibility Greyson knew my father was coming, that it was the reason he sent Paige and me away.

“No.” It’s an earnest reply, and I see the truth of it in his eyes. “I know nothing beyond Cecil’s reputation. It was his first visit to the estate.” He pauses. “It all makes a little more sense now, however.”

My head tilts of its own accord.

“He was asking questions about you right before . . .”

I stare down at my bread, reeling at all the impossible coincidences that seem to surround me. “And what, exactly, was my father’s reputation?”

Greyson stubbornly walks as normal as possible toward the cellar, as if he doesn’t hear me. “I need a drink first,” he finally mutters. “Something stronger than tea.” He removes the kettle from the stove, wordlessly pours hot water into a mug for me, and disappears into the cellar. I almost offer to fetch a new carafe to spare him the trouble, but I won’t insult him by offering to help, especially since he seems to be in a mood tonight.

Instead, I plop one of Ms. Fairchild’s tea bags into my mug to steep and nibble on another piece of bread.

When Greyson returns, he pours himself a glass of clear liquor and takes a sip.

“Well?” I prompt as he eyes me closely. He’s procrastinating, but I’m determined to know whatever he does.

Jaw predictably tense, he scratches his stubbled chin before finally answering. “Are you sure you want to discuss him? Dredging up the past—”

“He was my father, Greyson,” I say starkly, and my shoulders slump a little. “I need to know whatever you do. It may help ease the guilt I feel in having such little remorse about his death.” Deciding I could use some liquid courage as well, I take his glass from him, throwing what’s left of it back with a cringe. An herbal aroma accosts the inside of my nose and the liquid burns going down. “Dear God, what is that?” I ask, wiping my lips with the sleeve of my robe.

A smirk threatens the corner of his mouth. “Gin. Or, Chauncey’s version of it, anyway.” When I set the glass back down, Greyson almost smiles. “All right then,” he says, refilling his glass. “I’ll tell you my thoughts, if you wish.” He sets it between us.

I pick at a piece of bread to keep from picking anxiously at my fingers instead. When I feel Greyson’s assessing gaze on me, I offer him a chunk, but he shakes his head. “No, thank you.”

Plopping another piece into my mouth, I sigh and wait.

“Cecil was known for whoring his way among the Council to get what he wanted, and I mean that in more ways than one.”

I stop mid-chew. I wasn’t prepared for that, but for some reason, I’m not wholly surprised. The lack of tears in my father’s eyes the day my mother died spoke volumes of his affection for her, or lack of it; and that he had such little regard for me meant he had to have loved someone. I just hadn’t expected it to be himself, even after all these years. “What else?” I prompt, since there’s no going back now.

Greyson takes another sip from his glass. “Word has it, one of his closest confidantes was the person I loathe most in the world, so Cecil’s presence on my land was, shall we say, worrisome. I’m assuming they’d been scheming, but the question remains whether your father knew you were the woman I’d purchased when he came to inquire, or not. The purchase is public record, if they’d cared enough to look.”

“I would say it’s not likely he came for me. He never tried to before, but I don’t know the man anymore. I don’t think I ever did, actually.” I pick idly at my bread. “But it is strange timing, I’ll give you that.” Finally, I look at Greyson. “Who is it you loathe?” Having never heard him speak so vehemently about a person, I can’t help but ask. I assumed it was Greyson Blackburn against the world, not one particular man.

“Edward Draven.” He practically spits the man’s name, but I can see why.

“Yes, he is an unnerving man,” I agree, and dab another tuft of bread into the butter dish.

Greyson’s fingers wrap around my wrist, and I freeze. His eyes are blazing when I meet his gaze, and suddenly, I’m afraid. “You’ve met Draven?”

I nod, afraid to even blink.

Recognizing my unease, Greyson lets go of my arm and swallows thickly. “When did you meet him, Selene?”

“I—” Shaking my head, I sort through the days. “When Paige and I were walking to the village—after the carriage was stuck on the road.”

“That was days ago,” Greyson says, and rubs roughly at his brow. “That bastard was on my land. How did I not know this?”

“I—I didn’t realize. He said he was the neighbor, that he was there on business.”

“Not with me, he wasn’t.” Greyson’s apprehension roils through the room, worrying me far more than his angry tone.

“I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to speak with him. I would have told you.”

His eyes soften a little. “Of course you didn’t know,” he says, voice riddled with regret. “How could you?”

“Will you tell me why you’re so worried?”

Greyson downs what’s left of his drink and pours another. I can tell he doesn’t want to concern me, but he must realize it’s too late for that. “Draven is a man of greed and ambition,” he says, staring into his glass. “He did not inherit his land so much as scheme and steal it away. I don’t know why he covets Briarwood so much, but my sources have reported his whispers and constant interest in my affairs since he took over Northshire four years ago. He is not a man to be trusted. He’s been using my lack of an heir to rile the Council against me. And he’s seen to it to ensure it stays that way.” There’s a graveness in Greyson’s tone that sets me on edge. “Him knowing you are here puts you in danger.”

“Why?” I breathe. “What has he done?”

Greyson rubs his hand over his face, rough and agitated. “I don’t want to frighten you, Selene—”

“It’s too late for that,” I quip, and his gaze shoots to me. “Please. Tell me.”

His chest rises with a deep inhale, and I brace myself. “He killed Constance.”

“Miss Knightly?” Her name is a gasp, and quickly, I rifle through all I’ve learned about her so far.

“He made it look like she’d hanged herself, but I know in my heart she did not—there was no reason she would have. We were not in love, of course—it was an arrangement I’d approved to appease the Council. But she was willing to do what was needed. We’d discussed it, had agreed on a long-term arrangement that would satisfy us both once we were married. More than anything, she wanted security here, and my protection. I was supposed to give that to her—I promised her I would.” The ache in Greyson’s voice, the constant regret that riddles him, shrouds the room.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe, though I know it helps no one. “And you’re certain he would do such a thing?”

A false, angry smile curves Greyson’s lips. “I am certain it was him. And what better way to flare the rumors of the infamous Collector than for his second wife to follow the fate of the first, and worse than that, take her own life? Of course, I had absolutely no way to prove it.”

“It’s why you haven’t tried to remarry again,” I realize. “It’s why you sent me to Mona when the Council arrived.”

He nods. “I wanted to keep your presence here quiet for as long as possible, to keep you safe, and at the very least, to keep the Council from proposing some sort of ultimatum.”

“So that I wouldn’t be forced into anything,” I whisper. Greyson doesn’t have to answer. I know him well enough now to guess the rest. “And Draven has had too long already to plot and scheme against you, now that he’s seen me and likely drawn his own conclusions.”

He nods. “Draven was bound to find out. I was just hoping for more time.”

When Greyson looks at me, his expression is a mask of stone, but I see a storm brewing in his eyes—a tempest of doubt and fury and fear.

Recalling the look in Draven’s eyes the day I met him makes my skin crawl. “He has an heir to secure his estate then,” I muse sadly. “So he focuses on you now instead.”

Greyson huffs.

I frown. “He doesn’t?”

“Not yet, but he has a wife and many daughters he’s sold off to other landowners throughout the country.”

“And that keeps the Council happy, even if he has no male heir?”

“For now.”

I shake my head, leaning back against the shelf behind me. “It’s all so deplorable,” I grumble, and tea utterly forgotten, I take another swig from the gin glass. “Let us hope the earthquake will distract them all for a while,” I say, exhaling the fumes burning the inside of my nose.

“Yes, let us hope.” I can feel Greyson’s eyes on me, never wavering, as if he’s trying to gauge how frightened I am. But the truth of that matter is, I’ve been in a constant state of fear my entire life, so whatever threats Draven poses are nothing entirely new to me.

“I doubt he is more terrifying than I thought you were when I first met you,” I tease, trying to lighten the heaviness settling between us.

Greyson’s mouth ticks slightly up, but the intensity of his gaze remains hot against my cheek. It’s quiet for a few pounding heartbeats before he slides the gin glass toward me, then reaches for another glass on the shelf behind me.

Holding the gin glass in my lap, I turn it around in my hand as Greyson pours himself another.

“When I was seventeen,” I start, watching the way the liquid seems to glow in the muted light of the kitchen. “I snuck into Master Orson’s quarters, knowing he was out for the night, and I drank his coveted whiskey. He only had it on special occasions, and I wanted to anger him . . . It was the only way I could think to do it that wouldn’t summon his wife’s wrath.”

Greyson leans his hip against the counter a few feet from me, listening intently. “What did Orson do when he found out?” he asks, though I think he’s holding his breath because the words barely eke out of him.

I smile. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” His voice is skeptical.

Shrugging, I take a swig from the tumbler, reveling in the burn once more as I lick my lips. “A part of me was disappointed,” I admit. “I’d wanted to anger him, for him to know I wasn’t some meek girl who accepted my fate so easily, simply because he expected it of me. But . . .” I turn the glass in my hand again. “If he knew it was me, he did nothing.”

“Why not? I would think a man like that would find every reason to punish you.”

I can’t bring myself to look at Greyson, so I pick a spot on the wall instead. “Because, in his own twisted way, Master Orson cared for me. I think he believed whatever he needed to keep the delicate balance between us.”

It’s quiet, uncomfortably so, and when I finally meet Greyson’s gaze, menace glows in his eyes and his jaw works so hard my teeth ache for his.

“Say something,” I plead, unable to stand his fuming silence.

“I don’t know what’s worse, Selene,” he says carefully, and my name on his tongue sends a flutter through me. “That you would prefer being back in a place like that rather than here, or that a part of you might still view me and my intentions to be the same as his.” The hurt and barely restrained fury in his voice isn’t only surprising, it’s heartbreaking.

“You aren’t like him,” I promise. “In fact, you are unlike any man I’ve ever met.” I allow the truth to simmer to the surface. “You’re fearsome in a way I’ve never known.”

Greyson’s eyes close, his lips pinched as if he is pained by my words. And that I have such power over him makes no sense.

“And yet,” I continue softly.

“And yet?”

“And yet, you are kindhearted and good in the most unexpected way.” I shake my head. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say, only that . . . No matter what I said before, I have never felt warm and comforted, like I do here.”

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen shock light Greyson’s eyes the way it does. “You do?”

I nod, ever so slightly, laying it all bare. “You make me feel that way, even if I didn’t understand at first.”

38

GREYSON

“You make me feel that way, even if I didn’t understand at first.”

I stare at her mouth, stunned. Selene can’t possibly mean she trusts me. She hasn’t said the words, but I see something in her eyes, and I dare not think it’s any sort of affection. But the air shifts between us. It charges with a hum I can feel beneath my skin, thrumming through my coiled muscles as I stand beside her with bated breath, waiting for her to say something to contradict it.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “You’re not still angry with me?” I watch her lips, anticipating the truth in her voice, because despite how hard she tries, she can never hide it.

Selene’s shoulders relax, as if she’s finally given in to whatever thoughts have been warring in her mind for days. “It’s difficult to be angry with a man who has the weight of a hundred men on his shoulders, as well as his daughter’s future in a world so bleak.”

Her words astonish me, and I’m not certain what to say in return. Days ago, she would’ve cursed me. Now it sounds as if she pities me.

“Don’t feel sorry for me, Selene.” Although I regret the edge in my voice, I refuse to be pitied by her. Me of all people. “I do carry a burden, but much of it is my own making. I’m a foolish man at times, and I will forever pay the price.”

“We cannot change the lives we were given,” she says, and there is enough solemnity in her voice that I wonder if she says it for the both of us. “But we can make the best of it.” Her eyes meet mine, shimmering like a crystalline pool in the firelight. “Perhaps that is what we are meant to do.”

It’s in that moment that I feel the gravity of all that she says, of her mere presence in this room with me—that she has decided to help care for me, to speak with me without judgement; that Selene has decided to stay in Briarwood at all.

I don’t know what thoughts churn behind her expressive eyes, but any uncertainty I had in bringing her here vanishes.

“When I first saw you,” I say, and my voice sounds far more amused than I feel. “The way you protected those children like they were your own blood, with that fire in you I knew could not easily be squelched . . . I thought Rebecca would want it to be you.” My eyes burn, not because of my dead wife, but because of the unexpected relief I feel in whatever this moment is between us. “You two would have been friends,” I tell her, shaking my head. “I wish Paige could have known her—she would’ve been a much better mother than I am a father—”

“You can’t say such things,” Selene chides hastily.

I look at her, my finger absently rubbing the rim of my glass.

“Even now, in the middle of the night, while you are injured, you worry about Paige’s future. About how you can protect her and what your next move will be against Draven and the Council. Imagine what Paige’s future would have been without you here. I would never wish your wife dead, but you can protect Paige far more than she could have.” Selene’s gaze is hard-set on mine, almost fierce. “Even if Rebecca and Henry had lived, they would need your protection—everyone who lives here does. This place would not exist without you. Never forget that.”

I watch the woman beside me, wondering how everything could change between us so unexpectedly. How she could have changed. Or perhaps she hasn’t at all, it’s that I’m only beginning to truly know her. As her words and utter certainty settle in, I’m overcome with an indescribable feeling. “Thank you,” I whisper, and I wait for her to look at me, to see and feel the weight of the emotion I cannot express. “Coming from you, that means more than you could possibly know.”

Selene’s eyes twinkle, perhaps with drink. “Good,” she says curtly. “Maybe you’ll remember it then.”

I grin and Selene does a double take. “That’s the second time today you’ve smiled.” I appreciate how disarmed she looks, and I don’t know how many heartbeats pass before I realize her eyes are on my lips.

“So,” she breathes, taking another sip from her glass. I wonder if the warm hum in my blood is because of the gin, her proximity, or if it’s a heady mixture of both. “What do we do now?”

“Ah, yes.” It’s the question that has plagued me since I woke to find Cecil was dead. I rub my eyes, wondering when the last time I truly slept was. “A good night’s sleep would be a decent start,” I mutter.

“Would you like help to your room?”

I almost laugh at her offer, but it dies on my lips when I notice her serious expression.

“You’ll have to sleep down here otherwise.”

“No.” I wave her away. “Don’t worry—”

Selene rises to her feet. “Well, I do. So, I insist you let me help you. Because unless you’re going to curl up on that stack of burlap with that mangy black cat, you need the warmth of your bed.” The wind rattles the window. “See,” she says, missing nothing. She waits with pure determination for me to accept my fate. And when I’m too lost in the sight of her to respond, she heads for my cane. “Come, let me help you.”

I glare at the cane, absolutely despising it as she brings it over, but all is forgotten when she stops in front of me. Whether it’s the alcohol or the simple fact that I am a man, my gaze roves over her robe, tight around her slender waist and open at the neck of her nightgown. I can’t make myself look away.

“Honestly,” she says. “I’m stronger than I look.”

I smirk. “I know you are.” And it’s not lost on me that a petite little thing like Selene Sinclair, with eyes as bright as the hidden sky and the slightest of limps, is hauling me out of the kitchen. That she could give two tosses about propriety, our past, or that I could crush her in an instant if I fell, makes it impossible not to smile, even if she doesn’t notice.

As we make our way through the kitchen, I inhale the faint scent of lilies that clings to her hair and feel the warmth of her body pressed against me. She fits perfectly, and all I can think at this moment is, what if?

What if it all works out in the end?

What if the little governess and I could find happiness together?

“Hobbling around like this,” she says, her arms locking tighter around me to leverage my weight. “You’re not so terrifying and kingly.” It’s meant to be a jest, a peace offering. But all I can think is, but you are terrifying—utterly and completely, though I find solace in one thing: there isn’t much I can control in this world, but Selene is right. Here, in Briarwood, I am king. And as a distant voice tells me she may one day be my queen, I want her to be happy here with every fiber in me. So, I must show her.

39

SELENE

I brush the crook of my finger over Midnight’s velvety nose, admiring the way her eyes droop in complete contentment. “Why don’t you have a horse?” I ask Paige as she plays with one of the barn cats, teasing it with a worn strip of leather.

“I never go anywhere,” Paige says offhandedly, and I wonder if it’s because it’s not safe for her to leave the estate, even if she’s never been told as much.

“Master Draven, that man we saw on the road the other day,” I start, uncertain how to broach the topic of danger with her in a way she won’t be frightened so much as aware. “You were friendly with him. Do you know him well?” I watch her carefully as she giggles and runs in circles, the cat skittering after her.

“Not really,” she clarifies. “He is the neighbor and Papa’s friend.”

“Your father has not talked about him with you, then?”

Paige pauses for a scant moment, contemplating. “No,” she says, shaking her head before the tawny, bob-tailed cat reclaims her attention. “Well . . .” She pauses. “I mean, he told me I’m not allowed to visit him or go on his property. He says it’s dangerous, but I already know that.”

“How do you mean?”

Paige frowns. “The factories. Papa tells me all the time how dangerous they are, so I already know I can’t visit his.” She scrunches her nose. “Not like I’d want to,” she mutters.

“Yes, well, there are many dangers on his property, not just his factory, so it’s good you stay away.” Paige doesn’t seem to be listening, so I take her hand. “Paige?”

Finally, she stops, her eyes gleaming and her nose red from the crisp morning.

“Will you promise me something?”

She nods and runs the back of her hand over her sniffly nose.

“Promise me that if you see him on your father’s land again, you will tell me. The other day when we saw him, he shouldn’t have been here.”

Paige searches my face inquisitively, but seems to understand the gravity of my request. “Okay.”

It’s a sincere agreement and I smile. “Thank you. It will make me feel much better.”

Her bright green, assessing gaze stares me up and down.

“What?” I ask, peering down at my gray dress with intricately stitched mountains on the hem and belt. I wonder what she sees. “You don’t like my dress?” Victoria was careful to ensure there was just enough purple to boast the Blackburn family color, but not excessively so, or as extravagant as Rebecca used to wear. I tug on Paige’s cloak of sage and lavender. “It’s not as pretty as yours, but—”

“Are you going to be my new mother?” she blurts, shocking the air from my lungs.

“What?”

Paige ruminates, tilting her head as she looks into my eyes. “I heard Prudy and Rosemary talking about you this morning when I went down for breakfast.”

I swallow thickly. “Oh? And what were they saying?”

“That Papa has feelings for you despite himself.”

I snort an unladylike laugh, then remember I’m not much of a lady, so it doesn’t matter. “Despite himself, huh?”

Paige shrugs. “I don’t know what that means, exactly, but if my Papa has feelings for you, does that mean you are going to get married? And that you’ll be my new mother?”

My face heats because, amidst my fickle feelings, I hadn’t considered what Paige would think of whatever arrangement Greyson and I come to. “How would it make you feel if I was? I mean, I would never replace your real mother, of course.”

Paige frowns, and an unfamiliar emotion darkens her eyes. “I don’t want you to be my mother,” she says, and my stomach drops.

I hadn’t realized how fond I’ve become of the idea. “You don’t?” I whisper, and find my voice again as I clear my throat. “I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends,” she says with an exaggerated heave. “But if you are my mother, everything will change.”

Relief floods through me, and I crouch down, ignoring the twinge in my knee. “What if I promised you everything would stay the same as it is now? We would still read and go on walks and spend the day together—you would still have lessons.”

“Then why do you have to be my mother?” she says, her tone sharpening. Frustration roils off of her, her chest heaving in the onslaught of tears.

“That’s a good question,” I admit, trying to tame whatever storm brews behind her eyes. “But it’s more complicated than just me and you. If—” My mouth feels dry, and I tell myself anyone else should be having this conversation with her, and yet, a part of me wants to be the one to help her understand. To ensure she’s okay with this. “There are pesky rules, Paige,” I tell her honestly. “And if your father and I are together—”

“You will have a baby,” Paige supplies, almost indignant.

I nod. “Yes, and if we have a baby and we are not married, bad people could use it against your father.”

“I know how it works,” she says, frowning. “I don’t want you to be my mother. I want you to be my governess.”

“Paige—”

“I don’t want a baby sister or brother.”

I huff, straightening. “But, I thought you did—that you wanted a friend, someone to play with—”

“Well, I don’t,” she says, and turns to stomp away.

“Paige,” I call firmly. “Please don’t walk away from me while we’re talking. This is important. I want to understand—”

“No, you don’t—nobody cares how I feel. Not really. I finally have a friend and now you’re going to leave too.” The emotion bubbles out of her as she steps out into the brisk morning.

“Paige—” I command, stalking behind her. “Paige, I’m not going anywhere. I promised—”

She whirls around, her face red as tears stream down her freckled cheeks. “He’s going to take you away from me.”

As a sob rips from her, I fall to my knees, brushing her damp hair from her temple. “No one is taking me away from you, Paige. You mean too much to me. I promised you I was staying with you. Do you remember that? I will not break it.”

“You can’t keep a promise if you die,” she tosses at me, and I’m taken aback. “You’re going to have a baby and then you will die too. Or what if you change your mind, and you leave me like Miss Knightly did?”

Her sorrow and fear undoes me, and tears sting my eyes. “Oh, Paige,” I say, pulling her into my chest, clinging to her as her body racks with sobs. “That won’t happen,” I tell her.

“How do you know?”

Stroking her hair, I know I can’t lie and promise such a thing, but I want to; I can feel the certainty of it, the past and the future whirring through me, enlivening every cell of my being. It’s as if, for the first time, I feel fully alive.

“You are my purpose, Paige. You and your father and this place.”

She shakes her head against my chest, bunching my dress in her grip. “How do you know?” she asks again, more desperate this time.

“I just . . . do.” I close my eyes and inhale the scent of honey and lemon lingering on her skin from our breakfast this morning. “My mother once told me,” I start, brushing her soft cheek. “That there will come a time when I will be frightened, but that I must trust my instincts.”

Paige’s quiet sobs lessen a little and she sniffles. “She did?” She pulls away from me, her eyes red as she catches her breath.

“She did. It took me a while to understand what she meant, but I know now. I feel it in my heart and soul. I know that my place is here with you.” I kiss her temple. “And here is where I mean to stay, okay?” I’d told Greyson I’d think about my future here, but it seems I’ve already decided. “Do you trust me?” I whisper, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

Paige searches my face before she finally nods, reluctant, and wipes her nose.

“Good.” I smile and search her eyes, willing her to hear the reverence in my voice. “You are very important to me, Paige.”

“And Papa?”

I lick my lips, cheeks burning in answer. “Yes.”

Paige steps back, pushing her hair from her face as she gathers herself. “If you are going to be my mother,” she starts, the wheels of her mind already turning. “Can I have a horse of my own? Or at least a dog?”

I laugh. “We’re already playing that game, are we?”

Paige shrugs but wipes her nose again as we start toward the manor.

“I am not your mother yet,” I remind her. “But I will see what I can do.” We walk in contented silence for a few steps. Paige absently fingers the mountains sewn on her belt.

“What do you know of Norseland?” I ask, growing more and more curious about it.

“Um . . . That it is always cold and snowing,” she says.

I brush the fur of my collar and can almost feel the frigid air of the north lick across my face.

“They make good boats, like my Uncle Killian’s,” she continues. “And good ale—that’s why he stays there so much.”

“I see.”

“And people are mean.” Paige peers up at me. “Papa says I can never go there, not even with my uncle.”

“Well, if we’re not to go to Norseland, I guess we’ll have to make do with our own adventures here.” I nudge her arm with mine. “Do you know your uncle well?”

Paige shrugs, but a grin tugs at her lips. “He’s funny, and he makes me laugh a lot more than Papa does.”

I snort at the thought. “Yes, well, I can imagine that’s true.”

Content, we continue our amicable stroll. As we near the house, the sound of carriage wheels gives me pause.

Paige and I look at each other. “Who is that?” Paige chirps, her tears long forgotten.

While I know Collins is expected back any day, he hadn’t taken the carriage to the city. “I don’t know,” I say.

Excitement brimming from her, Paige skips toward the drive, and I follow close behind. “Wait for me, Paige,” I call, uncertain it’s a welcome guest. I take her hand in mine when I finally reach her. A part of me wants to tell her to hide until I know it’s safe, but as the carriage comes into full view, I recognize that it’s Greyson’s coach.

His white horses paw at the ground, and Gibson steps down from the seat.

“Selene!” Evie calls, and I gape at the children’s familiar faces as they file out of the carriage, grinning from ear to ear.

“Paige!” Jon says, and the kids run over to us, Evie falling into my arms.

“What are you all doing here?” I rasp, holding her tightly. I’m unable to take my gaze off of the others as they greet Paige and peer excitedly around the estate.

I reach out to touch them all, to run my fingers through their hair and brush their cheeks.

“We’ve come for a picnic,” Nell supplies as she gives me a side hug. Her eyes are sage and knowing, though I can’t think why.

The side door opens across the path and Prudy and Rosemary hustle out, baskets in their hands. Martin carries blankets and resting pillows, and Paige giggles with happiness as they all talk over each other, as if they are long-lost friends, chattering and tittering in a cacophony so sweet, it stills my breath.

Dumbly, I stare at Prudy as she hurries past me into the garden. “What’s this?” I ask, following after her.

“What’s it look like?” she says sassily. “A picnic, of course.”

“Yes, but—” I shake my head. “Why? How did I not know?” As the questions leave my lips, I know this is Greyson’s doing. Of course it is, even if I can’t think why, with so much looming before us, he would do something so . . . thoughtful.

“Why don’t you ask the master yourself?” she says, stopping at the stone bench to set down her baskets. Rosemary does the same and turns to help Martin lay the blankets by the dogwood tree.

Pleasant shock settles over me as I take in the children exploring the garden, in awe of such a lovely place. Paige leads them around, reciting every plant and why each one is her favorite. My body hums with an emotion I’ve never felt before, and then I notice Greyson standing at the window in his study. His eyes are on me, his expression indiscernible.

My cheeks flush as I consider why he’s done this for me.

When our eyes lock, his gaze lingering, I smile, unable to contain so much happiness.

With a single nod, he steps away from the window, leaving me with the children and my overflowing heart.

40

SELENE

As the sun sets and the children have gone back to Emberbrook, my feet take me some place unexpected. Or perhaps it’s not so unexpected, since my thoughts continue to drift to Greyson.

Even though I haven’t seen him since he was standing in the window this morning, I head for his study, assuming he’s there, since he lives in it like a second skin.

My footsteps falter in the hallway, however, as I think of the castle. Now that I understand he goes there to lament the past, I can’t help but wonder if that’s where he might be.

I’ve seen the way he struggles to be near me, the push and pull between what was and what will be. I’ve seen his paintings of me. I’ve witnessed his frustration. But where does that leave us and . . . my heart? Because there is no more denying that, after today, my heart is very much invested in him and in his family, but despite his continued kindness and respect, I can’t confidently say the same for him.

Taking a deep breath, I continue down the hall, a complete bundle of nerves. The candles in the sconces flicker as I pass, as if lighting my way to purgatory.

There’s a rustle inside as I step into the study doorway. Martin is crouched, tending to Greyson’s fire, but there is no Greyson. I swallow as my heart squeezes, assuming he’s in the castle. A shadow of doubt dares to creep in, and I run my hands down my dress, straightening my shoulders. All we need is time, I tell myself. It will not be this way forever.

“Ah, Miss Sinclair,” Martin says when he spots me. “Are you looking for Master Greyson?”

I swallow again and force a smile. “I—um—”

“Well?”

I startle and pivot to find Greyson standing a few paces down the hall, papers tucked under his arm. He tilts his head, and if I’m not mistaken, his eyes are smiling.

“Yes, I was, actually.”

Greyson gestures to his study. “After you, then.”

Licking my lips, I step inside, exchanging a nod with Martin before he collects the empty wood crate and excuses himself.

“Tea, please,” Greyson says over his shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” Martin replies, his voice raspy with age, and he disappears from the room.

“If you’ll give me just a moment,” Greyson mutters, gesturing to the chair in front of the fire.

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

Distracted, Greyson sets the papers down and starts leafing through one of his ledgers. The tallow candle on his desk flickers, illuminating what the dimming sky, pouring through the window, cannot. He switches out one page for another and rests his elbow on the desk. I try to imagine what a younger Greyson Blackburn looked like, but all I can picture is the man before me—the lines of heavy burden creasing his brow, his chiseled face, and that lustrous black mane he rakes his fingers through. And those lips.

Clearing my throat, I avert my gaze, studying the room as I take it in anew. More familiar with Greyson now, I see it differently. The scent of woodsmoke and wax is thick in the air from his endless nights working. And the painting of him and his wife above the hearth—my mouth gapes. “You’ve removed the portrait?” I blurt, and I can’t help the high-pitched surprise in my voice.

When I look at Greyson, he’s staring at the garden landscape that hangs in its place. “It was time,” he mutters, and his eyes shift to mine. Their gray depths are bottomless, barely restrained emotion I try to comprehend.

“Thank you,” I whisper, and wave my words away, realizing how that sounds. “For today, I mean.” My tongue ties and I take a deep breath as I turn to face him. “I hadn’t expected to see the children, and it was perfect.”

Greyson sets his paperwork to the side. “Good. The children can visit whenever you wish, as long as Prudy knows to expect them. The last thing I need is her going on about too many mouths and not enough time for Ms. Fairchild to prepare,” he grumbles. But then Greyson’s eyes soften and he leans back in his chair. “I want you to be happy here.”

My heart stutters and stops. I want you to be happy. What I want is to embrace him for saying such beautiful words. “No one has ever said that to me,” I admit instead.

Greyson stands and walks over to his bar cart. He pulls the stopper from his carafe and pours himself two fingers of whiskey, then looks over his shoulder, offering it to me. Happily, I nod, praying a drink will burn the edges of discomfort away. Now that I know what my decision is, and after speaking with Paige, I need to know what’s in his heart. And if I’ve learned anything from him, it’s that I must ask.

“Thank you.” Our fingers brush as I reach for the glass, and though his eyes don’t leave mine, nor give anything away, I know he must feel the electric charge exchanged between us.

Greyson swallows, the bob of his throat alluring in a way I’ve never noticed before.

He turns to pour a glass of his own. “So, how are the children?” It’s a casual question, and though I’m certain he knows exactly how they are doing, I appreciate that he’s asking me all the same.

“Very well. I was actually hoping you would’ve joined us today. I would like the children to get to know you. Especially if—well, if we are going to move forward with things as you’d intended.”

With slow, careful steps, Greyson walks over to the fire, eyes flicking to me as he considers something. He doesn’t look entirely displeased, but his expression isn’t open either, not like I’ve glimpsed before and yearn to see again.

He braces one hand against the mantle, glass in the other, and peers down at the flames. “I wouldn’t have been very good company,” he finally says, and his thoughts are a chasm away.

The silence descends upon us as the sun disappears behind the hills, casting the room in evening shadows. Tension is thick and cumbersome in the air, nothing like what I was hoping for. In fact, it feels as if I’ve worn out my welcome already, and I can’t bring myself to ask about his feelings, not tonight.

I take a final sip of my drink. “Well, I simply wanted to thank you.” I walk to the bar cart. “I’ll leave you to your business.” Discarding my glass, I turn to leave.

“Selene.”

I halt halfway to the door. When Greyson says nothing, I look at him. He’s frowning, his thoughts churning as his finger taps the side of his glass.

Moments pass, and I force a weak smile. “I’ll see you at supper.”

“It didn’t reach your eyes,” he says, and confused, I glance back at him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your smile,” he says. “Just now—it didn’t reach your eyes. What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “Nothing’s wrong,” I say. “But, I have to admit, I am a bit confused.”

He blinks at me.

“Why did you bring the children to see me?”

“So you could spend the day with them, of course. So that you would be happy.”

“Well, thank you. I was. But something’s changed since last night—even since this morning, I think.” My heart beats wildly, knowing I’m about to lay myself bare to him, and it’s terrifying. “You do such wonderful things, and then you’re a mask of—I don’t know what. Indifference, perhaps, or uncertainty.” I step closer. “Are you regretting this arrangement? I know it’s difficult for you to think of your future with someone else. I know you worry about the dangers as well, but if it’s too hard for you—if you’re forcing yourself and not yet ready, please tell me now so I know what to expect. Otherwise, I’m not sure I can bear it—that Paige can bear it.”

“Paige?” he asks, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Yes, she asked me about me becoming her mother, and she’s terrified.”

His face crumples.

“Paige is worried that I will leave her, like Miss Knightly. And,” I say softly, stepping closer to him. “That if I have a child, I will die as Rebecca did.”

Face paling, Greyson looks away. “You spoke with Paige about us?”

“I had little choice. But don’t worry, I reassured her that this was a good thing—”

“You’ve decided then?”

Slowly, I nod. “Yes.”

“And your decision is your own, not some misplaced sense of duty or—”

“I guess that depends,” I tell him, and I can’t help the waspish tinge in my voice.

Greyson tenses, as if bracing himself.

“How do you feel about me?” I force myself to ask because I need to know what I’ve gotten myself into. If I am to live a life full of all but affection.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asks, his voice hardened, as if he’s just as frustrated as I am. “I have tried to make you feel at home here. To look ahead instead of constantly looking to the past.” His gaze darts to the new painting. “I brought the children here for you.”

“Yes,” I say softly. “And that was all very kind. But kindness and respect and gratitude are not affection.”

His mouth opens, but he hesitates.

“Greyson,” I say, his name feeling raw on my tongue. “Please don’t think I expect your undying love in this moment, because of course I don’t. I know our situation is borne of necessity, and I don’t pretend it’s anything different, even if I wish it were. Even so, I would like to know how you feel, or might feel, and if my place here is simply a role—one I have told you I am willing to fulfill for you, and Paige, and for everyone else who depends on this place, regardless of your feelings for me . . . But I’d like to know all the same.”

Greyson’s eyes rove painstakingly slow over my face. “You,” he starts, but his words taper off. “I’ve never wanted another woman more in my life,” he admits, and takes a step closer. My heartbeat thrums in my ears so loudly, I can barely stand it. “The first time I saw you with Paige by the pond, wrapping her little finger with your hair ribbon, I knew in that moment I was done for, and the guilt obliterated me.”

He lifts his hand, his warm palm cupping my cheek, his thumb brushing a lock of hair from my face. “The first time I saw your smile, I wanted more than anything to see it again. And I wanted to be the one to bring you the happiness you’ve been deprived of in this godforsaken world.” His words are so deliberate and earnest, I struggle to catch my breath. “So, how I feel about you—” His brow knits in what looks like pain. “Every day it changes and grows into something unrecognizable, and it’s nearly impossible to think about anything else. It’s always you. And I’m terrified I’ve only just found you after all these years of loneliness, when the future looms more uncertain than ever.” His words are a warm blanket around my shivering heart, and the torture in his eyes is akin to the restlessness in my soul.

“We are a curious pair then,” I whisper, unable to tear my gaze from him. “Because I’m terrified too.”

Greyson stares at my mouth, his thumb tracing my bottom lip. “May I?” His voice is a low rumble, and at first, my mind is such a haze, I don’t know what he’s asking. But as he leans in and tips up my chin, the word yes barely escapes before Greyson’s mouth closes over mine. It’s warm and soft and protective, and his knuckles brush featherlight against my skin as he cups the back of my head.

Our breaths mingle, and I taste the whiskey, smoky on his tongue as it seeks mine, eliciting a moan somewhere deep inside me. His thumb strokes my jaw, and a thrill travels down my spine, reaching my toes as I kiss him back. Longer. Deeper. It’s unhurried, a kiss that makes me feel cherished, and I never want it to end.

Strumming my fingers over the back of his neck, I coax Greyson closer. Another caress of his tongue. Another taste of his lips. Even his scruff against my skin elicits a delicious chill that awakens something inside of me I have never known before.

The clock strikes a quarter to seven and Greyson’s lips still. His hands fall to my shoulders and he pulls away, resting his forehead against mine as we each catch our breath.

“I’ve never been kissed like that before,” I rasp, fully aware how ridiculous I must sound. But I can’t bring myself to care.

Greyson lifts his forehead and brushes his knuckles down my cheek. His eyes are glazed but smiling when they meet mine. “Neither have I.” As Paige’s and Prudy’s voices reach our ears, the moment between us is all but broken. Greyson can’t seem to look away, and I don’t want him to.

Leaning in, he brushes a final chaste kiss across my lips. “We better get to dinner,” he whispers.

I can’t help my smile. “Yes. The master of the house doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

41

GREYSON

Another day passes and still no word from Collins. I meander the halls like a restless dog, unable to settle. Where is he? There are too many possibilities and none of them are good.

When I notice Prudy’s judgmental gaze as I pace from the end of the hall, I grumble, “How is Remy’s family?” Though I have taken the carriage to see them once, I’m not quite up to mounting Midnight to ride out again.

Prudy clutches a stack of freshly folded linens against her chest, and fleetingly, I remember her arrival in Briarwood, when I was just a boy. She’d been emaciated and frightened of this place, just as Selene had been, but now she runs the manor as if she was born to. Even if my nerves are shot and I haven’t slept, my trust in her brings me a familiar sense of peace.

“They are holding up, sir,” she says. “Better than you,” she adds, assessing me up and down. “The swelling will never subside if you keep pacing the way you are. You need something to keep your mind busy.”

“There are numerous things I need,” I mutter, and wave her concern away. I let the faraway giggles lead me farther down the hall, and I perch in the library’s doorway, unused until now, apparently.

Paige and Selene are curled up on the settee beside the fire, oblivious to the howling wind outside as they read aloud from a slender tome. The window drapes are open, allowing the muted daylight in, and the fire is blazing in the hearth. Everything is uncovered and dusted, as if it was never closed up and forgotten.

So, this is where they have been sneaking off to. I’d wondered since I’ve rarely heard them in the schoolroom.

The firelight illuminates Selene’s hair like liquid gold, and my fingers twitch at my side, imagining the feel between my fingers.

“Will she ever wake up?” Paige asks as she turns the page.

“What do you think?” Selene bites her bottom lip, and my skin heats, remembering the taste of it the other night, how supple her mouth was against mine. The yearning I’ve felt to be alone with her again.

I shift uncomfortably. No matter how many times I tell myself I must remain a gentleman, there is no denying the brazen, pretty little thing has stirred a base need inside me, and I’ve questioned my control far more than I should in her presence.

“I hope so,” Paige says, frowning. “It’s not a very nice story if she doesn’t.”

Selene smiles to herself. “No, it wouldn’t be.” She runs her fingers over the page. “But then, life isn’t always very nice, is it?”

Paige looks at her.

“Not to worry. The purpose of reading is to find a happy place, somewhere we can escape to when reality gets a little too frightening or cumbersome.”

“Did you used to read to Beatrice and Jon and the other children?”

Selene nods. “As much as I could.” Her voice turns somber. I’m not sure if it’s because she misses the children, or because she is thinking about her life at Bedlam. Either way, I realize the little governess has been saved by her stories more times than I care to imagine, and my heart feels impossibly heavy.

As if she can feel the buzzing of my thoughts and the weight of my gaze, Selene looks at the doorway. Her expression narrows a little with concern before her eyes settle on mine, and she simply assesses me, waiting. I’m not sure if my lips twitch with a smile, or if I’m too mesmerized by the gleam in her eyes, but I nod for her to carry on and I continue toward the servants’ quarters. There is a litany of things to be done, including plans for the foundry rebuild, and I’m desperate for a distraction.

If there’s one thing I hate more than fear, it’s the feeling of uselessness.

A familiar sound outdoors catches my ears, and I pause, straining to listen. The clank of bridles. The skid of horse hooves in the gravel.

Spinning more quickly than I should, I take a few steps toward the entry before the giant oak door opens and Collins strides in. He looks exhausted, his cheeks gray and his eyes red-rimmed.

“Thank the gods you’re all right,” I say. I clutch the cane in my hand like it’s a lifeline and step closer.

“I am fine,” Collins says, surveying me as I reach him. “A lot better than you, it would seem. Though, it was close,” he says drolly. “I had to stay with Chauncey while things got sorted with the Council, and I nearly throttled him.”

I chuckle with relief and clap him on the shoulder. “What news do you have for me?”

“After putting me off for nearly a day, the Council says they believe it was an accident, and they dismissed me, though I heard a rumor Draven arrived just as I was leaving the city.”

I frown, though there is little I can do about it. “No doubt he’ll have a story of his own, but at least you got to them first.”

“There’s something else you should know,” Collins hedges, but I wave him away.

“I know Draven told them about Selene,” I say. “Cecil all but said as much.”

“That’s not it,” he says more gravely, and I can tell I won’t like whatever comes next. Before he can continue, I nod for Collins to follow me to my study.

I pass by the library quickly, not giving Paige or Selene time to inquire about anything. “Well?” I say as Collins shuts the door behind us. I can’t help the bite in my tone.

“Cecil,” Collins starts. He blinks twice as I hold my breath. “He was Selene’s father.”

“Yes, we are aware of that as well.” Sensing that’s not all, I wait for him to continue.

“He promised Selene to Draven when she was eleven.”

Dread seizes my chest.

“He’d come to collect her the day her mother died, but she’d disappeared.” I’m not sure how it’s possible, but Collins looks more grim as he continues. “Selene met him on the road.”

“Yes, I learned as much,” I say impatiently, walking to the window.

“I don’t know what was said between them, sir, but Draven put the pieces together—he knows it’s her . . . And he wants what’s owed him.”

“What?” I grit out. My body coils with rage as I imagine Draven breathing the same air as Selene, let alone touching a single hair on her head.

“There was a gentleman’s agreement between them and everything—”

“Draven is no gentleman,” I growl. “And if she belongs to anyone, it’s me. I’ve paid for her. There is nothing he or the Council can do about that.” While I hate saying such words, it’s the reality of the matter. That Draven would even think such a thing was still possible makes me physically sick.

I look at Collins and he has a patient look about him, as if he’s waiting for me to calm down so he can divulge more. My eyes narrow. “Tell me,” I say flatly. “Everything.”

42

SELENE

I hum a tune I’ve heard Paige singing a time or two as I comb my hair in front of the fire, blazing in the hearth. My mind drifts to Greyson, locked in his study all afternoon, when heavy footsteps in the hall precede a knock at my door.

“Come in,” I say, assuming Martin will enter.

When it’s Greyson who opens the door, I rise to my feet. “Oh—” I glance around my chamber. “I wasn’t expecting it to be you.” My cheeks burn with excited anticipation.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, and though it’s a simple question, I detect a heavy uncertainty.

“I’m well enough, thank you.” I set my comb aside, not taking my eyes from him. “What did Collins say?” I ask carefully. “Greyson, has something happened?”

He purses his lips, clearly weighing his next words.

“Greyson,” I prompt.

“There is something I’ve learned that I think you would want to know,” he says.

“Oh?” My heartbeat quickens. I’ve never seen him look so out of place and unsure.

“Do you mind joining me in the library?” he asks. “Someone is here who would like to speak with you.”

“Is it something with the children?” I say, panic rising. I hurry past him out the door.

“No, it’s nothing like that,” Greyson says as he follows me down the stairs, probably more hastily than he should, but I can’t think of that as my mind swirls. “But it’s sensitive information about your father.”

“It’s not like you to speak in riddles, Greyson,” I say, fully aware of how easily his name rolls off my tongue now. “You’re frightening me.”

When we reach the foyer, he sighs. “I apologize. It’s just, you’ve been through a lot this week and—”

“I’m not as fragile as you think,” I tell him, and hurry down the hall toward the library.

“Yes, I know.” I can feel his eyes on the back of my head, but Greyson says nothing as I step inside, stopping short in the doorway.

A familiar pair of beady blue eyes peers back at me. And as I register the man’s long nose and sandy blonde hair, I can imagine him perfectly, only years younger, with shaggy locks and firewood stacked in his arms, tending to my father’s fire.

“James?” I rasp. It’s as if I’ve been transported to the past all over again. I see him and my father dressed in matching riding jackets when leaving for my father’s business trips, and James standing at his side the day my mother died.

A tight smile tugs at his lips, and James rises from the settee. “Hello, Selene.” He looks me up and down, as if he can barely believe the sight of me. “You look very well.” In appearance, he is much the same, but he speaks with an air of importance now, not the innocence of the servant boy I remember.

“What—” I shake my head as I step closer, refusing to take my eyes off of him. “What on earth are you doing here? Were you—do you still tend to my father?” I take in his dusty robe that isn’t nearly as adorned as my father’s was, but it’s obvious he is of some social standing now. “You were here with him?”

James dips his head. “Yes, I’ve been with your father for many years.” The ache in his voice does not go unnoticed, but I can’t find it in me to regret his loss. I am, however, taken aback by the realization that James has clearly been much more than a servant to my father, though I’m not sure I should be. Even William was jealous of their bond growing up.

“Why are you here, James, after all these years?” I ask. There’s a strange glint in his eyes that makes me want to hold my breath.

“Master Blackburn said you have met Edward Draven?” He clasps his hands in front of him, and there’s a condescension in his tone I don’t like. It makes me bristle slightly, and I’m grateful for Greyson’s presence; it’s soothing on a newly opened wound.

“What of it?” I ask, growing impatient.

“Master Draven was the man your brother tried to save you from,” James states, and I take a moment to register what he’s saying. “The one who came for you the day I saw William sneaking you out of the house, just after your mother died.”

“That day, in the hallway . . .” I’ve waited long enough. You got what you wanted, and now I want what was promised to me. His voice is menacing even now. “That was Draven?” The words are barely a breath, and my stomach turns, imagining what strange twist of fate has brought me to Greyson, with Draven only miles away. And that he was in front of me only days ago, makes me tremble with as much anger and disgust as it does with alarm.

“You were payment for a debt owed to him.” James continues. He tilts his head ever so slightly, watching my expression with such scrutiny that it makes me uncomfortable.

But I take the bait. “A debt, and yet, he never came for me. You didn’t tell my father you’d seen me run away?”

“I did,” he says. “But then there was the earthquake, and your body was not with your brother’s. Instead of finding you, Cecil turned his back on the ordeal, as if Draven had never come.”

That James calls my father by his first name—that he says it with such entitlement—stirs in me an unexpected rage I have to clamp down.

“That makes no sense,” I say, shaking my head. “Why would my father do such a thing if Draven was breathing down his neck?”

James gestures minutely, shrugging as if we are not talking about how abruptly my life changed that day. “He never said. A way to atone, perhaps. To ease some of the guilt he had after—”

“After his infidelity with you while he was married to my mother?” I guess aloud. “Or perhaps he realized he was trading his own flesh and blood as payment for a favor,” I say hotly.

But James’s expression gives nothing away. He’s cold and unfeeling, just like my father was, and lifts his chin once more. “No,” he finally says. “For killing your mother.”

I stiffen, bile rises in my throat and tears fill my eyes before I can fully process what he’s saying. “What?” I’m not sure if the word is a breath or a thought—I don’t know if I scream out loud, or stand in silent misery.

Only when James stares at me, oblivious, do I realize I haven’t moved, or even blinked.

“You come here to dredge up my father’s horrible dealings? Why?” I glare at him. Only a shimmer of regret, or perhaps fear, flickers across James’s face, and I move closer. “Explain yourself,” I command, and for the first time in my life, I sound every bit as highborn as I was bred to be.

Greyson steps fully into the room behind me, but as my anger and disbelief coalesce, all I can picture is my ailing mother. Her sudden sickness and poor health, her gaunt face and chapped lips—the life in her eyes waning and her frailty worsening over the days.

“He poisoned her,” he finally answers, and while there is no harshness in his voice, there is no softness either. I stare at the scratch on James’s face, a mask of cold indifference. “Your father found out she was going to get you out of the city.”

“To protect me,” I clarify. “She didn’t want me to be part of his ambitious climb up the Council’s ladder.” I shake my head, the truth scaldingly obvious—I see it all so clearly now. “My mother never wanted me to be bound to any man the way she had been bound to him, traded away to live in such a toxic, loveless marriage. And you,” I say, looking his arrogant form up and down. “You’ve reaped many of the benefits, haven’t you?” I shake my head. “What has my father done to you?” Every word is laced with disgust. “You have turned into a hardened man, just like him.”

“It is Draven you should be concerned about, Selene—he is the one who helped your father,” James says, and finally there is more than apathy in his voice. There is fear. And he takes a step closer to me, gesturing toward Northshire. “He made every connection your father had to her death disappear by having Tyran’s ear . . . all of it in exchange for you. And he will come for you—”

“Enough,” I tell him. “You aren’t here to warn me out of the goodness of your heart. So tell me, what do you want, James?” My hands clench at my sides. The sting of my fingernails pricking my palms is all that keeps the tears at bay. “Is it safety you seek? Why, because you and my father have racked up too many debts over the years, and you have no one to protect you now? Is it because you don’t want Draven coming after you now that my father is no longer his plaything?”

James’s brow twitches, his eyes shifting between Greyson and me, and I realize that’s exactly what he was hoping for.

“I am saving you both—giving you time to prepare for whatever he’s planning.”

I stare at him, incredulous. “You honestly think that in offering me morsels of the heinous truth, of which you were a part of from the very beginning,” I add. “That we would provide you any sort of protection here?”

“I only did what I had to do to survive. You, in this grand house with the infamous Collector at your side,” he says, gesturing to Greyson beside me. “You act so righteous, as if you would not have embraced such an opportunity to be more than your birthright.”

“You know nothing about me,” I seethe.

“Selene—”

“Go,” I grit through the emotion in my throat. “I do not trust you and you are not welcome here.”

James blinks at me, as if in his arrogance, he actually thought I would forgive him. That I might see the boy I grew up with, perhaps. But he is dead, just like my father.

Chest heaving as genuine fear sets in, James looks at Greyson. “I have told you the truth,” he says, his indifference shattering. “Master Blackburn—” he says, but I can’t stand the sound of his voice an instant longer.

“I said, leave this place!” I shout.

With one threatening step, Greyson stops before him. I don’t know what James sees in Greyson’s eyes, but James is in front of me one second and rushing out the door the next.

I stand there, staring at the settee until I hear the front door shut down the hall. A sliver of sunlight kisses my cheek and I lift my face to the muted light filtering in through the window. I want the sun to dry my tears because my father doesn’t deserve them. But my mother and William . . . I try to keep my chin from trembling, but it’s no use. Tears fall down my cheeks, and the heaviness of the past decade rushes out of me like a broken dam. I can’t help the hiccup in my throat and the sob that escapes my chest.

Greyson pulls me into him. He doesn’t stand in awkward silence, waiting for permission, and I’m grateful for it. He’s warm, his heart beating strongly in his chest as I sob against him, allowing myself to feel sorrow for all that was stolen from me. “I hate him,” I cry, gripping onto Greyson more tightly.

“I know. I’m sorry,” he says, his voice thick with regret. “It was selfish to let him speak to you. It helps nothing. I just couldn’t possess such knowledge and never—”

“I’m glad to know the truth,” I tell him, and lean away. I wipe my cheeks and force myself to calm down. To catch my breath and feel Greyson’s vitality. His strength and comfort. With a heavy exhale, I wipe my eyes again and brush my damp hair from my face. “Now I don’t have to wonder why my father never came to find me. I don’t have to mourn the years we lost together. I can hate him and not feel selfish for it.”

“I know it fixes nothing in the past,” Greyson says grimly. “But you have Paige now and . . .” I look at him. “Me.”

A smile, watery as it is, curves my lips because Greyson is right, and I know he means it. He’s braved storms and fought off bandits for me. Had my path not brought me here, I never would have found him.

Peering into his steely gray eyes, I see a future filled with possibilities I never would have imagined. Greyson tortures himself with so many regrets, but he is the reason I’ve found hope and happiness for the first time in my life. “You are a good man,” I whisper.

His brow pinches with surprise, his eyes darting to my lips and back again.

This time, I don’t let Greyson ask to kiss me, and I don’t wait for him to decide. Lifting myself onto my tiptoes, I run my hands over his shoulders and up his neck, and bringing his mouth to mine, I kiss him.

43

SELENE

Sitting at the dinner table, I move the cabbage and pork around on my plate. It tastes well enough, but I am not hungry. The day’s—no, week’s—proceedings have made my heart heavy and my mind almost numb with exhaustion.

Only after I’ve cut my pork into the smallest pieces possible, do I register how quiet the room is, save for the sound of our forks scraping the china. Greyson, it seems, is lost in his own maelstrom of thoughts as he methodically cuts into his beets, though like me, he’s barely touched anything on his plate. And when I glance at Paige, she’s slowly chewing her dinner, absently playing with the prongs of her fork.

“Well,” I say, realizing this is no good. “We’re lousy company tonight, aren’t we?” I force a smile for Paige.

“It’s okay,” Paige murmurs. “Papa said you are sad.”

I lift my chin. “Yes, well, not to worry. I’ll chipper up soon enough. Perhaps a game of backgammon after dinner would help distract me.”

“Or we could read,” Paige chirps, which surprises me.

I smile wryly. “I thought you preferred rock skipping and board games to reading?”

She shrugs. “As long as the story is good.”

A genuine smile curves my lips. “Yes, it must be a good story.”

“Or we can practice our sketching,” she says. “We haven’t done that in days.”

And Paige is right. We haven’t had much of a routine lately. “Yes, we can do whatever you want,” I promise.

I reach for my water glass to find Greyson’s eyes on me, watchful. He’s not glaring or staring, simply observing, and his face softens when he realizes I’ve caught him.

“How about you, sir?” I say, licking the water from my lips.

His gaze flicks to my tongue. “What about me?”

“Would you like to join us for an evening drawing session? Or painting, perhaps?” I can’t help a playful smile. “Or, we could all read—”

Greyson leans back in his chair, shaking his head as he wipes his mouth with his napkin, giving up on eating entirely as he pushes his plate away. “I’ve got too much to do, I’m afraid.”

I glance at the grandfather clock. “Too much to do? Don’t you ever rest?” I say, only half-joking.

“Believe me,” Greyson says, voice riddled with exhaustion. “I would much rather spend the evening with the two of you.” He’s sincere; I see the subtle longing in his eyes as he looks at me before glancing at Paige. “Perhaps when things settle a bit more, we can go for our annual ride through the country,” he tells her.

“Yay!”

But even if Greyson’s tone is hopeful, I sense his trepidation. Until the Council and Draven are in hand, I know there will be little rest for him.

Paige claps. “I want to see the waterfall—and the blacksmith.”

Greyson chuckles, a sound I have never heard in all my life, and I immediately crave more. “We’ll see. If we only ever visit Tomlin when you want a fancy painted horseshoe, he’ll think that’s all he’s good for.”

“Ah.” I nod in understanding. “So he is the one who made you all of those beauties hanging in your room.”

Paige nods happily. “He paints me a different one each visit. They are for good luck.”

“Really? I’ve never heard such a thing,” I say. “Are you sure that’s true?”

“As real as the Screaming Woods,” Greyson mutters, leaning his head back and smiling at Paige. Despite his temporary good humor, he isn’t only exhausted, but worried. I can see it in the color under his eyes and the lines etched in his brow, like he’s plagued with it.

As Greyson absently rubs his temple, I lean closer to Paige. “Will you run and ask Prudy to bring in some of your grandmother’s tea for your father’s headache?” I whisper. Paige glances at Greyson, then bobs her head and climbs down from the table. “Thank you.”

When Paige is gone, I set my napkin on the table. “What’s troubling you?” I ask gently. Though he has several surmounting concerns, he’s more distracted than usual. “Is it your brother?” Still not having heard from him, I know Killian weighs heavily on his mind.

Greyson’s gaze refocuses on me. “In part, yes. But it’s what happens when Draven returns from New London I worry about more. What he’ll try to do to get you back.”

“I have wondered the same thing,” I admit, and reaching for my water glass, I take a sip. “But that’s tomorrow’s problem. He is still in New London. And as long as the Council’s products are made, and you uphold your end of the bargain by taking a wife, they would have no reason to abandon you in this,” I remind him. “You’re upholding your end of things, no matter what it costs you.” I sit back in my chair as well. “You have nearly two hundred people here who would do anything to keep this place safe.”

Greyson stares at me, listening intently.

“Don’t forget that as you plot and plan. The entire estate would fight for you if they needed to.” Reaching out, I take his hand in mine. “You are not alone, Greyson,” I finish softly.

He stares at our joined fingers, brushing his thumb over my wrist. The tiniest of smiles parts his lips. “You’re right,” he says, and he sounds slightly astonished. Or perhaps he’s proud. “We still have a couple of days, at least, before Draven returns. We’ll figure something out, even if I have to hide you in the Screaming Woods again.”

I nod, relieved as his uneasiness fades, even if it’s only a little. Then, his face softens, and he shakes his head, as if he can’t quite fathom something. “You’re breathtaking, Selene. Do you know that?”

I blink at him, my cheeks searing under the heat of his stare. “Thank you,” I rasp, uncertain that’s the right thing to say. I’m inclined to avert my gaze, but his eyes are too intense and filled with an undeniable yearning. It’s impossible to look away.

He opens his mouth to say something as china clinks and Prudy steps into the room, tea tray in hand. “I hear someone has a headache,” she grumbles, as if she’s not the least bit surprised. Paige skips in after her.

“Actually,” Greyson says, his voice low and his eyes fixed on me. “It seems to have passed.”

44

GREYSON

I force myself to recalculate the latest production updates from Emberbrook scattered on my desk, but my attention drifts far too easily again to Paige and Selene curled up on a pallet of blankets by the fire.

I’m not sure when my study became the new library, but I welcome it. As they read about beasts and princesses and magical castles, they whisper conspiratorially. And the more Selene smiles, and her laughter fills the room, the more I allow myself to embrace the affection I feel for her and the hope I have for us. The promise of a real life again—a full one. The kind that makes my fingers itch to reach for her when she is close and feel the heat of her skin.

I don’t want to ruin the moment, but we must have the conversation about marriage, and soon. If she is my wife in the eyes of the Council, Draven will have no way to sway them or grounds to claim her.

“Ouch!” Paige yips, staring at her index finger with a crumpled brow.

I glance up as Selene takes Paige’s finger to her lips.

“Uh-oh. Paper cuts are pesky little things, aren’t they?”

Paige nods with a whimper.

Selene coos and presses a quick kiss. “They say a kiss will take the sting of pain away,” she explains.

“Who says?” Paige asks, examining the cut on her finger.

“Well, my mother did, actually. She could always make me feel better.” Her voice is wistful and a little sad, but it’s a cherished memory that makes Selene’s eyes gleam.

“Not your father?” Paige asks.

Selene’s gaze shifts in my direction, and a small smile curves those pink lips. “No,” she says softly. “My father was not like yours.” It’s not longing or sadness as she mentions her father that makes my breath hitch, but the way her eyes crinkle and sparkle in the firelight—it’s the intrigue I see in them. Or is it desire? The longer her gaze lingers on me, the more convinced I am it’s the latter, and suddenly, my heart pounds harder, my chest rises faster, and I long to kiss her again. To hold her body against mine. To feel alive in the way only she has made me feel in nearly a decade.

Paige makes another mewing sound, and Selene closes the book in her lap. “You know another thing my mother taught me?”

Paige blinks at her, her eyes wide and expectant.

“Something sugary helps take the pain away, too.” She winks. “So we should find something sweet to sneak from the kitchen.”

“Like Cook’s lemon drizzle cake?”

Selene laughs. “Yes, that’s precisely what I was thinking. Do you think your father will get angry?” she jests, glancing at me from the corner of her eye. “I didn’t finish my dinner.” Selene whispers it loud enough for me to hear.

I chuckle as Paige grins cheekily, then holds her hand up to her lips so I can’t see her reply. “If he doesn’t know, he can’t get mad.” She says it so loudly, Prudy can likely hear from the other room, and I shake my head.

“You two are trouble when you’re together,” I muse.

That earns a giggle from Paige as Selene helps her to her feet.

“Perhaps he won’t be cross if we bring him some,” Selene says, and she slides the book back onto the shelf. Then, taking Paige’s hand in hers, they scamper out the door, Paige’s tears forgotten.

The house is quiet despite the windstorm outside, and everyone is settled in for the night. Everyone save for me. I’m left with the flames of my fire, dancing and crackling in the hearth as I stand beside it, unable to sleep.

In all honesty, I haven’t even tried. But my disquiet tonight is not one of worry or discontent. It’s that look Selene gives me when her eyes linger on me for a second too long that I can’t get out of my head. The longing that flickers in those brilliant blue eyes, stirring the most primal parts of me to life—desires I’ve been trying and failing to ignore.

But despite chiding myself that it’s too soon, my feet carry me across the room. My hand turns the knob of my door, and my quick and heavy steps take me to Selene’s bedroom.

It’s easy enough to convince myself I am nothing like the men before. I will show her love and tenderness and patience . . . My footsteps quicken, but when I reach her door, I can’t bring myself to knock.

45

SELENE

I wait with bated breath for Greyson to knock on my door. Unlike the last time he stood outside my bedroom, I’m not afraid he will strangle the life from me. And that I yearn to feel his hands on me instead of fearing them makes me tremble with a sudden, irrefutable need.

Please, knock.

But Greyson only stands there. Then, the floorboards creak and he turns to leave.

My heart plummets as he retreats to his room, and the moment I hear his door click shut, I’m disappointed.

Flinging my covers back, I hurry to my robe draped on the trunk at the end of my bed. As I reach for the door, I hear Rosemary and Prudy whispering as they make their way up the stairs, and my hand freezes on the handle. They stop, likely blowing out the lanterns lighting the stairway. When their whispers resume, I heave out a breath. The last thing I want is for them to know I’m sneaking to his room, or worse, to watch me be turned away.

The ever-present draft in my room stirs an alternate option, and I glance at the secret door in the wall.

Anxious to go to Greyson before he falls asleep, I shrug. I’m too eager to see him to question whether or not I should, and after lighting the candle beside my bed, I open the door beside the hearth and step into the passageway.

Whether it’s the cool stone against my bare feet, or unbridled anticipation, I hasten through the corridor. But it’s the adrenaline that gives me the courage to knock, light and timid as it is, then creak Greyson’s secret door open before I can think better of it.

The scent of woodsmoke wafts over me, and there he stands at the fire, arms braced on either side of the mantle, confusion furrowing his brow. His gaping shirt gives me pause.

“Selene?” He blinks dumbly at me, his brow furrowing deeper. “You know about the passageways?” His voice is husky as he straightens.

“Yes.” A chill shimmies over me, though I’m not sure if it’s the disarming tenor of his voice or the cold, and I shiver. “I stumbled upon it one day—”

His eyes narrow on my feet. “You’re freezing.” He walks over, taking the candle gripped between my fingers, and ushers me hastily toward the fire.

Setting the candlestick on the mantel, Greyson glances at me before moving to his bed. He pulls a quilt from the top and drapes it over my shoulders, his fingers lingering on the fabric as he studies me. “Why didn’t you knock on the door?” His voice is softly probing, his body so close, I can smell the botanicals that linger on his breath.

Pulling the blanket tighter, I peer into his eyes. “I heard Prudy and . . . I didn’t want her to see me.”

That gives Greyson pause, and he lifts his head. “You didn’t?”

I swallow thickly, the heat of the fire and blanket nearly too warm. “Servants talk,” I admit. “And I wasn’t sure . . .” Realizing the audacity of my presumption coming here, mortification quickly sets in, chasing away the heat of desire. I clear my throat. “You needed something?” I prompt, forcing my confidence back into place. “You were outside my door.”

A look of guilt lifts Greyson’s brow and his jaw works beneath his scruff. “Yes, I’m sorry if I woke you.” He takes a step back, running his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“You didn’t frighten me,” I say easily, wanting to ease his look of regret. “I am curious, though.” I glance behind me at his bed. “Can you not sleep?”

He huffs a thought to himself. “No. I’ve been preoccupied tonight.”

“About the Council and Draven?”

With an exhale, long and weary, his eyes meet mine. “Something more pleasant, I promise you.” His irises are gray jewels gleaming in the firelight. But it’s not only desire enlivening them. I see vulnerability. Honesty.

A jolt of delight sends my tummy somersaulting, and a chill rolls over my skin again. Only this time, anticipation accompanies it. “I couldn’t sleep either,” I admit. “When I heard you, I—” The blanket falls from my shoulders as I take a step closer, and Greyson’s gaze rakes over me, heated and hungry unlike anything I have seen in him.

Suddenly, I’m acutely aware I’m alone with the Collector in his room, that I welcome his appraising stare—no, I yearn for it—and I will him to look at me like that again.

Instead, he takes a step back, rolling his shoulders as if he’s trying to control himself. Running his hand through his hair, Greyson turns back to the fire. Whatever connection there is between us is broken. Something is still holding him back, and I deflate a little.

Silence has never been so alarming as he stares into the flames. “Forgive me,” he finally says, his deep voice riddled with indecision. “Coming to you, standing outside your door . . .” He runs his teeth over his bottom lip. “I was going to knock, but then I wondered how many times that must have happened to you before, and—” He grips the mantle until his knuckles turn white. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

I shake the incoming memories of Master Orson away. “You didn’t frighten me,” I promise, reaching for his arm. Greyson’s eyes shoot to my hand on his bicep, the muscles trembling with whatever emotions simmer beneath the surface of his skin. “You don’t frighten me,” I whisper, realizing the truth is far more terrifying: everything about Greyson exudes power, from his infamous reputation as the vile Collector to his barely restrained temper, and, somehow, it makes me feel safe. I drop my hand. “I haven’t been truly frightened since Collins told us you’d been injured,” I admit, willing Greyson to understand me. “On the contrary . . . you make me feel safe.”

His eyes shift over my face, his chest heaving a little. “Your safety—for you to feel comfortable here—is all I want,” he says, so low it’s nearly swallowed up by the crackling flames.

“All you want?” I murmur, unable to help myself.

The wind howls outside the window.

“No,” he confesses, but the word sounds like it’s pried away from him, as if he’s ashamed of the thoughts churning behind those stormy gray eyes of his. “I want more from you than I should, Selene.” It’s the first time he’s said my name with such anguish, so much longing and uncertainty, it rivals my own. “I don’t want to rush you,” he continues. “I don’t want to pressure you. But the man in me . . .”

Licking my lips, I offer him the same truth. “I had hoped you would knock,” I tell him, emboldened.

Greyson’s eyes flash, but still, there’s reservation as he battles with himself.

“Why are you—”

“I don’t want to be like . . . him,” he forces out. After all Greyson has done, that he could lump himself in with any man I’ve ever known, makes me desperate to show him just how wrong he is.

His nostrils flare as I cup his cheek. “You are nothing like him, Greyson.”

His eyes linger on my mouth and he licks his lips, a growl rumbling in his chest. “I don’t think that’s entirely true.”

That he will not press me is proof that he’s not, and confidence makes the next words come easily. “It is,” I promise, and drop my hand. “Because you have already shown me more tenderness than any person ever has.” I think of our first kiss in his study, and how I have never felt more cherished. “I’ve never wanted to be with any other man—never longed for anyone the way I long for you.”

Greyson’s jaw ticks, his pupils dilate. His gaze is hungry and daring, and the heat of his body this close blazes hotter than the fire at my side. But I see he needs my reassurance far more than I need his.

“You worry you will overstep,” I whisper. “And I worry—” I place his palm on my chest, the press of it against my thin nightgown making my pulse thrum. To be touched with any care at all makes my heart full. “I worry you won’t take the leap at all.”

Greyson’s attention slides downward to his fingers splayed against my breast, and I wonder if he can feel my pounding heartbeat. His hand burns, a brand on my soul, and as his eyes return to mine, I match his stare, giving him no cause to question me.

Leaning in, he claims my mouth in a punishing, eager kiss, and I nearly stumble as the weight of his body presses against me. His arms wrap around my waist to hold me close, my breasts aching against his firm chest. And as his tongue dances with mine, I think I could die happy, even if this is all we ever got.

Greyson’s fingers press into my flesh to almost bruising before he breaks our kiss. Gasping for air, he rests his forehead against mine, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’ve awakened something in me,” he says hoarsely.

And while he might fear such a thing, knowing I could make him feel something other than pain and heartache makes my heart soar.

“Good,” I say, running my hand down the side of his face. “You deserve to feel alive again.”

Whether it’s my reassurance or his growing impatience, all hesitation slips away and Greyson’s restraint snaps. He grips my hips and pulls me against him, his mouth descending on mine once more, a savage claim that promises pleasure and pain.

When he lifts me against him, Greyson swallows the moan that escapes my lips. I welcome the hard press of his body, and the raw power and the need he exudes. He wants to shield me, but I want to feel every inch of him until I’ve reached his soul.

I wrap my legs around his waist, knot my arms at his neck, and clutch onto him tighter, unable to stand a shred of space between us a second longer. My fingers roam his shoulders and rake through his hair, exploring every muscle and curve of his body I can reach as he walks us to his bed.

He lowers me onto the feather-stuffed mattress, his chest heaving and eyes so wild, a delicious shudder ripples through me. “Selene,” he rasps. “Swear you will tell me if—”

I press my finger to his lips, shaking my head. “Please,” I whisper, but it’s more of a command.

Greyson stiffens against me. I know he’s in there, the beast, lying in wait, and it’s his unrestrained passion I need—fire and flames and burning desire. I can barely contain the keening, delirious need thrumming inside me, and I want his touch to scorch every unwelcome memory away, leaving only him in its wake. “Hold nothing back.”

A heartbeat passes. A breath. A moment so long, I fear I’ve gone too far, when finally Greyson’s hands move to my nightgown, tearing it down the middle. Cool air pricks my skin, tightening my nipples, and I grasp his hands, my nails digging into his flesh. He growls, eyes devouring my body and leaving fire trails from my breasts to my navel as I writhe under the heat of his stare. Down, down, down his gaze goes, and Greyson licks his lips, before finally, he tugs his shirt over his head, readying himself as if he’s about to devour his prey.

My fingers twitch, and I reach for the hard plains of his stomach and the dark dusting of hair that glistens in the firelight.

“Selene—” He stills, silently demanding I look into his eyes. Our breaths, ravenous and frenzied, mingle as I read his soul. Feel his promise. He will consume me, and banish the monsters in the darkness, making me his in all ways.

I nod, biting my lip in acquiescence, desperate to sate the blood-surging, intoxicating ache between my legs.

Greyson’s nostrils flare and he claims my mouth once more, rough and unyielding. His scruff feels primal, dangerous and daring, and I revel in it.

I’ve barely caught my breath when his large palms grip my thighs, his fingers pressing into me with bruising pressure before he tugs my body down to the edge of the bed. His length, straining in its confines, presses against me—teasing me—and I arch against him. A low moan of pleasure escapes my lips, and when Greyson’s wild eyes flick to mine, it’s with warning and the delicious promise he’ll leave me in ruins.

46

SELENE

I wake in Greyson’s arms, his warm body pressed against mine, his breath fanning the back of my neck as he sleeps. His arms are like a weighted blanket I never want to shed, and though I wish I could stay like this all night and wake beside him at dawn, I’m not ready to answer Prudy’s questions, or try to explain my leaving Greyson’s room to Paige. Not when I’m still processing all of this myself.

Closing my eyes once more, I memorize the sound of Greyson’s deep breathing in my ear. My heart flutters anew as I remember every caress and every kiss. I can still feel the graze of his teeth, the press of his fingers, and the weight of him over me, and I know it was not a dream.

With a silent groan, I carefully extricate myself from his arms so as not to wake him. Peering over my shoulder, ensuring he still sleeps, I smile. I’ve never seen him look peaceful, or so young, and an unfamiliar feeling—almost giddy—spills over me. I try to curb the dizzying realization that this could be what our lives are like together. In his bed, in his arms, in his home.

Quietly, I find my nightgown on the floor, freezing when I eye its torn remains. I nearly giggle, a girlish noise I’m not sure I’ve made, before I search for his shirt to wear instead. Billowing and hanging past my knees, I decide it will do for now, and don my robe over it. Ruined fabric balled beneath my arm, I pad over to the candlestick I brought with me, the wick almost completely burned away. With a final glance at Greyson, his form sprawled across the sheets, I sneak back into the secret passageway, pulling the door quietly shut behind me, and head for my room.

My cheeks heat as I replay the past few hours over and over in my head, barely able to believe how much everything has changed. But the moment I step from the corridor into my room, my breath catches, my heart stops, and my hand flies over my mouth to silence my impending scream. Martin lies in a heap at the foot of my bed, and holding out the waning candlelight, I see the crimson soaking his tunic.

I glance around the room—at my closed bedroom door and into the shadows, looking for the intruder. But I see no one, and I don’t know whether to scream or remain silent and run back to Greyson’s room.

There are footsteps in the passageway, and I scream as a rough hand clamps over my mouth just before I can turn. The candlestick drops to the rug, and viscous breath presses against my cheek. “Look what we have here,” a slimy, familiar voice I can’t quite place snickers. I try to scream against his hand, but it’s pointless, and just as I wrench myself from his barrel-like hold and spin around, I see the bandit from the woods.

Flames lick up the drapes.

Something strikes the side of my head.

There’s searing pain, and then . . . nothing.

47

GREYSON

I stir awake. Woodsmoke and the scent of something floral fills my nose, so faint, I inhale again as my consciousness rouses. Lilies. A warmth spreads over me as the night’s activities spur to life, but I open my eyes to find I am in bed alone, and my contentment quickly fades. Lifting to my elbow, I rub my eyes, feeling the gratifying ache of my body. Surprised by Selene, I can’t help my smirk as I glance around the room. It’s dark, save for the dying fire in the oversized hearth.

Selene’s candlestick isn’t on the mantle, and her discarded clothes are gone. My smile widens as I consider the tatters her nightgown was left in. But my amusement subsides as I realize she snuck out. I chalk it up to propriety, perhaps a little humility, but I’m unable to convince myself she might regret our lovemaking, enthusiastic as it may have been, when she was the one spurring me on.

With a deep exhale, I run my hands over my face and drop back onto my pillow. I’m not sure if I feel more alive or exhausted, and I find the happy conundrum diverting. As I lie in bed, my body easing back into much-needed sleep, I hear a muffled cough and male voices inside the wall.

Sitting up, I stare at the hidden door beside the fireplace for the briefest of moments as I register something is very wrong.

Selene.

Leaping to my feet, I tug on my trousers and grab a pistol from under my side of the bed. There’s a curse from inside the passageway, and I lean my ear against the doorway, straining to listen.

“—damn smoke,” a man whispers.

“Quiet,” another replies.

With only moments before they are inside my room, I glance around in search of a plan. I could await them here with a welcome gunshot to the chest the moment the door opens, but I don’t know how many men there are, and they would not come for Selene or me unarmed.

I reach my bedroom door, opening it slowly and quietly, gun ready for anyone who might await me on the other side, but when I find the landing empty, my instinct is to run to Selene and Paige and secure their safety first. It’s only when I step fully out of my room and register the intense scent of smoke that I note the hallway is thick with it, and firelight flickers under Selene’s bedroom door.

“No!” As the gravity of the situation catches up with me, the secret door in my room creaks open, and before I can give it a second thought, I step in and shoot the first man I see in the back. The one beside him whirls around, shooting without aim, just as my bullet hits him, and I barrel toward him, chest heaving as I ensure there are only the two of them. Smoke wafts in from the passageway, and I’m painfully aware it just saved my life.

“Selene!” I shout, spinning around. “Paige!” I run out of my room, bellowing their names. I hear distant voices as the house rouses in alarm, and while I pray everyone else is okay, I know Selene is not. I shout for her again as I lunge across the landing. “Prudy—Martin! Arm yourselves and get everyone out!” I call as loudly as I can. “There’s a fire!”

Paige whimpers as she runs sleepily out of her room. “Go downstairs,” I command. “If you see a stranger, you scream and run. Find Ms. Fairchild and the others. Get out of the house, Paige.” My voice is loud over the roar of flames raging in Selene’s room. “Go!”

Tears filling her eyes, Paige glances at Selene’s door, nods, and rushes downstairs.

“Selene!” I shout, fear consuming me as I stop just outside her door. “Gods, please answer me,” I beg, but there’s no reply. Cursing, I run my hand through my hair. Smoke filled the passageway, not flames. And though I know it’s foolish to open her door, there is no time to backtrack.

Taking my chances, I tap the door handle, finding it warm but not scalding, and holding my breath, I shove it open.

Smoke billows out, but when no firestorm immediately follows, I step inside. “Selene!” Flames consume the drapes and her bed, and Martin’s body is crumpled on the floor, blood soaking his shirt, but Selene is gone.

The hot, taunting breath of fear subsides as my blood runs cold. Draven.

48

SELENE

My chin and cheek hit something solid, making my neck snap in pain as I stir awake. My body throbs in a contorted heap, and as I register the rapid clomp of trotting hooves, I realize I’m draped over a horse. I move to grab my throbbing head, but I force myself to be still instead, recalling the man from my room. The bandit from the forest.

There’s a jerk and the horse whinnies. “Keep up, you old nag,” my captor gripes. “I should’ve taken Pliny’s damn horse,” he grumbles, and slaps the reins against the poor beast’s body as I blink my eyes open. My head is pounding so badly, it feels as if all the blood is rushing to my skull and it’s ready to burst.

My wrists are tied, but other than the man’s haphazard hold on me draped over the saddle in front of him, I am not tethered to anything. One wrong move and I could fall. Tugging at my wrists, I force my eyes to stay open, though they feel unbearably heavy with sleep.

“Shit. Where the hell are they?” The bandit curses again, and he leans forward, snapping the reins against the horse’s neck, and the cool weight of a gun presses into my back.

I try to focus on the outline of buildings in the predawn light—the new village Greyson is building. As it disappears from sight, I realize we’re headed toward the sheep pasture, and beyond that is the start of Draven’s estate. A new sort of fear swells inside me. As my mind spins with alarm, and my head bounces with each stride, compounding my headache, I know I have little time before I can’t think at all.

I’m ready to push myself off the horse and fall to whatever doom awaits me on the ground or under the horse’s heavy hoofbeats, when I notice the blade nestled in the bandit’s boot. Without a second thought, I reach for it, tear it from its sheath, twist my body, and shove the blade into his side with a grunt.

The man shouts, the horse rears back as he pulls on the reins, and both of us tumble off, the horse falling onto the ground with us. I land on the uneven ground with a scream. My arm hits stone, and my head smacks the ground. The world wobbles as I try to push myself off the ground with one arm, the other smarting so sharply, I don’t know if I’ve broken something.

The horse’s neighing and the man’s growling and shouting seem miles away. It’s difficult to think beyond the incessant pounding in my head as everything around me pulses, and pain rings in my ears as I fight to stay awake.

Groaning, I register the horse galloping away. The irate bandit eyes me with a snarl and stalks toward me, holding his bleeding side with one hand, and his pistol pointed directly at me with his other.

“You little bitch,” he growls, spitting out a mouthful of blood. Wrath fills his eyes, and I scramble to my feet. I can’t outrun a bullet, especially not like this, but I have to try—I have to hide.

He cocks his pistol, and I’m about to reach for a fallen tree branch to throw at him, though I know it will not save me, when I hear a whistle in the air and the thunk of the arrow that lodges itself directly in the bandit’s back. It pierces through his heart, and his face contorts with pain and confusion as I watch blood blooming through his shirt. The pistol falls from his grip, and Mona and a few others come through the morning mist, their bows and arrows in hand. She drops her walking stick and hurries over to me as the bandit falls to the ground.

“We saw the flames,” she explains, voice breathy as she stalks toward me. Mona scans me from head to toe, taking in my battered appearance. Raiden is with her, and he checks to see if the man is dead before he walks over to us. I don’t realize Mona is fussing over me as my mind tries to catch up.

“The candle—” I shake my head, trying to see the smoke and flames of Briarwood manor burning beyond the tree line, but though there is a tinge of smoke in the misty morning, the fog is too thick.

I lunge toward the house on shaky legs.

“No, Selene, slow down.” Mona nods for Raiden and the others to leave. “Get to Greyson—make sure everyone is all right,” she tells them.

Though Raiden hesitates, he must see something in Mona’s eyes that brooks no argument. “See that Paige is okay,” she implores.

Finally, Raiden runs toward the other two villagers, leaving Mona and me to hobble back toward the estate on our own. I take a few stumbling steps, uttering my disbelief and fear with each breath.

“Come, lean on me, child. We’ll never get there at this pace otherwise.” Though her tone is chiding, she brushes the sweat-dampened hair from my face gently, the way a mother might. “Raiden will see that everyone is all right.”

I know Mona can’t promise such a thing, but I also know I am only a few shallow breaths away from passing out as a sharp pain shoots through the back of my head.

“The candle,” I repeat through tears as I realize the blaze is my doing. That I might be the one responsible for someone’s death. “I was fighting against him and—”

“Shh. Shh. It’s no matter,” she promises, and she seems so certain I almost believe her. “None of this is your fault. Whatever that man—”

“Draven!” I blurt, tears pricking my eyes. “I was his and now he wants me back.”

“No, you’re ours now,” Mona states, turning me to face her. “We are your family now, and we won’t let anything happen to you, child. Now calm down or you’ll make yourself sick.”

Her visage is blurry, but her voice is calming, and I find I can’t help but nod in acceptance as my chin quivers.

“Everything will be well. We must get you to Greyson. He’s probably worried—”

A bullet screams through the air and before I know what’s happening, Mona falls into me. A shriek tears from my throat as she grips onto my arms, her mouth agape and her eyes shifting over my face.

“Mona?” I whimper, grabbing hold of her. “Mona!”

Her lips move to say something, but a gurgle comes out instead. Her weight is too much to bear and my injured arm gives out. I fall to the ground with her in my embrace, tears filling my eyes.

“Mona!” I cry, clutching her. “Please—”

“At last.” The smooth, silky voice of Edward Draven reaches my ears. He’s finally come to claim me.

49

GREYSON

When the rooms have all been checked and emptied, and no one is left inside but me and Martin’s burning body, I rush through the servants’ entrance, past the garden, and toward the stables where Paige, Prudy, and the others watch the manor burn in disbelief. I don’t expect Selene to be among them, but that she isn’t only hardens the ice in my veins and my determination to find her.

“Prudy!” I call, rushing toward them. I ignore the twinge of healing flesh on my leg. “Selene is not in the house—she’s been taken.”

Prudy gasps in absolute horror. “Master Draven?”

“I’m certain of it. Two of his men were in my room, no doubt to kill me. And Martin,” I begin, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Martin is dead.” He and Prudy came into my life around the same time, and I know his death will serve an equal blow to her as well.

I glance at Paige, who peers up at me with a watery, frightened expression I don’t quite know how to soothe as I manage my own panic.

Bending down, I peer into her eyes. “I have to leave, but I will be back.”

Her chin trembles and she’s about to protest.

“Paige,” I say more firmly. “You must stay here with the others—” I look at Prudy. “Take her to Emberbrook, keep her safe—”

“Sir!” Galloping horse hooves and Collins’s voice jolt me to my feet. He and Bart ride closer, their eyes as wild as my racing heart. “Sir—”

“I need you to ride with me,” I tell them. “The house is empty, but Selene has been taken.” I grit my teeth to keep the tears from my eyes. “We go to Draven’s—”

“Not without a plan,” Collins says. “You know as well as I do, he’ll be waiting for you to come for him.”

“Not if he thinks I’m dead,” I tell him. “I’m going for her, Collins,” I grind out.

He nods beyond me, at Mona’s people rushing toward us through the sheep pasture. It’s only as I register Raiden is carrying someone draped in his arms, that whatever relief I feel vanishes.

“Mona!” I shout as Paige screams, “Grandma!” We rush toward them, but the look on Raiden’s face, the pure rage that’s there, tells me she is gone.

As Paige falls to pieces, Prudy pulls her into her arms. But all I can do is stare at Raiden. Feel what he is feeling. His family, his partner. Dead. “Draven,” I seethe, and Raiden nods.

I squat beside him as he crouches over Mona’s body, wiping the hair from her pale face.

“Selene was fighting a man at the tree line. I put an arrow through him, but she was injured. Mona wanted us to make sure you and Paige were all right.” Raiden shakes his head as his gruff voice wobbles. “I knew better, but I left her anyway.”

Reaching for his shoulder, I offer him what little comfort I can.

“We heard the gunshot,” he grinds out. “But we were too late.” Raiden meets my gaze. “He took her, Greyson. He has Selene.”

I nod, my worst fears confirmed. Not because Draven will kill Selene—he wants her too badly to do that—but I know he’ll do something that will traumatize her far worse.

Rising to my feet, I turn, staring at the flames licking up the side of the manor, from broken windows and over the trellis archway, into the garden. All the wood we’ve used to reinforce the structures catches easily, and though I’m grateful for the metal reinforcements that have kept the walls from crumbling, I know the house is gone. For good this time.

First the castle, now the manor. First Constance, now Selene . . . My rage and resentment knows no bounds as every part of my body hums with malice.

“Collins!” I bark. I know I am no match for Draven alone, not on his land, with his men, when he’s had time to plot and scheme. “We go for Selene.” I stare toward Northshire, imagining all the things I will do to Draven, death the least creative. “Whether he thinks me dead, I know one thing he certainly isn’t counting on.”

50

SELENE

Sitting on the edge of a bed, I stare dumbly at the papered wall of a finely furnished room, in a dress that is not my own. Blinking, but not seeing. Breathing, but I’ve never felt more hollow. All I can see is the life draining from Mona’s pale green eyes and the final purse of her lips. What words might she have said had she been able to speak?

Tears drip from between my lashes like liquid iron against cool stone. Paige has lost her grandmother tonight, Greyson has lost his family home, and Martin is dead—who knows how many others are as well, and all because of me.

My arrival here is a haze. In the recesses of my foggy mind, I heard Draven command his man to turn so I could change, then the click of the lock as the door shut.

Brushing my fingertips over the tender spot on the back of my skull, I stare down at the plum-colored dress that’s too long and too tight. It all feels like a blur—the pain in my head and the burn in my heart all-consuming as he pulled me away from Mona’s body. I’d fought against him, but I don’t know if I gave up, or if I passed out. I don’t remember coming up the stairs or into this room, so I must have been unconscious.

Limping over to the window, I peer out at the dewy morning. The fog is thick on the horizon, so I can’t see Briarwood as it burns; I don’t know if it’s better that way, or worse. I glance at the man in the corner of my room, cloaked in shadow. He watches me as if there’s anywhere I could go, though the grating sound of his restless leg bouncing wears on me to the point I consider temporary madness.

There’s movement in the hallway and panic flashes through me. Dreading the moment the door opens, I brace myself. It isn’t Draven that steps inside, however, but a sickly woman with ashen skin, premature wrinkles around her brown eyes, and dark hair so dull, it doesn’t gleam the slightest in the morning light.

She looks sad and afraid when her eyes meet mine, but it’s her I pity. I don’t know this woman’s story, but she has clearly been mistreated. I recall Greyson’s words days ago, and realize this must be Draven’s wife, for she looks too old to be a daughter, still at home and unmarried.

“Mrs. Draven?” I ask, though the question comes out as a hoarse rasp more than anything, and I clear my throat.

She sets a tray on the table by the fire. “Something to eat,” she offers, though I can hardly hear her. “And,” she says, lifting a porcelain kettle. “I’ve brought you some tea.”

I watch her closely, thoughts whirling as I try to grasp just how horrid this man might actually be; Mrs. Draven looks browbeaten and whittled down to nothing more than skin and bones.

“I won’t ask you for help, and risk your husband’s wrath,” I reassure her, keeping the man in the room in mind. “But do you know why your husband has brought me here?” I know the reason, but I want to know if she does, too.

“I can assume,” she says, and pours me a cup of tea. When she hands it to me, there’s a chilling smile curving her lips and a glint in her eyes that makes the hair on my arms and neck stand on end. “And I couldn’t be more relieved.”

Staring at the teacup, I take a step back, refusing to drink whatever poison they might try to serve me. “You—what?” The back of my legs hit the bedframe.

“Perhaps now that he has you, he will stop taking his anger out on me,” she says, and there’s a barely restrained giddiness in her voice so terrifying, it chases the pounding in my head away, panic curdling in my stomach instead. She sets my untouched teacup down, straightening as she runs her long fingers down her fancy dress. It might be made of silks and lace, but it does nothing to hide her emaciated frame.

Draven has ruined her.

Bile inches its way up my throat, but I swallow it down. “I’m sorry for what he’s done to you,” I tell her, more sincere than I expect, as she stares at me with a fiendish glint in her eyes. “I will help you,” I promise, and take a step closer. “Greyson Blackburn will come for me. And when he does, and your husband is dead, I will help you—”

“No!” In a fit of sudden rage, Mrs. Draven slams the teapot on the floor, shattering it to pieces. Porcelain and tea water litter the rug, and I rear back in alarm. I fall back onto the bed as she lunges for me, and the henchman grabs hold of her, wrangling her arms behind her back and away from me as she shrieks. “You belong here. Don’t you see? This was your fate—it’s always been your fate, and I am done—”

“What’s this?” Draven calls as he barrels into the room. His wife, frail but mighty, seems to wilt in the henchman’s arms the instant her husband’s disapproving gaze lands on her. “Sable,” he growls, and takes two angry strides toward her. He grips her chin in his hand, making her whimper, and the henchman lets go.

Despite the veins bulging in her husband’s hands, Sable doesn’t pull away from him, only squeezes her eyes shut, as if she’s retreating somewhere far, far away.

“You know better than to overexert yourself in your precarious state,” he says coldly, but his narrowed features remain expressionless, making him all the more terrifying. Sable winces as his grip on her chin tightens, and his angular jaw clenches ever so slightly.

Appalled, I stare at her stomach, unable to tell she’s pregnant at all, if that’s what he’s referring to. She’s too thin. Too sickly looking for it to be a healthy child. It’s then I wonder how many children she’s lost in this man’s desperation for a male heir . . . and what he won’t do to get one from me.

“Make yourself useful and fetch Miss Sinclair some more tea.” He jerks his hand away, causing his wife to stumble. Sable glances at me, a maelstrom of shame and sorrow filling her eyes, before hurrying from the room like a beaten pup.

I eye the open door longingly, but with Draven and his henchman in the room, I know it’s no use to run. And Sable would help them do whatever she could to keep me here. I have no doubt about that.

“So,” Draven starts, running his fingers over the mantle. He analyzes the dust on his fingers, steps over the broken teapot, and shakes his head. Unlike Greyson’s wild mane of black waves, Draven is frightfully well-groomed. Not a single hair is out of place, and not a shadow of stubble darkens his chin. I am scared to fathom what sort of rage bristles beneath his controlled exterior. “You know who I am, I presume.” When I don’t answer him from my perch on the end of the bed, he sets his hard gaze on me.

“Yes,” I grit out. “We met on the road.”

He grins wolfishly. “Yes, well, that wasn’t quite what I meant.” He nods for his man in the corner to toss another log onto the fire and wanders to the window facing the woods. “I’m sure you have questions, but the basic fact is this—you and I are destined, Selene. We have been all of your life, only you didn’t know it. I, on the other hand, have been angry at the world since the day your father told me you died, and only now do I finally feel at ease.”

“We are not fated,” I tell him. “My brother and mother saw to it, even my father did when he lied to you about my death.”

Ever so slowly, Draven’s head turns and his eyes meet mine. I imagine my father spun many tales to save himself until Draven put the pieces together.

“He told you I was dead to save me. So that you would never be my fate.” I’m taunting him, knowing full well I shouldn’t, but I can’t help the hatred that seeps through my every word.

Draven’s eyes narrow minutely, but a slight grin lifts the corner of his mouth, giving me pause. “And yet, your mother is dead—by his hand, I might add—as is your brother and now your father. And here you are with me.”

My snideness wavers.

“Yes, you think you have it all figured out,” Draven says with a chuckle. “Ignorant for nine years, and then suddenly you see it all so clearly, I presume.”

“I know what sort of monster stands before me, which is all I need to know.” I grip the bedpost, my knuckles turning white. “So do the people of Briarwood. So does Greyson. He will come for me, and you will be sorry.”

Draven walks the length of the room, unhurried with his hands clasped behind his back, as if he hasn’t a care in the world. “Greyson,” he says with amusement. “On a first-name basis already, are you? Well—” He shrugs. “It’s no matter. Like the others, he is dead.” His eyes flick to me. “Apologies, my dear.”

My chin lifts indignantly as I tell myself I don’t believe him, but the truth of the matter is, I do not know if Greyson is alive, and tears burn the backs of my eyes despite myself, though I refuse to let them fall. “The Council will know what you’ve done, especially once they find out you have kidnapped me.”

“Kidnapped? You are not married to Blackburn, you are no more to him than a slave on paper, and now he is dead. And the fire, well, it wasn’t planned, but I couldn’t have arranged it any better. No more pesky paperwork either. And what a shame that the lord of the manor couldn’t get out in time.”

Draven eyes me up and down. “So you see, Selene, I am not to be trifled with.” His tone is no longer amused, but full of warning. “I need an heir, and you will give me one.” He takes two strides closer. “You will give me many,” he grinds out. Whatever the cost goes unsaid.

“What of your wife?” I say, my voice too tremulous to control.

“She is nothing to me—a broken vessel, and nothing you need to worry about.”

I glance at Sable’s shadow in the doorway. “And our children—what will you do with them?” I continue. “Sell them off? Take them away from me the way you’ve taken hers?”

“If you give me a son, I won’t have to, now will I?”

“There are other children that rely on me—Paige has already lost her mother, and you say she’s lost her father.”

Draven lifts his shoulder, only slightly. “If you behave, maybe I’ll allow her to live to keep you company.” He says it so casually, it’s sickening.

“And if I misbehave, you would kill a little girl?”

Draven laughs. “My, you do think me a monster. I could kill her, yes, but selling her would be far more strategic, don’t you think? Blackburn’s daughter would fetch a good price.”

A distant drone catches my ear, and even Draven pauses in his musings to listen. Walking toward the window, he peers out, his body going rigid.

I run to the other window and tear the drapes open. Firelight in the mist. The chanting cries of people. It’s only as a horde of them comes into view with pitchforks and rifles and weapons of their own making, that I realize all of Briarwood has come, and Collins and Raiden are at the helm.

“Greyson,” I breathe, but he is nowhere in sight. Raiden rides Midnight, and my heart sinks. “No . . .” Shaking my head, the world blurs. “He’s not dead.” It can’t be true. He’s Greyson Blackburn, the Collector. Master of Briarwood. My partner in this—my protector.

But the tears are too heavy to keep at bay as the reality that Greyson is not a beast nor monster, but only a man, crashes down on me.

“At least the bastards got something right,” Draven mutters to his henchman standing beside him. He shoves his man’s shoulder. “Go. Organize the rest of the men, and silence these fools. Kill them all if you have to. I can buy more slaves.”

The henchman dips his chin, but his eyes are wide with unspoken questions.

“What?” Draven growls. “You’re wasting time.”

“There are dozens of them. They outnumber us, sir—”

“Go! Or I swear to God, Tinsey, I’ll kill you myself!” It’s the first tinge of panic I’ve heard in Draven’s voice.

“These people,” I say through tears. “They are coming to save me because they are not afraid of you, Edward Draven.” I swallow the sob that wants to wrench from my throat. “You’re outnumbered, and they won’t stop until you are dead.”

He whips toward me and I lunge for the door, prepared to scratch and claw and kick and bite until I get out of this nightmarish place. But Draven is quicker than my hobbly leg and battered body will allow me to move, and his hand grips my loose hair as he yanks me back.

I shriek, falling into him, and while one of his hands wraps around my middle, his other strong hand wraps around the front of my throat. His body is hard behind mine, and I whimper as his breath tickles the side of my cheek. “You are mine, Selene. What part of that do you not understand? I will die before I let them take you. Do you understand me—”

“Then you will die,” Greyson snarls as he strides through the doorway.

A sob of relief escapes me as I take in his soot-smeared clothes splattered with blood. His pistol is aimed at Draven and me, and when he sees I’m shielding the very man he’s come to destroy, his aim lowers and fear replaces the rage in his eyes—but only for the breadth of a moment. Whatever he sees in Draven’s expression makes Greyson’s eyes gleam. “Surprised to see me alive, I take it,” he taunts. “Perhaps you should’ve come to kill me yourself.” Greyson takes a step closer. “Let her go, Draven, you worthless piece of shit.”

Draven’s fingers squeeze harder and suddenly there’s a dagger at the base of my throat. I wince as the blade presses into my flesh. “Where’s the fun in that?” he purrs.

“You won’t kill her,” Greyson says, but I hear the uncertainty in his voice. Neither of us are sure how mad this man truly is.

“I don’t want to, but I would rather her be dead than give her back to you, Blackburn.”

“If you kill her, you will lose everything, Draven. All that you’ve sold your soul for over the years will be for nothing more than a cell infested with rats—a fate you fear far more than death. And I will see to it,” Greyson promises. “Or Killian will, because I received word last night that he has returned. If you kill me, he will come for you.”

Draven frowns in my periphery. I don’t know if Greyson is fibbing or if what he says is true, but the information serves its purpose.

“Your plans are foiling far too quickly for this to end any other way,” Greyson tells him.

Draven only shrugs, the tips of his fingers pressing into my flesh more painfully than the perfectly poised blade he holds in the other hand. “Foiling how? Because your house is burning? I have one of my own,” he volleys, but I can tell he’s trying to find a shred of control to hold on to because he knows Greyson is right. “Or is it because you are still alive? You won’t leave that way—I can guarantee you that.”

“And if I die, what will you do? My laborers are loyal to me and only me. They would rather die than work for you.” He nods toward the window. “As you can see.”

I hear the shouting and gunshots below. The slamming of doors and furniture.

“If you are left standing, Draven, with only the proxy’s daughter, you don’t think the Council will know what you’ve done? They know I suspect you for Constance’s death, only I couldn’t prove it. Now Cecil is dead, and you have no one left to help you cover your tracks—you have no one left who’s indebted to you.”

I don’t know if Greyson is stalling for something or simply trying to get a rise out of Draven before he makes his move, but the harder it becomes to breathe, the more desperate I am to get away from him.

“You are alone, Draven, and you won’t hurt anyone, not anymore.” Greyson raises his pistol again.

Draven steps back on instinct, into a piece of furniture that knocks him off-kilter. The moment the press of the dagger lightens at my throat, I pull away, reach for the fire poker by the hearth on my left, and whirl my arm around, bashing him with it.

With a curse, Draven stumbles back, his head hitting the wall before he falls to his knees. I fling myself into Greyson’s arms, gripping onto him and crying with joy in his embrace. “I thought you might be dead,” I rasp, barely able to contain the despondency inching its way in.

Greyson kisses my temple. “I’ll always come for you,” he breathes.

In a daze, Draven fumbles to his feet, staring at the blood on his hand that drips from his head. “You bitch—”

Blackburn lifts his pistol, about to pull the trigger and end it all, when an otherworldly, ear-piercing shriek fills the air. I cower into Greyson, cringing as Sable rushes into the room. Screaming, she bashes Draven over the head with a vase, knocking him to the floor. As he wobbles on his hands and knees, trying to stand, Sable looms over him, her chest heaving and her eyes almost feral. I grip onto Greyson’s coat and watch with bated breath as she picks up the discarded fire poker on the rug.

It takes Draven a few more wobbles before he notices his wife hovering over him, and his eyes flash with terror as he realizes she will be his end.

“Sable,” he croaks, using the windowsill to pull himself to his feet. “Sable, wait—”

“You took all of my children from me,” she says, her voice so wire-tight it’s barely audible. “And you will never hurt another child ever again.”

Draven has no time to process or react before she twists, and whirls back around, driving the fire poker into his chest. He sputters forward as she pulls it out, yanking with all her might. Blood spews from Draven’s mouth as he lurches forward. Sable strikes him again before she can barely hold the poker and drops it at his feet.

Draven splutters. Sable heaves, hunched over as if she’s used up all of her strength. Even as the most horrid man in the world dies, I cower into Greyson, unable to watch.

The commotion downstairs is drowned out by Draven’s gurgling, and Sable, as she sobs.

Craning my neck, I force myself to look at her, to see the frail woman who has been reduced to such a miserable state.

Pulling away from Greyson, I go to her, slowly lowering myself at her side. She doesn’t look crazed anymore; she looks relieved. And exhausted and broken. But as she weeps a lifetime of sorrow from which there is no coming back, at least there is no more monster to torment her.

“He’s gone,” I breathe, ignoring the pain in my knee as I inch closer. “Sable—”

Her hands cover her face, her shoulders shuddering, and she shakes her head.

“He’s gone,” I whisper again, and carefully, I reach for her. When she doesn’t flinch at my touch, I wrap my arm around her, slowly, so as not to startle her, and I pull Sable against me. “He’s gone,” I say again and again, willing her to find an inkling of respite in that.

To my surprise, the emaciated woman turns into me, her head hitting my chest as she wraps her arms around me. She holds on for dear life, her fingers digging into my skin. “He took them all,” she sobs. “I have no one.”

“You have the babe,” I remind her, but she shakes her head.

“There was never another one. There is nothing left of me to bear. I had to lie—” she chokes out. “I had to—”

“Shh.” I brush her hair away from her face and rest my cheek against her head. My eyes lock with Greyson’s and he looks as miserable as I feel, fearing this woman will never be whole again.

“You’re okay now. We’ll see that you get care—we’ll take care of you,” I promise, and I know, no matter how much Greyson hated Draven, he will do what he can for this woman. His honor is bound to helping people like her. People like us.

There are footsteps in the hall and Greyson whirls around, his pistol aimed at the doorway. Raiden stops dead in his tracks. His hair is mussed, his clothes torn and bespattered with blood—he even took a right or left hook to the face, by the looks of it.

When he sees Draven in a bloody heap on the floor, the tension in his shoulders seems to ease. He nods in satisfaction and hikes his thumb over his shoulder. “Draven’s men—what’s left of them, anyway—have conceded,” he reports.

Greyson looks at me. “We should go,” he murmurs, and only then do I remember Briarwood is burning. Greyson and Raiden step out to speak privately, and I look down at the woman in my arms.

“Come,” I whisper in Sable’s ear. “Let’s get you away from this place.”

It’s an effort to stir her back to the urgency of the moment, but finally, she allows me to help her to her feet, and by the time we make it to the bedroom door, Greyson reappears. “Bart and Victoria are here with us. They’ll take her to Bronson in Emberbrook.”

I nod as I see Victoria hurrying up the stairs. Her dress is rumpled and her long braids fall over her shoulders, but she looks unharmed and as imposing as the men with her shotgun in hand.

“You and I,” Greyson continues, “have someone to get home to.”

Paige. I nod, suddenly brimming with relief. “Yes,” I say, taking Greyson’s hand. “Let’s go home.”

51

GREYSON

Midnight leads us through the meadow that butts up to the tree line, just outside Briarwood. The smoke is visible above the trees, blotting out the rising sun and turning the sky crimson through the thinning morning clouds.

A swell of emotion tightens my chest as I count the ways in which we’ve been lucky tonight. Guilt quickly follows, however. Mona and Martin are gone, and others lost their lives for me tonight—for Briarwood. It’s not a truth that’s easily swallowed, and yet, it inspires me too.

I peer ahead at the throng of people making their way to Emberbrook. Many of them are battered and somber, but they walk with purpose. I eye the wagon of the dead and injured, but I also note the dozens of people who came to fight for what they believe in, and I feel an undeniable pride in that. Selene was right, people would die for this place, and now, no matter what unfolds with the Council of Four, I know Briarwood will never be theirs.

Selene leans her head back against my shoulder as Midnight ambles closer to the manor. Even if I know it’s burned beyond repair, I want to see it. After what happened in the castle, it’s the only home Paige has ever known.

I kiss the side of Selene’s head and wait for the new ruins to come into view as we weave through the trees. “You and your damn fire pokers,” I murmur, recalling that first night in my study. For not being much of a fighter, she’s sure scrappy when she wants to be.

A laugh bubbles out of her.

“I guess I should be grateful you’re so resourceful,” I muse.

“Perhaps you should.” She kisses the underside of my jaw, and I revel in the feel of her lips, warm and soft against my skin. Alive. After what feels like an endless night, I finally allow myself to really, truly breathe.

“You used the villagers as a distraction,” Selene says, her tone thoughtful. “While you found a way inside.”

“Whether Draven assumed I was alive or dead, I knew a mob of angry men and women would cause chaos, if not confusion. Draven thought killing our people made us weaker, but it only brought more of us together,” I realize. “Everyone was more than willing to do what they could to stop Draven from taking someone else from them.”

Selene picks absently at my fraying jacket sleeve. “I’m glad you didn’t come alone,” she confesses. “I worried you might, and—” She shakes her head.

“I knew better than that, even if I’d wanted to,” I say softly. “The voice of an opinionated governess was in my head, telling me I had an entire estate who would fight for Briarwood. For you.”

She cranes her head to peer up at me. “Really?” She smiles proudly.

I nod. “I might be stubborn, but I do listen.”

Whatever pride she feels seems to vanish just as quickly. “How many did we lose today?” Her voice is grim, but I hang on to one single word. We.

I stare into her eyes, our bodies swaying together in the saddle as I lose myself in the thought of us and our future together—the future of Briarwood. “Eleven,” I confess. “To my knowledge, at least.”

Selene’s brow crumples. “It could’ve been worse, but still, it’s far too many.”

“Yes,” I agree. “It is.” And I see the same melancholy in her eyes that fills my heart. “Many will mourn their friends and loved ones today.”

“And your brother?” she asks. “You lied about him returning?”

I nod, my concern for him only festering. “Chauncey has heard nothing. I still have no idea where he is.”

“I’m sorry,” she breathes, but I smile, willing her to be happy in this moment. “There is much to be thankful for. Let us sit with that a while longer.”

Selene chews on the side of her cheek as we continue riding in silence through the dogwoods, the rest of the villagers farther ahead.

Eventually, what’s left of the collapsing manor house comes into view, metal beams and crumbled brick and stone. But even as the smoke billows from the remains, my heart feels lighter, like the final tether to my haunting past has been snipped.

“Our home is gone,” Selene says, and it’s not the dwindling flames or the rubble that makes my eyes prick with emotion, but her.

I kiss her temple. “We will build a new home,” I promise her.

“For our family,” she whispers, and my heart hurts with fear all over again.

“Selene . . .” Having never uttered one of my worst fears to her until now, I struggle to find the words. “Draven may be gone, but childbirth is another risk in—”

“I know,” she soothes me. “But I am not afraid.”

I pull Midnight to a stop and force Selene to look at me. To see the terror that is very real and alive inside me. “I am.”

“I know.” She reaches up to cup my face, and I lean into her touch, realizing I need her far more than I ever allowed myself to admit. “But this is where I am meant to be,” she says. “I believe that with all my heart. My place is with you and Paige, and whatever happens, well, it’s how it was intended.”

I scour her face, looking for a sliver of fear, but all I find is sincerity. This woman will save me from myself, I realize. Somehow. Some way.

I capture her mouth with a desperate kiss, inhaling her as I allow myself to believe it’s true.

After a moment, her thumb brushing my cheek, Selene pulls away. I collect myself a moment longer before opening my eyes again. I’ve never wanted to run away from my duties more than I do in this moment, when all I want is to bask in the promise of happiness, just her and me a while longer.

“Come,” she says, nodding to the gathering crowd ahead. “They’re waiting for us.”

I nod, and a few moments later, I pull Midnight to a halt just outside a makeshift triage camp. People are covered in soot, and ash still floats in the air. Prudy and a few of the others stop from sorting through the rubble, leaning against their shovels as we approach.

“Selene!” A cacophony of children’s voices fill the air as Paige, the twins, and the others rush over to us.

Midnight spooks, sidestepping them, but I calm her and help Selene down.

“You’re all right!” Beatrice sings.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she assures them, and pulls each of them into an embrace.

As I dismount, and the exhausted villagers from Northshire drink the water offered them and turn to face me, I know I can’t put off addressing everyone any longer.

Clearing my throat, I climb onto an empty cart. “Thank you—all of you—for coming to our aid!” My voice booms over the dozens of men and women as they fall into silence. I meet Raiden’s mournful gaze. Then Bart’s and Victoria’s. “Because of you, Briarwood remains ours and Selene is safe.” I look from the butcher to the weaver and the blacksmith next. “But I know it did not come without cost. Go back to Emberbrook, to your children,” I tell them. “Mourn your friends and family who sacrificed their lives for this place. Remember their smiles and the happiness you shared in this life.” I meet Collins’s eyes, then Bronson the healer’s as Prudy comes to stand beside him. “The work can wait.” I glance at what’s left of the manor.

“What about the Council?” someone calls out, and I shake my head.

“I will make a trip to the City District. They will know what happened here, and they will hear it from me. But that is for me to worry about. You—” I say, calling out as loudly as I can, “you are all heroes today and deserve respite in your mourning.”

I feel their sorrow like it’s my own, hating that any sacrifice had to be made tonight. I feel the loss of Mona more keenly as the lack of her presence sinks in, and my hands tremble.

I’m about to turn away from the sorrowful faces of my friends and workers and wards as they accept their new reality, when Selene’s fingers lace with mine. I look down at her as she squeezes, and for the first time, I don’t feel alone in this, and never will again.

52

SELENE

TWO WEEKS LATER

As I gather the drying laundry from the lines, I ignore that cold, scared, and lonely feeling I’ve known most of my life as it tries to eke its way back into my heart and mind. Turning the simple band around on my finger, I lift my face to the peeking sunlight. I can almost feel Greyson standing beside me, and I cling to it, as I’ve done many times in the last twelve days. Even if the hours have felt more like days, and the days like weeks, when I close my eyes, I can still feel him. I can imagine Greyson in bed, feel the strength of his arms around me.

From the corner of my eye, I watch Nell and Victoria sorting firewood into their baskets. And Demetri, a young man a couple of years older than Nell, stops to offer them both an apple from his sack. I don’t miss the way Nell’s cheeks flush as their hands touch—how she pulls her fingers away from his when she realizes they’ve lingered too long.

“You’re brooding,” Prudy says as she walks up behind me. Her apron swishes against the bolts of fabric she carries.

“Not brooding,” I tell her. “Thinking. Longing, perhaps. But not brooding.”

“All is well. Greyson is respected and there is no reason they would doubt him. And,” she says, nodding to my ring finger. “You made it official, so they should have no qualms.”

I nod, but until he comes home, I will remain restless.

Prudy eyes me closely. She misses Greyson too—I know she does. She worries about him as much as I do. “Let me look at you,” she says, nudging me to face her. She’s not gentle, more motherly than anything—familiar with me, as if she’s known me all my life—but I don’t mind her fussing. I welcome it, actually.

Gently, Prudy takes my chin between her fingers and tilts my face toward the light so she can better see my healing wounds from the night of the fire. “The bruising is gone. Your cuts and scrapes look well enough.”

“I should hope so. You’ve been rubbing salve on me nightly for nearly two weeks now.”

She gives me a look and tilts her head. “Don’t fret, my dear,” Prudy adds. “Greyson will return.”

Nodding, I rub my arms. “I know.” I flash her a placating smile as she walks to the cottage outside the main house. Since we’re temporarily staying with Bart, Victoria, and all the children, it’s quite a full house, but they have welcomed us with open arms while we rebuild in the new Emberbrook.

As I take the rest of the laundry down, my thoughts drift again. I watch Nell and Demetri as they gaze awkwardly at one another. This is what life should be—full of first loves and awkward moments, dreams and heartache. After all we’ve been through, I can sleep at night, knowing it was all for something far greater than us. A new generation. Hope and second chances.

“What are we looking at?” a familiar baritone meets my ears.

Spinning around, I nearly fall into Greyson as I throw my arms around him. “You’re home!”

He inhales long and deep, squeezing me against him before he cranes his neck to peer down at me. “You doubted me?”

“No, but I missed you,” I say, and as tears fill my eyes, I realize how worried I’d been that his plans would be foiled and the Council would return instead.

Taking my head in his hands, Greyson kisses my temple, cheek, and mouth. Then he looks at me. “Don’t cry, my love,” he murmurs, and wipes my silent tears away with his thumbs. Greyson looks tired, but his eyes are wide and bright.

Nell laughs, drawing our attention, and when I look over, I realize Victoria is gone, leaving Demetri to help Nell with the woodpile.

“I think Nell has a suitor.” I sigh, happy but unable to deny my apprehension for her all the same. “Or she soon will, at least.”

Greyson watches them a moment, his fingers lacing with mine. “Demetri is a good man. He’s been here since he was seven,” he reassures me. “He would be a good choice for Nell.”

Choice. I beam at Greyson. But his exhaustion is too prominent to ignore, and I turn to face him fully again. “Tell me,” I say. “How did it go in New London?”

With a deep breath, he nods toward Midnight. “Walk with me?”

I nod and fall into step beside him.

“Northshire is ours,” he says, and though I wasn’t expecting that, I can’t say I’m terribly surprised.

“On what conditions?”

Greyson runs his fingers through his hair as we lead Midnight to the stables. “None, other than filling production requirements. Apparently, Draven was having difficulty doing even that. He was working his people too hard, and was continuously short-handed.”

When we reach the corral, Greyson turns to me. “It will be a lot more work, and I will need your help,” he admits. “I was hoping to ease you into things a bit more, but—”

I take Greyson’s free hand and hold it to my heart. “I am in this with you—in all ways. We’ll do whatever it takes. Especially if we want this place to be greater than it already is.”

Greyson nods, his gaze lingering on me before he continues. “I’m glad to hear you say that because the Council wasn’t the reason for my delay.”

I frown. “No?”

“Chauncey and I had some things to tend to.”

“Is Sable okay?”

He pets Midnight’s face and pulls her reins over her head. “Yes, I think it’s a relief being away from the country and all the reminders. She’s been working in his greenhouse. It gives her a sense of peace.”

Relief lessens my coiling apprehension a little, but not entirely. “Then what is it?” I squint at him, trying to read his hesitance. “What news do you have?”

“Killian.” Greyson says his brother’s name as if he’s afraid it will bite him, and I hold my breath. “The Berkano, his ship, was spotted in Old France three months ago, heading to Norseland with a shipload of goods to trade. The captain who spoke to him remembered Killian clearly—he told him he was crazy, that no one sails to Norseland and lives.” Greyson smiles at that, and I find I can’t help but smile in return.

“Do you think he is still there?” I ask, practically giddy to see the brilliance in Greyson’s eyes, more blue than gray in the sunny afternoon.

“The winter sea is treacherous, and Killian knows that. He’s been waiting out storm season in some tavern, no doubt, wrapped in furs and women, until the time is right.” Greyson grins until it brightens his whole face. “It might only be a matter of days until he’s home.”

I can hardly contain my excitement and I wrap my arms around his neck, squeezing him tightly. “I’m so happy to hear it.” I inhale his scent of leather, drowning in the comfort that he’s really, truly home. “How long does a voyage from Norseland take?”

“With any luck,” Greyson says, kissing my hair. “Two or three weeks. Hopefully, no longer than that.”

I take a step back. “Your brother is coming home,” I repeat, wanting Greyson, who has been suffering and stewing in silence about this for weeks, to feel every bit of joy he should, learning such news.

He chuckles and I brush a wayward strand of his mane from his face. “I’m so happy for you,” I breathe. “And for this place,” I add. “With Emberbrook to complete, we’re going to need the help, to be sure. The timing couldn’t be bett—”

“Papa!” Paige cheers, and runs over with Jon and Evie. She throws herself into her father’s arms, and Jon and Evie smile uncontrollably, simply because they have so much to be cheerful about.

“Did you bring me something?” Paige chirps. “And something for my friends?”

Though Greyson makes a ghastly face of confusion, he winks at me. “For you and your friends? I’m not certain. You might be able to find something in my pack,” he says, untying it from the saddle. He hands it to Paige, offering Midnight’s reins to the man in the stable. “Thank you, Thomas.”

Thomas nods, and Greyson is once again consumed by his daughter. I watch as Paige pulls out three small porcelain dolls, fancier than anything Beatrice and Evie have ever seen, a ball for Jon, and lace ribbons.

“Those are for Nell,” Greyson explains. “Why don’t you run and give them to her?”

“Okay!” Paige sings.

“Wait!” I command, and the children stop in their tracks. “You’ve just received gifts. What do you say?”

“Thank you!” they all sing in unison, and Paige lifts on her tiptoes to kiss her father’s cheek before running off, Nell’s lace ribbons fluttering behind her.

“Sable picked them out,” Greyson confesses, wrapping his arm around my waist as we watch the children. “She thought Nell would prefer them over a doll at her age. I was clueless.”

Smiling up at him, I study the scruffy curve of his cheek when he smiles, and I pray the day will never come when he stops smiling, because it’s the most addictive thing I’ve ever seen. When he feels my lingering gaze, Greyson peers down at me. Desire flashes in his eyes as his smile grows to a grin, and before I can catch my breath, my beastly prince presses his lips against mine, and the entire world fades away.

EPILOGUE

SELENE

SIX MONTHS LATER

I sit with Greyson in a small tavern in the harbor town of Lowestoft, waiting for Killian’s ship to arrive. But it’s been three weeks since a horrendous storm drifted in from the North Sea with no sign of the Berkano, and it’s hard to know what to think.

“He can survive anything,” Greyson says aloud, as if he’s not only reading my thoughts but also reminding himself. I’ve never seen him on the brink of defeat, but that’s what his brother’s delayed arrival has done to him. His waning hope had been stoked to full flame, only to be doused again.

“Greyson,” I say, reaching for his hand. I jerk him toward me, flattening his hand over my belly as the little bugger moves inside. Greyson’s mouth quirks, and temporarily, the shadows in his eyes dissipate. As the kicking subsides, I lean back in my seat, glancing from the hot tea steaming in front of me to Greyson’s untouched ale. Even if the thought of it makes my stomach churn, its effects would be welcome. “At least drink something, for goodness’ sake, since I can’t. Put me out of my misery.” Rubbing my swollen belly, I blow out a breath.

“If you insist,” he says through a chuckle.

“I do, I really do.”

He takes a few gulps.

“I miss your smile,” I tell him. “And the sound of your laughter. I miss the children’s too.” I drop that one in there with a shamefaced, averted glance. Even weekly letters sent by riders do little to ebb the pangs of longing I have to see them again, to settle into our home, barely lived in, in the new Emberbrook.

“You’re using the children against me, aren’t you?” he says with another chuckle. “Have you no shame?”

“I’m a desperate woman who isn’t sleeping well and I’m beginning to swell. Excuse me if I miss the small comforts of home.”

“Wow,” he says, a full grin this time. “You really do sound like Mistress of Briarwood now. Shall I fetch your slippers, my lady?” he says, bowing slightly.

I toss a piece of bread at him and roll my eyes, unable to resist a smile of my own. Despite my discomfort, I know I must keep things light since Greyson will find every possible reason to worry about me.

With a deep, audible sigh, he finally concedes. “Of course we can go back. It was supposed to be a brief trip, and I’ve dragged you here when you should be resting.” He shakes his head. “I can stew at home as well as I can stew here.” His face sours as he downs the last of his ale. “At least there, I have Chauncey’s gin and whiskey to drown in.” He pushes his chair from the small table we sit at in the corner of the pub.

“Gerty—” He rises to his feet. “I’ll settle our tab tonight. And we’ll leave first thing tomorrow,” he announces, and the barkeep nods with a smile in my direction.

I wink at her, my new friend so far away from home, and I rise to my feet as well. “Perhaps we can take some stew to the room?” I simper. “Eat while we’re wrapped in blankets by the fire.”

That heated look in Greyson’s eyes returns. And despite my own desires, I’m relieved to see I still affect him in my growing state.

“Gerty!” Greyson calls with sudden urgency, his eyes still fixed on me, dark and mischievous. “Have stew and ale sent to our room.”

I laugh as she winks at me this time, and as Greyson takes my hand, the door to the pub flings open. A strapping man with longish hair, haphazardly pulled back in a messy knot, strides in. His clothes are well-worn, his shirt dirty, and his attire is not of this land. As he turns and peers around the room, I know immediately who it is.

“Killian.” Greyson breathes his brother’s name as if he’s afraid he’s seen a ghost.

There’s a beat of a moment when both men are frozen in time. Neither moves. Neither seems to breathe. Until finally, Killian’s mouth curves and an easy, heart-stopping grin engulfs his face. “Brother!” he says, and in two strides, Killian’s arms are around Greyson, and the twins embrace one another with affectionate claps on each other’s backs.

My eyes blur as I realize this day, the one Greyson has waited for longer than I’ve known him, has finally come, and all that’s left of his haunting fears can be put to bed.

“Where the hell have you been, little brother?”

“Little?” Killian laughs, and pulls away. “Two minutes counts for nothing.”

But Greyson doesn’t give in to his baiting, his expression reserved as usual, and Killian sobers. “There is much to tell you,” he says, and whatever Killian has endured these past months reflects plainly in the exhaustion shadowing his face. “And I will. I promise.”

Greyson looks at me, and it’s only then that Killian notices me standing there. He frowns, eyeing me up and down before his eyes snap back to his brother. “She’s with you?”

As the realization sinks in, what looks like relief flashes in Killian’s eyes, and as his grin grows wider, he looks at me with renewed appreciation. “You must be special,” he says easily, shaking his head in awe.

“Killian, this is Selene.”

“And she’s pregnant . . .” Killian swallows thickly, apprehension marring his features. “With your child?” And while I don’t blame his surprise, or his fear, knowing all too well what Greyson has been through, I nip Killian’s line of thought before he can sour the mood.

“As you can see,” I tell him. “And she is standing right here.” It’s a bit more sass than I’d intended, but Killian’s eyes widen. He looks at his brother again, chuckling.

“Oh, I like her.” His eyes shift to me. “I like you,” he repeats. “Big, brooding Blackburn has a beautiful woman to keep him in check. Can I call you sister?”

“Of course,” I say, and in two strides, Killian wraps me in a bear hug. He smells like salt and wind, and I feel more content by his presence than I thought possible. “You’re finally home,” I whisper. “You’ve been missed.” Even if I have never met this man, I already feel as if I know him, and I squeeze him tight.

Killian takes a step back, glancing between us and then at Greyson’s empty mug of ale.

“Perhaps we should get another round of drinks,” I prompt. “You aren’t the only one who’s had a bit of adventure, it would seem.” I meet Greyson’s gaze, and the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly.

“I’ll need something stronger than that,” Killian mutters, and with a dip of his chin, his gaze measured as if he’s preparing us for whatever story comes next, he strides toward the barkeep.

Greyson takes my hand. “You are tired—”

“I am fine,” I promise. “And your brother is finally home.” I cup my hand on his scruffy cheek. “Enjoy this moment with him. You’ve more than earned it.”

His eyes shift over me as if he’s torn. “But I promised you stew in front of the fire.”

I laugh, nearly snorting. “As epic as that truly sounds, there will be plenty of time for stew and lovemaking. But tonight is cause for celebration. I insist.”

Killian’s laughter reaches our ears, and the corner of Greyson’s lip twitches with a hint of a smile. He takes my hand, fingers lacing with mine as he pulls me in for a kiss. “Fine,” he breathes. “Tonight we celebrate. But tomorrow and every night after is for stew and lovemaking by the fire.”

I smile against his lips. “I might grow tired of stew,” I tease.

“Then we’ll have Ms. Fairchild’s lemon drizzle—whatever pleases you—as long as I have you. Of that, I insist.”

THE END

Have you pre-ordered Killian and Brynn’s story, Sea of Storms? It’s a Norse-inspired Robin Hood tale.

And the adventures continue in the completed sister series, Forgotten Lands.

All of my books are available in audiobook, ebook, and paperback formats.

You can shop on my website and at all ebook retailers, including Amazon, Google Play, Barnes & Noble, and Apple.

OTHER BOOKS BY LINDSEY

FORGOTTEN LANDS WORLD

(Can be read as stand-alones)

FORGOTTEN LANDS

Dust and Shadow

Borne of Sand and Scorn Prequel Novella

Earth and Ember

Tide and Tempest

RUINED LANDS

City of Ruin

Sea of Storms

Land of Fury (March 2023)

THE ENDING WORLD

SAVAGE NORTH CHRONICLES

(Should be read in this order)

The Darkest Winter

The Longest Night

Midnight Sun

Fading Shadows

Untamed

Unbroken

Day Zero: Beginnings

THE ENDING SERIES

After The Ending

Into The Fire

Out Of The Ashes

Before The Dawn

The Ending Beginnings

World Before

World After

NEW ADULT ROMANCE

SARATOGA FALLS LOVE STORIES

(Recommended reading order)

Whatever It Takes

Nothing But Trouble

Told You So

Memory Book Story Collection

➔ Bonus Scenes and Newsletter Signup

➔ Patreon Exclusives

www.LindseyPogue.com

ABOUT LINDSEY POGUE

Lindsey Pogue has always been a sucker for a good love story. She completed her first new adult manuscript in high school and has been writing tales of love and friendship, history and adventure ever since. When she’s not chatting with readers, plotting her next storyline, or dreaming up new, brooding characters, Lindsey’s generally wrapped in blankets watching her favorite action flicks with her own leading man. They live in Northern California with their rescue cats, Beast and little Blue.

www.lindseypogue.com

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