Blackmoore(78)

I asked, my voice too loud.

“Sylvia?” Henry’s voice sounded confused. I saw him out of the corner of my eye move toward me. “What about—”

“Oh, look! There she is now!” I had never been so relieved to see her in my life. She came walking toward us from the house. She carried something in her arms. I still had not really looked at Henry. I could not.

But then he moved in front of me and leaned down, putting his face di-

rectly in my line of sight, so that I could not help but see him. His eyes were a dark charcoal today, and his hair looked as if he had spent all morning raking his fingers through it.

“Is something wrong, Kate? What happened last night? Why did you leave

so early?” I stepped away from him again, and I saw the surprise in his face when I did.

I chewed on my lip. I knew what I had to do. My heart raced with ner-

vousness. “I have decided something. I want to tell you. You and Sylvia. Both of you.” I craned my neck to watch her approach us and wished she walked faster. I could feel Henry’s gaze on my face.

“Sylvia!” I called.

She frowned at me.

“I must say something to you!” She kept frowning, and when she reached

me I saw that her gaze held a hint of anger.

“What is it, Kitty?”

I did not even bother correcting her, for once. I brushed a trembling hand over my brow, taking a deep breath and trying to drag some courage up into my heart.

“I think I ought to tell you, both, that . . . that . . .” I stopped, taking in their severe expressions, and my courage almost failed me. It was ridiculous to say it like this. But it had to be said and the sooner the better.

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But before I could force the words through my lips, Sylvia said, “What

happened to the model of Blackmoore?”

Henry’s head whipped toward me. I stared at Sylvia as dread pooled in

my stomach.

“I went to your room looking for you,” she said. “What happened to the

model?”

I swallowed. “A . . . vase fell on it.” I glanced at Henry. “It is only a small

. . . a very small . . . hole.” I took a deep breath and looked away from him. I could not bear seeing the look in his eyes. “But I have to tell you something I have decided recently. It is this: I do not intend ever to marry. I have no desire for it. I will never desire it. I will stay single, like my aunt Charlotte, and be an adventurer, and I shall never, ever marry.”

My neck was hot. I twisted my fingers together.

“Well, that is news.” Sylvia sounded happy. I could not look at Henry.

“Here. I brought you these flowers from the ball. Peonies. They’re your favorite, are they not?”

The scent of the dying flowers filled my head, even sweeter and more cloying than last night when I stood in their shadow. Sylvia was right. I had loved them before last night. But now their smell turned my stomach. They smelled like humiliation. Like rejection. Like crushings and blows and clawings and stranglings. I turned my face away, reaching out a hand toward them, to push away their limp, curling petals, their withered leaves, their shrinking forms, their violent scents.

“Please, take them away.”

“What is wrong?”

I took one deep breath through my mouth, trying to clear my head. Only

now I could taste the scent of the flowers. It sat heavy on my tongue. I swallowed and felt it slide down my throat. It lodged halfway down, midway from mouth to stomach, and sat there, heavy, despairing, cutting.

“I am unwell. It’s why I left the ball early last night. I am unwell.” My lips trembled, and I touched my fingertips to them, trying to quiet the shaking within me. “I am sorry. Please excuse me.”

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J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n

I turned then and saw in a blur the white of Henry’s shirt, the dark

length of his long legs, the bruised and broken flowers at his feet, the hem of Sylvia’s light blue dress, and then the grass. Grass, grass, grass, grass, faster, a blur of green, now gravel, stone walkway, and one two three steps to the back door. It stuck. Every summer. I pushed hard with my shoulder until it gave way to burgundy curtains brushing my face, blurred paintings, swimming

door, looming banister catching me hard in the ribs, and slick wooden stairs.

Fourteen steps, then three rooms side by side. The last room was mine. The door stood open. The ruined model of Blackmoore sat, like a dark, deformed thing, on the chest at the end of my bed. The hole in the roof looked like an angry, open mouth.

L

It had been our daily routine for years. Sylvia and I spent the afternoon in the library with Henry. She usually engaged in some show of reading until our attention was taken by our studies, and then she slipped into her afternoon

“doze” as she liked to call it. And nobody interrupted us. Mrs. Delafield did not bother us. George was away on his Grand Tour. And Sylvia had outgrown her governess. We had been in this habit for so many years that I had never had reason to question it.

But today—four days after the ball—I lingered at the threshold of the

library and tried to quiet my pounding heart. Henry was already at the large table, his books and papers scattered around him. He glanced up briefly as Sylvia threw herself down on the settee with a sigh.