House of Salt and Sorrows(62)

“I didn’t realize he was married—”

“He’s not. Evangeline died before they were wed. He never got over it. Highmoor has always been like a second home to him…. I’m sorry for all that nonsense with the contest and the shoes.”

He waved aside my concern. “People need ways of entertaining themselves. This isn’t the worst thing they could be doing during Churning, or so I’ve heard.”

“Is this your first?”

A roar of laughter burst from the dining room, and Cassius drew me to a bench down the hall, away from the noise. I sat, leaving the bottle between us, but then wished I hadn’t. Without it to hold, my hands felt too free and I didn’t know what I ought to be doing with them. I studied his, so loose and relaxed against his knees, and placed mine in an approximation. They still felt wrong.

“It is. Camille said the true festivities begin tomorrow?”

“Yes. We’ll go over to Astrea in the afternoon. There’s a bazaar and contests. Lots of vendors selling food. The pageant begins after nightfall. It’s so beautiful. There are puppets that look like jellyfish and great paper lantern whales that float through the theatre. Words can’t do it justice.”

“And after that?”

“More celebrating. I’m not sure how long Papa will want to stay…. It gets a bit out of hand, but it’s the first break the fishermen and mariners have had since Westerlies.”

“That’s the start of the fishing season?”

“When Zephyr wakes Pontus, bringing warm winds to thaw the ice. Pontus uses his trident to shift warm currents back to us. The fish return, and the kelp grows green and thick.”

Cassius leaned in, one of his hands bumping against mine. “You know, most people call that spring.”

“Not in Salann,” I managed to stammer. When his hand returned to his knee, my knuckles felt its absence keenly.

“I’ve noticed things are done quite differently here.” He looked at the architecture above us. When he studied Highmoor, it wasn’t with the same open hunger as Ethan. “Camille will inherit all this, isn’t that right?”

The last person I wanted to be talking about in a darkened hallway with Cassius was Camille.

Papa’s voice rose, booming down the hallway. “Damn this coffee and damn these madeleines! Where’s my brandy? I asked for brandy!”

With an inner sigh, I stood up. I didn’t want to end our conversation, but I also didn’t want the staff being blamed for something I’d done. “Looks like I’ve stalled long enough.”

He stretched his long legs out in front of him. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Haven’t you heard enough about shoes for one evening?”

He smiled and I wanted to race back to him. “Why are yours the only ones undamaged?”

I arched an eyebrow. “Why? You’re not planning on taking Papa up on his challenge, are you?”

He looked back up at the ceiling. “I might. It is an awfully beautiful house.”

“Oh.”

It was a punch to my stomach. Of course he’d go after Camille. It was foolish to assume otherwise. There was an attraction between us, I knew it, but it couldn’t hold a candle to the allure of the Highmoor estate and the Salann title.

“Where’s the brandy?” Papa roared. There was a great clatter and crash. The poor butler was probably surrounded by broken saucers dripping in hot liquid.

“I need to go.” I snatched the bottle from the bench and hurried down the hall.





“That didn’t go quite as I envisioned,” Morella admitted, twisting her fingers in the fullness of her nightgown.

After dinner, Papa and the captains went on a drunken tour of the house, looking for clues to help the lads solve the mystery of the shoes. A butler said they’d fallen asleep in Papa’s study, sprawled across any surface remotely comfortable enough to lie upon.

I knelt beside the chaise, setting out the lotion and oil for her nightly massage. “Not at all.”

She leaned back on the chaise, thrusting her belly out to a more comfortable angle. I could feel the hard bodies of the twins beneath her tight skin and took care not to prod at them too much. For the moment, they appeared to be asleep.

“I’m sure all will be well in the morning.”

Dipping my fingers into the pot of lotion, I concentrated on her calves, wondering how to bring up Papa’s outburst without causing her more distress. Her legs were swollen fatter than stuffed sausages, her ankles nearly unidentifiable.

“I don’t think Papa was serious about that contest, do you?”

My initial instinct was to write it off as a joke. It was insane to think Papa would give away his entire estate to the one who could tell him we were dancing through our slippers. But he’d changed so much in the last few months. His emotions swung from excessive highs to raging lows, like a bobber caught on waves far too large.

“You know him better than I do, I fear.”

Her voice sounded so sad, I raised my eyes to study her face. “Is everything all right, Morella? Between you two, I mean. Papa didn’t mean anything he said when…”

I wasn’t sure what to say to make any of it better. I wished Octavia were here. She’d been so much better at these sorts of things, always ready with the right words.