Cinderella Is Dead(9)

Something in her tone strikes me. Her emotions, usually tightly coiled, seem to be fraying more and more with each passing day. I won’t tell her I’d walked through the woods and into the city on my own yesterday. She might not survive the shock.

“Mr. Langley’s son will be here soon,” she says. “He’ll take you.”

She goes inside, and I wait in the yard. As scheduled, he comes strolling up through the dissipating mist. He leans on the gate and gives me a little nod.

“Morning,” he says. He shows me that mischievous smile again.

I’m fairly good at reading people, but this boy is a puzzle. The curl of his lip and his smug smile make me think I’m missing something.

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod as he pulls out the wooden cart that we take to the market instead of the covered carriage we use to travel. It’s made to haul sacks of grain and has only one wide seat in the front. He hitches it to our horse and climbs up.

“It’s cold,” I say. “We should take the carriage.”

“But I’ve already got this one ready to go. Don’t you want to sit next to me?”

“Absolutely not. And if you’d asked me beforehand, I would have told you to hook up the carriage. But you didn’t, so here we are.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So you run the show around here? That’s … different.”

“Different,” I say quietly. Different never means anything good.

The front door creaks open behind me.

“Is she giving you trouble?” my mother calls from the doorway. I don’t turn around, but I can feel her eyes boring into the back of my head.

“No problems, Mrs. Grimmins.” Mr. Langley’s son shoots me a quick wink. If he expects a thank-you for not telling my mother what I said, he is going to be sorely disappointed.

I climb up, sitting as far away from him as the seat allows. He yanks the reins, and the cart lurches forward.

The temperature stays cool, even as the sun rises. I pull my cloak in tight around me, but the air still seeps through. Mr. Langley’s son sets the reins in his lap and removes his coat.

“Here. It’s not much, but it should help.” He places the coat over my shoulders, and I lean away from him, watching his hands and his eyes. I don’t know him enough to trust him, and most times when a man does a woman a favor it is because he wants something in return. “Am I that off-putting?” He raises his arm and gives a whiff. “Do I smell? I just bathed last week.”

He’s trying to be funny. I don’t respond.

“My name’s Luke. In case you were wondering.”

“I know,” I say flatly. We’ve never been formally introduced but I’ve heard my parents speak of him a little too often.

“You’re always with your mother. She doesn’t let you get a word in edgewise.”

I watch him out of the corner of my eye. “Or maybe I don’t have much to say.”

“Okay.” He grimaces a little. “I was surprised at your outburst back there with the cart. I’ve never seen a girl refuse a man’s request so openly. That’s a dangerous thing to do.”

“Are you joking or threatening me?” I angle my body so I can raise my leg and kick him over the side of the cart if he gets any ideas. Girls are harassed and manhandled on a regular basis in Lille, and because of that I actually have a plan for what to do if someone ever tries to hurt me. If Luke makes one false move, I’ll smash his nose back into his skull, maybe kick him where he’d feel it most, and then run. I can also grab the reins, pull the horse off the road, and flip the cart over. I don’t care if I get hurt in the process. I’m not going quietly.

“I wasn’t joking, but I wasn’t threatening you, either. I’m sorry.” He looks at me and smiles again. His demeanor is abrasive but not malicious. He can’t be more than twenty, tall and lanky, brown skin, black hair, with only the slightest air of self-importance. I still have a hard time reading him.

I keep my body in a position to upend him but pose a question as a distraction. “Are you preparing for the ball as well?”

He tosses his head back and laughs. It catches me so off guard that all I can do is stare at him. He composes himself and shakes his head. “Not if I can help it. Things are different for me.”

“Why?” I ask. He’s lost some of that bravado he had when he strode up to my front gate. We stop in front of the seamstress’s shop.

“You’re friends with Erin, aren’t you?” He doesn’t meet my eyes.

The question seems out of place, and I bristle. “Yes. She’s one of my best friends.”

“Hmm,” he says, nodding. “Then you’ll understand what I mean when I say things are different.”

The knowing look in his eyes terrifies me. I’ve seen it before. It’s the same look my mother gives me every time I speak Erin’s name. I immediately hop out of the cart and toss his coat back to him. “Just wait here, please.”

“Sure,” he says.

I worry that his friendly manner is just a way to get me to feel comfortable enough to drop my guard.

I hurry to the door of the shop and go in. None of the lamps are lit yet, and the dappled light from the barely risen sun casts shadows through the room, which feels oddly at rest without the seamstress and her bevy of helpers bustling around. A measuring tape hangs over the edge of the table, and dozens of glass beads litter the floor as if they’ve been knocked over without anyone bothering to clean them up.