Neferet's Curse (House of Night Novellas #3)(32)

I’d been the first to break the embrace, pulling away from him and modestly closing my dressing gown.

Arthur had cleared his throat and passed a shaking hand across his face before gently taking my hand in his again. “I did not mean to take advantage of our solitude and to press my attentions improperly.”

I’d softened my voice and glanced shyly up at him from under my lashes. “Your passion did surprise me, Arthur.”

“Of course it did. I’ll show more care for your innocence in the future,” he’d assured me. “You cannot know how very beautiful and desirable you are, though. Especially the way you are dressed.”

I’d gasped and pressed my hands to my cheeks, though in the concealing darkness he could not see that his words had not made me blush. “I did not mean to be inappropriate! I didn’t even consider my state of undress. I had to excuse my maid so that I could be sure not even the servants discovered that I was waiting for you.”

“I don’t blame you—not at all,” he’d assured me.

“Thank you, Arthur. You are so good and kind,” I’d said, though the words almost lodged in my throat. I’d made a show of yawning then, covering my mouth delicately with my hand.

“I forget how late it is. You must be exhausted. I should go, especially as it would not do to cross paths with your father—or at least not yet. Remember, I will ride by the garden gate each night between now and Monday, hoping to see a plucked lily.”

“Arthur, please do not be angry with me if I cannot slip away. I will try my best, but I must be safe. You know how unpredictable Father has become.”

“I could not be angry at you, my sweet Emily. But I will be hopeful. If it is at all possible, I pray I see you before Monday night.”

I’d nodded and agreed heartily with him, and walked hand and hand with him to the edge of the willow curtain, where he’d kissed me softly and left, whistling to himself and stepping lightly, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

When I was sure he’d gone, I’d left my concealing willow and walked within the soothing shadows of the dark path to the house. No one stirred as I hurried to my bedchamber. There I pushed the chest of drawers before the door, and retrieved my journal from its hiding place.

Now, as I reread my words I do not believe I am doing Arthur or his family an injustice by encouraging his suit. I do care for him, and I will be a good and dutiful wife, but between now and Monday I will not pick a lily and place it on the garden gate. I will not tempt fate any more than I already must. Arthur will pledge himself to me on Monday night, in front of my father, his family, and our social peers. Father will not disgrace himself by refusing such a grand and glorious union of families. Then I only need to continue to prod Arthur into a hasty marriage, and all will be well.

It is Father and the abomination of his unnatural desires that make me cold. When I am free of Father, I will be free to love and live again.

I will not allow myself to believe anything else.

May 1st, 1893

Emily Wheiler’s Journal

Tonight, Monday, May first, in the year 1893, my life has irrevocably changed. No, not simply my life, but my world. It seems to me as if I have died and been resurrected anew. Truly that analogy could not be more apt. Tonight my innocence was murdered, and my body, my past, my life, did die. Yet, like a phoenix, I have risen from the ashes of pain and despair and heartbreak. I soar!

I shall record the terrible, wonderful events in their entirety, even though I believe that I must end this recording and destroy this journal. I must leave no evidence. I must show no weakness. I must be in complete control of this new life of mine.

But for now the retelling of my story soothes me, almost as much as the concealing shadows of my garden, beneath my willow, once soothed me.

I already miss them, though. I cannot ever return to my garden and my faithful shadows, so this journal is all that is left to comfort me. And, comfort me it does. Though I have walked through the fires of Hell and looked its demons in the eyes, my hands do not shake. My words do not falter.

Let me begin when I awoke mid-morning on this fateful day. It was a wrenching cough that had me sitting up in bed, gasping for air. Mary came to me quickly, clucking with worry.

“Lass! I knew the look of ye yesterday boded ill. I can foretell a fever better than most. Let me summon the doctor,” she’d said, plumping the pillows around me.

“No!” I’d coughed again, but tried to stifle it with my hand. “I cannot disappoint Father. If he believes I am truly ill, that I will not be able to accompany him tonight, he will be angry.”

“But lass, ye cannot—”

“If I do not go with him he will attend the Exposition opening alone, as well as the dinner at the University Club. He will return home drunk and angry. You must know how terrible he can be. Don’t make me say more, Mary.”

Mary had bowed her head and sighed. “Aye, lass. I know he isn’t himself when he’s in his cups. And he has been countin’ on your support today.”

“The great Ladies of Chicago have demanded it,” I’d reminded her.

She’d nodded somberly. “That they have. Well, then, there is only one thing to do. I’ll make ye my grandma’s herbal tea with lemon, honey, and a spoonful of Irish whiskey. As she used to say, if it doesna fix ye up, it will get ye through.”