A Rivalry of Hearts

Chapter 27

Itry not to show just how elated I am to be left alone with Edwina tonight. And in that fucking dress. Bless my luck. Bless Zane. Maybe bless Monty too. I’m starting to suspect they conspired against us yet again. Or are they conspiring for us? Whatever the case, it takes all my restraint not to outright stare as we ride the elevator down to the lobby, but I still manage to drink my fill whenever she isn’t looking.

Blooming hell, this is the first time I’ve seen her in anything like this. Even the dress she wore to Somerton House was in the human style, modest compared to the expanse of flesh on display behind her, the way the cream lace hugs the curve of her ass before flaring slightly at the knee. Don’t get me started on the front. The sides. I’m equally as turned on by what the lace hides as by what it reveals. Peaks, valleys, the barest curve of her outer breasts.

She cuts a glower my way, and I realize I’ve been staring. “What?”

I resist the urge to avert my gaze and instead assess her while she’s looking this time. Her hair is styled in its usual updo, loose wild tendrils already escaping to brush her shoulders. I reach for one of the strands and tuck it behind her ear. “You look nice.”

Her eyes widen behind her lenses, and a flush creeps from her neck to her cheeks. She nudges her spectacles and quickly fixes her attention on the closed door of the elevator. “Thank you.”

I tuck my hands in my pockets to keep from touching her again. What I wouldn’t give to reach for that tie at the back of her neck and tug it loose. My trousers tighten at the thought, and it’s all I can do to remind myself we have plans. Important ones.

Outside the apartment, the noise of Halley Street crashes around us. Horse hooves, carriage wheels, chatter, music. We immediately get swept up in the flow of the crowd. I clasp Edwina’s gloved hand as a figure tries to step between us, tugging her close to my side and forcing the pedestrian to go around. “Let’s stay together,” I say over the noise.

I keep her hand in mine as we navigate Halley to the next corner. As we turn down the cross street, the chaos is cut in half. It’s still loud and crowded and packed with pedestrians and performers, but it’s easier to walk without getting separated.

Yet I don’t give Edwina back her hand.

She doesn’t seem to mind, as her attention is more on our surroundings. Her eyes constantly bounce from the buildings to the storefronts, jugglers, musicians, sword-swallowers—there’s so much to see and she marvels at every sight. I’m almost certain my hand around hers is all that keeps her from getting swept away and stolen by her own awe.

After a few more blocks, the bustle dies down further, and I catch sight of the sign I’ve been looking for: Orion Street.

“We’re almost there,” I say, giving her palm a squeeze as we turn down Orion.

She finally pulls her gaze from our surroundings to look up at me. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“That’s because it’s a surprise. But trust me. You’ll like it.”

She’s back to staring at lights and people, which is good because I don’t want her to see the small A-frame sign outside the building just ahead. I shift so I’m in front of her, blocking the sign as we stop outside the midnight blue fa?ade of a theater called Vulture’s Prose.

“We’re here.” I release her hand and open the door for her. As she enters ahead of me, I’m graced with another delicious view of her bare back. Blooming hell.

We enter the narrow foyer and are greeted by a ticket taker. I retrieve two tickets from my waistcoat pocket and hand them over. The young man bows and gestures for us to proceed. The theater is small and quaint, so there’s no grand lobby, no extravagant auditorium. Instead, we enter a wide space with several rows of chairs and a modest stage at the far end.

An usher guides us to our seats—front row, thanks to Zane. Most of the seats have already been claimed, as we’re only minutes away from curtain. We’re cutting it close, but I didn’t want to arrive too early lest Edwina overhear what play we’re about to see. I really do want this to be a surprise.

The stragglers fill the remaining seats in the audience, and whispers of excitement spread as we wait for the curtain to rise. Nostalgia falls over me. Vulture’s Prose reminds me of the kinds of theaters I spent my youth in. The kinds of theaters my mother, Lydia, preferred to perform in, often in this very city. I preferred them too, as a child, for everyone seemed like family. The actors would let Cassie and me try on costumes and wigs. It’s where I fell in love with acting myself.

If only I’d stayed in settings like these. With Lydia. With Cassie. If only I hadn’t strayed so far to attend university.

Then maybe Lydia would still be alive.

The curtain finally shifts, and a fae male with aqua hair and a top hat emerges. With a flourish of his hand, he says, “Vulture’s Prose proudly presents The Governess and the Rake.”

Edwina sucks in a breath, sitting forward in her seat. As the curtain parts, she swivels to face me. Her eyes glisten beneath the glittering stage lights. “Will.”

My heart cracks at the sound of my name. The name only those closest to me use. Does she even know? Is she so overwhelmed that she hasn’t realized she’s shortened my name? Does she have any idea how much it makes me want to fucking kiss her and taste that name on her lips? My truest identity. The stripped-down version of me that isn’t playing a part.

I give her a taste of what she gave me—her truest name without games, without teasing. “Edwina,” I say back.

“Is this really what I think it is?” she whispers.

I shift in my seat, angling myself closer to her. “It is. And more.”

She turns her gaze back to the stage as a young woman with short black hair is lowered on an aerial hoop. She’s dressed in a white leotard with a short silk skirt. The first strains of music begin, and a blonde woman in a bland gray gown steps onto the stage beneath the aerialist. Her trilling voice sings the opening lines of The Governess and the Rake, while the aerialist moves and sways on her lyra, her languid motions evoking the somber tone of the first chapter.

Edwina glances at me again. “It’s a musical.”

“A burlesque musical.”

She furrows her brow and I wonder if she’s heard of burlesque in Bretton. It might be too racy for society there. Yet I’ve learned enough about Edwina to know it won’t be too racy for her. She’s going to swoon once the performers start shedding layers of clothing, though it won’t happen until later in the play.

Excitement dances in her eyes as she faces the stage again. After the opening musical number, the aerialist descends from the lyra and flounces off stage left.

The next scene is a more traditional performance and sets up the first meeting between Dolly and Alexander. The following is another musical number paired with an artistic, seductive dance between two figures representing the couple.

Edwina relishes every moment, her eyes glued to the stage, her lips tilted in a permanent smile. I’m glad she’s enjoying herself. This version of The Governess and the Rake may not be the kind of grand production normally hosted at one of the larger theaters, but it doesn’t make it any less worthy or impressive. You can hear the passion in every song, see it in every move the dancers make. The acting is exaggerated and dramatic, and the burlesque elements enhance the source material without making a parody of it.

I find myself leaning closer and closer to Edwina. Finally, our shoulders touch. She offers me a soft smile before returning her gaze to the chorus line that shimmies and sways behind Dolly as she reaches her pivotal moment where she deems herself worthy of Alexander’s love. She sheds layers of silk, lace, and feathered boas until a form-hugging dress remains, sheer scarlet silk bedecked with crystals.

Edwina’s mouth falls open and a single tear slides down her cheek, catching the light from the stage. I lean ever closer and brush my gloved hand over the tear, gathering it on my fingertip. Her lashes flutter as she leans slightly into my touch, though her gaze remains fixed on Dolly’s dance. I lower my palm and place it between us.

Edwina’s hand leaves her lap at the same moment and lands on mine. She flinches, and I expect her to pull away.

She doesn’t.

My pulse quickens. With bated breath, I turn my wrist. There’s a chance the movement will make her retreat, but I take that gamble, turning my palm over until it’s fully beneath hers. She spreads out her fingers, and I freeze, wondering if this is the moment she pulls away. Instead, her fingers lace through mine. I release a slow sigh, my mouth curving as I more securely take her hand.

With her warmth against my palm, her fingers tangled in mine, I can hardly focus on the play, even when Dolly slides off her dress to reveal her flimsy glittering underthings as her empowering number comes to an end. All I can think of is Edwina. Even with gloves between us, our touching palms steal every inch of my awareness. This is different from when I held her hand on the way here, pulling her from distractions. It’s different from when I did the same to take her out of the north wing.

I don’t know how it feels for Edwina, or if she’s even aware of what we’re doing. For all I know, she’s simply using me to anchor her emotions.

Isn’t that what I’m here for though?

I’m the one who told her to use me.

After the play concludes,I take Edwina backstage to meet the cast. They greet her with delighted squeals, and several ask for her autograph. It’s incredible how Edwina can so easily come out of her shell in certain situations. Sometimes she seems so unsure of herself, so reserved. Other times, she chatters nonstop without a care in the world. Though I’ve learned if there’s anything that can summon Edwina’s charisma, it’s talking about her books.

When we finally leave Vulture’s Prose, the streets are far quieter than they were before. Edwina, on the other hand, won’t stop talking. I don’t mind it. She prattles on about her favorite scenes, her favorite musical numbers. We take our time heading back toward Zane’s apartment, keeping to the calmer backroads, and I listen to her every word with an idiotic grin on my face.

We’re a few blocks away from our destination when I take a short detour to a food vendor. Scents of fried dough, sugar, and cardamom fill the air as I exchange a handful of citrine chips for two bags of Star Court’s most famous confection. I hand one to Edwina.

“What are these?” she asks.

“Lumies.”

She reaches into the bag and extracts one of the round pastries. “Are these what Zane was talking about?”

“The very thing.”

She beams and pops the pastry between her lips. A muffled moan follows. “Oh, these are good,” she says with a full mouth.

I watch those lips, dusted with loose sugar, as I devour my own pastry. I’m almost of a mind to buy ten more bags just for an excuse to linger. Once we return to Zane’s place, we won’t be alone anymore.

Yet the end of our night is inevitable, and once we finish our confections, we resume our walk. I keep my pace purposefully slow.

“Ah, I can’t stop thinking about the sex scene,” she says with a wistful sigh for probably the hundredth time. “It was phenomenal, wasn’t it? They barely even touched, yet the striptease and the dance spoke volumes. And did you see her breasts? They were as perky as two pyramids. What a lovely shape.”

“You seem to have a fondness for breasts.”

She shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I? They’re stunning, in all shapes and sizes. Maybe it’s because mine are so small that I have such an appreciation for their variety. Though sometimes I wish mine were larger.” She mutters the last part under her breath as she glances down at her chest.

Maybe I’m scum, but my eyes fall there too, landing on the sliver of skin between her lower ribs and the front of her dress. That delectable curve. She has no reason to wish her breasts were anything but what they are. They’re fucking perfect.

Her gaze whips to mine and I freeze. Shit. She caught me ogling her.

She narrows her eyes, a taunting smile lifting her lips. “Were you?—”

“I like small peaks,” I rush to say. At the last moment, I add, “Of meringue.”

Her mouth snaps shut. “Pardon?”

I blink at her. Why the hell did I even say that? I clear my throat. “I…I’m ready to give Monty my answer. About his…dessert query.”

“I see.” A furrow knits her brow, but she doesn’t ask me to elaborate. We resume walking. “I just remembered! Did you know Daphne has a seelie form?”

I heave a breath of relief but turn it into a laugh. Thank the All of All her mind has already darted to another topic. “Most fae do, Weenie.”

“Yes, but hers is stunning.” She lowers her voice when she says this, as if it’s a secret.

“You actually saw her in her seelie form?”

She nods. “Today, while we were getting ready. She’s quite cute, but she doesn’t seem comfortable about that. That reminds me of something else. What kind of fae are you, William? Do you have an unseelie form?”

I hesitate before I answer, and when I do, I draw out the word like a question. “Yes?”

She halts, hands on her hips. “That’s not a full answer. I asked you two questions. What kind of fae are you?”

I mutter a groan and lean against the nearby building to free up space for any fellow pedestrians who might stroll by. There aren’t many others around us, as most of the after-hours nightlife is reserved for Halley Street, which glows from just ahead. “Must I?”

My reluctance only intrigues her. “I’m too curious not to know. All you said about it before is that you’re not a useful kind of fae. So what kind are you? If you tell me your secret, I’ll tell you one of mine.”

Begrudgingly, I remove my gloves and tuck them into my jacket pocket. Then I hold out one hand, palm up.

She frowns, eyes flicking from me to my open palm. “What are you…”

“Just watch.” I focus my attention on my palm, on the tingling that starts at the center. The tingling grows, spreading into a comfortable warmth that fills every inch of my palm. I narrow my focus further, willing my fae magic to respond. Obey. Create.

Finally, a single pink petal sprouts from the center of my hand.

Edwina gasps.

Another petal forms. Then another. Soon my palm is filled with a pink peony, its petals unfurling in the delicate night breeze.

I hand it to Edwina and she cradles it in both hands.

“I’m a flower fae,” I say without enthusiasm.

She studies the flower with wide eyes before lifting her gaze to me. Her mouth parts, but whatever she was about to say turns into a startled squeak. She blinks several times as she takes in my visage. Or, more specifically, the pink petals that line my eyelids.

“This is my unseelie form,” I say, tone flat.

Her gaze finally leaves my face to scan down to my toes then up the length of me. When her eyes return to mine, she arches a questioning brow.

“That’s all,” I say with a shrug. “My birth mother was a flower sprite, but I didn’t inherit much from her or my father. Not every fae can shift fully into another form, especially those like me, born in later generations, closer to the isle’s unification when the magic began to change. All I’ve ever been able to do is make flowers and conjure pretty lashes.” I blink, and the weight of petals shifts to the fine hairs I’m used to.

“Why do you seem ashamed?” she asks. “Why don’t you like talking about your unseelie form?”

“Like I said, it’s not very useful. Other fae actors have unseelie forms or fae magic that contribute to their roles. My biggest contribution was as Gardener Number Three.”

“That’s why you were cast as Gardener Number Three?”

I release a mirthless chuckle. “It’s probably the only reason I retained a part in the play at all.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Human actors don’t have anything but their own talents to recommend them to a role. And I wouldn’t call this useless.” She drops her gaze back to the flower.

My heart thuds heavily in my chest as I watch her admiring my work. My secret. What I don’t want to tell her is that I haven’t made many flowers since Lydia died. Lydia may not have been my birth mother—in truth, I have no memories of the flower sprite I was born to—but she was my truest mother. And she was Cassie’s mother. We were a family despite our lack of blood relation. We should have stayed a family. But Lydia grew ill while I was at university. By the time I returned home, she was at death’s door. There was nothing I could do. Nothing but make her flowers. Useless, beautiful flowers that put a smile on her face but did nothing to prevent her passing.

Edwina’s head whips back up, eyes narrowed. Her voice takes on an accusing tone. “Is this where the flower petals have been coming from?”

I blink my darker thoughts away and relish the distraction. My lips curl. “Whatever could you mean?”

“You keep putting flower petals in that damn book of yours. One time I opened it and had an entire lapful of pink petals fall all over my skirt.”

I can’t help but laugh at her chagrin.

“Does that also explain why you’re so quiet when you move? How you’ve been able to sneak up on me a few times?”

I shrug. “Flowers are quiet.”

She gives me a curious once over before she returns to studying the flower. “What is this even made of?”

“Fae magic,” I say.

“Yes, but how? Is it made from your skin? Does it grow out of your body? Do you shed petals like waste material?” With a gasp, she looks up at me again. “Is this poop?”

I nearly choke on my own laughter. “I just made you a beautiful flower, and you have the nerve to ask if it’s poop?”

Her smile is so coy I want to kiss it off her face. “Well, is it?”

“No, Ed.” I push off the wall and resume walking toward Halley Street, my cheeks pained from the smile I can’t seem to banish. I shake my head. “Is it poop, she asks. You know, the fae don’t seek to explain everything with science. We just call it magic.”

She strolls at my side, then tucks the flower in the loose bun at the top of her head. “I suppose I wouldn’t want to know if it’s poop anyway. Now that it’s in my hair.”

I snort another laugh. “What am I going to do with you? Blooming weirdo.”