Chapter 15
fifteen
I crack one eyelid open, holding my breath. Waiting.
It’s quiet, but my fitful night taught me that temporary silence doesn’t mean the voice in my head (or center?) is gone. Every time I managed to block out Aunt Matilda’s TV enough to fall asleep, I startled back to consciousness minutes later.
And each time, I would wait, thinking the voice inside me had finally gone…
Then she’d start up again.
Begging in pathetic whimpers I could barely ignore. Asking me to take her back to the manor. And, more specifically, the princes.
Somewhere around three a.m., I decide she’ll get her wish.
Because I don’t really have a choice, do I? I have to go to work for the same exact reasons I’ve forced myself to go every other day, no matter how sick or sad or sullen I felt.
Not to mention—I left my phone, keys, and just about everything else I own in Tanya’s room.
Including my mother’s locket, which I suspect fell out of my dress when I fled. I’ll have to try to retrace my steps later, if I have time… Hopefully, it isn’t lost forever…
I force down the tightness in my chest while I finish buttoning my work dress and tying my apron. Shaking fingers leave my usual bun sloppy—and I don’t even bother considering a layer of makeup.
The goal, I decide, is to look as little like the girl they think they met last night as possible. Then, with any luck, I’ll fly under their radar.
It’s not like any of them recognized me, really. So what if Asher knew I was the girl he used to dance with and read to and trade secrets with late at night? That didn’t mean they would piece together the rest of my identity.
No. Today, I go back to being nobody.
The maid Dair hates and Ash ignores and Bast chats to while he texts other people.
It won’t be a big deal.
My stomach seethes all the way through town, empty but too tender for anything more than the slice of toast and half glass of tap water I consumed before I slipped out of the apartment.
By the time I make it through the quiet brick streets of our little village and hit the damp gravel path up to the manor, I regret not forcing down one of my usual protein shakes. It’s been almost a full day since I had a meal—and whatever freak-out started last night seems far from over.
My heart hammers. Every other breath snags on whines. I quiver and wobble, but trudge on. Thinking of Mama’s bills and my promise to help my aunt. Trying to look around and let the beautiful periwinkle sunrise distract me.
When that doesn’t work, I remind myself what all the doctors have said. This is all in my head. I’m perfectly healthy. I just have a low pain tolerance .
And now maybe some balance issues, too?
Our all-night tug-of-war must have worn out the voice in my middle because she stays pretty quiet until the vine-covered gray stone of the manor comes into sight. And, even then, she only scrapes out another feeble whimper.
She can’t speak at the moment, but I still somehow know who she’s after: the princes. Of course.
Will going straight to their chambers encourage her and whatever this madness is? Should I go to Tanya’s room first?
Turns out, I don’t have time. According to the gorgeous Victorian clock hanging above the keypad where staff members check in, I barely made it to my shift.
I’ve always liked Maytown Manor on Sunday mornings, particularly if they come after a grand affair like last night’s ball. Mrs. Kemp has slept in, leaving me and a couple of kitchen assistants to quietly work around each other while we gather supplies from the storerooms.
Sunday means I need a bucket, rags, a scrub brush, and the special wood cleaner that keeps the manor’s ancient floors gleaming. I also manage to place the guys’ typical breakfast orders.
Asher will want his tea straight away, along with whatever’s left of that banana bread I baked him and a plate of bacon.
Bast likes a green juice—but if he’s had too much to drink, he also downs a glass of raw eggs and allows himself half a muffin. I giggle every time I order it, knowing the cooks will roll their eyes.
After a big party, Dair always requires fresh sheets and… rehydration . Three bottles of Voss water and a plate of fruit with his toast usually does the trick.
“His Highness will want the papers as well,” I tell the kitchen apprentice. “All three. Oh, and aspirin, please.”
I don’t tell them the pills are for me. My head is pounding —and the beginnings of breakfast make me even more nauseous.
Luckily, once I get upstairs and into the princes’ chambers, that lovely blend of sweet, citrusy tartness fills my senses. It works like magic, silencing my body’s upheaval long enough for me to get each of their trays set in front of their bedroom doors.
Next, I nip into the small kitchen attached to their wing and fill my bucket with cleaning fluid and warm water. My pain might be muted by the aspirin, but the dizziness isn’t. When I lower myself to the living area floor and start to scrub, I have to concentrate to keep my head from floating away.
That strange new voice in my middle stays quiet. I get the oddest feeling she’s… relieved? And too exhausted to explain why.
Every time I try to unriddle the sensation, I get an image of a bedraggled girl washing up on the beach after going overboard. Too depleted to move, but most definitely grateful to be on dry land.
I still don’t understand what’s happening to me, but the wing’s peaceful silence helps. So does the sunrise. Within an hour, the pretty pinks have faded into a bright blue morning and half of the hardwoods are freshly washed.
On the other side of the round room, I hear stirring behind one of the closed doors. My heart stalls while my stomach lurches, the earlier nausea flooding back.
But no.
No .
I am nobody. I have to be.
And I need to act like nothing is wrong or they might get suspicious. Bending closer to the floor, I fix my eyes on the wood grain and keep cleaning. Just like I would have a week ago.
Because I’m here to serve. Not to be seen or known or cared about. I’m not even me , here, I’m?—
“ Ivy .”
My real name stops me cold. None of them have ever said it. Except for Asher, years ago, but he usually just called me?—
“Goose?”
The word is breathless and hopeful and ever so pained . I want to look up at him—the prince, he’s the prince —but I’m frozen to my core.
Another door flies open. Someone groans. I know it’s Lord Burns when he says, “Oh, thank God . Dair! She’s here!”
Who’s here?
…me?!
The shock is enough to snap my head up. Feeling ridiculous, I gape at both Prince Asher and Lord Burns, utterly stunned to find them both undressed .
Well, partially. Sebastian has on a pair of silky blue boxers that barely cover the very tops of his thighs. And Asher’s wearing a slightly longer, solid gray pair along with a plain white undershirt.
I’ve never seen him so… undone. Pale and tense. His hands opening and closing as his jaw grinds. Tortoiseshell glasses sit crookedly on his nose, highlighting just how mussed his thick, wavy hair is.
Somehow, no matter how messy he gets working out or riding, Bast always looks like he strolled out of a cologne ad. Right now, he smells that way, too. While Asher stares at me as if he’s seeing a ghost, the baron immediately drops to his knees at my side, putting his bare, tanned chest inches away from my shoulder. Reaching out to—to?—
His hand, solid and warm, settles on my spine. Stroking.
A high-pitched sound I only recognize from last night rips out of me.
I’m mortified. Shaking .
But his face creases, concern mingling with an undeniable sort of… tenderness. “Angel,” he whispers, “we’ve been so worried about you.”
…
What?!
But how did they— when did they— who ?—
Oh.
Him.
Dair.
The second he appears on his threshold, all wild, black hair and wilder, blacker ink, I see it. I know .
He’s the one who figured it out.
And now they all know who I am.