Chapter 1 #3
I don’t know how a voice can carry a smile, but I know he’s smiling, can sense it as sure as the trace of sandalwood and leather that accompanies his stealing up beside me.
A hand on my shoulder, warm and solid even through the sturdy cloth of my dress, sending Madam Jennings stepping back.
A quick, fierce battle ignites in the very cells of me.
Half of me wants to lean into him and half wants to pull free.
I will not let lies come between us.
I turn my head toward him, meeting his blue eyes for the barest second—long enough for his secret smile to warm my chest and make me wonder how I could doubt him.
“I’ll be visiting the hospital next week to discuss the accounts,” I tell Madam Jennings. “We can speak further then.”
Madam Jennings opens her mouth to say something else, but August cuts in.
“I beg your pardon, Madam Jennings, but I require a word with Lady Fairfax,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.
“If you will make your way to the parlor and find a seat”—he nods toward the door, which our housekeeper, Declan, has just opened to reveal the long table laden with crystal and silver—“I assure you that all your questions will be answered.”
Madam Jennings looks, to my minor astonishment, flustered. She looks from August to me and back to August. “V-very well then,” she says after a moment. “I look forward to it.”
When she’s gone, I turn to August, a smile tugging at my mouth in spite of myself. “Thanks for that.” His gaze stokes coals under my skin, making me feel special, important, beloved.
“As I said, I’ve a matter that needs your attention,” he says in a low voice, pitched to reach just my ears. “It’s very delicate, too private to discuss in a crowd, I’m afraid. May I escort you to the library, Lady Fairfax?”
I can’t help but smile. “You may.”
As he leads me away from the crowd, I glimpse Silas slipping into the dining room, the other shareholders giving him a wide berth. My mouth goes dry and my heart picks up. Images flicker in my mind.
The seashell on my dresser, twisted and sharp. A ship in a storm, sails torn and sagging. August leaning back in my father’s chair, that secret smile, but not for me.
It’s a trick. It has to be. He is mine and I am his. He keeps one arm around my shoulders, using the other to open the door to the library. Cool air, suffused with the smell of old paper, seeps out.
As soon as the library door closes behind us—cutting off the sound and the light from the entrance hall—his mouth is on mine, his hands on both my shoulders now. He breaks away just far enough to grin at me as he spins me around and presses my back against the door.
“Maker.” His voice comes out a breathless, low laugh, close to my ear.
“No, just me,” I whisper back.
“I thought I was going to have to drag you away from those shareholders.”
The library is dark around us, lit only by a few oil lamps placed around the perimeter of the room.
So much of the manor is essentially a public space: the entrance hall and the parlor where large groups of shareholders can gather; offices where my father would work and receive callers.
But the library has always been ours alone.
As well as the leather-bound books lining the walls, there are curios in glass cases scattered throughout the room.
Intricate scrimshaw carvings—battle scenes or beautiful women or elaborate maps carved and inked into whale teeth and whalebone.
Silver coins, smooth and irregular and tarnished green with salt water, said to be reclaimed from the finfolk.
Segments of coral faded to the color of the palest rose, arranged like bridal bouquets under glass.
“You might have dragged me away sooner,” I manage, his mouth moving on my throat threatening to chase all thoughts from my head.
My hands respond automatically, climbing up his back, pressing him closer to me.
I can’t touch him how I’d like to, not with the gloves and what’s under them.
I have to be careful, but there’s something thrilling about that too—that he wants me despite the risk, despite everything.
Yet a flicker of doubt lingers, something stopping me from closing my eyes.
Instead I stare over August’s shoulder at the Livyatan skull hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room.
Suspended by wires, it casts barbed shadows over everything, over us, the flickering oil light making them sway like seaweed.
“Bildad asked about the declining whale numbers,” I go on, a bit breathlessly, as August’s teeth graze my jawline. “And Madam Jennings was complaining about prices again—”
“Don’t worry about that.” His voice is low, hungry. He steps closer, bringing his body into contact with mine, and a warm fog steals into my mind. Suddenly it is very easy to forget about shareholders and seashells and secrets. “We have a plan, remember?”
His hands trace up my arms and shoulders, dragging lightly up the sides of my throat. The same places where Madam Jennings laid her hand on my arm a few minutes ago, and where Lydia’s fingers brushed the nape of my neck earlier when she did up my buttons.
But unlike Lydia or Madam Jennings, he knows what lies beneath.
He knows, and somehow—call it madness or love, lust or courage, or maybe just recklessness—he doesn’t care. I can bring my own hands up to thread through his hair, uncaring if he notices the pointed ends of my fingers, as long as I don’t hurt him.
He knows about the claws and the scales, about the poisonous energy coiled in my veins, the urge to violence that sometimes clouds my mind. He knows and he still wants me, still loves me.
He knows about my curse and my broken heart. He knows and he still wants me, still loves me.
Doesn’t he?