Chapter 20
Twenty
Emmy had intended to ask Mary about Grace the very next day, she truly had. Twice, she’d nearly broached the subject while
Mary was doing her hair, a daily ritual that wrought bitter memories of Grace doing the same for her, back home. As Mary had
chatted amiably about Clara Claremont’s demise—which, in her opinion, was well deserved—Jimmy had burst into the room to announce
that Winnie had visitors.
With Clara out of the picture, Winnie Fairchild was no longer a social pariah.
For days, Emmy served tea and cake to young ladies who hadn’t spoken a word to her in Clara’s presence. Nathaniel also had
a few guests: charmed folks eager to make relics from the remains of their loved ones, but who needed them forged in Fontaine
flames. Keen as Emmy was to witness the process herself, Jimmy needed her help giving their guests tours of Mistfield. By
the Zermatts’ garden party at the end of the week, Jimmy, as Zhao Rui, had scheduled his first consultation, and Emmy was
surrounded by new friends.
Grace, however, had missed the party entirely. She’d caught a cold, according to her aunt.
After days of little progress aside from afternoon teas, a much-needed invitation arrived: a picnic at the Strattons’. With
time quickly running out, it was their best chance for Jimmy to try to gather gossip from the Strattons’ staff, Caleb to whisper
in the chancellor’s ear, and Jack, who’d snuck off to the city to bribe the Bronze Door’s manager, to tempt Oliver with an
invitation.
But there was still Grace. The week had slipped away far too quickly, and they still hadn’t uncovered any of her secrets. With only two weeks remaining, it was time to ask her former maid about her.
As Emmy waited for Mary to arrive, she dressed herself in the only layers she could handle alone: a thin chemise, soft underdress,
voluminous petticoats, a pocketed slip, even the cornflower-blue skirt of the day gown she’d selected for the picnic. With
time to kill, she curled up on the window bench with the Fontaine grimoire.
It was a fascinating text, with detailed accounts about generations of conjury in the Fontaine family. The bulk of it referred
to the Fontaine flames, though there were handwritten accounts of the various other gifts of Fontaines, varied by marriage
and birth. The earliest pages, unfortunately, were in French. But her eyes caught on a word that required no translation.
Relique.
Emmy’s breath caught. She turned the page, but the text was English again, and was discussing methods for tapping into the
brume. Flipping back to the French text, she held the binding to the light streaming through her window.
A few pages were torn out. No—not torn, but cut. By scissors.
“That’s the Fontaine grimoire, yes?”
With a jump, Emmy nearly dropped the tome as Mary whisked into the room, closing the door behind her. “You’ve seen it before?”
“Miss Montgomery borrowed it for a while.” Mary stopped to select a corset from Emmy’s closet. “Excited? A private picnic
with the Strattons is a coveted invitation.”
Grace had read the Fontaine grimoire. This very book. Had she cut out the pages about relics before she’d returned it?
As she began to lace the corset, Mary met Emmy’s gaze in the mirror. “What is it, miss?”
Now was the perfect time to probe about Grace.
Especially if she’d managed to make a relic just like Rose’s.
Still, Emmy couldn’t bring herself to put Mary in that position.
Instead, she busied herself with her jewelry box, perusing to find appropriate adornments for a picnic.
“You truly don’t mind coming with me today? ”
“I’m glad to go. After all, the Strattons may wish to place bets while you’re there.” Mischief danced in her eyes as they
met Emmy’s in the mirror.
Emmy couldn’t help but smile, which was precisely the problem. She liked Mary. The maid’s easy banter reminded her of all the laughs she and Grace had shared while doing their school exercises or
sewing for Mrs. Feinstein. She missed it. But befriending anyone, especially during this perilous pursuit, was a risk Emmy
could not afford to take.
Fastening a pearl drop earring onto her lobe, Emmy asked, as casually as she dared, “Did you go to the Strattons’ often with
Miss Montgomery?”
She half expected Mary to scold her for prying, but Mary only tugged on the laces, the corset squeezing tighter. “Not at all.
Miss Montgomery would have loved a private picnic.”
But the Strattons would not invite Grace because the Strattons did not consider a protégé worthy of their son. Earrings in
place, Emmy slid a gold bangle carved with tiny leaves onto her wrist. “Did she ever speak to you about Oliver?”
Mary sighed. “Sometimes, she confided in me as if we were sisters. And sometimes, she snapped at me if I so much as asked
about her day.” She paused, motioning for Emmy to stand so she could further wrangle her laces. “Are you interested in Commander Stratton, miss?”
A laugh burst from Emmy before she could help it.
“Oh, thank goodness.” Mary giggled along with Emmy, though her cheeks were turning pink. “I was worried because you’re so
nice, and you’re new to the Society, so I didn’t know if you were aware that Oliver Stratton is, well—”
“Terrible.” The word slipped from Emmy’s mouth, entirely uninhibited.
“So you see for yourself.” She gave the laces another tug. “But then why accept this invitation? It encourages him to call
on you.”
“Because I want to ruin him.”
Mary’s nimble fingers stilled on Emmy’s laces.
No, Emmy did not just say that. “What I meant to say is, I pay attention to him because—” She racked her brain for an excuse. Because the Strattons are a good ally in the Society. Because Mrs. Stratton is a dear friend. “Because it hurts Grace.”
Mary’s mouth fell open, though she quickly shut it.
“I don’t know why I said that.” Emmy jumped to her feet. This was not how she was supposed to ask for Mary’s help. She glanced
at the maid in the mirror, but—Emmy’s own eyes were a little too bright, were they not? And her skin was flushed, despite
the chill in the air.
Something was terribly wrong with her. “Please get Jack.”
“Jack?”
Emmy had said Nathaniel. In her head, she’d said Nathaniel. “Nathaniel,” she tried to say again, but instead she rasped, “Jack.”
All the color drained from Mary’s face. “Jack . . . Fontaine?”
Jack’s true name, from Mary’s lips. A bona fide nightmare. Next the guards would burst through her door and drag her back
to hell, or the chancellor would shoot Papa all over again. Emmy pinched her ice-cold cheeks, trying to wake—
Her frigid skin. That chill. How hadn’t she recognized that chill?
Mary said something, but Emmy couldn’t hear it, not as she searched herself in the mirror for whatever Grace had enchanted
with her goddamn bridging conjury. She raked her fingers over her stranger’s face, but her reflection morphed, and Emmy was
no longer Winnie, but Emmy, hollow and pale from years without sunshine.
Emmy stared at her true reflection. Plain. Weak. Utterly inconsequential.
Someone gasped. Mary.
She was backing away as if Emmy were a ghost, hands twisting over each other—
Mary disappeared.
“No!” Emmy groped the air for the invisible girl who knew her true identity. She swung her arms but grabbed nothing but air. Swung again, but Mary remained hidden.
Jack. She had to get Jack. With both palms pressed to the wall, Emmy transformed the plaster into a gaping hole and threw
herself through it. Her skirts caught on the edges, and she tripped into Jack’s room, her skin tingling with the otherworldliness
of Grace’s bridging conjury.
Grace had gotten into her room.
Grace had tampered with her things.
Jack and Jimmy stood near the door, their mouths falling open at the sight of Emmy’s true face—and her half-laced corset.
“Mary knows everything.” Emmy could hardly get the words out fast enough. “She knows everything, and she disappeared, and
I can’t find what Grace bridged, but it’s on me.”
Her dress. All those goddamn layers. She could not get the corset off quickly enough, not when Mary had pulled the laces so
viciously, but she yanked and yanked—
“Li, you find Mary,” barked Jack. “And Vallillo, tell me what the hell to do.”
“Get me out of this!” Emmy tore at the corset, flailing for those cursed laces. “Grace was in my room. In Mistfield.” That conniving little backstabber must have known they were to dine at the Strattons’ today, and she sought to ruin Winnie
in front of them by making her blurt out all her secrets.
Maybe she’d snuck inside, using invisibility conjury she’d bridged from Mary.
Maybe she’d paid off Mary to do it herself.
Maybe Mary was still working for her, reporting Emmy’s every move, and now Grace would know the truth about Emmy being Winnie. And they’d lock
her in Grimsbane again.
“Christ, you’re freezing.” Jack helped her balance as she stepped out of her skirt, his eyes wild as she pulled off her petticoats.
“Stay still so I can find it.”
She hissed as Jack ran his palms over her back, the heat of him searing against the chill. “Your hands are on fire.”
“Fontaine conjury. Makes the body warmer.” He tore at her corset, ripping the laces apart. Once it had fallen to the ground,
he asked, his voice hoarse, “Still feel it?”
“Yes.” She shivered in her chemise, searching herself for something extra frigid. But Jack’s hands were so warm. So surprisingly
gentle as they skated across her skin.
A small noise escaped her lips.
“Does it hurt?” he rasped, gray eyes frantic.
No, she tried to say, but she leaned into his warmth, letting her head fall against his searing shoulder.
“Stop, Emmy.” He stilled, every muscle in his back going rigid as her hands trailed down it. “You need to stop moving.”
“Quit barking orders at me.” Emmy tried to push away from him, but her lips were so close to the soft skin between his neck
and shoulder, exposed by his half-buttoned shirt. Before she could stop herself, she pressed her mouth to it.
His entire body tensed. “What—what are you doing?”
She hadn’t the faintest idea, but she could not bring herself to stop, not when his skin was an inferno. As if possessed,
she let her teeth graze his neck.
“Emmy.” His rough voice vibrated through his bare chest, and he shivered as Emmy trailed her fingers down the taut muscles. “For all that is holy—stay still.”
“You’re the most infuriating person.” She hated how he was aflame while she was freezing, hated how handsome she’d made him,
hated how, even now, she could not stop trying to picture his true face. So she transformed him back to Jack, which was an
even bigger mistake, because she was absolutely enraged by the cut of his jaw, the angelic lashes that hid his tortured expression.
His teeth wrestled with his bottom lip, and damn it, those were his true lips all along. She ran her fingers through his dark hair, and he finally ceased talking, letting out a groan—
“The bracelet!” Mary burst into Jack’s room with Jimmy, skidding to a halt.
Grabbing her hand, Jack yanked off her bangle, the hard metal catching her knuckle.
It fell to the ground, and the cold ceased.
Emmy glanced down at herself. At the others.
Jimmy’s mouth was agape.
Mary, with tear-stained cheeks, was staring at Emmy as if she were a ghost.
Jack—not Nathaniel, but Jack—was slowly backing away, as if Emmy might launch herself on him at any moment.
And Emmy stood amid a pile of her discarded clothes, her flushed face entirely her own.