Chapter Seventeen
This is going to be so much fun!” Juliette’s voice rang out into the cold afternoon air, bright and unbothered by the chill. Isla pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders, her breath misting in the lamplight.
Edmund stood with his hands in his pockets, eyeing the tiny green Austin Seven with deep skepticism.
The little car sat at the edge of the cobbled street, its olive-green paint gleaming faintly beneath the October drizzle.
Compact and upright, the Baby Austin looked almost comical parked in front of the lorry.
“You’re certain,” he said dryly, “that four of us will fit in there?”
Juliette beamed at him. “Of course! Don’t let her size fool you.”
The little car gleamed bravely under the street lamp, but Isla wasn’t so sure.
Juliette had insisted that Isla needed an evening of fun after the previous night’s pottery disaster, and the men had insisted on coming along for added protection.
The Austin, Juliette had explained proudly, had once belonged to her brother before he’d gone to war.
Her father had passed it on to her, calling it “a fine little machine for keeping her out of trouble.”
“Are you sure you know how to drive, Juliette?” Andrew asked, eyeing the car’s worn tires.
Juliette gave his arm a playful swat. “Of course I can drive! Just because most women don’t, doesn’t mean they can’t.”
Andrew held up his hands in mock surrender.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I think women should be free to do plenty of things they’re not usually expected to.
” His eyes flicked to Isla for a heartbeat before returning to Juliette.
“I just wanted to make sure, before I cram myself into this tiny baby car, that you know what you’re doing. ”
“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t,” Juliette huffed, tugging on her gloves. “Now then, Edmund—you’re the tallest, so you’d best take the front. Andrew, Isla—snuggle up close on that little back bench.”
Isla shot her friend a knowing glare, quite aware of her matchmaking attempts. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, but climbed in all the same.
Andrew followed obediently, ducking his head to climb in after her, and Isla instantly realized she should have protested Juliette’s seating plan. The back bench was clearly designed for two children—two adults on this bench was overly optimistic.
Granted, Andrew was doing his best to keep to his side, obviously trying to be a gentleman, shoulders turned slightly away, but the space was so narrow that every breath seemed shared.
Isla could feel the heat of him beside her, could smell the faint, clean trace of his aftershave—something woodsy and warm, like cedar and soap.
Juliette slammed the door with a triumphant clunk, grinning as Edmund walked around to his side after holding her door open for her.
He comically squeezed himself into the passenger seat, and the poor car dipped noticeably to one side.
Edmund’s knees brushed the dashboard, his large frame utterly dwarfing the tiny space.
Juliette rubbed her gloved hands together. “I haven’t driven this baby in a while,” she said cheerfully as she started the engine, “but I’m sure it’s just like riding a bike, right?”
“Wait—what?” Andrew began, but he didn’t have time to finish before Juliette hit the accelerator. The Austin lurched forward with a violent jolt that sent Isla pitching sideways—straight against Andrew’s shoulder.
Her hand shot out to steady herself, but there was nothing to hold on to except him. “Oh—sorry,” she breathed, trying to right herself as the car rattled like a tin toy.
“Quite all right,” he managed, though his voice sounded a touch unsteady.
Edmund braced a hand on the dashboard. “Good heavens, woman, this isn’t the Grand Prix!”
Juliette only laughed, eyes bright as she turned the wheel sharply around a corner.
The car tilted alarmingly before bouncing back, the engine whining like a small determined dog.
Isla’s attempt to keep distance between herself and Andrew failed miserably as the motion threw her against him again, and his arm instinctively went around her to keep her from falling forward.
For a few breathless seconds, the world narrowed to the warmth of his arm surrounding her.
Then the car evened out. “See?” Juliette called triumphantly over her shoulder. “Smooth as butter! I just needed a moment to get used to her again.”
“Smooth as gravel,” Edmund muttered darkly, but Isla saw that even he couldn’t quite hide a grin, even though he hid it by looking out of his window.
Though the car now ran gracefully, Isla couldn’t help but notice that Andrew’s arm didn’t quite move away.
“Have you heard any more about the visiting professor from Oxford, Edmund? His failure to arrive seems rather worrying.”
“It is,” Edmund replied grimly. “I’ve men out looking for him, but we’re stretched thin.”
“Hey,” Juliette piped up, “I know this conversation’s important, but let’s not talk shop this evening—it’s a night for a bit of fun!”
Edmund’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. “You know,” he said, “my granny was Scottish. She used to call this night Oidhche Shamhna—said the veil between the worlds was thinnest then. Always left a candle burning, just in case.”
Juliette raised a brow. “Oidhche—what was that?”
“It’s Gaelic,” Edmund replied. “Oidhche Shamhna—the night of Samhain. The traditional Gaelic festival that marked the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter. Folks used to say it’s what Halloween grew out of.”
Juliette smiled, though thankfully her eyes stayed on the road. “So your granny was keeping the spirits happy while the rest of us were just keeping warm?”
Edmund chuckled. “Aye, something like that.”
Isla relaxed, listening to their soft chatter. Juliette had been right—it was nice to go out.
After exploring the shops along the Shambles and eating apple turnovers and scones at Betty’s tearoom in York city center, Isla strolled beside Juliette, their laughter mingling with the cool evening air.
Behind them, Andrew and Edmund walked in easy conversation, their voices low and companionable.
They turned a corner and York Minster rose before them, vast and breath-stealing, its pale stone catching the last of the daylight. The great towers soared upward, their edges gilded by the fading sun, while the stained-glass windows shimmered faintly in the high arches like captured jewels.
The air seemed to hum softly around the cathedral—ancient, reverent, and alive with the ghosts of centuries.
Juliette sighed, linking her arm through Isla’s. “Makes you feel small, doesn’t it?”
Isla nodded, her eyes tracing the lacework of stone against the sky. “Yes,” she murmured. “But in a rather wonderful way.”
As the group continued on, Isla wanted to ask Juliette something personal. She still felt awful about her blunder with George yesterday—drawing attention to his Fated status—but curiosity continued to drive her on. Juliette was her friend, and the questions had been sitting on her tongue.
“Why do you hate your Aetheric gifts, Juliette?”
She felt her friend stiffen under their linked arms. When Isla glanced over, Juliette’s usually bright, teasing face was drawn tight. Isla kicked herself again for another faux pas.
“You don’t have to answer that,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry I asked.”
Juliette sighed, her breath misting in the evening air. “No, no. It’s fine. To be fair, you’ve told me plenty about your past. It’s just—well, I tend to avoid mine too, just ... in a different way.”
Isla nodded. She’d suspected as much. Juliette’s cheer was genuine, yes, but often she suspected it was armor too—a bright shield against something darker.
Juliette gave her arm a squeeze. “All right, if I’m going to tell you this, I need to do it my way. Otherwise I’ll cry and ruin my makeup, and that’s not happening. So—humor me. I’m going to talk about myself in third person—like she’s some tragic heroine in a novel. Deal?”
“Deal,” Isla said.
Juliette inhaled and began, voice lighter than the weight beneath it. “Once upon a time, there was a beautiful nine-year-old girl with long golden hair that curled all the way down her back. That’s me, by the way—in case you hadn’t guessed.”
Isla laughed softly.
“Well,” Juliette continued, “this girl adored painting. Proper painting—great swirling colors, impossible landscapes. Her father called her a prodigy, so he sent her to a rather pompous boarding school to develop her talents. One day she painted something magnificent—an image straight from her imagination. Her teacher, a rigid man with all the warmth of a rain-soaked sock, accused her of copying a famous masterpiece. When she told him she hadn’t—that it was hers—he called her a liar.
She, being nine and fierce, told him he was the liar. ”
Isla winced, already dreading what came next.
Juliette’s smile was small and brittle. “He didn’t take that well. He made her stand on a stool in the main hall with a sign around her neck that said LIAR. Then he caned her hand in front of everyone.”
Isla gasped. The image struck deep. The cruelty of it. An adult hurting a child. The cane wasn’t unusual, but it seemed to her that it should be a crime.
Juliette’s eyes were far away now, her voice quiet.
“The thing about pain is—it opens doors. The humiliation, the anger—it all built until it burst. One moment the beautiful little girl was crying, and the next ... her hands were on fire. Real fire, not just from the sting of the cane. It lashed out, wild and furious, and her teacher—” She swallowed. “He was burned. Badly.”
The streetlamps along the Minster threw soft pools of light around them, and Isla felt the weight of that memory settle heavily between them.