Chapter Nine
I turn on my heel and sprint from the room.
The world spins. I have no idea where I’m going, only that I need to be somewhere that isn’t here.
Moments later I hear the doors behind me swing open with a crack.
“Ivy!” Lydia calls. “Ivy, stop!”
I turn, panting, tears blurring my vision.
Her eyes are glassy, her mouth hanging open in surprise. “Ivy.” She says my name softer this time.
I look toward the doors. Emmett hasn’t followed her.
My sister crosses the hall to me and tentatively grasps my hand, as if to confirm I’m really in front of her.
I blink and see again the twin thrones, Emmett by her side.
“How long have you been here?” I choke out.
Lydia looks to the floor, devastation all over her face. “Two years,” she answers gravely.
Bile rises in the back of my throat, but I have to get the next question out. “And how long have you been married to Emmett?”
She yanks her hand back and looks beseechingly into my eyes. “It’s not Emmett.”
“Who, then?”
For the first time, I’m able to really look at her. Her blond hair hangs past her waist, and in addition to the bejeweled
crown on her head, her curls are scattered with diamonds woven into small braids. Her warm brown eyes are lined with wet-looking
black kohl and her lashes are long and dark. The light freckles that usually run atop her cheekbones are obscured with something
that shimmers blue and purple like moonstone as it catches the light.
It’s not that she looks older, it’s that she looks changed, which is worse.
She sputters, shame creeping across her face.
“Who?” I half laugh. “No one could be worse than Emmett.” For the briefest moment, I’m happy that someone has managed to capture
my sister’s heart.
“Bram.” Her voice is so quiet, I’m not sure I hear her at first.
“Who?” I can’t have heard her correctly.
“Bram.” She says it more forcefully this time. Her eyes finally meet mine and I realize we’re both crying. The kohl lining
her eyes smears down her cheeks, leaving storm-cloud-gray streaks.
“No, I’m married to Bram.” I twirl my wedding ring around my finger anxiously. She’s got it all wrong, or maybe she’s gone
mad.
Lydia mirrors my gesture and spins her ring. “He married me first.”
“That’s not possible.” Realization hits. My limbs go numb. “Oh.”
“Yes. Oh,” she replies softly, like she pities me.
My throat swells, but I get the words out. “Please, just, tell me everything. I can’t bear another secret.”
“My bargain with Queen Mor—I asked to experience something completely new and she sent me here as some kind of cruel trick, I think. I didn’t remember anything when I returned home to England or I would have told you, I swear it.
” Her eyes shine with tears. “I didn’t remember any of it until Queen Mor’s bargains were broken on your wedding day. ”
“So he married you, then returned to England and married me?” I ask. My thoughts are tripping over themselves and I can’t
make sense of anything. “Why? How . . . how did it happen?”
“I lived in the castle with Bram, with very little memory of my time back home. You’ll find that things like time and memory
are slippery here. And Bram . . . he made me love him; you know how he is.” She flushes with embarrassment. “It was only once
he married me that I realized it was all an act. He was trying to break Queen Mor’s bargains. When it didn’t work, he realized
the marriage must take place in England. That’s why he announced his intentions to find a bride and married you.”
“How did you get home the first time?”
Lydia frowns. “I hardly remember. I was running from the castle, and then I was back in England. It all happened so suddenly.”
The doors to the ballroom creak open and the music and voices from the revel spill out into the hall.
Emmett stands haloed in torchlight in the doorway. The doors close behind him and for a moment he just stands there at the
end of the hall, his chest hitching like he’s run a very far distance.
“Ivy?” His voice breaks around the sound of my name.
Despite everything, my heart swells at the sight of him and the force of the love I feel for him nearly knocks me off my axis.
It’s Emmett. My Emmett. Finally.
On heavy feet, he crosses the length of the hall to Lydia and me.
I expect him to run to me; my heartbeat is a roar in my ears. My arms are outstretched, but no—
He looks to my sister, then to me, then back to her.
Something wordless passes between them.
My arms go limp.
Two years.
I knew Emmett for only six weeks. Four months if you count our first encounter in the carriage, which would be generous.
I feel sudden terror that what we had doesn’t compare to whatever he now shares with my sister.
He looks as changed as Lydia. His hair is long, too, in dark waves that fall nearly to his shoulders.
Like Lydia, he’s got a smear of kohl around his hazel eyes, though his is not as dark as hers.
I remember thinking his hands were too big for his body, but he’s grown into them now. Everything about him is bigger, sharper,
harder to look at. But his face is the same. There are those high cheekbones, sharp jaw, full mouth, straight eyebrows, and
clever eyes. He’s always been breathtaking.
Emmett lays his hands on Lydia’s shoulders, a casual intimacy in it, the kind of gesture that passes between two people very
used to touching each other. “It’s not her,” he says, voice thin.
Lydia looks up at him, her brows knitted together. “What do you mean?”
Emmett’s eyes well with tears, but the line of his jaw is hard. “It’s not her, Lydia. It’s a trick.”
“A trick?” I raise my voice. I hate them talking about me like I’m not here.
Emmett doesn’t so much as look at me. It’s as if he can’t bring himself to.
“I should have told you years ago, Lydia. Ivy died the night of her wedding.”
I cross the space between us and hit him on the shoulder. “I’m very much alive.”
“Selkies and other Unseelies can shape-shift. Tell her nothing,” Emmett begs.
I take Lydia’s hand in mine and tug her toward me. The way she looks at me with fear and hesitation shatters what little is
left of my heart.
“It’s me!” I exclaim.
Emmett ignores me completely. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell you she was gone. I couldn’t bear it. I’ve tried to protect
you.”
He looks so broken, but it’s not me he’s looking at.
“Emmett,” I say loudly enough that he’s forced to turn to me. “It’s me.” My voice cracks.
He stares at me in silent, awful suspicion.
“We once got caught at a coaching inn in the rain together. You told the innkeeper our names were Fern and Edward Bennett
from Nottingham.”
He presses his mouth into a tight line and shakes his head. “I told Bram that story.”
I search my memories for something that only he and I would know. “We were together the night before Bram and I became engaged.
The nightdress I wore was white with a pale pink ribbon. I left the ribbon in your bed.”
His eyes are cold as he regards me. “I told Bram that, too. I’ve confessed everything.”
Confessed like I’m just something he’s guilty of.
I turn to Lydia; we have a lifetime of memories Bram could know nothing about. “Remember when you were eight you had recurring
nightmares about falling out our upstairs window? Papa had to install a lock on it just to get you to sleep.”
Lydia glances anxiously to Emmett.
“Stop looking at each other,” I snap. “Look at me.” Please just look at me.
“It’s true,” she says softly.
Emmett shakes his head. “You don’t know what the real Ivy told Bram about you, or what you told Bram the first time you were
here. Nothing is to be trusted.”
With one last agonizing look at me, he tears himself away.
“Emmett!” I scream after him. “Emmett, please.”
His steps slow. It’s as if he can’t help himself.
From the end of the hall, he halts. Then turns back to me, like it pains him.
A storm rages beneath the surface of his hazel eyes.
“What do you see when you look at me?” The question comes out so quiet I’m not even sure if he hears me.
The love I have for him is the North Star I’ve been following. He’s been the reason for everything I’ve done; every moment
of survival was for him. I’d never once considered he might not love me back anymore.
I think of the girl’s fingers in his mouth, of his intimate glances at Lydia. Ivy died. That’s what he said, and he’s wrong, but maybe he’s right, too. There is a version of me that died the night of my wedding.
And it appears the version of Emmett, the one who loved me so desperately, is dead too.
Britain’s most notorious rake. Maybe I am a fool for letting myself think I was ever anything more than another notch in his bedpost.
Emmett’s eyes bore into mine for a beat, searching for something he clearly doesn’t find. He shakes his head, his longer hair
a riot around his crumpled face, and then he disappears through a heavy door.