Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Edith brushed the dust from the nightstand with the edge of her sleeve and set her grandmother’s urn down delicately.
The finely crafted urn looked wrong among the squalor of the guest room.
But this was what her grandmother had always wanted—adventure.
And adventure certainly didn’t happen in fancy tea rooms with lace doilies and impeccably shined floors.
Even the urn itself was a rebellion. Her grandmother, Eulalia Camborne Darling, had found a way to piss off society from beyond the grave—or urn, rather.
The thought made Edith smile fondly. A coffin, a burial, a shiny headstone, those were the things that were expected.
But her grandmother had said that the idea of her body rotting for eternity made her sick, and so she had put a clause in her will that said if she wasn’t cremated, then all her money was to be donated to the poor.
Of course, Edith’s father couldn’t stand to see his inheritance go to those who actually needed it, and had thus chosen the lesser evil of respecting his mother’s wishes.
As Edith inspected the paper-thin mattress for bugs, she thought of all the hours she had spent with her grandmother in the pristine rooms of their family’s manor.
The two had always been close, her grandmother being the one to encourage her love of books and history.
But after her older brother, Jonathan, had become more interested in affairs of business than family, and her younger sister, Marigold, had fallen in love and became more interested in her brand-new family, Edith’s grandmother became the only person who hadn’t left her.
Her parents were still around, but they never seemed to care too much for Edith.
They loved her, of course, but they preferred her personality in small doses.
It was her siblings that Edith thought of when she thought of family, and their grandmother had taught them all that family should be the most important thing in one’s life.
As the three had entered adulthood, everyone but Edith seemed to outgrow that notion.
She didn’t blame them. It was what one was supposed to do.
She was even pleased for them, that they had found things to make them happy.
But it wasn’t easy being the one who sat at home waiting for the others to have time for her.
She remembered sitting on the sofa, curled into her grandmother’s side on the eve of Marigold’s wedding. Edith couldn’t stop crying over the prospect of Marigold moving away.
“Why would she want to leave?” Edith asked. “We’re so happy here.”
Her grandmother stroked her hair. “She’s found her adventure. It’s time for her to create her own happiness in the world.”
“First Jonathan, now Marigold. Why am I the only one who cares about keeping things how they are?”
“It’s not that they don’t care about you, they’ve just found a future that makes them happier than their past does.”
Edith sniffled, and her grandmother handed her a satin handkerchief. “Don’t worry, sweet girl. You’ll find your happiest place.”
“This is my happiest place, and everyone is leaving it.” Every now and then the loneliness became too much to bear. She had no one in her life except her family, the people who had no choice but to be around her, to love her. No one had ever chosen to love Edith.
“Hush now, that’s not fair. They’re just moving a little faster than you, that’s all.”
“I don’t want to move at all. Like I said, I’m happy.”
“Safe and happy are not the same.”
“Well, they’re also not mutually exclusive,” Edith grumbled.
Her grandmother pulled back to look her sternly in the eyes. “What about the quest?”
Edith swallowed thickly, her pulse ticking up at the mention of the quest. “What about it?”
“We’ve spent years planning our adventure, and you’re just as excited about it as I am. You do realize you’ll have to leave the house in order for us to find Excalibur?” Her voice was teasing, but there was a hint of censure behind it.
Edith loved nothing more than spending the days hunched over old texts and illustrations depicting King Arthur, the wizard Merlin, and the ethereal Lady of the Lake, but the thought of disrupting the comfort of her daily routine was too scary.
“I’m just not ready yet,” she said. “We still have more planning to do before we can depart.”
Her grandmother kissed her firmly on the temple. “Well, when you’re ready, you know where to find me.”
Edith plopped down on her mercifully bug-free bed.
She did know where to find her grandmother.
She was right in that urn, where she always would be now.
She stood abruptly, forcing away her grief-addled remembrances.
There was no use in dwelling on the depressing. Not when there was adventure to be had.
Thomasin Shaw had never specified when exactly they would be embarking, though.
She hoped they wouldn’t delay for too long.
Edith reached for where she had hung her satchel on the bedpost. Even if they were only to be here for a night, she wanted to unpack.
She would never be able to sleep in a room that didn’t feel properly hers.
There was nothing that a few homey finishing touches couldn’t fix.
A single shelf hung on the wall above the chest of drawers.
On the slightly slanted surface, she laid her collection of Arthurian texts, her shoulder twinging as she reached up.
Her back would probably be sore forever from the effort of carrying the tomes all this way.
But it was worth it. The scent of tea and buttered pastries clung to them.
Her grandmother had been a terribly messy eater, despite Edith’s constant attempts to preserve the delicate pages. Now, she was glad for the smell.
Edith hadn’t brought much clothing. Sacrifices had needed to be made in order to fit all the books.
But she had commissioned a custom adventuring outfit from the seamstress.
She folded the garments carefully and placed them in the drawer.
She couldn’t wait to wear them. They’d turned out beautifully and were more than worth the derisive judgment she had endured from the seamstress.
There was a collared cream tunic made from a thick but breathable linen.
It had a flowing fit around her torso and arms. Wide cuffs, adorned with magenta and gold buttons, cinched the sleeves at her wrists.
To pair with the top, there was a high-waisted skirt in deep green that fell to just above her ankles.
Modest, but movable. Especially since her brand-new leather boots would cover the rest of her exposed skin.
She arranged those by the door, laces undone and waiting, so she would be ready to go at a moment’s notice.
The rest of her supplies, an archaeology kit, and most importantly, the key to Arthur’s Stone, she kept tucked in her satchel.
She didn’t want to risk forgetting the essentials.
Not that her treasure-hunting garb and books weren’t essential.
They were, of course, but she needed to do something to make herself feel a little bit less out of her depth.
Seeing the proof of her preparedness calmed her.
At least until someone knocked on the door and then swung it open before she even had the chance to respond.
Thomasin stepped into the room like she owned it.
Which she did, Edith supposed. The woman was even more striking now than when she had been all cloaked in shadows and candlelight.
The late evening sun streaming in through the window suited her.
It brought out the green flecks in her hazel eyes and the warmth of her golden skin.
The whole ensemble of knives and leather was fascinating in the sunlight.
Thomasin’s eyes drifted around the room. “You’ve made yourself right at home.” It might have been a disparaging comment, but her tone landed closer to fond amusement.
“You know what they say about idle hands.” Edith smiled and moved aside to give Thomasin room to enter the small chamber.
Her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “No, what do they say?”
“Oh, idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” Edith said.
Thomasin seemed to ponder that as she stepped toward the shelf. “Devil’s workshop, huh?”
“That’s what they say.” Edith shrugged, watching as Thomasin traced a finger over the spines of her books. Her curls, unbrushed and wild, hung almost to her waist. Edith resisted the bizarre urge to run her fingers through them and untangle the knots.
“What do you suppose he makes in this workshop?”
Edith weighed her response in case this was somehow a serious inquiry, until Thomasin glanced at her over her shoulder, a smile curving the corner of her lip.
“Probably … porcelain dolls or—”
“Porcelain dolls?” Thomasin laughed, the sound rough and musical. “What’s wrong with porcelain dolls?”
Edith scrunched her nose. “I find them really creepy. Their soulless eyes and tiny little noses.”
Thomasin pulled The History of the Kings of Britain from the shelf and sidestepped Edith to plop onto the bed. She leaned against the headboard and stretched her legs out in front of her. “I kind of always wanted one, though. Only wooden dolls for me, I’m afraid.”
“How about we trade? I have a whole room of dolls stashed away so that I don’t have to look at them.” Edith laughed. “After this, you can have them all, and I’ll gladly take the innocent wooden ones off your hands.”
“Is that an invitation to your castle? I’ve never received an offer from such a fine lady before,” Thomasin teased.
Edith knew her words were in jest, but she couldn’t help the blush that heated her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “It’s a manor, not a castle. But yes, you’re invited.”
Thomasin’s eyes softened, an emotion flicking across her face. It was replaced by that sharp humor before Edith could identify it. “Where exactly are you from, Edith?”