Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lucie stood on the grass behind The Honeycomb with Iris on one side and Rosavyn on the other, and for several long, quiet moments, none of them spoke. The morning light came through the canopy of flowering trees in soft, shifting patterns, and the whole of the space before them glowed.
The round tables from The Charmed Leaf had been arranged beneath the branches, each one dressed in white linen.
Elegant chairs with curved backs and pale cushions were placed around them.
On every table, trailing garlands of honeysuckle wound between clusters of small golden faelights that would provide a subtle illumination later this afternoon, when the light through the canopy turned soft and honeyed.
Tiny glass jars of wildflowers sat among the garlands, each one different, each one placed with careful asymmetry.
Above their heads, paper birds and butterflies—a product of Iris’s magic—flitted among the lower boughs. Strings of faelights wound through the branches, threading from tree to tree.
And along either side of the gathering, to the left and right, ran the long serving tables, tiered cake stands rising from them in glittering columns, waiting to be filled.
Every confection that would ordinarily sit behind glass in the shop’s display cases would be arranged out here instead, so that once Lady Rivenna had welcomed the guests and Lucie had given her demonstration, everyone might wander among the tables to sample and admire and ask questions.
Lucie and Georgiana would be there to answer them, to explain the honey light, the techniques, the ingredients, to draw them close in a way that made a person feel not like a customer but like a confidante—someone being offered a glimpse behind the curtain and finding the magic there even lovelier than what was on display.
“Because that is precisely what we are offering,” Lady Rivenna had said when they were planning this event. “There is no other place in Bloomhaven like The Honeycomb.”
But the morning was several hours from that still. The event was not until the afternoon. And everything—every garland, every paper bird, every precisely angled chair—was perfect.
And Lucie felt, for the first time in weeks, surprisingly … calm.
It was the strangest thing. She had expected to wake this morning in a state of advanced terror, her mind already racing through the dozens of things that might go wrong and the multiple contingency plans she had drawn up for each of them.
She had expected the tight, too-high breathing that had become her constant companion these past weeks, the clenching in her chest that arrived before she had even opened her eyes.
Instead she had woken slowly, lain still for a moment, and thought: Today.
And the thought had not sent a spike of panic through her at all. Instead it had been … anticipation. Excitement.
She was ready. She knew she was ready. Every confection had been tested, tasted, refined, and tested again.
The honey light was bottled and waiting.
The chocolate bees slept peacefully in their tin.
The marzipan flowers and leaves had been arranged upon the framework with a care that bordered on the obsessive.
She had prepared everything there was to prepare, and what remained now was simply the doing of it.
“Iris,” Lucie said quietly, still looking out at the scene before her. “It is absolutely lovely.”
Iris smiled. “The honeysuckle was the right choice,” she said. “The scent carries perfectly out here, and it ties the whole thing back to the shop.” She tilted her head. “Though I may move that cluster by the third table a fraction to the left before this afternoon. It is bothering me.”
“It is not bothering anyone else,” Rosavyn observed.
Lucie’s gaze traveled past the tables to the far side of the gathering, where the showpiece structure stood just to one side, positioned so that every guest would have a clear view of it.
Kazrian’s framework was fully assembled now.
He had moved it out here earlier—after greeting her, after pointedly not saying anything about having been in her home the previous night, or about crouching on the floor of her father’s workshop, or about laughing with her family across a simple kitchen table.
The framework’s broad pedestal gleamed faintly in the dappled light, and above it, the curved pieces of silver wood rose and tapered inward, and each of them was covered in marzipan flowers. Dozens of them, with tiny marzipan leaves tucked between.
Lucie had to admit it looked rather impressive.
The honeycomb beehive was assembled within, concealed by the panels that would release outward at her signal.
That was the part she was trying not to think about too carefully.
The part that required her to stand before a gathering of Bloomhaven’s finest, channel magic from her ring, control the enchantments, guide the spun sugar, and coax the bees into their spiraling flight—all while looking as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
It will be fine. You have practiced this. You know every step.
She looked up at the sky. Blue, clear, not a cloud to speak of. “I do hope it does not rain,” she said.
Rosavyn leaned her head closer to Lucie’s as she gazed up. “Do not think like that. Of course it will not rain.”
“It has rained several times in recent weeks,” Lucie pointed out, trying not to think of the night on the storeroom floor, the cozy arrangement of cushions, Kazrian lying barely a breath away. “It is entirely possible.”
“It will not,” Rosavyn said firmly, as though the weather could be settled by the sheer force of a Rowanwood’s conviction. Given the family, Lucie was not entirely certain it could not.
Rosavyn had arrived with Kazrian this morning.
She had not been expected. The plan had been for her to come later with the rest of the family, with Lady Lelianna and whichever other Rowanwoods intended to be present.
But she had walked into The Honeycomb’s kitchen looking bright and composed and entirely too cheerful for someone whose heart, Lucie knew, was quietly breaking yet again.
Lord Grayfield had begun a formal courtship with another young lady. Someone who had manifested the previous Season—of course she had manifested, that was the whole wretched point of it—and the news had moved through Bloomhaven society.
“It was always going to happen,” Rosavyn had said. “I told you as much, did I not? I predicted this very outcome, and I am nothing if not consistent in my expectations.”
Lucie had not pressed. Instead, she had simply said, “I am glad you are here,” and Rosavyn had smiled and said, “Where else would I be? At Rowanwood House with Mother giving me those dreadful pitying looks of hers? Absolutely not. I would far rather be useful.”
Lucie drew a breath and gave a small nod. “Well. I ought to get back inside. There is still a great deal to finish.”
“Is there truly?” Iris asked. “It all looks done to me.”
“The confections that must be fresh cannot be done until the last moment. The honey-light cream for the little tartlets has to be whipped and piped within the hour before serving. And the crystallized violets for the top of the petit fours still need positioning.” She was already moving through the list in her head, the familiar churning inventory that never truly stopped.
“There are rather a lot of those, but the pixies will help. And of course, there is the sugar syrup for the spun sugar part of the showpiece, which I must prepare to the exact correct temperature before covering it with an enchantment that will preserve it like that until the moment I need it during the demonstration.”
Iris and Rosavyn blinked at her. “Right,” said Rosavyn. “Well. I suppose we had best get inside then. I will help in whatever way I can.”
Lucie turned toward the back door and almost walked into Georgiana, who was coming out.
“Oh, Lucie, there you are.” Her gaze flickered past her to Iris and Rosavyn before returning to Lucie. “I was looking for you.”
“Is everything all right?” Lucie asked, frowning slightly. Because Georgiana had her shawl on, pulled close around her shoulders, and there was the little basket she always carried to and from The Honeycomb, sitting on one arm. She looked, Lucie noted with confusion, as though she were leaving.
Her gaze dropped to the flagstones between them. She pressed her lips together, and one gloved hand smoothed down the front of her shawl before gripping the edge of it tightly. “I was just upstairs,” she said. “Speaking with Lady Rivenna. I have … I have given my notice.”
Lucie’s breath stopped. “What? Georgiana—what—you are leaving? Today? You cannot possibly—today, of all—”
“I have accepted a proposal of marriage.” The words came out in a rush. “His family is departing Bloomhaven this afternoon. I am going with them.”
For several seconds, Lucie could not make the words assemble into anything that made sense. She stared at Georgiana, her mind lurching to catch up, the calm of the morning cracking along a fault line she had not seen coming.
“I—forgive me,” Lucie said. “I did not realize there was … I had no notion of … of a courtship or …”
Georgiana’s eyes remained downcast. “It has been a rather … private arrangement. Quite new. I am sorry for not having spoken of it sooner.” Her fingers twisted at the shawl’s fringe again. “But he is a good man, Lucie. Truly.”
Lucie’s mind was spinning. Two things were turning over one another, colliding, separating, colliding again.
The first was relief for Georgiana. She was leaving.
Georgiana was getting away from Henry. Whatever this proposal was, however sudden it seemed, it meant that Georgiana would no longer be under her brother’s roof, no longer within the reach of his temper.
And the second—
The second was that the only other person who knew every confection by name, who understood the honey light varieties, who could describe each creation to a guest with the kind of steady warmth that put even the most demanding fae patron at ease, who was supposed to stand beside her this afternoon and help her navigate one of the most important moments of her life—was leaving. Now. Hours before the launch.
Do not think about that. Do not think about that yet.
The important part—the part that mattered most—was that Georgiana was getting away.
“This afternoon?” Lucie heard herself say. “You are leaving this afternoon?”
“His family has obligations elsewhere. They cannot delay their departure.” Georgiana’s voice was thin, strained. “I know how this must seem. How sudden it all is. But I am unable to remain here any longer.”
Lucie found herself nodding slowly. “I … I understand.”
And then a far worse thought arrived, cold and sudden, and Lucie felt the blood drain from her own face.
Had she made things worse?
After she had shouted at Henry. After Balthazar had raked his claws across his face.
After she had slammed the kitchen door in his face with the whole of her weight behind it.
Had he gone home from that humiliation with his temper up, and had Georgiana been the one to bear it?
Was that why the marriage was so sudden, so urgent, why a good man’s family could not delay their departure by even a day?
Had Lucie’s own anger, her own righteous defense of herself, come down in the end upon Georgiana’s head?
She felt ill.
No. Whatever the cause—whatever part she had or had not played—the answer was still the same. Georgiana must go. Georgiana must be free of him.
“Is he truly?” Lucie asked, very quietly. She took another step closer, and lowered her voice, so that it would not carry to Iris and Rosavyn, who had both gone tactfully still a little distance off. “Is he truly a good man?”
Georgiana lifted her head.
“Not like,” Lucie said, holding her gaze, letting the weight settle beneath the words, “certain other men?”
For a moment Georgiana did not move at all. Something crossed her face, a flicker of understanding, of being seen, that told Lucie her meaning had landed exactly where she had aimed it. Georgiana nodded.
“Yes. He is. He is kind. He is—he is nothing like—” She did not finish it. She only nodded again, more firmly, as though to convince them both. “Yes. He is a good man.”
“Then I am happy for you,” Lucie said, and meant it with every part of herself that was not currently screaming about profiteroles and petit fours and an empty front-of-shop position and the most important afternoon of her life.
“Thank you.” Georgiana let out a breath. “And I am so dreadfully sorry to abandon you. I know what today means—to you, to Lady Rivenna. I know I am leaving you at the worst possible time, but—”
“Do not spare it another thought,” Lucie said. “We shall manage here perfectly well, I promise you.”
Georgiana nodded. Then she glanced around—quickly, instinctively, checking the empty courtyard and the open door behind her—and stepped closer, dropping her voice until it was barely more than a breath.
“And … my brother,” she whispered. “Whatever promises he has made, whatever apologies he has given … you should say no.”
Lucie reached out and took Georgiana’s gloved hand in both of hers. She pressed it hard. “I will never have anything to do with Henry Stratton again. You have my word.”
Georgiana nodded. “Well, then. Goodbye, Lucie.”
Then she turned, crossed the courtyard with quick, purposeful steps, and disappeared down the lane.
Lucie stood very still, watching the empty space where she had been. Then she turned to face Iris and Rosavyn, who were speaking quietly to one another a short distance away. They looked up as she turned.
“She is gone,” Lucie said. “She has left.” She heard the tremor begin at the edges of her own voice and pressed on.
“She has accepted a proposal and she is leaving Bloomhaven this afternoon, and she was supposed to be here, she was supposed to stand beside me this afternoon and greet guests and explain the confections and answer questions and—she knows everything, she knows every confection, every honey light, she knows how to talk to people, and—”
Her voice cracked, and her breaths were coming too high and too fast. She pressed her palm over the ring lying against her chest—cool metal, hard stone—and forced a slow exhale out of her lungs.
“Lucie,” Rosavyn began.
“And even if I somehow manage this afternoon, what about tomorrow? The Honeycomb will be open—properly open—and there will be no one tending the front of the shop! Who will—who will—I cannot—”
“Lucie,” Rosavyn repeated, louder now.
She stepped closer and reached for Lucie’s hand, the one not currently pressed to her chest. “I think it is rather clear, is it not?” One brow arched and her smile stretched wider. “The position was always meant to be mine.”