24
CECILY
The portraits always stopped her.
She had walked this passage many times since coming to Malethurst, and still she could not move through it without slowing. Sunlight fell through the high windows, lighting the long wall in pale gold. Her parents looked back at her across sixty years as if no time had passed at all.
Her father stood straight-backed in his knight’s chain mail, one hand resting near the hilt of his sword.
His gaze was steady and watchful, the same look she remembered from across the dinner table, from the doorway of her chamber when he thought she was asleep.
Her mother’s eyes were alert in a way Cecily knew well, the painter having caught something most people missed: the quiet attention behind her composure.
I should have trusted you, she thought, and the flush of shame was familiar now. She had fled instead, afraid, desperate, and certain she knew better.
A little farther down the wall hung her brother, Roderic, older than her by nearly a decade, tall and serious. How long had it been since she last thought of him? Months. The colors in his portrait seemed to have darkened with the years.
Her throat tightened. She forced the tears back, straightened her skirts, and made herself keep moving. This was her family, or had been. Grief was a luxury she could not afford in the middle of a morning’s work.
She found her uncle in the solar, reviewing a stack of correspondence. He looked up as she entered, his expression easing.
“Ah, Cecily,” he said, setting his letters aside. “I have news from Veyron Hall.”
The name made her pulse kick.
Lord Alard de Veyron.
She had never expected to hear the family name again.
“The new baron is hosting a welcome feast,” Stephen said. “A proper one. He’s inviting the neighboring houses. It would be noticed if we did not attend, and I would like you with me.”
Cecily folded her hands in her lap. “Of course.”
Stephen studied her a moment. “His name is Julian de Veyron,” he added. “Young. Well spoken. Well formed, I hear. Eager to make a good impression.”
She nodded without comment. Her hands folded more tightly.
She was crossing back through the passage when a servant found her, a young woman with a ledger tucked beneath her arm.
“My lady, the cook asks whether the trout should be served with the green sauce or plain.”
“Lemon and herbs,” Cecily said without breaking stride. “Nothing heavy.”
“Yes, my lady.” The girl smiled and hurried off.
Cecily walked on. When she first arrived, such a question would have left her floundering. Now the answer was simple. This was not the life she had imagined, but it was a life, and it was hers.
∞∞∞
That evening, she dressed with care. The gown laid out for her was pale yellow silk, light enough for the season, the sleeves fitted smoothly to her arms, delicate embroidery at the cuffs. The color suited her, and she knew it.
As her maid fastened the final ties, her thoughts drifted.
Finn.
More than a year, and still no word. If he were alive, surely he would have found a way. Their time together, their struggles, that kiss—it all had the quality of a story she had once been told, not lived. Leaving her chamber, she pushed the idea away.
The carriage rolled south as the sun dipped lower. When Veyron Hall came into view, she steadied her breathing.
She had fled her own time before ever having to step inside as Lord Alard’s wife.
Now, nearly sixty years later, she was approaching these walls as a guest, as a young woman with her own name and her own place at her uncle’s side.
The Veyrons no longer owned her future. And yet the name still made something tighten beneath her ribs. Would she ever truly be free of it?
The carriage slowed. Torches were being lit along the drive. Cecily stepped down onto the gravel and looked up at the estate she had once feared, and felt something she hadn’t expected: not dread, but a cool, quiet steadiness.
The great hall at Veyron was already full, bustling with noise and activity when Cecily entered. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and honeyed fruit. Eyes turned toward her as she entered. She kept her pace easy beside her uncle.
“Are you Cecily de Malet?”
Cecily turned. A young woman near her own age, dark-haired with round eyes, had approached her.
“I am,” Cecily said with a light curtsy.
The girl’s face brightened. “I thought so. I’m Isabel, Lord Julian’s sister. My brother has been hoping to meet you and claim a dance.”
Cecily followed Isabel’s glance across the hall and found Julian de Veyron watching them openly. He did not look away when their eyes met. He smiled with an air of playful confidence, flashing two disarming dimples.
As Julian moved through the hall, laughing with the young ladies in his path, his gaze kept finding Cecily’s, a playful confidence in his smile each time.
When the musicians cleared space for dancing, she rose with the others.
The first dance with a young visiting nobleman was familiar enough, but the second dance was new. She caught on quickly, and by the third dance, her cheeks were warm and flushed.
When the musicians paused, Julian suddenly appeared beside her.
“You’ve been very patient,” she said, dipping into a curtsy, surprised at her own boldness.
He laughed, unoffended. “I was enjoying the view.”
“You speak plainly, my lord.”
“I find honesty saves time,” he said. “May I?”
He was bold, she thought. Bolder than any young man she’d met. And her uncle was right; he was well formed, indeed, with a broad smile, dimples that played in his cheeks, and a sturdy build. He offered his hand.
The dance that followed was another new one. Julian guided her smoothly. Left hand to right, she counted to herself. Then turn, and left hand again.
“There, you danced it well,” he said. “You’re learning quickly.”
“Am I?” she laughed. “I fear I’ve got all the grace of a knight in full armor.”
His eyes flicked to her face, then her lips. “Not at all. Here, let me help you with the next steps.”
His hand found her waist, steadying and guiding her closer. She had not been touched like this in more than a year. Not since Finn. The thought was unwelcome, but it came anyway. She drew a slow breath and stepped back from him.
“I think I’ve got it,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied. “You seem very sure of yourself now.”
When the dance ended, he released her and stepped back with a small bow, a smile playing on his lips.
“I hope you’ll forgive me if I claim another dance later.”
“I would not refuse it, my lord,” Cecily said with a curtsy.
His smile widened.
The rest of the evening passed in a whirl of motion, and Cecily danced till her feet ached.
Only later, as she settled into the carriage beside Stephen and the noise of the hall was behind them, did the quiet return.
Then another face intruded: dark eyes that pierced her, a voice that always rang true and never tried to impress. That kiss…
She leaned back against the seat, the warmth of the evening shattered. She wondered where Finn was and what he was doing.
If he’s alive, is he thinking of me, as I’m thinking of him?
The question followed her into the night, all the way home.