Chapter Twenty-Three
Sitting in the middle of Fiorello’s Ice Cream Parlor, Arden felt starkly out of place.
The shop was cozy, staffed only by an elderly couple, whom, he presumed, were the eponymous Fiorellos, and set up with half a dozen small, glass-topped tables, most occupied by families with children, their faces hopelessly messy and eyes wide with joy as they devoured the brightly colored scoops of ice cream.
The table closest to him was taken by a young couple deep in the throes of early courtship, giggling and blushing and stumbling through flirtations in a way that seemed utterly foreign to Arden, though he was sure he’d once spoken their language fluently.
When he’d been courting Mavis—or rather, Arabella—had they been like that?
He tried to imagine it, watching out of the corner of his eye as the boy said something to the girl that had her cheeks flushing to the same shade as the strawberry ice cream she ate.
She was smiling so much Arden wondered if her cheeks ached, or if she was too giddy to notice that they did.
The boy had one leg crossed at the ankle over the other knee, bouncing them under the table.
Arden was sure he had been just like that once, so madly in love he couldn’t contain it, but as he eyed the young couple, he knew Mavis had never been that naive.
Oh, she’d draped herself in all the trappings of young love like an actress donning a costume before stepping on stage, but that was all it was for her.
Mavis was a year his junior, but she’d never truly seemed young.
“Mr. Ryskamp.”
Arden looked up to see Oriana Mayles standing in front of him, dressed in a dress so bright a coral it rivaled Garlin’s famous sunsets.
Her blond hair hung in a long braid draped over her shoulder and a straw hat was perched jauntily on top of her head, tied under her chin with a butter yellow ribbon.
“Miss Mayles.” Arden hastened to his feet and took her proffered hand, brushing a kiss over the back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you come in.” He hurried to pull out the second stool for her.
“You did seem quite lost in your thoughts.” She sat down delicately and smoothed her hands over her silk skirts. She waited for him to retake his seat before leaning across the table. “I hope you’re armed with a compass.”
It took a moment for Arden to understand, but when he did, he smiled.
“You’re very clever, Miss Mayles—far too clever for me to keep up with, I fear.”
Oriana’s smile faltered for the span of a heartbeat before she revived it. “Hardly the first time I’ve been told that,” she said airily with a wave of her hand. “Though well done on almost making it sound like a compliment.”
Arden couldn’t miss the wound beneath the surface. “I assure you, Miss Mayles, I meant it as the highest of compliments. Only a true fool would mean it as anything else.”
Oriana’s smile softened into something far more honest than the one she lit up every room with. “Arden Ryskamp.” Her gaze swept over him in a way that felt like a perusal. “You are a charmer.”
He should be glad to hear it—his aunt’s edict still hung over his head, with little time remaining for him to convince Oriana to marry him.
If anything, he should feel more desperate than ever, but he just couldn’t summon the desire.
He recalled what Ms. Symone said when she signed his aunt’s books.
Is that enough to tie your future to someone else’s?
A month ago, when Arden first set foot in Garlin, he wouldn’t have hesitated to say yes, but now?
“Tell me about the book signing,” Oriana said after they’d ordered their ice cream from Mr. Fiorello—pistachio and rosewater for Oriana, lemon for Arden—and he’d deposited glass pedestaled bowls each filled with a large scoop of ice cream at their table.
“My aunt enjoyed herself immensely—I’ve never seen her at a loss for words, but Ms. Symone certainly had that effect on her.”
“Oh?” Oriana asked. “And what did you think of her?”
Arden paused to consider it. “She was very . . . vivacious. Bold too. And honest in her opinions.”
Oriana tilted her head. “I’d ask you if you liked her, but I’m not sure you know, yourself, by the sound of it.”
“I think I did,” Arden admitted. “She was certainly outrageous—I would like to see her thrown into the mix at a Luster Ball. I don’t think society would ever recover, but it would be entertaining to witness.”
Oriana laughed. “It is much easier to be outrageous when making one’s way in the world as an independent woman—or so I’d imagine. I might enjoy being a bit more bold and vivacious myself if I didn’t have to wear the expectations of my upbringing.”
“Oh?” Arden was surprised and intrigued by the confession. “What outrageous thing would you do, if you could do anything, Miss Mayles?”
Oriana paused, tracing her silver spoon through the quickly melting ice cream in front of her. “I’d leave. I’ve never been anywhere else. I think that’s part of why I love to read so much—the promise of traveling to new worlds, even if only through characters in a story.”
“Where would you go?”
“Strall,” Oriana said without hesitation.
Arden thought about how eager she’d been to hear about the city, the plans she made for everything she would do there. Perhaps those plans had less to do with Arden and more to do with Strall itself. He expected to feel offended by that, but he didn’t.
“What about you?” She took another bite of her ice cream. “What outrageous thing would you do if there were no consequences?”
Arden’s mind filled with images of unbound copper hair, flushed, freckled skin, and emerald eyes bright enough to light up the darkest night. But he didn’t need Mavis to tell him that was not the sort of thing he should tell Oriana.
He cleared his throat, deciding to turn the subject away from himself altogether. “It’s funny you mention that—I’ve been trying to convince my aunt to throw a ball next week.”
Oriana’s eyebrows raised. “What makes that outrageous?”
Arden leaned forward. “You know her heart has been failing—the Ruteledges say she has roughly a week left to live. The ball will be a—”
“—death ball?” Oriana interrupted, equal parts horrified and intrigued.
“A farewell ball,” Arden corrected. “A chance to give her one last night to be as outrageous as she wishes.”
After the conversation with Ariel Ann Symone, his aunt hadn’t needed much convincing about the ball. In fact, they’d stopped by her modiste so she could place a rush order for the daring red gown of her dreams.
“You’re a very good nephew,” she told him. “Mrs. Gellis is lucky to have you.”
Arden’s stomach twisted. “I try.” He tried to hide the guilt nagging at him. “She wants us to marry, you know.”
He didn’t mean to blurt that out, but as soon as the words left his lips, he found he didn’t regret them.
“Is that so?” she murmured, glancing down at her ice cream, her cheeks flushing.
“She thinks the world of you.” Whether or not telling Oriana the truth was wise, he was relieved that, for once, he could be honest with her. “And she believes we’ll suit well.”
Oriana fiddled with her spoon for a moment. “And what do you think?”
Arden chose his words carefully. “I think she’s right. I admire you greatly, Miss Mayles, and I think if we married, we would be perfectly . . .” He trailed off, the word happy lodging in his throat. Happy was out of his grasp, and he’d come to terms with that. “. . . content.”
Oriana glanced up at him, her gaze sharpening. “Content,” she echoed, not unkindly. “Is that enough for you to tie your future to someone else’s?”
Arden froze, his spoon halfway between his bowl of ice cream and his mouth, which was hanging open in a way he was vaguely aware made him look like a fish.
Is that enough for you to tie your future to someone else’s?
It was the same exact question Ariel Ann Symone asked him mere hours ago.
He looked at Oriana, her gray eyes filled with concern.
He’d thought there was something familiar in Ms. Symone’s eyes, but the face they were set in was so wildly different from that of the woman sitting across from him that he never would have guessed.
But Oriana’s gift let her change her appearance—she could become anyone at all, even the author of scandalous romance novels about Lusters and Lacks falling in love.
“You’re Ariel Ann Symone.” The words tasted like truth, and Oriana must have heard it, too, because her face turned two shades paler and her eyes went wide as saucers.
Her laugh didn’t quite hide how her voice cracked. “Arden, I think the heat has gotten to you, you’re not making any sense at all.”
Arden shook his head. “I think I’m making perfect sense. No wonder you declined my invitation to the book signing.”
“I told you, I had plans.” Her voice took on a desperate edge.
“And what were those plans?”
Oriana opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again, casting her gaze around the room as if she were searching for an escape. It was only when Arden saw the fear in her eyes that guilt tugged at him.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he said quickly before another thought occurred to him—the dedication his aunt showed him in both books. “Who is Jonas?”
“No one.” Oriana’s voice grew even sharper, but when she looked at Arden again, she bit her lip. “He’s a gardener.”
“Any relation of the Haywoods?” Arden asked, naming a Strall family with a gift for controlling plant life. When Oriana didn’t answer, he continued. “Felix Haywood and I were school friends, and I remember how he turned his dorm room into a greenhouse, with plants growing from every surface.”
Oriana paused before shaking her head, her shoulders sagging. “No, not a relation of them.”
Arden turned that over in his mind. A gardener, but not one with plant magic. That didn’t make sense. Unless . . .
“He’s a Lack.” He kept his voice low so none of the other patrons in the shop could hear.
Oriana’s gray eyes darted up to his and held there for several heartbeats before she gave an infinitesimal nod.