Chapter 4
The problem with Abigail is that she’s always around.
I’m trying to waste away on the chesterfield in my bedchamber, which is so not the settee for that, it’s too firm and creaky—but it doesn’t matter, because Abigail just keeps disturbing my peace.
This morning, she took too long tidying up mess that she should’ve left for the imps, then she stripped my bed the moment I was out of it. Around noon, she had me sign a bunch of thank you cards in preparation for New Year gift exchanges.
Now she’s back again.
Snubbing the toes of her boots that encroach on the rug, I watch the flames flicker in the hearth.
If I ignore her long enough, she might disappear.
So far, it isn’t working.
For as long as I ignore her, she stands there, hands clasped at her midsection, shoulders back, boots planted—and I’m stubborn, too, so I watch the flames dance.
The fireplace has been swelling heat into my bedchamber all day, working hard against the cold and moody winter. The winds out there rattles the windows in the panes, and I listen to the whistling of the draughts.
It almost lulls me to my umpteenth nap before Abigail finally decides to bulldoze through my silent boundaries—
“Miss Olivia.”
It’s all she says, but it’s all she has to. That alone is the announcement, the ‘I am here, pay attention to me, I will not leave.’
Her boot shifts on the rug.
One step further from the edge, closer to me, and my gaze latches onto the threat of her advance.
“Miss Olivia, the gifts are being asked after.”
I drag my gaze over her, from her laced boots, up plain breeches and the waistcoat, to the tight bun of crimson above her lightly freckled face.
“The New Year gifts,” she says, as if to remind me. “They are all to be sorted tonight for dispatch in the morning.”
The hoarseness of my voice is as sleepy as my puffy face, “Later.”
Her smile is tight. “Mrs Younge insists the deadline is tonight.”
The golden mantel clock on the fireplace lures in my dull gaze. It’s only four in the afternoon. Dinner is in an hour or two, then supper before bed, but I have a lot of wrapping to do, and so I know if I start now, I’ll be going ‘til late.
It’s not a chore I can just assign to someone else.
Tradition and custom exist to be a pain in my ass, including now. The custom among the Videralli is that New Year gift-wrapping is done by the sender. It adds sincerity, I suppose, but maybe it’s a magic thing, too. I never asked.
One thing is for certain—it isn’t a task I get to delegate.
The sigh I give is drawn-out and dramatic as I peel myself off the chesterfield, my head lolling with the reluctance.
Abigail is quick to come and go, returning with all the wrapping paper and ribbons and tape neatly piled in a basket that I’m absolutely certain she had hidden out in the corridor.
She pushes aside the coffee table to expose the rug, the threads weaved tightly into little cream hills.
I drop onto the rug, legs folded, and watch as Abigail brings in the unwrapped gifts from the wardrobe one by one.
My face tightens.
So many of them.
Even with Abigail’s help, it’s tedious work.
I wrap gifts. Like it matters. Like it means something.
But it doesn’t.
Since Mother came to sit with me under the battered shelter of the bus stop, and she showed me her true face beneath all the masks she wears, I’ve realised that none of it matters—none of what I do makes any difference.
So why try at all?
My mother has the power to stand against my father and his decision. My brother could voice his support of me. My father could listen to what I told him and change his mind, change my path.
But nothing is changed.
Father will sell me off to Dray…
Mother will plan my wedding.
Oliver will stand by and let it happen.
Because I don’t matter. Not beyond my duty, the reason aristos families strive for a daughter.
I was kept in the dark about it, too, at Dray’s request—yet so many others knew.
Like Landon.
And I bet my wardrobe that Serena knew, too.
That must be why she’s been trying to get back into my good graces, to align with me, because I am the new Asta Strom—positioned to be the next Mrs Sinclair.
Fucking barf.
The shudder that strikes me is so violent I rattle and the scissors in my hand tremble.
It’s all too much to sort out, like we sort these gifts and all the bells and whistles to wrap them with. I need time to sift through all the truths, the agendas, and only then can I come up with some way out of this.
I’m decided on that.
There has to be a way out.
I can’t picture it, living my life with him, his ring on my finger, his hands on my body in our bed—
That shudder rinses me again.
I steel myself against it.
Abigail asks, soft, “Should I add more wood to the fire?”
Kneeling on the rug, I lift my frown to her, ribbons in her hands, then flick my stare to the hearth behind her.
The fire is generous, but it doesn’t roar anymore. Doesn’t matter—I’m not cold.
Abigail has misread my shuddering.
I shake my head, hair falling onto my cheeks. “Let’s just get this over with.”
The hoarseness of my voice screams for lemon and honey tea. I don’t act on the need.
Abigail cuts thick, cream paper, adds it to the pile on my left, and I wrap gift after gift.
The mess is strewn about the rug, little shavings of paper and ribbon resting on the threads tightly woven.
Abigail does most of the work.
I wrap, but she cuts ribbon for me to tie around the packages, hands me cards to address, sorts out the piles for me.
The gifts for James are annoyingly large and clunky, so I just whack a bow onto the easel, embrace it with a ribbon, then stick the address card onto the canvas.
I’m not wrapping that.
Note to self, in all my numb existence, get smaller presents next year.
Next year…
The following New Year, just twelve months away, I might be signing the cards differently.
Now it’s Olivia Craven.
But if I can’t find a way out of this, then this time next year, I won’t be in my bedchamber, I will be in Dray’s, signing these cards, Mrs Olivia Sinclair.
That strikes me still.
It tingles my bones all the way to my fingertips.
My mind spirals.
For some gifts, I’ll need my husband’s name.
Mr and Mrs Sinclair.
No, that’s taken already by Harold and Amelia.
So what will we be?
Dray and Olivia Sinclair… Mr and Mrs Dray Sinclair. Dray Sinclair and wife.
Dray and the deadblood.
My mouth tugs down at the corners.
I lift my dull gaze to Abigail as she tugs a ribbon over the edge of scissors, curling it. Her hand moves expertly, like she’s done this a hundred-million times before.
But something new catches my attention.
The silver band on her ring finger.
I’ve never noticed a ring on her finger before. Plain, silver, not even white gold, just… silver. Not a jewel or a diamond in sight.
Undeniably a wedding band.
No engagement ring to pair with it.
Not everyone gets an engagement ring, though. Usually that’s the aristos—and the krums, but it’s a tradition they unwittingly inherited from us.
Wedding bands are usually sufficient for the rest of the Videralli.
And I’m absolutely positive I haven’t seen that ring before.
My hands still on the two cards I’ve just scrawled out, one for Eric, the pointless quest I committed myself to, and the other for Dray, the villain of my life.
I ask, blunt, and the question comes out like an accusation, “You’re married?”
Abigail lifts her startled gaze from the ribbon. Her lashes flutter, one blink, two.
Guess she’s confused because I literally have never asked her about her life. Now that I think on that, I don’t even know her last name.
I should, right?
I should know some things about her, this handmaid of mine, a dresser who has worked with me for… a decade?
Wow.
Time flies.
And I didn’t even know she was married.
Abigail lowers the ribbon and scissors to the rug. Her smile is small, but tight. Her nod comes curt before she’s pushing two boxes some inches closer to me.
I wrapped them already, but now they must be carded and ribboned—and she deflects my question with the reminder of them.
One hand taps gently on the box at my right knee. “This is the watch.” Then her other hand taps on the second box, the identically wrapped parcel at my left knee. “And this is the cologne.”
She moves for the freshly cut and curled ribbons, then drapes them over the boxes.
I blink at her, then press, “Are you married?”
Her gaze lifts to mine, unwilling, almost ashamed. “Yes, Miss Olivia.”
She hands me the cards.
Another attempt to shut this conversation down.
I snatch the cards, then scribble the names on them, one for Dray, one for Eric, before stuffing them into the envelopes. “Since when?”
Her face tightens.
Abigail reaches for the ribbons on the boxes and ties them herself, like she needs to rush this now, get it done and get out of here.
Her reluctance is curious—and it hooks me.
I don’t let it go. “How long have you been married?” I ask, firm like my stare, and I scribble the names on the envelopes.
Her cheeks are warm, whether by questions, or from the heat of the fireplace behind her. “Five years in March.”
I tack the envelopes down onto the wrapped and ribboned boxes, but my frowned face is aimed at her—because, I’m sorry, but she’s been married for five damn years, and I didn’t know a thing about it?
“Do you have children?”
She shouldn’t.
I mean, I’ve never seen her pregnant.
But five years of marriage in our world, that should mean at least one child, preferably two.
One to take the reins of a family empire—the other to sell, to use as a pawn for networking.
Most aristos families get started on heir production within the first year. It’s even considered a blessing from the gods to conceive on the wedding night—and a lot of work goes into that night.
It’s the sort of night I push out of my mind, no matter who the husband might be. It’s a dark night, one to not think about, and just hope the brews are enough to knock me out for the entire thing.