Chapter 15
A nearly sixty-minute ride from Myrtle’s Mayfair residence to Hampstead Heath, seated astride the borrowed horse, albeit without permission—a chestnut mare named Charlie, on loan from the Duke of Aragon’s stables—Andromena reached late Aunt Beatrix’s cottage.
Memories, gentle, safer ones of a simpler time came to greet her like an old friend.
How, as a wee lass, Andromena rushed to rise before the sun.
For only when the summer shone full in the sky did nature’s playground of heaths and ponds unfurl.
It was far enough from London to feel like a fairy land, yet close enough that human pollutants crept into the countryside to spoil the dream.
Thick, low clouds seeped past the wooden gate and drifted over the crushed stone path—a fog barrier standing between Andromena and her play.
Naturally, as someone who never took “no” for an answer when it mattered most, she fought the fog.
In the absence of a capstan and the actual hemp warp-line Brone had told her was used to haul in ships, Andromena did the next best thing. She fashioned one on her own—in her mind, of course.
So many morns, with Aunt Beatrix’s servants already at work in the kitchens, Andromena raced past, grabbing an oatcake on her way to the flower-lined walkway.
With the griddle-baked bread between her teeth, she anchored her tow-line to the white picket fence.
Once done, she used all her body power to haul the sun from those dreary cloud covers.
She worked until sweat covered her arms and brow, and each breath was a strain.
Until one day, Aunt Beatrix called out, “By jings, lass! What are you doing?”
Andromena lost her hold and tumbled back into the red campion hedgerows. With all the patience she could manage after having her efforts dashed, she explained it all very clearly and patiently. After all, it wasn’t Aunt Beatrix’s fault she didn’t know things only children did.
“Lass, being away from the land has turned your brain to curds,” Aunt Beatrix said.
Somewhat less patiently—annoyed at how English Andromena was becoming, and blaming both her brother and his wife—Aunt Beatrix in turn explained the magic and mystery of the fog.
She told how the wind pushed wet air from rivers or the sea across the land and shared the waters with the fairies, and how the benevolent Féth Fíada bestowed a mythical veil, gently wrapping a protective mist around travelers.
As long as the fog was near, no harm could befall her.
Wide-eyed—and silent for once—Andromena hung on every word.
When Aunt Beatrix finished, and everything she’d said made complete sense, Andromena apologized to the mist—and Féth Fíada.
From that day forward, Andromena neither hated nor feared the fog again.
She played amidst it and waved farewell as it left the land to the sun.
But this was no cheerful summer morning, nor was she a young lass. Aunt Beatrix and Oleander were gone. Grooms no longer filled the stables, and the cook’s stoves had grown cold. The two maids no longer giggled around the whitewashed cottage.
Andromena rode as the animal walked with a slow, swaying roll.
Each step shifted her weight in a steady, rocking motion, its heavy shoulders moving smoothly beneath the saddle with every quiet hoofbeat.
The crunch of grass, usually soothing, now cut sharply through the silence.
Even the soft hum of lightning bugs and moths was quiet.
Her hand on the reins brought Charlie to a halt. She scanned the overgrown rows. The roses were dead. Pale petals of pink, white, and red hung limp and brown on thorny vines. A cold shiver ran down her back.
A soft whinny split the thick night air.
“…Lass, being away from the land has turned your brain to curds…”
“I’m sorry. I have scared you,” she said softly, for the silken mare; for her—the sound of her own voice made her feel less alone.
Andromena dismounted in her ballgown, her heavy skirts sailing smoothly into place as her boots touched the ground. She petted the beautiful animal, whispering praise. After she walked her until her breathing eased, she guided her to the stables.
The creak of the stable doors sounded eerie, sending a fresh chill along her spine.
Andromena peered back at the back of the beloved cottage.
Except, the garden was overgrown; a tangle of weeds and buds drowning within the weight of former blooms that hadn’t been pruned or fallen. There was an ominousness.
Exhaling loudly through her nose, Charlie pawed the ground.
“There I go,” she crooned. “Scaring you again.”
Her mount snorted.
“Let us see if there’s anything to reward you for your work well-done this night.” Andromena led Charlie inside the stable.
She blinked to adjust her eyes and looked around.
The protection these familiar walls offered did not calm her.
The stables were like a frozen moment in time.
The kick doors showed only the faintest signs of new warping.
The slates, but for a handful of cracked ones, were perfectly in place. The tack room…
Charlie released another high-pitched whinny; Andromena ran inside.
Remember the magic in the mist…
She let Charlie’s reins go and forced herself to move; craning her head as she went, inspecting the shadows that had once been filled with signs of life—
Andromena went motionless.
The strong scent of lime-washed walls filled her nose. A single iron lantern hung with a dampened, half-used candle, the wax looking fresh.
Andromena reached the storage bin and lifted the lid. Feed filled the old oak chest.
“Well, it is good for you, Charlie,” she crooned.
The mount nickered her pleasure.
Reaching inside her cloak, she removed the muff pistol she’d brought—Edgar had taught her well after the Rookeries—and she, with greater confidence, moved through the stables, checking every corner and crevice until she confirmed her own safety.
After she untacked and poured grain for Charlie, she stood in the middle of the stable, and with her hands on her hips, marveled at what she had done, on her own.
All the years she chased her elder brothers.
They saw her as nothing more than the underfoot babe of the family, but when she followed them into the stables, she observed…
and learned. They all underestimated her.
Not everyone.
Not Edgar.
When her family didn’t even cast a cursory glance at her sketches or made jokes about her intelligence, Edgar praised her without hesitation—not because he felt he ought to, but because he was genuinely frustrated that she could not see what he saw.
“…Your family wouldn’t have the sense to see or employ your talents…”
Edgar saw her.
More than that, he made Andromena see her own worth.
Moisture dampened her cheeks.
She touched the tears she hadn’t known were falling.
But then, that just reminded her he hated her tears. And why…
“…They tear me apart, and I hate feeling torn apart…”
And she couldn’t stop them, and told herself she didn’t have to, because he wasn’t around to see them, and that only made her cry more. Her muffled weeping filled the stables.
And it was too much. She had hurt so much, carried so much. The one person who believed in her, and challenged her like an equal. He did not see her some nitwit. She missed him, despite the mere hour apart, for she knew—it would be a lifetime missed.
She sank to the hard packed floor and sobbed. She curled onto her side, amidst dirt, straw, and ancient hay, and held herself.
She wept for what she wanted—Edgar. And sobbed harder because she could not have him.
She cried until her body hurt and then kept crying, until her cheeks were hot and her nose ran.
She screamed “Why?” until her throat burned and she went hoarse, and there was another drop to shed.
Spent, Andromena’s tears subsided to steady hiccoughs, and then nothing.
Sprawled on her back, her chest rising and falling fast, she stared through the cracks in the slipped roof slates at the stars they let through, and some of the weight within her had lifted with the tears.
In releasing them, it was as though she had been released.
It had been cathartic. Healing. And she saw.
Truly saw, with a clarity she hadn’t possessed for the first time since that first note arrived.
This wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t made herself a victim. Someone else had done this. Someone else deserved the guilt and shame.
She had spent so much time hating herself for the problems she had brought upon herself and her family—Edgar—she had blamed herself. If only she hadn’t gone to Lord Rutland’s masquerade, she told herself. If only she’d stayed safely tucked away and never hungered for adventure…
But none of this was her fault.
She had longed to experience the thrill of a masquerade. It wasn’t wrong. What was wrong was that someone had used it to punish her and rob her.
“…You never wanted to leave—or you never thought about it because your family and society told you it wasn’t allowed…”
That morning, he’d spoken those words, and she had resented them. Now, she appreciated that he’d made her see things she hadn’t.
She did want to see more, and she wanted to be free to live and move without fear; of recrimination, of harm from ruthless men…
and she wanted that life with Edgar. Not because he’d be her protector and savior, which he would, but because he helped her see the world—its darkest parts that she needed to protect herself from.
And he did so not to scare her or hurt her, but so she was aware of the dangers around her, so she could protect herself.
She wiped her nose on the hood of her cloak.
Wait.
That horse vocalization was deeper and lower, and less afraid than Charlie’s.
The crunch of boot falls filtered in from outside as a rider dismounted.
Her heart thudded dully. It was only a matter of time.
He had found her, just as he had always lurked in the shadows, tracking her movements, her clothes, even her time with Edgar.
The most egregious affront. Reaching inside her cloak, she drew the muff pistol.
Edgar had taught her well after the Rookeries; he would be proud. She found her strength from him.
Maybe that was why, as her blackmailer raced towards the cottage, a strange calm took hold.
As her veins burned hot and her vision narrowed to sharp clarity, she knew the coward had robbed her of freedom, her first London Season, and her future. But his greatest sin—the one she would kill him for—was denying her Edgar. Not that Edgar had ever been hers, but her blackmailer hadn’t helped.
Using every quiet skill she learned playing hide-and-seek, Andromena pushed herself to her feet. She tiptoed across crushed remnants of hay and dung and sharp stone. When she reached the side of the heavy stable doors, she brought her pistol close, and waited.