Chapter 43
Forty-Three
Sorcha
“You won’t even know you’re at sea,” he assured me more than once.
“I have a very difficult time believing that,” I muttered as a uniformed porter took our bags and a steward led us up to our suite. The ship was dripping in mahogany, gilding, and crystal. The surfaces were plush and the interiors lavish.
The porter led us through a maze of immaculate, thickly carpeted corridors and opened the door on an expansive set of rooms with dark red-painted paneling and deep amber jacquard furniture.
It looked more like the smoking room at an expensive city club—not that I’d seen many of those—than anything I’d ever expect on a ship.
“And we have amenities from the future!” Ansel enthused, gesturing at the bar tucked along one wall—complete with a gravity-fed sink. “Thought that’d come in useful when you inevitably start throwing up.”
“So thoughtful,” I muttered.
“Your room is that way.” Ansel gestured at the door on the left. “Go change. Go rest. Dinner’s in two hours.”
I let Neal check the room over for any sign of pests or tampering, and after twenty minutes, when he finally felt confident it was clean and safe and acceptable, I sank down into the armchair by our bed.
We’d barely left port and already I was fighting back the urge to vomit. I pressed fingertips to my temples.
“I do not know if I can do this,” I admitted.
“It won’t be hot once we’re at sea,” Neal offered. “The cold seems to take the edge off.”
Something was scratching at the door, knocking maybe? Neal got up and went to answer it and immediately let in two big, scrappy, battle-scarred cats—a tabby and a ginger—both of which clambered into my lap, purring loudly.
“You’re attracting them subconsciously,” Neal muttered.
“I think it’s because I don’t feel well.” I sighed, but I pulled the cats in closer and buried my face in their fur.
“See if you can sleep,” Neal instructed. “I’m going to go explore. Ansel is right outside reading reports about that Ironmoot peryton incident—which you handled fantastically by the way. Yell if you need him.”
“Love you,” I murmured, kissing him briefly then curling up with both the cats and laying down to sleep.
“I have tea,” Neal said immediately upon waking me. “Peace offering.”
“Small favors,” I mumbled, rubbing my eyes and sitting up. There was another cat in our bedroom. I didn’t bother to guess when it had appeared or from where.
“Ansel says you have to put on your silk dress for dinner,” Neal said as he got up and started going through our bags. “Apparently the first night is fancier.”
“Then let me work on convincing all these new friends to stay put while we go eat,” I said, climbing out of bed and herding the cats into our sitting room.
We made our way through the corridors, up the grand staircase and to the main first-class dining salon.
It was a stark contrast to the room aboard our steamboat down in Houston.
On the Gulf the steamships had massive windows, sweeping views, but the rough seas of the North Atlantic made so much glass impractical and encouraged darker, more opulent spaces that felt significantly more enclosed.
I settled at my place as Neal explained, repeatedly, to the steward that yes if they brought out fish in red wine sauce I’d probably vomit just from the smell. Ansel circled the table, glancing at the other place cards. Suddenly, he froze.
“We need different seats,” he said.
I felt panic rising in my throat. Ansel was never scared. But now? His face was ashen, his hands shaking.
“What is it?” I asked. I took the card from him, my free hand resting on his shoulder. I’d certainly never felt the urge to comfort Ansel until this moment.
“Not what—who.” He paused, glanced over his shoulder. “And there she is now.”
I turned to see an immaculately dressed Elven woman stalking toward the table, malice in her eyes.
She was petite, taller than me but not by more than an inch or two, with gorgeous bright blue eyes and long chestnut hair coiffed to perfection.
She wore a fuchsia silk dinner dress with a tiered skirt, bleach-white lace trim, clearly expensive.
And when she reached our table she shoved me aside without a second thought and slapped Ansel across the face.
Neal caught me with an arm around my waist in an instant. I could feel the protective tension coming off him in waves. Conversation in the dining room halted immediately—every eye fixed on the four of us.
“I knew I should have booked White Star instead of Cunard,” Ansel muttered, rubbing his face where the woman had hit him. I glanced at the place card in my hand. Guinevere Marchmont.
“You utter wretch!” Guinevere shrieked, standing on her toes to properly get in Ansel’s face.
“That’s hardly fair,” Ansel tried to protest, but Guinevere wasn’t backing down.
“You abandoned me—at the altar no less—you abandoned your posting, your people!” she snapped, loudly. “For what? Some common hatchling!”
Ansel opened his mouth but didn’t have a chance to respond.
Guinevere’s voice dropped to a hiss. “You took a child bride? O’Faelen, I know you’re irresponsible, but this is a new low.”
“I’m twenty-seven,” I muttered under my breath.
“You abandoned me! For her!” Guinevere gestured toward me, eyes lingering on the growing belly that was now too big to easily hide with the fullness of my skirt, the flushed cheeks from nausea, the dress that—while technically appropriate—was certainly cheaper and more conservative than most in the room.
“Ansel, you have to . . .” I began. But then I saw the glint in Ansel’s eye and realized this was a lost cause. He’d made up his mind. We might as well play along.
“Yes,” Ansel said calmly. “I left the Courts. I left you. I wanted out of the politics. Away from the drama.”
“And the girl?” Guinevere asked, voice finally down to a reasonable volume.
“She came later,” Ansel lied seamlessly. “I work in import/export now. Wine mostly. Some cheese. We’re going to France for a research trip.”
Neal raised an eyebrow. He still hadn’t dropped his hand from my waist.
“My business partner.” Ansel gestured vaguely in Neal’s direction. “Now I will go ask the steward for different seats. And we will both go our separate ways. You with my sincerest apologies.”
We settled into our new seats, though Guinevere had not stopped glaring from across the room. Ansel brushed it all off to the steward with a couple throwaway sentences about “old romantic entanglements.”
“So, Ansel,” I asked, “care to elaborate on that little display?”
“Not particularly,” Ansel replied, suddenly deeply interested in his soup.
“I could pull rank on you,” I suggested, “or you could just tell me. See, if someone’s going around accusing us of sleeping together? I think I deserve details.”
Neal meanwhile was locked in a highly detailed conversation with the steward, trying to figure out what—if anything—he could find me to eat that wasn’t liable to come back up near immediately.
“Guinevere was a mistake,” Ansel said simply.
“I took a break from working directly with your father for a few years, when you were a baby, and he was still in Scotland, and everything was going disarmingly smoothly. No bad blood between us. It was just a sabbatical. I went to the Continent. I spent a few years learning about the awful folk demons out far east in the Carpathians. And I met Guinevere. In Paris. We liked each other well enough. And the dowry was substantial. So I figured it couldn’t hurt to marry her.
You know how many matches aren’t about affection at all.
Hell your marriage wasn’t about affection at the beginning.
But the night before the wedding I got a telegram from your dad.
Your mom had died. He’d lost his bloody mind with grief.
He needed me. And so I left. Put a note for her in the church. And never spoke to her again.”
“You came back to Santa Fe when my mom died?” I asked.
“But we didn’t meet,” Ansel said. “You were grieving. You were what? Seven? Eight years old? But someone had to keep the Court running. Someone needed to at least try and convince your father to come back to civilization. Glen was overwhelmed. So I came.”
“I’d say I’m sorry we took you away from her but . . .” I trailed off.
“Don’t be,” Ansel said. “In an awful sort of way it was the best thing that ever happened to me. Got me back where I belonged. And away from Guinevere.”
“Who now thinks you’re a cheese merchant,” I said.
“So it would seem,” Ansel replied.
Neal finally sat down, and the steward placed a bowl of carrot soup in front of me.
I glanced at him. “Safe?”
“You’re good,” he said in reply, finally getting to eat his own dinner.
“So do we need to pretend you know a lot about wine and cheese now?” I asked while they ate.
“Probably,” Ansel admitted.
“I actually do know a lot about wine and cheese,” Neal offered. “Surprising what you learn training with some of the more self-important noble families.”