Finn slides it away from my hand and then lowers his knuckle to press a large, gold ring into the wax seal. It leaves a symbol of two trees, the branches intertwining with each other. It must be his family crest.
“It’s done, then.” He scowls. “He won’t doubt my part in it, false though it is.”
“I’ll have Carlisle send it out immediately.” Eleanor stands and takes the letter, leaving us alone.
My head lolls against the couch. I have never been so tired in my life. Finn paces the floor, hands clasped behind his back.
“Will you at least agree to stay in my town house? It’s very near your school.”
I let myself imagine how soft his beds must be, how luxurious the sheets. And a washroom all to myself.
No. I will not become Mama, dependent on a man who thinks himself better than her and grateful for the privilege of his condescension. “Thank you, no. I’m comfortable at the hotel.”
“I’ve seen servants’ quarters, Jessamin. You cannot be comfortable there.”
“A great many people live in servants’ quarters, and they have yet to die from acute claustrophobia. I’m fine. Stop pacing, you make my nerves stand on end.”
He sits on the love seat across from me, and I close my eyes, mentally calculating how long it will take for the letter to get to Lord Downpike. Perhaps Eleanor will let me sleep here for the night, until we can be certain of the letter’s receipt and my safety in going home.
“This does not resolve the issue of my shadow,” Finn says softly.
I wave my hand. “I have the utmost faith in your ability to figure out how to fix that problem.”
He doesn’t respond and I open my eyes to find a look of hurt on his face. “Problem,” he whispers. Then his feline smile slides back into place. “Well, I have a great deal of work ahead of me.”
I don’t like the way he says it, the promise behind his words. And yet an odd sort of thrill courses through my body and I find myself hoping . . . for what?
Nothing. I am overtired, that is all. Getting back to my routine of attending classes and working in the hotel will be a comfort. I’ve simply been around Finn’s elevated charm for too long.
He stands and bows at the waist. “If you’ll be so kind as to excuse me, I have letters to write.”
“Yes, of course. And thank you again for all your help.” I raise my gloved hand.
“Thanks are not necessary, as it was my own fault that you needed help. I would never dare presume to help you otherwise. I’d fear your wrath something terrible were I to try. Though . . .” He looks at me thoughtfully. “A wrathful Jessamin is a wondrous thing to behold.”
Before I can finish blushing, he’s held out his arm to Sir Bird. “Come along.”
Sir Bird caws ill-temperedly. “Go on.” I hand him an extra biscuit. “I promise to visit.”
Finn’s face lights up. “Suddenly, I am intensely fond of this bird. We shall be great friends, you and I.” Sir Bird squawks and then, in his place, there’s the great black book. Finn tucks it under his arm. “This suits me, as well. Until tomorrow.” He’s through the door before I can tell him that we certainly won’t be seeing each other that soon.
Fie on the tired melancholy that descends on the room as soon as Finn is gone from it.
Bright—relatively so, by Alben standards—and early the next morning, I leave Eleanor’s, refreshed after a solid night’s sleep. Ernest escorts me, despite my protestations, and I know he suspects more than Eleanor told him about my surprise “reappearance” at their home. I’m wearing another borrowed dress of hers, jeweled green and finer than anything I own, but one she insisted she never wears.
I changed in the dark, and can’t help but look over my shoulder at my shadow constantly. Though Finn claimed watching and listening through his shadow is difficult, I feel as though he is hovering at my side. It is not a comfortable sensation.
We weave through the push of a crowd that seems to part easier for me in this dress and on Ernest’s arm than they normally do. “My sister likes you,” Ernest says as we walk the many blocks back to the hotel. He offered the carriage, but I thought if I were walking, he’d let me go alone.
“I like her, too. She’s rather remarkable, isn’t she?”
Ernest smiles. “She would have us all dismiss her as a flirt and a gossip, but I suspect she is a more formidable force than even our uncle. I think she will be a great advantage to me in politics.”
Perhaps Ernest is not so gullible and trusting as his open, honest face would indicate.
“What of your parents?” I ask. “You both seem young to be on your own.”
“Mother died when we were children. Father passed last year.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Ernest smiles, but it’s distant. An Alben smile is rarely an expression of joy. More often it is a way to deflect true emotion. “We are quite well taken care of. I come into my full inheritance next year, at which point I’ll purchase a seat in the Higher House, following in our uncle’s footsteps.”
“And Eleanor?”
“She has a suitable dowry upon her eighteenth birthday. I think we’ll find her a good match.”
“Doubtless.” Actually, I doubt very much that any man her brother or uncle deems worthy will, in fact, deserve her. And the way Ernest says “we’ll find her a good match” crawls under my skin and leaves my soul feeling itchy on Eleanor’s behalf. Shouldn’t she be able to choose someone that makes her heart sing?
It would appear Eleanor’s birth does not free her from the same binding restrictions and marital expectations my own did.
“Perhaps, with all her connections, Eleanor ought to go into politics, too.”
Ernest actually laughs at this, throwing his head back, his throat bobbing. “I would fear very much for Albion if she did.” He pauses outside the Grande Sylvie, straightening his tie. “I wanted to say . . . that is, I hope you understand that . . . well, Eleanor may like things to be interesting, but a future in politics is not well-served by scandal, real or imagined. I would very much hate to see any talk involving my sister.”
His words are carefully weighted, and I can feel them tugging on my shoulders, willing me to shrink back. I don’t know whether he is asking me to stop being her friend because I, myself, am unacceptable, or because he suspects my connection to Lord Downpike’s threats. I hope it’s the latter.
I stand taller, pasting a smile any Alben would be proud of onto my face. “She is lucky to have you as a brother.”
He relaxes his shoulders in relief. “It was nice to see you again, Jessamin. I almost wish, if things were different—well, but they aren’t.” His look is wistful as he pats my hand on his arm. I draw it back and wave good-bye.
I slip in through the servants’ door, anticipating a reunion with Ma’ati and Jacky Boy. But first, to change into normal clothes.
I sneak into my room and am undoing the buttons on my blouse when I hear soft snores behind me. Screaming, I turn to find a strange girl in my cot.
“What are you doing in here?” I demand, hurrying to the narrow wardrobe and flinging it open. I recognize nothing in it. “And what have you done with my things?”
The girl sits up, hair a messy black halo around her head, clutching the blanket to her chest. “I’m sorry, milady, I only started last night, and I was told I needn’t wake until eight, please don’t fire me.”
“Jessamin?”
I whirl around to find Ma’ati standing in the doorway. “You replaced me already? I’ve only been gone two nights!”
“I don’t understand.” She takes my hand and pulls me out of my room. “The letter said you wouldn’t be returning to work.”
“What letter?”
“Here, I’ll show you.”
I follow her to her room where she pulls out a cream envelope with Finn’s double-tree seal. The seal is the only thing that keeps me from suspecting Lord Downpike meddling again. Violence brimming in my thoughts, I rip out the letter and scan the contents.
. . . no longer requires employment . . . studies will take up the bulk of her time . . . thanks you for the kindness and generosity . . . will be staying in room 312, which I have paid out in full to the end of the year.
“Spirits take that meddlesome dolt, I will wring his neck.”
“We moved your things up to the room, Jessamin, books and everything. We didn’t know what to make of it, but the instructions were quite clear and, well, it’s such a fancy room!” A door slams next to us and I meet a glaring pair of eyes as one of the chambermaids swishes away. Clearly not everyone is as pleased with my fortune as Ma’ati.
I rub my forehead. “And you’ve already replaced me?”
“I’m sorry, but the girl came with the letter and her references were all good. And Jacky Boy has been needing someone who can give more hours.”
“Well, you’ve done no wrong, of course. I have to get to class. We can sort it out when I return.”
Ma’ati smiles and hands me the key to room 312. “Oh, your friend was by last night to see you. Kelen?”
I grimace. He’s going to think I’m avoiding him. I do want to see him, really, but he feels rather low on my list of priorities right now. “Did he leave an address?”
“No. He wanted to wait in your room, but Jacky Boy wouldn’t let him. He’s very protective of you.”
I laugh. “Kelen isn’t good enough for him?”
She shrugs. I want to ask more, but I’m already running late. I kiss Ma’ati’s cheek and head to my room. No. Not my room. Finn’s room. I refuse to take the guest stairs, and instead make my way up the narrow hidden flight. Someone bumps me roughly from behind.
“Oh, beg pardon, milady. Only shouldn’t you ought to be using the stairs for proper folks?” The chambermaid glares at me.
I don’t have time to set her straight. I hurry up, angry at her and at myself and especially at Finn. “This isn’t funny,” I hiss in the general direction of my shadow as I walk into the room. “You have no right.”
My books are carefully stacked on the generous desk, but I try to ignore the opulence of the room. The sky-blue silk duvet and matching drapes. The mounds of feather pillows. The window seat perfect for reading. The dressing table. The private bathroom.
I fail at ignoring it. But I will not accept it. I grab my books and barely have time to change into my school uniform. My satin gloves—Eleanor found a near-match—look ridiculously out of place.
“And now you’ve made me late.” I throw one of the pillows at my shadow and stomp out of the hotel.
I arrive out of breath and cross as a hornet to pick up a book from my carrel in the library. When I see the back of someone sitting in my spot, it is too much. “Sir, if you tell me this is no longer my carrel, I cannot be held accountable for my reaction.”
Finn turns—the black book known as Sir Bird open in his hands—and smiles.
Seventeen
“I WONDER WHETHER THE ACADEMICS AT THIS institution are as rigid as they ought to be.” Finn looks pointedly at the slate I left on my desk. Someone has drawn a crude rendition of a woman’s body—mine, probably—along with mathematical equations for the size of her rather impressive bosom.
Go back to your island, rat is scrawled at the bottom.
“Yes,” I say, dryly. “Their calculations are entirely wrong. It reflects poorly on the school.” I drop my satchel at my feet. The sight of Finn in his dark blue three-piece suit sitting in my study carrel is too much. “What are you doing here? And what did you do at the hotel? You had no right!”
“I’m sorry about that. But I intend on taking up more of your time than you can afford to lose, and thought it only fair you have fewer responsibilities.”
“That’s not your decision! And—wait, what is that on my slate?” I lean over his shoulder, squinting. Next to the line about going back to my island is an odd symbol that I don’t recognize. It seems to have been etched there. I reach out a finger to run over it, but Finn blocks my arm.
“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”
Hugh, a lanky boy with a perpetual sniffle, stands up from his carrel three down from mine. “Can I borrow a pen and inkwell? Mine won’t seem to work.” A boy next to him hands one over. “No, this one won’t work either.”
“It was working fine for me, give it here. See?”
“But it won’t write for me! Neither will this pen.” Hugh growls in frustration and then sits back down out of sight. “Spirits below, what is happening? Not even my chalk will show up on slate. Here, let me have a go at yours.”
There’s low, confused murmuring. Again the other boy says, “It works fine for me.”
“Why won’t any of my instruments mark?” Hugh walks by, smashing a piece of chalk against a small slate. It leaves no mark.
Finn stands, moving out of the way for me to sit in my carrel. “Hmm. Puzzling.”
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with you, now, would it?” I ask.
He shrugs, long, slender shoulders lazily rising. “I may have put a curse on whoever wrote that horrid thing. Just a small one. Though I suppose a month without being able to write something down will be inconvenient for a student.”
The laugh that bursts out of my mouth earns me the ire of everyone around us. I put my gloved fingers to my mouth, trying to push some of the mirth back in. “I am still very cross with you.”