the jibe, impressed to hear the first intelligent thing from his lips.
Imogen’s face flashes with a scowl, but she quickly replaces her smile. “Mr. Aston, you must escort us home and carry Miss Bellefleur’s books.”
“No,” I say before he can take a step toward me. “I’m desperate for some time alone with my dear friend.” Words I never expected I’d come to say about Imogen, that’s for sure.
Mr. Aston frowns, hands extended toward the books I hold in a viselike grip.
“Ah, Mr. Aston,” comes the bookseller’s voice. “I overheard your love for Infinite Suffering in the Garden of Happenstance. If you enjoy that, I have a new book all the intelligent young men are raving about.”
My companion perks up at that. “Yes! Yes, I would like to see this book indeed. I will leave you two to talk amongst yourselves. I do know how ladies love to gossip.” With a wink, he rushes to join Mr. Cordell, giving me a glorious escape.
Well, sort of. There’s still Imogen.
We exit the bookshop, which sends my stomach plummeting. Gone is the comforting smell of paper, the dim indoor light, replaced instead with blinding white snow and crowds. At least my anxiety has all but retreated in the wake of my rage at Mr. Aston. It makes returning to the busy streets much easier to bear than it had been when I first set off. It’s always like this when I leave the house these days. Terrible at first, most often from the vantage inside my own head. Then nearly as bad when I first step outside. But I grow used to it as my memories of the past fail to materialize in the present.
This is here. This is now.
Imogen points across the street. “Oh my goodness. Is that…a fae?”
I follow her line of sight to the elegant hotel-to-be still under partial construction. Outside it, a male figure with brown hair and horn-rimmed spectacles confers with a copper-haired woman next to him. While the woman appears human, aside from her odd choice of clothing—a brocade coat in vibrant chartreuse—the male has distinctly pointed ears. The sidewalk around them is nearly empty, with many crossing the road to give them space. As much as I hate to admit Mrs. Aston being right about anything, it is true that very few fae have come to Vernon so far, and when they do, they tend to be a bit of a spectacle. The two figures across the street, however, don’t seem to notice, as their attention is fixed on the hotel’s facade.
“I can’t believe they’re still working on the Verity Hotel,” Imogen says with a pout. “It’s the only one with space for a proper ballroom. How can we have a true social season without a place to dance?”
I internally roll my eyes. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”
“I wish they’d hurry. You’d think hiring a fae interior designer would make the process faster, not slow it to a snail’s pace.” Imogen continues to glare at the hotel, as if that alone could speed the construction, until a petite young woman approaches.
She wears an enormous blue bonnet—although she looks old enough to wear much more mature fashions—and a gray wool coat with fraying hems. “I’ve picked up your ribbons,” she says to Imogen.
Imogen doesn’t so much as look at her. “Take Miss Bellefleur’s books, Ember,” she says, pointing at me before she starts off down the sidewalk.
The girl named Ember takes my burden with a warm smile, adding to arms already laden with bags and boxes.
“Thank you,” I say to her, then join Imogen. “Is she a new maid? I haven’t seen you travel with her before.”
Imogen leans in close and mutters, “She’s my stepsister. Might as well make her useful.”
I nearly trip over my boots as I whirl back to the girl, heat rising to my cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were a maid. Here, let me take them back.”
“Really, it’s fine,” Ember says.
“Yes, it’s fine,” Imogen echoes, but with more ice in her tone. She pulls me to face forward, her smile never faltering as she says, “It’s improper to carry your own books, Gemma dear. You’ll never snag a husband like that.”
Her words return my irritation, but they also remind me to replace my mask. My unflustered persona. With more grace than I truly feel, I ask, “And what about your sister? If such a thing is improper for me, is it not improper for her to carry my books?”