stroked her hair. “Oh, hell, Pop, it isn’t as if I’ve a right to cast stones. I burned down Father’s warehouse and ruined the family. And you… You never once shamed me for it.” And then she was sobbing too.
Poppy turned into her embrace, trying to quiet her even though she couldn’t quiet herself.
Beside them, Daisy began to sniffle. “That’s old news. If you really want a confession, I must admit… I was the one who ate those cream caramels Winston sent you when you were courting!” With a pathetic pout, she held her arms out for a hug.
Miranda and Poppy glared at her, and then Miranda snorted. “And you talk of old news.”
“You had a caramel smudge on your chin when you denied your sins and did not even notice,” Poppy added in disgust.
Daisy scowled. “I felt terribly guilty! For hours!”
“Bah,” Miranda said as Poppy wiped at her face. “You merely had a sour stomach to lament.”
There was a small silence in which someone sniffled. And then they were laughing.
Chapter Thirty-seven
London, 1869—At Home
Winston awoke in the dead of night, knowing immediately that something was wrong. Lying on the big bed he and Poppy had recently purchased for their new home, he focused on the plaster and wood-beamed ceiling above him before taking stock of his surroundings. All was quiet, the room warm from the late spring weather. Why then did his heart race? And then it hit him—Poppy was not beside him. He lurched up and looked around for her. The ghostly blue light of the moon reduced the bedroom to an array of sharp angles and shapeless lumps. Still no Poppy.
Finding his smalls, he slid them on and left the room. Years of avoiding his father’s notice gave him the ability to negotiate the narrow stairs that led from the bedroom down to the main flat without a sound. His skin was too tight, twitchy with anxiety that he could not name, and as he descended, so did the temperature. The slight chill that first greeted his feet, then his bare torso gave him pause, but he supposed it was to be expected—the bedroom was always warmer than the rest of the house. Even so, the cool air rushing through his lungs as he breathed felt odd.
Ahead of him, past the dark hall, toward the kitchen, a soft light glowed. For reasons he couldn’t name, Win held his tongue and did not call out for Poppy. His heartbeat was a hard rhythm against his throat as he crept toward the door and moved into the kitchen.
There, hunched over the table, was Poppy, her vibrant hair gleaming copper in the light of a single taper. The air here was cooler still, and sharp with silence and tension. She hadn’t heard him and he couldn’t make himself speak. Inexplicably, he felt as if he were trespassing on her privacy. She appeared to be fiddling with something, the line of her shoulders drawn tight even as she moved. But then she stopped, and her shoulders began to shake. The movement snapped Win out of whatever spell that had hold of him, and he stepped farther into the room.
“Poppy?”
She whipped around, her eyes wide in her pale face. “Win.”
He smiled. “Were you expecting someone else?” he teased. His smile faltered when she merely gaped at him, and again came the odd feeling that danger lurked. “What are you doing up, love?”
“I…” She said nothing more, but he’d stopped listening at any rate, for he spied the blood-covered rag that lay in her lap.
“You’re hurt!” His bare feet slapped over the icy floor, and he was kneeling before her in the next breath.
“Win.” Her voice was a rasp. And her hands were so very cold when he closed his own over hers. She winced, and he looked down. A deep gash marred her inner forearm. Cursing softly, he picked up the rag and pressed it back over the wound.
“What happened?” he whispered as gently as he could, for the sight of her bleeding left him inexplicably angry. “And why didn’t you wake me?”
Poppy was silent for a moment, then she leaned into him. Fell into him, rather, which alarmed him more than anything. Instantly he wrapped his arms around her and held on tight.
“Poppy,” he said against her hair. “Tell me what makes you tremble.”
Her broken voice was half-lost against his skin. “I…” She took a breath and calmed a bit. “I had a nightmare.”
“Sweeting.” He stroked her hair. “About what?”
Her slender throat