I kick my mount into a trot, the fastest speed possible within the walls of the bustling city.
The more I think about it, the more the idea appeals to me. The peasantry will think it romantic if I take one of their own to wife. All I have to do is find her before this accursed ball my father is forcing upon me and all the nobility. I want her, and I shall have her.
A peasant would never dare run away with another man. She would appreciate the life I can give her—unlike my first, feral, fiancée, Briar Rose. The lost princess of Isanthia, the legendary Sleeping Beauty of Thorn Mountain—and, as it turned out, the queen of fae beasts.
Perhaps that explains how she stole my best friend and personal knight, who was little more than a beast himself until she got her talons into him.
I sigh to quell the sudden ache within my chest. I don’t miss the man who cuckolded me. I refuse to. I am focused on the future, not the past. All I need to do is find that woman, and the world will see it, too. Especially my father.
2
ELINOR
ONE DAY EARLIER
Birdsong.
I roll to my back and pull the thin pillow over my eyes. I do not like mornings. I live for the night when my dreams can thrive unfettered.
I hide from daybreak for a few seconds until a weight lands on my belly.
“Oof.”
A fuzzy paw bumps my nose. The bird noises get louder. Almost frantic.
I sit up in a rush.
“Tom! No!”
The cat sitting on my stomach leaps away—a punch to my softest parts that only adds to the trauma of having to get out of bed. I flail my legs in an effort to escape the twisted blanket and fall rudely onto the hard wooden floor.
A robin hops frantically inches from my face, trying to launch itself into the air. A juvenile, judging from its feathers.
I force my bleary eyes to focus on the orange tomcat twitching his rump with murder in his big green eyes.
“Oh, no, you don’t.”
I scoop the frightened bird into my cupped hands. Tom’s claws score the backs of my knuckles. I hiss. Furious that he’s been denied his breakfast, the cat stalks away, tail held high.
“I don’t appreciate you going after our flying friends.” Opening my hands, I peer at the trembling bird. “I’m not going to hurt you. Can I trust you to hold still long enough for me to open the shutters?”
I don’t expect a response, and I don’t get one. The poor little thing trembles violently but remains in place while I fumble the window latch open with my free hand and shove the casement up. I deposit the little creature gently on the sill. It opens its wings and leaps into the sky.
Watching it flit into the pale-blue sky, I call out, “Good luck! Watch out for cats!” Closing the sash, I sigh. “Wish I could escape as easily.”
As if on cue, the bell on a fraying velvet rope rings belligerently.
“Coming,” I grumble, as if anyone can hear me or would care that I need a few minutes to put myself together before attending to others. I strip off my threadbare nightgown and hang it on a peg. Then I pour cold water into a chipped porcelain bowl and drop a rag into the basin. Folding a sliver of soap that once held the scent of roses into the rag, I wash the essentials and wring it out before hanging it up to dry.
In grand homes, there are servants to attend to the mortal needs of residents. Here at Scinder House—known locally as Emmett’s Folly, thanks to my father’s unfinished project—there’s only me. Once there was a whole suite devoted to the household staff. Now, the attic quarters are empty but for the belongings I have cobbled together from castoffs. A creaky chair, repaired an untold number of times, holds my patched dress.
I put it on, wiggle my feet into leather shoes with soles worn so thin I can feel splinters from the floorboards trying to stab through, and hasten down three flights of stairs, leaving my unmade bed for later. The bell chases me insistently to the kitchen, where I bend to poke the banked embers in the stove to life. I toss a log into its belly and close the door.
Tom slinks into the kitchen.
“Don’t you sulk at me for rescuing your breakfast.” He follows me into the yard, where I scatter handfuls of grain for the chickens and then wrestle with the ancient pump.
When my father inherited this estate, he began the process of installing indoor plumbing. He got as far as digging the well and installing a piping system to eliminate the drudgery of carrying water by hand.
