“Two vials.”
Magic. These women are so far into their addiction that they aren’t even attempting to hide it.
“If you’ll excuse me.” Tremaine sketches a bow. I grant him permission to leave my exalted presence with a careless wave.
The instant he is out of sight, I go to the escritoire and wrench open the drawers, searching for any sign of Elinor but finding nothing apart from a stack of overdue bills. Tremaine is in debt to every dressmaker in the kingdom. He must have been trying to marry his daughters off for years.
“Sir?” Othmar interrupts. I’d forgotten he was there. “What are you doing, if I may be so bold?”
“You may not.” A loose nail rattles when I shove one drawer back in. There isn’t a single stick of new furniture in the parlor. Assuming this is the best room, intended for receiving guests, the Tremaines have been teetering on the verge of ruin for years.
“What shall I do with this?” Othmar indicates the slightly battered box containing the lost shoe.
“Set it down and help me look.”
“For what, sir?”
“For any sign of Elsie.” Gods, he’s stupid.
Her true name is my secret. If I am wrong about her identity, I don’t want to be embarrassed publicly again. I want to bring her to the castle, marry her, bury my father, and reign for decades of peace and prosperity.
I freeze with my hand on a glass-paneled cabinet. I don’t recognize the reflection staring back at me with chipped, mismatched teacups in the background. The dark determination in my eyes is new. I’ve never really cared about a damn thing before.
By the gods, I’m besotted with Elinor. I’m in love with her. Iwillfind her, if it’s the last thing I ever do.
I find nothing in the cabinet and stride over to the wall to examine the portraits mounted there. Blood rushes in my temples at the one where Tremaine poses with a woman who bears a striking resemblance to “Elsie.” The label readsLady Scinder. Her hair is a dark auburn.
She’s real. She was here. My heart beats hard enough to shatter my ribs.
“Appreciate your patience, Prince Alistair,” drawls Tremaine. There is no way this smug bastard could possibly know about my father’s cruel punishment. It’s clear as day that he has a trick up his sleeve, though. “May I present my daughters, Drucilla and Anastacia.”
“We’ve met previously,” I bite out. “Where is Lady Scinder?”
“She’s not here,” the short one says.
The tall woman smacks her sister’s arm. “There is no one here by that name.”
Foolish woman, pretending she doesn’t recognize the name of her own stepsister. I grit my teeth.
“Othmar.” I snap. “The box.” My guard drops to one knee and extracts the velvet pillow with its shimmering slipper. “When I find her, the lady who lost this at my ball will become my wife.”
“That’s my shoe!” the short blond exclaims.
“Liar, it’s mine!”
Drucilla lunges forward, snatches it off the pillow, and brandishes it with the clear intention of smacking her sister with it.
“Girls,” Tremaine interrupts. “First Cilla, then you, Stacia.”
“I’ve been looking everywhere for that shoe,” the short one pouts. The tall one, plops onto the seat and extends one proportionally large foot. There is no way the shoe will fit. Grim satisfaction fills me for a fleeting moment, before I remember—if I can’t find Elinor, I am obliged to marry one of these women.
One way or another, I am leaving this house with a wife.
Othmar valiantly tries to put the shoe on Drucilla’s foot. It dangles comically from her biggest toe, at least an inch too small.
“I told you it wouldn’t fit you,” the younger sister declares with the same smugness her father exhibits. She thrusts out her leg and wiggles her stockinged toes. The smell of unwashed feet, like rotting cheese, sends a shudder through me.
Grim-faced, Othmar puts it on her. The slipper falls off her heel.
