Petunia’s expression tightened. “Mother wouldn’t permit it. She said the discomfort would serve as a lesson in proper deportment.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Mariselle exclaimed, indignation flaring in her chest. “She would allow you to endure such unnecessary pain? What possible benefit could there be in your suffering? No, this won’t do at all. I’m certain I have a remedy somewhere …” She began rummaging through her reticule.
“Good stars, have you an entire apothecary’s shop concealed within that dainty contrivance?” Petunia asked, leaning closer.
“It’s enchanted, of course,” Mariselle replied absently, still searching. “Extra space. All sorts of things. It’s best to be prepared for any eventuality.”
“You mean you like to be prepared to escape for a night of?—”
“Shh!” Mariselle hissed, looking around momentarily before returning her attention to the contents of her reticule.
Her fingers closed around a small wrapped sweet, and she withdrew it triumphantly. “Here. It’s an analgesic confection. It won’t heal the sprain, of course, but it should relieve the pain for the evening. When you return home, your lady’s maid can apply a proper healing charm.”
Petunia accepted the sweet with a grateful nod. “Thank you, Mari.” She popped it into her mouth, then winced and straightened suddenly. “Oh dear,” she said around the sweet. “Mother has entered this gallery. She’s almost certainly scanning the room for signs of my imminent disgrace. Oh, this is quite effective,” she added, pointing to her mouth. “I feel it working already.”
“Good,” Mariselle said with a decisive nod. “We cannot have you limping about in pain all evening.” She peered around the side of the sculpture and sighed as she spotted her aunt, whose expression suggested she had just come face to face with artistic depravity in physical form—though despite her look of scandalized horror, she did seem to be leaning closer for a better inspection of the fae warrior’s glistening torso.
“I suppose I should find my mother as well,” Mariselle said reluctantly. “Though I’d far rather spend the evening hiding with you and spinning elaborate tales about scandalously underdressed sculptures.”
“Ah, well,” Petunia said, “the Season is but newly begun. I daresay we’ll find ample opportunities for hiding from both society and family.”
Mariselle gave her cousin a warm smile. “However would I survive these dreadful affairs without you?”
“You wouldn’t,” Petunia said breezily. “You’d crumble under the combined force of your ghastly mother and sister and finally tell them exactly what you think of them. It would be unspeakably satisfying.”
“Tunia!” Mariselle exclaimed, though her scolding was half-laugh, half-gasp.
“I jest, naturally. Well, perhaps only a little. But truly, Mari, you ought to try standing up to them. It would do wonders for you.”
Mariselle shook her head, smile fading. “You know it wouldn’t,” she saidquietly. “I’d pay for it afterward.” She took a breath, straightening her spine and squaring her shoulders. “Now go, before that sculpture moves again and those modesty vines abandon all pretense. Your mother looks one gasp away from a dramatic swoon.” She gave her cousin’s hand a quick squeeze before Petunia stepped out from behind the marble tree and moved toward her mother.
Mariselle turned and circled the other side of the statue—and nearly collided with someone.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, stepping back hastily while the figure she’d almost walked into did the same. “I beg your pardon?—”
The words died on her lips as she recognized Lady Iris. Instantly, Mariselle’s posture stiffened, her chin lifting slightly as her walls came up. “Lady Iris,” she said, her voice cooling to proper formality.
“Lady Mariselle,” Iris replied with a polite nod. “Please excuse me. I didn’t see you there.”
Mariselle’s eyes narrowed, her heart thudding faster. “Were you eavesdropping on us?”
“Not intentionally,” Iris replied, her tone remaining even. “It’s a public space, and I was merely admiring this particular piece.” She gestured toward the marble tree. “I didn’t realize until too late that you and your cousin were having a private conversation.”
Mariselle’s thoughts tumbled over themselves in sudden panic as she mentally retraced her conversation with Petunia. What exactly had they said? How much had Iris overheard? “I see,” she said stiffly.
“Is …” Iris paused, then forged on. “Is Lady Petunia quite well?” she asked, a note of genuine concern in her voice. “She seemed to be in some discomfort.”
“She’s perfectly fine,” Mariselle replied quickly, defensiveness coloring her tone. “It was merely a slight mishap. Nothing of consequence.”
“Of course. Forgive me for prying.”
Mariselle had already taken a step past Iris, eager to escape this increasingly uncomfortable encounter, but those words—forgive me—stopped her. Guilt churned inside her. It was she who should be seeking forgiveness after the cruel things she’d uttered last Season in the Thornhart maze. Though she had merely been following Ellowa’s lead, fearing retribution if she didn’t, the fact remained that she could have refused. Sheshouldhave refused.
While Mariselle felt no qualms about directing disdain toward any Rowanwood—they had certainly earned her family’s contempt with their condescension and their relentless campaign to exclude the Brightcrests from Bloomhaven’s most coveted social circles—Iris was different. She hadn’t been born into that pretentious, opportunistic family but had merely married into it. Poor judgment in selecting a husband hardly justified the cruel barbs Mariselle and Ellowa had flung at her that day in the maze—and at that point, Iris wasn’t even involved with a Rowanwood yet, let alone married to one.
After a quick glance around to make sure her mother and Ellowa were nowhere in sight, Mariselle turned back. “Lady Iris, I …” She took a breath and forced herself to meet Iris’s gaze. “About last Season. In the maze.”
Iris’s expression grew wary. “Yes?”
