The Perilous Sea (The Elemental Trilogy #2)

It was possible that over summer he had become broader across the shoulders. And perhaps half an inch taller. But his eyes were still the same, young and ancient at once. And his gaze, focused entirely on her . . . heat again swept through her.

They had kissed at every chance, but those chances were far less often than she liked. She only locked her door when she changed or bathed, so the boys were used to walking into her room after a perfunctory knock, often without even waiting for a reply—and boys came and went all the time. To change that abruptly might make someone like Cooper ask her why, in front of other boys.

His room was the safer place, but he had not been in his room very much of late: he was constructing another entrance to his laboratory, a folded space that was currently only accessible via a lighthouse more than five hundred miles away, too strenuous a distance for her to vault to day in and day out.

But when he was done, she would be able to reach the laboratory from a former brewery a few miles away. In the laboratory, they would have safety and privacy. Not to mention, in the laboratory was the Crucible.

And she had an inkling that in the Crucible, they might do far more than just kiss.

“What are you up to?” He tilted his chin at the photograph, left by Cooper on her desk. “Who is the chit?”

“That’s the chit who will save your hide.”

His expression changed—he understood now that the girl in the photograph was her. But since she was protected by an Irreproducible Spell, her image could not be accurately captured. She had wanted to see what would happen if she were photographed, and the answer was that a different face altogether had appeared.

He picked up the photograph and looked again. He would see a young woman of good bone structure and wide-set eyes in a fashion turban. “Where was this?”

“Tenerife, the Canary Islands. On my way to Cape Town.”

The steamer had been in port for supplies for half a day. She had gone ashore, walked around, saw a photographer’s studio, and decided to have a bit of fun.

“Perhaps I need to rethink my policy on not kissing commoners,” he said.

“I’m glad you can see past your prejudices,” she murmured.

He gazed at her another moment. “I should go.”

She gathered up her resolve. “Have you chosen a place? A place in the Crucible?”

For when they wanted to do more than just kiss.

He rubbed a finger along the back of a chair. “Have you been to ‘The Queen of Seasons’?”

“No.” There were so many stories in the Crucible.

He didn’t quite look at her. “She has a summer villa.”

She approached him slowly and laid her hand against the black cashmere waistcoat that peeked out from underneath his uniform tailed jacket. “Are you making the summer villa extra nice for me?”

Their eyes met. “What if I am?”

She smiled. “Just remember, no flower petals on anything, anywhere.”

His expression changed briefly. “Do I look like someone who would strew petals on anything, anywhere?”

“Yes.” Her smile widened. “You look like someone who thinks a few bushels of rose petals is the epitome of romance.”

He yanked her to him for a kiss that lasted all of half a second. “I make no promises.”

And then he was gone, leaving her alone with her still tingling lips.



The next afternoon was the first cricket practice.

Iolanthe changed into her kit and knocked on Wintervale’s door. No one answered. Odd—she was under the impression that they were to walk to practice together. And Wintervale took such things seriously.

She knocked again. “Wintervale! You there?”

There came a thump, as if someone had leaped off a chair and landed heavily.

She was just about to knock again when the door opened.

“Where’s the prince?” Wintervale asked urgently, without preamble.

“Out for a walk. Anything I can help you with?”

As the words left her lips she saw the still-open wardrobe behind Wintervale. Understanding dawned. Wintervale was probably needed by his mother at home. His usual mode of transport was the wardrobe, which acted as a portal, but Lady Wintervale had sealed the portal last June, after Iolanthe had made unauthorized use of it.

The irony was, Iolanthe could vault far enough to take Wintervale to his home in London. But she dared not reveal her secret to him.

Wintervale thrust a hand into his hair. “No, it has to be Titus.”

“Ah, Wintervale, there you are,” said Mrs. Dawlish, huffing a little from having climbed the stairs. “I’ve a telegram from your mother. You are needed home urgently. I’ve already sent for the carriage to be brought around, to take you to the railway station. You should be home in an hour and half.”

Wintervale groaned. “An hour and half? That is an eternity. If only I were a stronger vaulter.”

“What?” asked Mrs. Dawlish.

“What?” Iolanthe echoed, since she also wasn’t supposed to understand what Wintervale had said.

Wintervale shook his head, as if he were admonishing himself. “It’s nothing. Thank you, Mrs. Dawlish. I’ll be down right away. And can you make my excuses to West, Fairfax? I probably won’t be back before supper.”