A haunted look passed over Rose.
“She was healthy,” Charlotte continued. “I made sure to keep up with her aches. She was respected. Her biggest worry was trying to keep a cuckoo clock in her hair. She knew you and the boys loved her, Lady Camarine. She stayed in the Edge of her own choosing, and a pair of wild horses couldn’t have pulled her out. Your grandmother never saw herself as a victim. It is perhaps presumptuous of me, but I would suggest that you shouldn’t see her that way either. If anything, the blame belongs to the people who killed her—and me, because when she needed help, I wasn’t fast enough.”
Charlotte turned and walked toward the phaeton. She felt spent and empty, scraped completely dry.
“Lady de Ney,” Rose called out.
Charlotte turned again.
Rose bowed. It was a deep, formal, Weird bow. “I don’t blame you. I blame them. Thank you for taking care of my grandmother.”
“You’re welcome,” Charlotte told her. She just wanted to get away.
Richard swung the door of the phaeton open for her, and she climbed in.
“The ride won’t be long,” he promised, and shut the door. She heard him get in the front, in the driver’s seat, where an instrument panel waited. The horseless phaeton took off down the road.
Two years, she reminded herself. That’s how long it took Richard to get to this point. She had only been at this for less than a week. It had been the most difficult week of her life, but it was only a week. Even if it felt like a lifetime.
Rain drenched the phaeton. She looked outside the glass window and saw a gray haze of water. The raindrops bombarded the roof, sliding along the smooth resin walls of the phaeton, as if she were under a waterfall and yet remained completely dry. Charlotte covered her face and cried. It was a wordless, silent sobbing born of pure pressure that squeezed the tears out of her eyes, more a stress relief than true mourning.
The phaeton came to a halt. The door swung open again, and she jumped out into the deluge, grateful that it would wash the signs of her weakness from her face.
Tall trees surrounded a narrow driveway. In front of her, a house crouched in the rain, like a shaggy bear. She could barely make out the dark log walls under the roof green with moss. Lightning flashed above. A moment later, thunder tore through the hum of the rain. Richard grabbed her hand, and they dashed across the driveway to the house. Charlotte ran up the stairs onto the narrow porch, Richard swung the door open, and she ducked inside gratefully.
TEN
“LIGHTS,” Richard said.
Pale yellow lanterns ignited on the walls, bathing the cabin in their soothing light. Delicate frosted spheres, they dangled from the wood like bunches of glowing grapes. The layout of the cabin was open and simple: in the center, two large couches faced each other, flanked by an overstuffed chair, all in handsome, masculine brown. A classic Adrianglian fire pit sat between the couches, a rectangular construction of stone with a grate partially overshadowed by an exhaust hood venting outside the house.
To the left, wooden stairs led to a small loft supporting a bed. Under the stairs, a desk stood, filled with stacks of paper. A large map of Adrianglia decorated the wall, with hand-drawn arrows and annotations written in Richard’s hand.
At the right wall, a kitchen occupied the far corner, complete with the ornate box of an icer unit and a small stove.
Richard walked past her, struck a match, and dropped it into the pit. Immediately, the flames surged up. He must’ve laid out the fire before he’d left.
Long windows offered a view outside the house, all of the forest soaking in the gray deluge of cold rain. Every inch of the wall free of windows was filled with bookcases. Volumes of all shapes and sizes sat on the shelves, interrupted by odd objects. He liked books. So did she.
The space felt warm and inviting, the crackling of the logs a soothing counterpoint to the rain. For some odd reason, she had expected the house to be austere, almost grim, but it was comfortable and inviting. He was letting her into his personal space, into his home.
“A towel?” he asked, offering her a green towel.
“Thank you.” She took it and stood there, looking at the towel like an idiot.
“Would you like to take a shower? The water is heated by the icer’s coils, so it should be hot,” he told her. “It’s through that door on the right. There are clean clothes in the cabinet.”
She could wash the Isle of Divine Na off her skin.
The bathroom was equipped with a standard Adrianglian shower. When the first drops of water hit her, Charlotte exhaled.
Ten minutes later, she rummaged through the cabinet and found a tunic that was too long on her and a pair of soft woolen pants, which were tight on her hips. She twisted the towel into a turban on her head and slipped out of the bathroom. Richard waited until she was settled on the couch by the fire pit and entered the bathroom with his own towel.
She watched the flames and tried not to think. If she didn’t feel so broken, she would’ve walked along the shelves, caressing the spines with her fingers. She wanted to know what he liked, what books he had read, but defeat wrapped around her, like a thick, dull blanket, and she couldn’t fight it off.
The heat of the fire warmed her skin, and she forced herself to enjoy the simple, meager pleasure of being clean, warm, and safe, at least for the moment. When she looked up, Richard had left the bathroom and was coming toward her. She pulled the towel off her hair and let it down.
He sat down across from her. For a few minutes, they sat silently, the fire crackling between them.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“We lost,” she said, hating the failure in her voice.
“We lost a battle. I intend to win the war.”
“How?” she asked.