“She’s not the love of my life,” he grumbled.
She said one word. “Liar.”
“Stop it, Claire.” He was ready to beg for her to desist at this point. It hurt too damn much to talk about it.
“Did you receive news of a mission today?” she asked.
He patted his coat pocket and nodded. “Do you know what it’s about?”
“The Earl of Mayden has been spotted.”
Marcus’s heart stopped. The Earl of Mayden had nearly killed Claire the year before. “Where?”
“In France. Apparently, when I shoved him into the painting, I put him right in front of Sainte-Chappelle.” She shrugged at what must have been his perplexed look. “What of it? I liked painting the windows.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “He was penniless and more than a bit mad, but he has made do. We’re to take a trip to Paris to ask around and see if anyone knows his whereabouts.”
“You have time for a trip to Paris?” She had twins, for goodness’ sake. And a husband she hated to leave.
“It’ll only take a few hours. We can walk through the painting I shoved him through months ago. Then we can come back the same day.”
Sometimes Marcus forgot that his sister could walk into paintings. If the painting was of a real place, she and anyone who touched her person could walk into the painted area and actually be in the physical location.
“Will it just be the two of us?” he asked.
“Three.” She pointed a finger toward the dance floor.
“Absolutely not,” he barked. He had no desire to be in such close quarters with a woman he couldn’t have.
“I do not assign the missions, Marcus,” she reminded him. “The Trusted Few do.”
“They need to unassign this one.”
“I highly doubt that will happen.” She looked quite pleased with herself. “She’s the only one of us who speaks French. We’ll need her.”
Marcus already needed her, though not for the same reason as Claire.
***
Cecelia closed the door to her chambers and sagged heavily against it. She wasn’t made for this way of life. Her feet protested the fit of the crazy other-world slippers that had pinched her toes all night. And her head positively ached with all the pins her maid had stuck in her hair to hold it in place. She began to tug her gloves from the tips of her fingers and crossed the floor.
A rap at the window jerked her from her misery. She sighed heavily as she opened the window and threw open the shutters. Milly climbed over the sill and landed on her short legs with a thump. “What are you doing here?” Cecelia asked.
Milly put her hands on her tiny hips. “What am I doing here? What am I doing here?” She shook her head and climbed onto the bed. She crossed her short little legs and rested her chin on her palms and gazed at Cecelia. “How was it?” she blurted out.
Cecelia shrugged. “Fine.”
“I have been with your family for centuries,” the garden gnome began.
“I know, I know.” Cecelia held up a hand to stop Milly’s diatribe. She knew it was coming. She mocked Milly’s tiny voice. “I’ve been with your family for centuries. I’ve brought you missions, followed you on disasters, and taken care of you when you needed help.”
Milly sniffed. “The least you could do is tell me what happened.”
Cecelia scoffed. “As though you weren’t watching from the bushes outside the ballroom window.”
“I couldn’t hear anything from out there,” the gnome admitted with a grin.
Her merriment was contagious. A grin tugged at the corners of Cecelia’s lips, too. Then she heaved a sigh. “He acted like I was an old acquaintance.”
Milly had been with her family since long before Cecelia’s birth. Every fae family had a garden gnome who was assigned to the household. They ran errands, helped with missions, and carried missives to and from the land of the fae. So Milly knew all about Cecelia’s relationship with Marcus. Or her former relationship.