The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister 2)

She wanted so little—just the chance to do the things everyone else did. Was it so much to ask?

What if something happens?

A bitter thought, that—that she had to fear everything, simply because of what might occur. A bitter thought, indeed.

And at that, Emily realized it wasn’t just the thought that was bitter. It was the taste in her mouth.

It wasn’t an actual taste. Years of experimentation had demonstrated that. It was a growing bitterness that spread through her until she tasted it not just on her tongue, but in her cheeks and stomach—in parts of her body that ought not to have been able to taste at all. The taste fell somewhere between rancid almond and rotting eggs.

Familiar. Annoying. And—as the timing went—completely awful. In a minute, Emily was going to start smelling bad things. Shortly after that…

Something was going to happen. The very thing her uncle feared, the reason she wasn’t allowed outside.

She didn’t have time to make her way out to the indifferent fields outside of town, and if she collapsed in front of the grammar school with her leg spasming, someone would see her for certain. They’d ask to help, insist on seeing her home. Her uncle would find out, and…

And she’d never go out again. There wasn’t time to think or time to choose.

Emily crossed the square and ducked into the public house.

Act as if you belong.

She swallowed the taste in her mouth, smiled as the telltale olfactory dysfunction took her senses, masking the scents of baking bread and soup in a foul miasma.

She slid into the nearest bench and tucked her skirts behind the table. Hopefully nobody would look at her. Hopefully, the few minutes of her fit would pass with nobody the wiser. Hopefully—

“Miss,” a pleasant voice said from across the table, “please don’t sit here.”

Emily looked up, and that was when she realized that she wasn’t alone at the table. A man sat across from her, wedged against the wall. A book was open before him, and he had half a loaf of bread sitting beside an empty soup bowl.

Her leg had already begun to twitch.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gritting her teeth. “I really can’t stand up right now.”

His accent had been almost too perfect, too studied. His clothing was as English as tea and biscuits. He’d tied his blue cravat in a crisp, formal style, fixed it in place with a gold pin, and laid a very proper hat on the table. The white perfection of his cuffs peeking out from underneath his coat contrasted all the more with the dark brown of his skin.

She looked up into his eyes—almost black—ringed with thick, long eyelashes. His lips pressed together in something that might have been annoyance.

“Miss…” His breath hissed out, and his hands flattened on the table.

He was Indian. She’d seen Indian students before—there were dozens attending Cambridge. Like all of the men in Cambridge, she’d seen them only at a distance from carriage windows or across a green. She doubted her uncle would have let her anywhere near them. Something, after all, might have happened.

He looked at her, more wary of an English miss than any Cambridge student should have been. Maybe he wouldn’t turn her in after all.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “I don’t mean to be making faces at you. I’m about to have a fit. It will pass in a few minutes.”

He frowned, but there was no time to explain.

Emily didn’t have proper fits. At least, that was what Doctor Russell from London had said. It wasn’t really epilepsy, he’d explained, because she never lost her senses. She was always present; she could even speak and move her limbs. It came on her now, the seizure, familiar as a glove.

She’d watched herself in a mirror before. Mostly, her right leg spasmed. But that was not the only effect. Her whole body shivered and her face contorted. Her heart raced, too—heavy, swift erratic beats, like a three-legged horse attempting to gallop.

Her companion at the table stared at her in consternation for a few moments. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

She gritted her teeth. “Don’t tell anyone what is happening.”

He made a noise that might have been assent.

Sometimes, Emily wished she were not conscious during her fits. She was constantly aware of how she looked, what others would be thinking of her. She wished she could disappear into nothingness and return with no awkward memories. If she had lost consciousness, a doctor had told her, he’d have known it was epilepsy for sure. As it was, she was a special case—not fitting in anywhere. No known treatments. No understood causes.

She focused on the grain of the wooden tabletop in lieu of thinking of what was happening. Someone had carved a set of initials into the corner. She held onto those letters—A+M—repeating them to herself over and over until her spasms faded to twitches, until the twitches faded to the liquid exhaustion of well-used muscles.

It had lasted twenty seconds. Such a short space of time to cause her so much trouble.

She let out a breath.

“Miss,” said a voice behind her. “Are you well? Is this man bothering you?”

She turned to see a buxom woman, a towel strapped to her apron strings.

“If he’s any trouble at all, I’ll have my husband…”

“No,” Emily squeaked out. “Not at all. I felt faint, and had to sit down. He has been solicitous. Very solicitous.”

“Pushing himself on you?”

“Quite the opposite,” Emily said. “I’m afraid I intruded at his table without so much as asking his leave.”

He—whoever he was—hadn’t said a word in this exchange, as if he were used to not having his opinion consulted. To being discussed as if he were not there. He simply watched Emily with those dark, wary eyes.

“Hmm,” the woman said. “Well, he has been quiet thus far, but you never know.”

“If you wouldn’t mind bringing some tea?” Emily smiled at her. “I would appreciate the refreshment.”

“Of course, dearie. And he’s truly not bothering you?”

Emily shook her head and the woman left.

The man across from her was silent for a few moments. Finally, he said, “Thank you for not having me thrown out of here. It’s the only place within a four-mile walk of Cambridge that serves a vegetable soup, and I get tired of bread and cheese and boiled greens.”

“You’re studying at Cambridge, then?”

The book in front of him made that much obvious.