Bitter Vows (Crimson Falls 1)

“Oh.” Disappointment squeezes in my chest, stealing the words from my lips. I was hoping to see her, spend some time with her before the ball. It’s been a few years since my gran and I were able to sit and talk, to catch up on the news of what I’ve been doing.

“Don’t worry,” Estelle mumbles as she leads me through the dining room entrance, and I find myself in a familiar room. When I was much younger, I recall being in here for lunch with the rest of the family. Sitting at the long, twelve-seater table always felt as if we were royals. “She’ll be back soon enough.”

I’m seated at the head of the table, gifting me a view of the room, and then I’m left alone with what looks like a buffet set out for a princess. Fruits that shine as if they’d been polished, freshly made toast, eggs, and sausages, along with juice and a French Press of steaming coffee. I start with that, pouring myself a mug full and heading toward the window to take in the view.

With the weather being so dismal, I think I’ll have to stay indoors and read. If I recall correctly, my grandmother’s library is filled with classics as well as some intriguing volumes of the ancestors who first moved to Crimson Falls.

Sipping my drink, I watch two staff heading to what looks like a vegetable patch at the far side of the kitchen. They both carry baskets, and begin filling them with greens, which I’m sure will be used for dinner tonight.

I settle in the chair and fill my plate with delicious smelling food. The silence of the house is startling, the clinking of the cutlery is the only sound, and I wonder if spending a month here was a mistake because I do like to have someone to talk to or music to listen to. I’m sure Gran won’t mind me using her music room, but it’s going to be lonely all by myself.

With the ball a week away, I’m sure she’ll be in attendance, but with her running Bardot Industries, she may not stick around if she didn’t even want to greet me before leaving this morning.

Loneliness seeps through me like a rabid poison.

Growing up with my folks who were more interested in spending time with their friends, I’ve learned to be alone, but there are times it becomes too much. Perhaps I can call Aelin to come to visit for a few days. She’d love it here.

Once I’ve finished eating, I head toward the kitchen only to find it empty. Furrowing my brow, I turn and make my way through the house, taking a long hallway toward the library, which I remember as a girl. The room hasn’t changed much. The walls are lined with shelves of uncracked spines, calling to me to explore. An enormous open-brick fireplace sits against one wall, which has a large grandfather clock above the mantle.

A three-seater couch with matching armchairs furnish the middle of the room, surrounding a thick brown throw rug and a knee-height coffee table. On the smooth surface, I spy a few magazines, mostly home improvement ones, which don’t interest me.

I allow my gaze to take in the bookshelves, tracing my finger over the smooth spines. Some are old, first editions, others are newer, with sleek glossy covers, and I can’t help but giggle at some of the romances she’s collected over the years. I find an old copy of fairy tales. The one of Red Riding Hood piques my interest, and I slide it out.

The cover doesn’t have an image; instead, the title is engraved in gold on the dark green jacket. I flick it open and find a handwritten note, which I scan with furrowed brows.

My darling, Grace,

As the wolf loves his damsel, so I love you.

Yours always,

C.S.

I’m not sure who C.S. is, but I must ask my gran when she returns. My grandad died before I met him, but his name was Randolf Thurston. I recall Gran telling me she would never take another man’s name, and that’s why she was always Grace Bardot.

It must be an old friend. It’s a beautiful gift. She’s always loved the old stories by the Grimm Brothers instead of the newer, less scary retellings.

Settling in one of the amber leather armchairs, I curl my legs under my butt and open the book.

A sound startles me, causing the book I’d fallen asleep holding to tumble to the floor. Another heavy crunch sends my mind reeling. The room is now drenched in black, and I glance at the fireplace where a clock hangs above the mantle. I’m not sure if the hands are correct, but if they are, I’ve slept most of the day away.

It’s almost six, which means dinner will probably be served soon. Pushing to my feet, I move to the window, wanting to find the sound that woke me, but all I see are shadows in the garden ahead. A shiver takes hold of me, and I force my sleepy body up the stairs to my bedroom to find a hoodie. Perhaps some fresh air will help me wake up.