Illusions of Fate

He sits on the love seat across from me, and I close my eyes, mentally calculating how long it will take for the letter to get to Lord Downpike. Perhaps Eleanor will let me sleep here for the night, until we can be certain of the letter’s receipt and my safety in going home.

“This does not resolve the issue of my shadow,” Finn says softly.

I wave my hand. “I have the utmost faith in your ability to figure out how to fix that problem.”

He doesn’t respond and I open my eyes to find a look of hurt on his face. “Problem,” he whispers. Then his feline smile slides back into place. “Well, I have a great deal of work ahead of me.”

I don’t like the way he says it, the promise behind his words. And yet an odd sort of thrill courses through my body and I find myself hoping . . . for what?

Nothing. I am overtired, that is all. Getting back to my routine of attending classes and working in the hotel will be a comfort. I’ve simply been around Finn’s elevated charm for too long.

He stands and bows at the waist. “If you’ll be so kind as to excuse me, I have letters to write.”

“Yes, of course. And thank you again for all your help.” I raise my gloved hand.

“Thanks are not necessary, as it was my own fault that you needed help. I would never dare presume to help you otherwise. I’d fear your wrath something terrible were I to try. Though . . .” He looks at me thoughtfully. “A wrathful Jessamin is a wondrous thing to behold.”

Before I can finish blushing, he’s held out his arm to Sir Bird. “Come along.”

Sir Bird caws ill-temperedly. “Go on.” I hand him an extra biscuit. “I promise to visit.”

Finn’s face lights up. “Suddenly, I am intensely fond of this bird. We shall be great friends, you and I.” Sir Bird squawks and then, in his place, there’s the great black book. Finn tucks it under his arm. “This suits me, as well. Until tomorrow.” He’s through the door before I can tell him that we certainly won’t be seeing each other that soon.

Fie on the tired melancholy that descends on the room as soon as Finn is gone from it.

Bright—relatively so, by Alben standards—and early the next morning, I leave Eleanor’s, refreshed after a solid night’s sleep. Ernest escorts me, despite my protestations, and I know he suspects more than Eleanor told him about my surprise “reappearance” at their home. I’m wearing another borrowed dress of hers, jeweled green and finer than anything I own, but one she insisted she never wears.

I changed in the dark, and can’t help but look over my shoulder at my shadow constantly. Though Finn claimed watching and listening through his shadow is difficult, I feel as though he is hovering at my side. It is not a comfortable sensation.

We weave through the push of a crowd that seems to part easier for me in this dress and on Ernest’s arm than they normally do. “My sister likes you,” Ernest says as we walk the many blocks back to the hotel. He offered the carriage, but I thought if I were walking, he’d let me go alone.

“I like her, too. She’s rather remarkable, isn’t she?”

Ernest smiles. “She would have us all dismiss her as a flirt and a gossip, but I suspect she is a more formidable force than even our uncle. I think she will be a great advantage to me in politics.”

Perhaps Ernest is not so gullible and trusting as his open, honest face would indicate.

“What of your parents?” I ask. “You both seem young to be on your own.”

“Mother died when we were children. Father passed last year.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Ernest smiles, but it’s distant. An Alben smile is rarely an expression of joy. More often it is a way to deflect true emotion. “We are quite well taken care of. I come into my full inheritance next year, at which point I’ll purchase a seat in the Higher House, following in our uncle’s footsteps.”

&

nbsp; “And Eleanor?”

“She has a suitable dowry upon her eighteenth birthday. I think we’ll find her a good match.”

“Doubtless.” Actually, I doubt very much that any man her brother or uncle deems worthy will, in fact, deserve her. And the way Ernest says “we’ll find her a good match” crawls under my skin and leaves my soul feeling itchy on Eleanor’s behalf. Shouldn’t she be able to choose someone that makes her heart sing?

It would appear Eleanor’s birth does not free her from the same binding restrictions and marital expectations my own did.

“Perhaps, with all her connections, Eleanor ought to go into politics, too.”

Ernest actually laughs at this, throwing his head back, his throat bobbing. “I would fear very much for Albion if she did.” He pauses outside the Grande Sylvie, straightening his tie. “I wanted to say . . . that is, I hope you understand that . . . well, Eleanor may like things to be interesting, but a future in politics is not well-served by scandal, real or imagined. I would very much hate to see any talk involving my sister.”