“It is.”
He chuckled. “Then I shall be sure to take the long way.”
Riding into the heart of Bloem was like entering another world.
Alabaster white buildings, mottled with delicate friezes and plaques of rose gold, lined wide cobblestoned streets. Most of the shops had closed for the day, their wares lit through windows by globed gas lamps. They cast the stone streets with a strange lavender hue.
Every storefront boasted boxes of well-kept flowers. Their blooms ranged from pinks so soft they seemed to whisper, to magentas, deep and dark as a forbidden tryst. Ropes of greenery, studded with swirls of ranunculus and carnations, formed bowers spanning between the shops.
Their scents mingled together, creating a perfume persistent and exhilarating. My spirits felt buoyed after only a taste. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to walk down the promenade, bathed in such heady bliss. The People of the Petals must always be smiling.
I studied their faces with interest as we rolled along, these people who revered beauty and art and love above all else.
They did look happy, from what I could tell.
The women wore impossibly chic veiled hats with brims so wide I couldn’t see how they’d make it through a standard doorway. Their sleeves were puffed like dueling hot-air balloons, their waists cinched tight, and their skirts so tailored that walking seemed an almost unimaginable task. Many of them were assisted by men bedecked in beautifully cut brocaded suits and jewel-topped walking sticks.
I ran trembling fingers over my own traveling clothes, smoothing out a skirt of practical blue gabardine and a blouse I’d always thought pretty, edged in lace and artful tucks. But compared to these embellished beauties, I felt like a drab little field wren, staring down an ostentation of peacocks.
A small burr bit at my insides, working its way to the pit of my stomach. I was out of my depths in this glittering and cosmopolitan land. I didn’t know their ways, didn’t understand their customs. I would certainly stick out here, for all the wrong reasons, making a fool of myself even before I could chance across some unseen spirit.
Maybe Camille had been right…
Seven days ago, I’d left Highmoor in the dark hours before dawn, taking a skiff and rowing my way to Selkirk. From there I’d paid a fisherman for passage across the channel, landing in the little town of Olamange. I’d hired a coach to take me to Bloem. Only a week had passed since I’d left, but it seemed like years.
I allowed myself to wonder what Camille was doing, how she’d reacted when she found my note. I didn’t think she’d come after me—that would cause even more of a scene—but would she accept my return once the commission was finished? Would I even want to go back?
I picked at my nail beds, darkened with the charcoal dust from my earlier sketches.
These weren’t the refined hands of a lady.
They didn’t look like the hands of someone who was sister to a duchess.
But they were, I reflected, studying their long fingers and trimmed nails. For now at least.
And they were the hands of someone talented enough to paint the next Duke of Bloem.
I stole a quick glance back at the elegant crowds. I may not be as sophisticated as they were, but I could do something that none of them could. I was the one Duchess Laurent had chosen.
I took a deep, steadying breath. I may not look the part, but I belonged here just as much as anyone else.
“This is the main road that cuts through the city,” the driver explained, interrupting my worries. “It runs past all of the best shops, the hotel, the salons.”
Whizzing through the theater district, we caught sounds of orchestras warming up, of gossip and laughter, corks of champagne popping on outdoor terraces. The merriment was palpable, trails of shimmering cirrus clouds painting an already decadent sunset sky.
The road ahead diverged, moving away from the city, through fields of lavender, under towering arches of azalea trees. Everything here was in bloom, bursting with riots of color and life. Even the brightest spring day on Salten could not compare to this idyllic dreamscape.
“Here we are,” the coachman announced, slowing the horses as we approached a gated wall.
It was made of metal, elaborate curlicues winking in the dying light. Each post dripped with trellises of shining flowers, silver and rose gold. They appeared to be hung on twisting loops around the stakes, shifting slightly in the dancing breeze. It sounded like music, peals of chimes ringing along the edge of the property.
The driver hopped down from his seat, jostling the carriage with his sudden departure, and I waited as he spoke with a groundsman on the other side of the fence.
The groundsman finally opened the gate, beckoning us through and pointing toward a fork in the road. We took the right, plodding down a colonnade of the same streetlamps I’d noticed in the shopping district. They burned more softly here, giving just enough of their purple glow to light the path but not the surrounding grounds.
We made our way around a curve in the road and the manor came into view.
It was…perfect.
Just two stories high, the house sprawled across the thick lawn, wings unfurling to the right and left, its white bricks overgrown with ivy. A sweeping drive curved up to the main entrance, a grand portico draped in lush blooms of wisteria. More purple gas lamps flanked the drive, illuminating the house with their curious hue.
There was a figure out front, waiting beneath one of the lights, just as I’d imagined he would be. Seated in a tall wicker wheeled chair, I was certain the young man must be Alexander Laurent.
We came to a stop and the driver opened my door. I took the coachman’s hand as I exited the carriage, my legs stiff after the long and bumpy ride.
“Miss Thaumas?” the young man guessed, pushing himself forward for a closer inspection. His skin was a warm, golden brown, his face all elongated angles. One dark, wayward curl dipped across his forehead, brushing thick eyebrows. Light eyes, the color of a summer sea, studied me with interest.
I let out a silent sigh of relief.
He’d be a dream to paint.
I could already envision the outlines of the portrait to come, the highlights running across the broad expanse of his shoulders, the shadows beneath his sharp cheekbones. His face was meant to be captured on canvas, saved just as it was now, forever young and handsome and full of limitless potential.
“Verity, please.” I stepped toward him, offering out a hand, ready to shake his. “And you must be—”
“Alex,” he said, pressing a gallant kiss to the tops of my fingers. With a deft flourish, he turned my hand over and brought my palm to his lips.
I’d heard the customs of the People of the Petals were quite different from the practical and prosaic greetings in Salann, but it still sent a thrill down my spine, watching this beautiful boy touch my smudged skin. His fingers, strong and calloused, lingered on the underside of my wrist and I wondered if he could sense the pattering of my heart.
“Well,” he said, releasing his hold as two footmen came out to help the driver with my belongings. “Miss Thaumas. Verity. Welcome to Chauntilalie.”
“Darling,” a voice called from inside the manor. It was pitched a resplendent alto, each syllable given the perfect amount of weight and emphasis. “What are you doing out there? It’s growing so dark…”