My breath caught, stilling me.
Alex’s eyes were impossibly large, earnest and vulnerable, as he waited for my response. I could feel the weight of his anticipation, his hope, pressing against me with tangible heft. I did not want to let him down. “You love me?”
“It’s probably too soon to say it—much too soon, I’m sure—but the feelings are there. They’re true and they’re real, and, Verity, I love you.”
“I—”
He stopped me with a swift finger to my lips. “You don’t have to say it just because I did. I know…I know we’ve only known each other for a few weeks, a month, at the most, but I’ve loved every moment of our time together, talking and laughing—you’ve no idea how much I love to see you laugh. When we’re apart, I count down the minutes, the seconds till I get to see you again. Sometimes I feel as though I’ve lost my mind, but I know I haven’t. I just…”
“Oh, Alex.” Even in my confusion, a smile broke across my face. I felt like a flower, turning its face to bask in the sun’s warmth.
I didn’t love him, not yet, not in the way he described, with fervor and zest, but I appreciated him. I enjoyed his company, respected his thoughts, worried over his welfare.
That was love, wasn’t it? Of a sort?
“I care about you too.” The words were out of my mouth and I meant them.
The foundation was there. The rest would come later.
I was sure of it.
He froze, his relief palpable. “You do?”
I nodded, determined. “I do.”
Alex’s breath came out in a rush. “Really?”
“Really.”
With a whoop of joy, he leaned forward, catching my mouth in his.
Instantly I froze, surprised by the sudden change from conversation to intimacy. His lips moved over mine, gentle but persistent. How did he know how to do this? I didn’t dare reciprocate, terrified any movement would be wrong.
His fingers curved at the back of my neck and I marveled at how confidently he touched me. Wasn’t he concerned I might think him too forward? Didn’t he worry I might not find his caresses appealing?
Alex murmured noises of appreciation, drawing me farther into my tailspin of thoughts. Shouldn’t he sense I wasn’t with him in this moment, as present and eager to explore him as he seemed to me? We shared everything with one another, all of our thoughts and dreams. Now we should be together in this physical space and I couldn’t help but feel left behind.
His breath deepened with obvious enjoyment.
He was enjoying these kisses.
Why wasn’t I? What was wrong with me?
Let me get this right, I thought, finally daring to let my fingertips rest on his shoulders. Pontus, please, let me do this right.
After a moment’s lingering, Alex broke away, smiling and giddy. “Would you want to meet me down by the lake tomorrow? There’s something I’d love to show you.”
I wanted to. I wanted to be the kind of girl who was ready to be fallen in love with. We’d been all over the estate together, without even a hint of a chaperone. So why did the thought of being alone with him suddenly fill me with dread?
There was sure to be more of this there. More kissing. More moments where I was bound to get it wrong and ruin everything.
“Tomorrow is the big soiree,” I reminded him. Couldn’t he hear my heart clunking out of rhythm? My face felt impossibly hot—he had to see my reddened cheeks. Did they look flushed with pleasure or like the embarrassed stain of a girl who felt in over her head?
“I know.”
“Won’t your mother need help with…things?” On the few occasions Camille had hosted any sort of event at Highmoor, the entire manor was thrown into chaos. At our breakfasts together, Dauphine had talked of nothing but the party. So many details to plan, so many specifics to work through.
“Not with all the extra footmen she’s bringing in.”
“But—”
“You’re going to love it, I know you will. You should bring your sketchbook.”
Curiosity stirred within me, strong enough to cut through the anxieties pattering through my veins.
“You really think we won’t be missed?”
“Wear the gown too,” he instructed. “The one Mother has been going on and on about.”
“You want me to draw…in a ball gown?” I asked dubiously.
“You’re the one who likes to draw… I just want to see you in the gown.” He flashed me a grin and I knew I couldn’t say no.
“Tomorrow,” I promised.
Alex’s fingers twined through mine and he brought his lips to my palm, mirroring the gesture he made on our first meeting and sparking a little flutter of affection in my chest. I didn’t mind kisses like that, soft and one-sided and with no pressure to return them.
“I should let you get some rest. I can’t imagine how tired you must be.” He pressed a final kiss to my forehead. His mouth was warm and tender and I ached to experience that same easy affection he so effortlessly gave away.
“Have a good night’s sleep,” I murmured, tentatively running my hand down his arm. It seemed overly formal and stilted but Alex smiled at me all the same.
“How could I not?” he replied, easing his chair through the room. At the threshold, he turned around to wink at me. “I’ll be dreaming of you.”
The room was too hot.
Bedsheets knotted around my legs, as twisted and tangled as the vines of ivy growing up over Chauntilalie. I flipped my pillow over again, desperate for the cooling relief of its underside but found no comfort.
When the first peacock called out, shrieking in the humid night, I sat up with a groan.
It would be impossible to fall back asleep with those birds at it again.
On the bedside table were two candlesticks—one with Annaleigh’s offering, the other with the Chauntilalie blend of pink wax. I fiddled with the little glass cloche beside them, fumbling to free a wooden match, as I pondered which of the candles to light.
Gerard’s revelation that my sister’s gift was meant to act as a ward against ghosts should have felt as a surprise, but the more I thought on it, I found it was not. It was a typical Annaleigh thing to do—protecting, always protecting, even when she couldn’t be present herself.
As much as I wanted to dismiss the idea as an island superstition, the candles must work. I’d seen no evidence of spirits since arriving at Chauntilalie.
But you saw Hanna, that awful little voice in my head reminded me. You saw Hanna Whitten who has been dead and gone these last twelve years light them herself. Hundreds of times. How effective could they truly be?
But how many other ghosts had they kept me from seeing?
Highmoor, for all its grand renovations, was an old manor, centuries ancient. My sisters and parents were hardly the first Thaumases to perish within its walls.
“And I only ever saw Hanna,” I told the voice, feeling foolish for speaking aloud. “Hanna, who said she fought to stay with us. To stay with me.”
“And the triplets,” it threw back. “You saw them too.”
That detail had been bothering me, a tiny gnat flittering around in the back of my mind that I tried to swat aside and forget but kept returning with annoying persistence.