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PROLOGUE

“Cordelia!”

Outside of Cordelia Celeston’s bedroom window, she watched a flock of geese land on the lawn in front of Darkenhill Manor. There were a good amount of them resting or grazing the grass for something to munch on. An easel with a squat canvas sat in front of her, and she dragrged her brush across it, color filling the blank page. The sound of her sister’s, Irene, sharp voice made her twitch the wrong way and the geese she recreated suddenly had an oddly twisted neck.

“Devils,” Cordelia hissed, lowering her brush and snatching up the strip of cloth that was already stained with paint.

The door to her bedroom snapped open.

“Cordelia,” Irene repeated, now standing on the threshold. “Did you not hear me?”

“Oh, quite the contrary,” she muttered as she dabbed the cloth against her mistake. “I heard youverywell.”

Irene sighed and delicately waded into the room, her hands on her hips. “What have you done now?”

She stepped back, extending a hand to the unfinished painting. “Well, the geese have arrived earlier than usual this year. I have been wanting to -”

“For heaven's sake, Cordelia,” Irene interjected. She shook her head as though she reprimanded a child. “I don’t mean the painting.”

Cordelia lowered the cloth. “Other than being here, I haven’t done a thing!”

“Father is in a raging mood over you.”

“Look at me, Irene,” she snapped, gesturing towards the canvas. “I have beentryingto paint. Whatever is on Father’s mind has nothing, and I meannothing,to do with -”

A shout carried through the halls of Darkenhill, just barely reaching Cordelia’s room. Even from the distance, she could almost make out the noise, noticing how it oddly sounded a bit like her own name. Cordelia flinched. Unfortunately, it was a sound she knew all too well.

Irene raised a slender, proud brow. “You were saying?”

“I still haven’t done a thing.”

“Either way, you better come down to the parlour.”

Cordelia shook her head. “Is Duncan there as well?”

“Of course he is.”

She shook her head even further. Dealing with her Father’s wrath alongside her stern elder brother was a recipe for disaster. Even though Irene was the eldest out of the three of them, Duncan acted as the head of them all, destined to take over their Father’s legacy. There was no doubt of Duncan’s love for the family, but he rarely showed it aslove.Cordelia eyed her painting. She’d avoid them like the plague if she had to.

“Let Father find me himself if there is a true problem,” Cordelia said, turning her attention back out the window. The geese were fluttering about and the painting wasn’t even halfway finished.

“There are more important things than your art, you know.”

“Not all of us can be as beloved as you, Irene.”

Irene scoffed. “You ought to come before he sends a servant.”

She returned to her painting eagerly, ignoring her sister. Normally, she wouldn’t linger for too long. In fact, Cordelia’s decisions were her own, and her siblings rarely got involved when their father was already in on it. They handled her rebelliousness long enough to know that the Duke of Darken would, eventually, be the final straw. After dipping the brush in a pool of auburn then a quick dunk in the water, Cordelia began to fill in the geese’s wings, carefully stroking along where the feathers laid. All the while, Irene remained in her room.

“I’ve never seen you so stubborn before,” Cordelia mumbled as she leaned in close to the canvas.

Irene sighed. “Stubbornness is not the same as responsibility. If Father called me, I’d be coming to his aid in an instant.”

“There,” Cordelia mused, “Is the difference between you and I, sister.”

What Irene so effortlessly called stubborn was something quite opposite to Cordelia. She had done enough for her father. An upcoming marriage was beneath her belt, one she argued and fought against for longer than she pleased. In the end, the betrothal remained, and Cordelia planned on living the last bits of her freedom in whichever way she pleased. She was owed at least that, wasn’t she?

“Lady Cordelia,” another voice came from the threshold.