Page 22

CHAPTER 22

I t is not as bad as I feel it is.

That was the thought Isaac clung to, though even he could feel the lie tremble beneath its own gravity. The ink on his page had dried, the quill stilled in his hand, his gaze drifting unfocused toward the edge of the desk, as if answers might emerge from the grain of the wood.

He had brought another soul under his protection.

The truth lodged itself low in his chest.

He had not considered it in such terms—not precisely. He had thought only of Fiona’s immediate danger. Of Canterlack’s calculating smile. Of Mary, and the moment everything had nearly shattered. Of stopping history before it could repeat itself.

But I did not think of what came after.

His fingers curled slightly against the armrest. Fiona was no longer a hypothetical solution. She was his wife. His responsibility. Whether she sought it or not, she had been drawn into the sphere of his protection.

And what if he failed again?

The fear crawled up like it always did. Slow and methodical, never loud but never gone.

He had thought himself prepared. Assumed his control was enough. Yet the silence in the halls, the distance between their rooms, had begun to wear at the edges of that assumption.

He was giving her space. That was what he told himself. They had agreed on boundaries, on freedom, on leading separate lives beneath the same roof. It was sensible. Logical.

And yet, every time he heard footsteps that did not pause at his door, or laughter from another room that faded too soon, a strange unease crept in. He missed her.

Not just the image of her. The presence. The way she made conversation feel like something he wanted, rather than endured. The way she saw straight through pretense, and didn’t bother to indulge it.

He dipped the quill again and tried to focus. The letter to Colin was simple enough—trade matters, shipping schedules, nothing demanding subtlety. But the ink had barely dried on the second paragraph when a knock came.

He set the quill aside. “Enter.”

The door creaked open and familiar steps crossed the threshold.

He blinked. “Elaine.”

He had half expected it to be Fiona.

The knock had stirred something just beneath his ribs, some quiet part of him too willing to hope. He hadn’t seen her all day. Hadn’t meant to avoid her, not really. But habit was a difficult thing to unmake.

Instead, it was Elaine who stepped through the door with that knowing smile she wore far too often.

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Or do you mistake me for someone more welcome?” she said, lifting one brow with theatrical offense.

He leaned back slightly, forcing a half-smile. “Suffice it to say I was not expecting a caller.”

“How fortunate for you that I have impeccable timing,” she said, making herself comfortable without invitation. “I’ve come to ensure you haven’t suffocated your new bride with your delightful company.”

He arched a brow. “I acquire a sister-in-law and suddenly I’m cast as the villain?”

Elaine tapped her chin in mock consideration. “Are you jealous?”

“Of what, exactly?”

“Of me, naturally. She already calls me by my Christian name.”

He gave a dry sound of amusement and settled back into the chair behind his desk. “Such trivial sentiments are beneath me.”

“I was unaware humility was among your many qualities,” she replied, folding her hands with exaggerated decorum.

He allowed a real chuckle then. It loosened something in his chest. Briefly.

“So? Have you satisfied your inquiry into your sister-in-law’s well-being, or shall I send for evidence?”

Elaine looked toward the door. “As a matter of fact, she was unaware of my arrival. The butler went to fetch her when I asked after her. I presumed you might be here, hiding as usual.”

A moment later, the sound of footsteps approached. The kind he always recognized but pretended not to.

The door opened again, and there she was.

“What a lovely surprise,” Fiona said as she crossed the room with ease. She embraced Elaine like an old friend, arms looping without hesitation.

He watched, unable to tear his eyes away, though he told himself it was only politeness. Fiona greeted his sister with such warmth, such ease, it made something inside him tighten and stretch at once.

“Forgive the abruptness,” Elaine said, pulling back. “I was nearby and could not resist the temptation to inspect your welfare.”

“It’s a delight to see you,” Fiona replied. “No apology needed.”

Elaine turned with a grin. “And I am relieved to see that my brother’s tedious habits have not yet frightened you into retreat.”

They laughed together, the sound bright and unforced. He felt its weight, felt it settle somewhere he couldn’t quite name.

“You arrive at an opportune time,” Fiona added, turning slightly toward him. “I was just about to ring for tea.”

“Why, and I’m quite parched too,” Elaine said, linking her arm easily through Fiona’s as they turned for the door.

Isaac watched them move together, voices mingling like they’d known one another far longer than a single afternoon. He shifted in place.

“I see I’ve suddenly become invisible,” he said, clearing his throat.

They stopped, turning in perfect unison. The mirrored look of surprise might have amused him, had it not been so convincing.

Their shared glance turned to laughter, light and irreverent.

“You must join us, of course,” Fiona said, waving him forward with a smile. “We cannot have the master of the house feel neglected.”

In the drawing room, he took his place with something between reluctance and curiosity. He had not meant to spend the afternoon sipping tea and making polite conversation, yet here he was, seated beside two women who seemed intent on drawing out parts of his home—and himself—that had long settled into silence.

He watched Fiona as she gave her instructions to her maid, something soft in the cadence of her voice that pulled at him. A few minutes passed before the girl returned, carrying a small wooden chest with worn brass hinges.

She placed it on the table with care, and Fiona leaned forward, lifting the lid.

Inside, nestled in small compartments lined with soft cloth, were glass jars and tiny paper sachets. The subtle scent of dried herbs drifted into the room—floral, spiced, foreign and familiar all at once.

“I could not resist bringing my little collection,” Fiona said, glancing at Elaine with a half-guilty smile. “Though I suppose calling it ‘little’ is something of a lie.”

Elaine’s eyes lit up. “My, you didn’t tell me your wife was a collector of tea, Isaac. A true connoisseur, it would seem.”

He looked to Fiona, brows raised. “This is yours?”

She nodded. “It began with my governess, years ago. She had a fondness for chamomile and told me it cured all manner of ills. I didn’t quite believe her, but I was rather taken by the scent. From there, it became something of an obsession.”

She spoke as she sorted through the chest, her fingers brushing over labels, her eyes alight with a kind of energy he’d never seen in her before.

“I collect when I can. Dry what I find. And when it’s warm enough, I even grow some. Mint, lavender, lemon balm—if one coaxes them carefully, they thrive.”

Isaac remained still, unsure what to make of the feeling gathering in his chest. He had not imagined she could speak so—eagerly. Or that her voice could shift in that way, fuller somehow, carried by the weight of something she clearly loved.

She was lovely in that moment. Not in the polished way society approved of, but in something far more elusive. And far more dangerous.

She is beautiful, the thought came without warning, as unwelcome as it was undeniable. Beautiful in every sense.

He looked away, though he could still hear her voice, still feel the shape of her presence beside him. It unnerved him more than he cared to admit.

As much as he tried to keep his gaze fixed on the rim of his cup or the fire in the grate, Isaac’s eyes returned to her—drawn back like iron to a lodestone. There was something almost absurd about the seriousness with which she approached the task, as though she were conducting a ritual rather than preparing a beverage.

Fiona moved with quiet focus, selecting a mixture of leaves from one of her little jars and adding them to a waiting pot. Her fingertips moved delicately, reverently, as though the tea might flee if startled. She poured the hot water slowly, her eyes narrowing as if the angle mattered, and then replaced the lid with a finality that made it feel like a spell had been sealed.

He watched her hands, steady and sure, and tried not to imagine how that steadiness might feel resting against his skin. This is nothing, he reminded himself. A domestic scene. A cup of tea. That is all.

She handed him the cup with a small flourish, her expression expectant.

“So?” she asked, her eyes scanning his face for a verdict as he brought it to his lips.

He sipped. Held the liquid in his mouth. Swallowed. Took another.

She waited with the eagerness of someone offering up a cherished creation.

He cleared his throat. “It tastes like grass.”

There was a beat of silence. Then?—

“What?” Fiona stared at him as though he had just insulted her family lineage.

Elaine, seated to his left, gave a short laugh and reached for her own cup. “I think it has a rather rich flavor, Isaac. Deep. Earthy.”

He turned to her, unbothered. “All I taste is grass. What more am I meant to say?”

The tea was warm, certainly. Potent in its own right. But whatever symphony of flavors they claimed to find in it was utterly lost on him.

Fiona straightened, lifting her chin by a fraction. “I see you clearly lack the refined palate to appreciate the nature and art of tea, Isaac.”

“Do not all teas taste the same?” Isaac asked, setting the cup down with more care than the words deserved.

The effect was immediate. Fiona’s posture, so animated only moments before, faltered. Her colour seemed to drain, if only slightly, and he had the fleeting impression that he had knocked something loose inside her.

That was a blow. Unintended, but a blow all the same.

Yet despite the twinge of regret, he found a small smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. She was altogether too expressive to hide such feelings, and it made her all the more captivating.

“All teas taste the same?” Elaine repeated, aghast. “Do not embarrass me, brother.”

Isaac leaned back slightly, the warmth of his sister’s scolding only adding to his amusement. “Forgive me. I did not realise I was committing heresy.”

“Perhaps he requires a visit to finishing school,” Fiona suggested, her eyes gleaming now with mischief, the earlier wound disguised beneath playful sharpness.

“My, I cannot agree more, Fiona,” Elaine said with a wicked grin.

Their laughter bubbled between them, rising easily, and though he was again the object of their jest, he found himself joining in. He had not laughed like that in... longer than he cared to measure.

A finishing school. Heaven preserve me.

He lifted the cup once more, tasted the tea again. It was unchanged. Still grassy. Still foreign. Had he expected it to grow on him in mere minutes?

“You do not like tea,” Fiona said suddenly, watching him with the same precision she used when choosing leaves from her collection. “We must do something to rectify that.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why does that sound ominous?”

She only shrugged, a faint smile playing about her lips. That same glint returned to her gaze—clever, unreadable, utterly magnetic.

He looked away.

Stop that.

“Do you know what will complete this lovely afternoon?” Elaine asked, clapping her hands together as if struck by divine inspiration.

Isaac had no time to object before she answered herself. “Music.”

She rose and seized Fiona by the hand.

“Come, you will play for us.”

Fiona glanced over her shoulder in clear bewilderment as she was led toward the pianoforte.

Isaac remained seated, watching as the pair crossed the room, unable—unwilling—to look away.

What other surprises, I wonder, does she carry in those quiet hands?

Isaac did not know what he had expected. Perhaps something competent but stilted, a performance borne out of duty or education. But the moment Fiona’s fingers touched the keys, he understood how mistaken he had been.

The first notes floated through the drawing room, light and sure, each one slipping effortlessly into the next. There was nothing practiced about it—it was simply part of her, as if the music had always lived in her hands.

He sat very still, the teacup forgotten in his grip.

How many other pieces of her had he yet to discover? And why, for God’s sake, was it not he who was learning them?

It was Elaine who had coaxed this out. Elaine who had drawn Fiona to the pianoforte, who had pressed laughter into her voice and music into her fingertips.

He should have been the one. He wanted to be the one. That thought struck him harder than it should have.

He watched Fiona’s profile as she played, the way her brow dipped ever so slightly with focus, how her mouth curved—not in performance, but in something nearer joy. It twisted something inside him, something tight and inconvenient.

I want to know her.

He had never truly wanted to know anyone before. Not beyond what was required. Not beyond what duty or proximity demanded. But with her, every new revelation was a quiet marvel.

Elaine, naturally, could not resist joining her. She perched herself beside Fiona with the usual lack of ceremony and began plunking out a clumsy melody. Fiona adjusted without hesitation, blending the notes between them until the mismatched rhythms found each other and became one.

Their laughter wove between the chords, the room warming with it. It should have been a simple thing. A domestic afternoon. Harmless.

But the melody shifted something.

The notes reached back. They pulled.

A memory stirred—one not summoned, but relentless all the same. Music in another drawing room. A different pair of hands at the keys. The air heavy with lavender and grief. And a promise he could not keep.

He closed his eyes for a moment, but the music kept threading through, present and past overlapping in a way that made it hard to breathe.

No, please... Not now.