Page 68 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

“He’s a good man.” She squeezed her hand, and no star point stabbed her palm, so she opened it.

Found a heart. She smiled. “The gifts are harmless, the coal he left in the grate beneficial. Sir Nicholas has never hurt anyone. You on the other hand…” She couldn’t look at him, didn’t want to see how he took that accusation.

“Are you afraid of a lump of silver, brother?”

“No,” he snarled.

“Afraid of a small bit of magic?”

“It’s not magic! No transcendent could do that.”

There—that claim again, that what alchemists did was work, labor, shameful.

She did not know if it was magic as her brother’s was, but with her ring warm around her finger, pouring courage into her, she knew it was magic of some sort.

Beautiful stuff, too. She’d admired magic all her life because she’d never had it herself.

Perhaps she knew it better than anyone else when she saw it. Could recognize its beauty.

There was power in that, power in seeing the world better, more clearly, than someone else.

“I do not wish to discuss philosophical matters with you,” she said, keeping her voice strong and steady.

“I ask only that you let the children keep whatever trinkets he gives them this year. It harms no one. It gives much joy. Will you really deny children who possess so little happiness this one sliver of it, this one day of joy, moment of magic?”

“I give them magic.” He stabbed his fingers into his chest. “Everything they touch is steeped in it. It’s all I can give them.

” He fell back a few steps, his voice losing its heat.

“Magic does nothing. Is nothing.” He flicked a hand toward the chill fireplace, and flames leapt to life.

They cast off no heat. A glamour only. “Worthless.”

The glamour wavered, and the flames died. And he was vulnerable—spine curved, face carved into drooping lines.

“Victor, do not sell the hospital. Let me run it. I can—”

“There’s no damn money! You know that. Father was shit with it. A bad investment. And… there was not much to begin with.”

“Do not make me marry someone I do not know.”

“If you’re looking to help, Jane, it’s the only way. We may have old roots, but these metal men, they have new money. Lots of it. We need it.”

She backed away from him. “I can’t. I love—”

“These children? You love them, right?” Of course she did. He knew that, and it was why the corner of his mouth hitched into a grim smile. “Perhaps your new husband will keep the hospital open. Ask him.”

He flung open the door and slammed it shut behind him, leaving her alone. She heard him, voice muffled by the door, in the hallway, ordering a Kringle to stand watch.

She was a prisoner.

“Release me!” She opened the door, but it only budged a few inches. The big body in front of the door worked better than a key and a lock. Though he’d likely hunt down Jameson and have that shortly.

“Could you not hit me, Miss Dean?” the giant in the hallway mumbled. “I’m just doin’ what I’m paid to do. Don’t mean you no harm.”

She leaned her back against the door and slid to the floor. “You truly think Sir Nicholas would harm me?”

Silence. A long silence. Then a grunt. He wouldn’t agree with her. But he hadn’t disagreed either, and for some reason, that lifted her spirits. Just a bit. Not that it did much good. They were all the way at the very bottom of the ocean. No retrieving them now.

She screamed. And it felt damned good, so she did it again, letting it rip up her throat and wake the entire western coast of England.

Then she added a curse, let a bevy of them fly through the room until she knew no more, until her throat was raw.

She no longer cared who knew she was the type of woman who spewed profanity when the situation called for it.

And this situation called for it.

When she lapsed into silence, she heard the floorboards in the hallway squeak. “You all right in there, Miss Dean?” the Kringle asked.

“No.”

“Ah. Do ya need anything?”

She laughed. “How about a sleeping potion to knock out my brother, stuff him in a coach, and send him on his way. Oh! Or better yet, a potion that makes a man forget.” Because he knew who Nico was now.

He might try to have him arrested for last year’s breaking and entering.

There was no evidence to convict him, but dukes didn’t need any.

“I apologize, Miss Dean. I can’t help you with any of that.”

“I know. You don’t have the power, and neither do I.

” She frowned. That felt… wrong. She was trapped, of course, a prisoner in her own bedchamber.

And she did not possess the power of glamours or the ability to shape metal.

But she’d won a husband, hadn’t she? She’d protected the children. She’d found many of them homes.

She considered the window. Only one floor up. There were sturdy vines climbing nearby… She pushed to her feet and stuck her head out. Her brother’s coach had been taken into the stables. The courtyard was empty. She’d have to run. She might even have to steal a horse.

Very well. So be it. She threw the window open and hitched up her skirts.

There were a lot of things she could not do, a myriad of ways she had no control. But at least she knew not to go through a window arse first.