Page 20 of The Dravenhearst Brides

Mr. Merrick Dravenhearst,

Tonight.

—A

Three beautiful butterflies, all in a row.

One silver, smaller than the others. One gold, near-translucent and difficult to see.

And the final one, the largest, was the deepest shade of violet.

The patterns on their wings were like mirrored inkblots—perfectly symmetric, whimsically chaotic.

Glitter trailed on the breath of chilled wind beneath their wings.

Margot reached, mesmerized, but they slipped away, always beyond her grasp. Their pixie dust dispersed, like trying to capture smoke with her bare hands.

“Margot, catch me!” The tiny silver butterfly danced ahead.

Eli?

“Margot, we’re flying!” His voice echoed, repeating a dozen times. Ripples on a lake.

The glitter-tinged world came into brassy focus, dripped in sepia, soft around the edges like film negatives.

Margot was in a field at dusk, surrounded by golden wheat at the golden hour.

The air was cold. Two butterflies danced ahead, weaving in and out of stalks.

The violet butterfly paused, hovering before her.

“Watch this,” it called, voice teasing. Familiar.

The butterfly zipped forward, flying loops around Margot’s head and neck, sprinkling lavender fairy dust in her hair, over her bare collarbone. Margot breathed deeply, inhaling glitter. Shivering. The scent…sultry jasmine.

Margot raised her hands, palms open, as the silver butterfly came near. Tantalizingly close. Away. Close. Away. Again and again, ebbing and flowing like the tide.

“Please,” Margot begged, silver tears running down her cheeks, freezing as they fell. “Eli, take my hand.”

Pop! The soft scene burst like a soap bubble. The world sharpened. Stalks of gentle wheat turned pointed, razor-thin edges precise enough to draw blood. The gold butterfly flew right, soaring over the weapon-like wheat toward the towering magnolias at the edge of the field.

“Where is she going?” Margot asked.

It was the violet butterfly who answered. “She lives amongst the magnolias.”

“Who does?”

A giggle. “Eleanor, of course.”

The silver butterfly left next, flying skyward, disappearing into the heavens.

“And him? Where does he live?” Margot jumped to follow, flapping imaginary wings. Dreaming of an imaginary place and an imaginary brother who wasn’t dead but, rather, waited for her with open arms.

I’d fly to the edge of the world for you, she vowed, flapping her wings. I’d give anything—my life, my heart. I’d give it all up to reach you. Just once. Just for five more minutes.

But her wings were only arms, her heart only human. And her two feet remained planted firmly and bitterly on the ground.

“The edge of the world?” the violet butterfly asked, wings winking.

Margot touched her lips. Did I say that out loud?

“If it’s the edge of the world you’re after, I can take you. Come.”

Margot followed, leaving a trail of blood in her wake as the wheat stalks cut into her like jagged teeth. Deep ruby raindrops showered to the earth, the grain bending toward her as a flower tilts to the sun, hungry for more. The scent of jasmine mixed with iron hung heavy in the air.

At the edge of the field, a cathedral of stained glass rose before her. A lighthouse lit against the falling darkness, beaming color into the night. Margot tilted her head back in awe.

“In here.” The violet butterfly landed on a purple pane, then melted through it, disappearing.

Margot pressed her palm to the cold window, but the pane didn’t give. Her breath fogged the glass. “How?”

She tilted her head, studying the cathedral walls.

Only glass, she realized. Glass, which was made to be broken. Had to be, if she was to pass through. Through the looking glass.

She pressed two hands to the panes and bent her fingers, imagining claws. She raked her nails downward, leaving ten fissures. An earsplitting screech rent apart the night.

Margot liked it. She smiled and did it again.

And again. And again. Chunks of multicolored crystal tumbled like jewels from a treasure chest onto the ground.

Shards of sugary rainbow rock candy fell in clumps from the sky.

The tears of angels, reflective and prismatic and pure, rained to the earth around her.

And everywhere Margot looked…turning red.

Blood streamed from her frozen fingers. Bled from the glass to the ground, forming a river.

“Margot, stop it!” A new voice. Gruff, insistent. Inherently male.

But nothing could stop her. She raked her nails down the glass again, chipping deeper. She had to get in. The edge of the earth. Elijah and Babette. They were all that mattered. They were there, and she—

“Margot, wake up!”

A stinging slap registered on her cheek. She blinked in shock.

And then she was falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Through the looking glass she came. Whole and dazed and wild and awake. Her eyes fluttered rapidly as she tried to understand. Warm arms encircled her, holding her up.

“Margot?” It was Merrick.

Merrick’s voice in her ear, his calloused hands gripping her bare arms. A strap of her nightdress slipped off her shoulder.

Her legs wobbled. She licked her lips, looking around.

It was a foggy night, and she was outside Dravenhearst Manor.

Outside and down the hill by the distillery.

One hand scratched ferally at the wood of the sealed door to Rickhouse One.

The other was wrapped in the iron chains barring the doors.

All ten of her fingers, her nails, were ragged. Trickling with blood.

“Oh my God,” she cried, her voice shaking. She released her grip on the door.

“It’s all right.”

It was very much not all right. Margot wasn’t sure she’d ever been less all right in her entire life. “What’s happening to me?”

“We’ll get you inside and…and cleaned up,” he said weakly, eyeing her bloody hands.

But when Margot looked at the fog-shrouded manor on the hill, her gut clenched with anxiety. The roadster was pulled around front, engine idling and headlights on. He’d been sneaking out again. That was why he’d found her. She should be grateful. Who knows what she might’ve done.

Yes, grateful…

But she wasn’t sure she was.

Margot took a deep breath and pulled back. Far enough away to look directly into his amber eyes. “I think your house is haunted.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

She waited.

“Do you want to leave?” he finally asked. “You read the contracts, the will. You can go at any time.”

She swallowed. She’d read them. Before bed, as she’d promised.

Her father had done something extraordinary—he’d inserted a prenuptial clause.

One that could only be voided with her consent, with her signature on a blank line.

She could leave right now and take everything with her.

It was a surprise, highly unusual to give a woman that kind of autonomy in her marriage.

Even more unusual, Merrick had signed it, agreed to the terms.

She tilted her head, her lips parted.

“Ask me,” he said, his voice gruff. “Go ahead.”

“Why on earth did you consent to those terms?” His answer mattered to her. It mattered immensely.

His arms still gripped hers. Her eyes searched, trying desperately to understand. As much as she’d wanted to break through the glass in her dream, that was how much she wanted his answer now. To hear the words she longed for from him.

“Because I’d hoped it wouldn’t matter. Because I hope you’ll stay.”