Page 27

EMORY

I shut my eyes and lean against the metal door, sinking into the ivy until it forms a curtain around my shoulders.

Is he still there?

I strain to hear, but he doesn’t try the handle.

I hear him and Amy speaking, her laugh musical, then hoofbeats as she rides away.

There’s the sound of him speaking in low tones to the horses, then his steps, before there’s a tap at the door.

“Emory.” His voice is steadier than before, when I swear I heard him stutter.

“I do not have the ease with other people that you do. I am—” He pauses.

His inhale is audible. “Unyielding. I recognize that is not the ideal quality in a husband.” His words are stiff and slow, as if he’s measuring them out.

“I apologize. For implying earlier that you are anything less than capable, and for making you uncomfortable.” Another pause.

I can feel him gathering himself, and something pinches inside me.

I force myself not to react, to let my breathing steady and listen without judgment.

“Forgive me.” His voice is low and barely audible, as if the words are for him and not for me.

I press a hand to my fluttering pulse. The skin of my throat is hot. Forgive me. I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t know what to make of Aiden. I thought I knew him, but he surprises me at every turn.

I should apologize. I think I hurt him too.

I open my mouth to speak, but his steps are already moving away from the door.

“Come on,” he says to the horses. “You’ve had enough.

You’re going to get fat, and then I’m certainly not buying you.

Yes, that’s a good girl. No, not you. You’re horrible.

Fuck—bite me again and I’ll turn you into glue. ”

A silent laugh escapes me as his voice fades.

I’ll apologize to him later. But for now, I scan the garden.

My body squeezes with joy at being inside.

A secret garden. I smile to myself. Imagine that.

And it let me inside, even though that’s a silly old myth.

My smile grows. Take that, Prince family.

There’s a dry fountain in the middle, with an altar-shaped stone plinth before it, which I imagine supported a sculpture once upon a time.

Beds of plants spread out from the fountain in what were likely neat sections at one point.

Now, the plants are tangled, some choked with weeds, and the low walls around the beds are crumbling.

The trees are overgrown and draped with flowering vines.

But best of all are the stone walls. The door behind me is covered in ivy, but the walls are covered in roses.

It’s only mid-June, but the small tea roses bloom in shades of peach and ivory.

I can barely see the pale stone behind the profusion of growth.

It’s beautiful. My mom would love it here.

Mom. I pull my phone out of my pants and take a photo for her. She’s on a meditation retreat this week with Gloria, but maybe I can bring flowers to dinner when she gets back.

I wander through the rose-scented air, peering down the paths and pulling vines from one of the benches.

There’s a dedication on the small metal plaque, but I can’t make it out.

The garden is nearly dreamlike in the afternoon haze, slow and lazy with buttery sunlight and the sounds of early summer insects.

I clear more vines from the fountain. It’s a statue of a woman holding a book and pointing toward the wall.

I look up at her face. She seems to be expecting something, and I follow the line of her arm. She’s pointing at the ivy- and thorn-draped stone wall. But behind it—I squint, striding forward through the weed-riddled gravel—a metal plaque.

I pull roses away from the wall, grateful for the riding gloves Sienna lent me.

I clear faster and faster as the decorative metal plaque becomes visible.

It’s several feet wide and depicts what I think might be a person wearing a crown, but the metal is so worn that it’s hard to tell.

I frown up at it with my hands on my hips.

I run my fingers over the interlocking rings in the metal plaque. One is flush with the surface, but one is raised. It’s the only part of the plaque that’s three dimensional. I wiggle it, then press on it.

There’s a screech of metal, then the grinding sound of old gears. I jump back. The wall is— moving? No. The plaque is sliding to the side. I take a wary step back, half expecting some horror to come leaping out at me.

It would serve me right for my smugness about being let into the garden earlier.

But nothing happens other than the plaque grinding slowly to a halt.

I use my phone light to peer into the dimness of what appears to be a chamber within the wall.

The smell of damp earth seeps out, comforting and familiar instead of creepy.

The chamber is dusty and choked with roots, but I see the glint of glass and metal. Nothing emerges from the darkness. The birds are silent. Even the insects hold their breath. I step forward until I can reach a hand into the maw of the chamber, and come up with— a bottle?

I carry my prize into the sunlight. It’s whiskey.

Looks like bourbon. Old. Very old, actually, if the yellowed and curling label is anything to go by.

I’ve never seen bourbon this old before.

Bourbon whiskey isn’t like scotch. It’s not pretentious and stuffy.

I like to think that the secretive nature of prohibition meant that good whiskey was consumed as soon as it was made.

Which means this bottle was never meant to sit here this long.

It wouldn’t have continued aging in the bottle, though.

Once it’s out of the barrel, whiskey doesn’t age.

The good news is that if the seal is intact, the liquor is still drinkable.

I peer at the label, wiping away dust and dirt.

La Chasse

Bottled in bond 1925

On the front— Now is the hour . The motto of House Prince.

On the back— To thine own self be true.

I shiver as I read the words. That’s the motto of House Hunter. When we were a House. Before. Over a hundred years ago, before we split the distillery with Aiden’s family and they swindled away the profitable pieces.

I stride back to the chamber and stick my head into the dusty dark. I squint at what my phone light illuminates. Bottles. Endless bottles. They fill the wall in orderly rows. There must be hundreds.

I pull back into the sunlight and lean against the stone.

Hundreds of bottles of prohibition-era whiskey.

This whiskey is priceless. There was a famous bottle of bourbon auctioned a few years ago.

It was from the early 1900s and owned by a well-known banker.

It sold for $123,000. I screw my eyes shut as I think.

This whiskey is newer but more valuable.

Prohibition spirits were only available on prescription.

These bottles looked celebratory. A special vintage perhaps, or something made just for our families.

My stomach flips. I carefully place the bottle back inside the wall before I push the metal grate into place.

I wander through the garden, running my hands over the stone and smelling the roses. Secret hope fills my chest. This garden might be on Aiden’s property, but the inside of it is just for me. The flowers, the benches, the statue, and the whiskey with my family’s history on the label.

I linger for hours, soaking in the sunlight, reading on the e-reader app on my phone, then napping in the single patch of grass between the overgrown vines. I can feel the cloud shadows on my face as I drowse, then a clap of thunder wakes me.

I sit up with a start, my heart jolting and then racing. I scramble to my feet and make it to the garden entrance right as the rain starts.

I’m soaked within minutes. The sky darkens ominously.

This must be one of the rainstorms Hart’s Hill is famous for.

Shit. The temperature is dropping, and I shiver as I start to jog along the path back to Aiden’s house.

I’m at least twenty minutes from the house by foot, and my leather boots are already starting to soak through.

The gas lamps around the property start to flicker on. The rain intensifies. I can barely see the path in front of me, and my shoulder burns nearly as much as my lungs. My jog turns into a flat-out run, as if that will help me stay dry.

I slip with a horrified yelp that the rain swallows.

I right myself, and then I hear my name.

Aiden.