An Honorable Deception (The Imposters #3)

Chapter 8

EIGHT

Lavinia trudged along the path from the gymnasium, feeling as though every muscle in her body were made of lead. She’d spent only half an hour in there doing the exercises that Yates had assigned to her, but she was short of breath, sweating like she was in the tropics, and fairly certain she could curl up here on the path and sleep for the rest of the day.

It was made all the worse by the fact that the so-very-pregnant Marigold was humming as she practically skipped beside her, a healthy flush in her cheeks. She stretched like Leonidas in the sun, smiling. “Oh, I do miss the gymnasium when we’re in London. The one we have there isn’t the same.”

Lavinia wrinkled her nose. She was glad Marigold looked so well—even if she would take a nap after luncheon—but it had been more than a little humiliating to realize that even six months pregnant, Marigold could out-perform Lavinia in every single exercise. Well, she hadn’t tried the jumping ones. But given that Lavinia had managed to tangle herself up in the skipping rope, that was certainly no victory. “I think I’m allergic to exercise. Look. I’m flushed—and are these hives?”

Marigold laughed and batted away the arm Lavinia raised. “You’ll begin to see improvement soon. The first week or two may feel as though it’s about to kill you, but I promise you the strength will come.”

“Tell Papa to engrave that on my tombstone after I’ve been felled by that evil skipping rope. ‘The Strength Will Come.’” She traced a hand through the air as if reading the epithet, but Marigold didn’t laugh.

In fact, when Lavinia looked over, she looked downright worried. Drat. When would her friend be able to joke about this? Yates would have barked out a laugh and edited it for her.

“Vinia...” Marigold reached over for her arm. “You will tell us if you feel anything beyond the normal tiredness and muscle pain, won’t you? My instincts say that Yates is right about this helping your heart, but neither of us are physicians. What if we’re wrong?”

They had bypassed the path toward the house, which must mean that Marigold meant to pay a visit to the stables again. They’d done that yesterday after their time in the gymnasium too. “I am perfectly well,” she said, despite the screaming of every single muscle she never knew she had.

That was what they said was normal. She at once trusted them and had the urge to curse them every time she tried to sit down and her hamstrings protested. The part they were worried about was no worry at all, so far as she could tell.

Yes, her pulse vaulted up rather quickly when she was skipping rope or running on the suspended track—for half a circuit. But she’d reported her heart rate to Yates the first two mornings, and he’d nodded his approval, insisting it was within a normal range.

Had she truly wanted to escape the torture, she might have argued or claimed she didn’t feel so well. But the truth was that the pounding of her blood through her veins felt good . Heady. Like she was alive again.

Marigold’s face didn’t ease out of its expression of concern. “Well then, while I’m nagging ... I’ll caution you to have a care in other ways too.”

Something about her tone drew Lavinia up short. She stopped on the path and turned to face her. Marigold looked so serious . The circles had lightened a bit from under her eyes, and her cheeks had that healthy flush, but her mouth was set in a downturned line, and her eyes practically shouted.

Lavinia wasn’t certain what they were shouting, but she knew she was about to find out, and she felt like she’d been called into the headmistress’s office at Ravenscleft Academy for Young Ladies. “What have I done, madam? I wasn’t running in the corridors again, I swear it. And Georgette Hamilton deserved to have her hair pulled.”

A twitch of the lips was all Marigold granted her. “I broke into Ravenscleft last year, you know. Posed as an applicant for the position of French teacher so that I could get into your files.”

Lavinia’s mouth fell open. “You what? ” Miss Feuerstein’s office was impenetrable! And how would anyone, even Marigold, have the audacity to enter it without permission? Hadn’t she been afraid that lightning would flash down and consume her?

“It was how we learned that your mother and the headmistress were cousins. But that is neither here nor there.” Marigold waved a hand as if she could really dismiss that conversation so easily. “Let’s talk about Yates.”

Lavinia stared at her for a long moment, her mind surely not following Marigold’s. Because when one said Ravenscleft and Yates within seconds of each other, all Lavinia could think about was the Christmas holiday when they were seventeen. When she’d come home, filled to bursting with everything she’d been learning, the friends she was making and wanting to impress. Then she’d seen Yates for the first time in months. He’d sprouted up, was filling out, and she’d realized quite suddenly that any one of her friends would have been green with envy had they seen the way he looked at her.

There he was, a future earl, handsome and tall and strapping, and he gazed at her as if she alone held the keys to his happiness. For that one afternoon, she’d let the idea carry her away. She could claim him. She could be the future Lady Fairfax. She could live here, at her favorite place in the world, for the rest of her life.

That afternoon she’d done something she’d been careful not to do before. She accepted Yates’s invitation for a walk while Marigold and Gemma were distracted. She’d let him take her hand as they meandered to the seaside cliffs. She’d made no objection when he pulled her into his arms, hope shining bright in his eyes.

She’d let him kiss her, and she’d kissed him back, and dreams she hadn’t known she wanted to dream flooded her. They’d carried her back to the Tower, back to her own home, and her mother must have seen them on her face, because she’d wasted no time in popping them.

“That smile had better not be over Yates, Lavinia . He will disgrace his station and his name—he is no better than a vagabond himself, the way he fawns over those gypsies. He has no sense of responsibility or duty, and if his father doesn’t drive the Fairfax estate into the ground first, he’ll finish the job . I’ve consented to you spending time there in the hopes that you will have a positive influence over poor Marigold—heaven knows she needs a female of some breeding to guide her. But I will not countenance another hour in their company if I think for a moment that you’re pining for that worthless wastrel.”

A dozen defenses of Yates had sprung to her tongue—even before she’d entertained any notions, he’d been her friend—but one look from Mother had silenced them. Because she was Mother . No, at the time, she was Mama . The person Lavinia most wanted to please in the world. And far wiser than Lavinia, especially in matters of alliances.

She’d buttoned her lips to keep her mother from prolonging the scolding—she’d have done anything to keep the proud look in her mother’s eyes as she watched Lavinia’s progress at finishing school. And she’d not returned to Fairfax Tower that holiday. She’d burned the five letters Yates had written to her, and when she saw him again after graduation, she’d acted as though she didn’t even remember that winter afternoon by the sea.

Steeling herself against the pain in his eyes had required more strength, but the excitement of preparing for her presentation in London had helped her with that. And then Lord Fairfax died, and romance had been the last thing on anyone’s mind.

Then scarlet fever struck, and her world ended for five years anyway.

But that couldn’t be what Marigold was talking about, because Marigold had no idea Lavinia had ever kissed Yates. She’d never told her, and she knew Yates hadn’t either, because there was no way in the world that Marigold would have gone six years without mentioning it and raking Lavinia over the coals for her treatment of her brother if she’d known.

But that only meant that Lavinia couldn’t guess what was coming. “What about Yates?”

Marigold’s delicate brows drew together. “You know how he once cared for you, don’t you? You can’t have missed it, even back then.”

All her aching muscles went tight. Maybe Marigold was talking about the same thing that sprang to Lavinia’s mind. More or less. “A childhood infatuation. Why are you bringing it up now?”

Marigold winced and looked over her shoulder as if expecting her little brother to have somehow returned from London when they weren’t looking. “It was more than an infatuation. He was in love with you.”

The words made a strange, tarnished regret fill her throat. “I know he thought he was, but we were children.”

Marigold sent her a look far harsher than she usually directed Lavinia’s way. “You didn’t have to watch him while you nearly died of that fever, and he wasn’t even permitted in the house. You didn’t have to see the shadows that overtook him when he realized that we had nothing left with which to run our home, and that in your parents’ eyes he would have been dismissed as not good enough. He was crushed, Lavinia. Beaten down. In his eyes, he lost both Father and you in one fell swoop.”

Her throat was so tight she could scarcely whisper past it—but somehow Mother’s words found their way out. “He never had me to lose me.”

Lies. For one afternoon, he had.

Marigold’s face somehow went both hard and soft. All the one for Lavinia, all the other for the little brother she loved more than life. “He had hope , until then. You know Yates—hope was all he ever needed to fuel him.”

And why did that make her eyes sting with tears? “This is a conversation that would have been relevant six years ago, Marigold, but—”

“Don’t destroy him again.” She took a step closer, her golden-brown eyes drilling into Lavinia’s with the ferocity of a lion’s. “He’s picked up the pieces, he’s put himself back together, and he swears he’s well and truly over you—which I had doubted, but which I’ve come to believe he really did achieve. Don’t negate his hard work, Lavinia.”

She blinked, mounting frustration chasing away the tears, at least. “What exactly do you think I’m doing?”

Marigold waved a hand toward the house, her own frustration clear. “The two of you have been flirting with every other breath, and then he goes carrying you about the house like—”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Lavinia faced forward again and stomped toward the stables. “You are completely misreading the situation. When he cared for me, Yates didn’t flirt at all—perhaps too much was at stake, I don’t know. The fact that he is now means the very opposite of what you’re suggesting.”

“You’re not children anymore! You can’t behave as you’ve been doing—”

“Don’t you understand?” Lavinia spun to face Marigold again, her fingers curling into her palms. Never in a million years would she ever have thought that Marigold, of all the people in the world, would lecture her on decorum. “That is what we are in those moments—it’s the whole point! He isn’t trying to win my heart, he’s trying to make me laugh. To remember the days before I knew what Mother was.”

Marigold pursed her lips. “That may well be his intent. But if you’re finally acting like he once hoped you would, how can we be sure he won’t forget that he’s not in love with you anymore? And then when you walk away again, he’ll have another broken heart to contend with.”

That was what her best friend thought of her? That she would toy with one of her dearest friends and then leave him with a broken heart?

Of course it was. What else could she think? Lavinia had done that very thing before.

Even so, the arrow dug deep into her pounding heart, and she had to look away. Her shoulders wanted to slump, but she couldn’t let them. The lessons that Mother and Miss Feuerstein had ingrained in her ran too deep. She drew them back instead, forced her chin up a notch, and wished with everything in her that Penelope would come hooting her way out of the stable and destroy the mood.

Where was the little monkey when she needed her?

“You’re not giving your brother enough credit,” she said evenly. “He is being a good friend. Nothing more. But even if I’m wrong, even if I could hurt him, I won’t.” Not again. “You have my word. And if the only way to guarantee that in your eyes is not to flirt or tease him anymore, then fine. I won’t engage with him when he does it.” Even if those are the only times in the last year I’ve laughed. “Is that what you want?”

Marigold sighed, her hand coming to a rest against the round of her stomach. “I don’t want to see him hurt.”

Because she was a good sister, and Yates was the most important person in the world to her, outside of her husband and unborn child. That was as it should be. As expected.

It shouldn’t make Lavinia feel more alone than ever. It shouldn’t make her heart ache in a way that had nothing to do with the amount of blood she’d sent pumping through it or the disease that had nearly killed her by weakening the organ.

“I don’t want to see him hurt either.” She forced a smile and prayed that Marigold was too blinded by her concern for Yates to see how fake it was.

Then she prayed she would see. That she would care. That she would wrap her in a hug and take back the conversation they’d had and tell Lavinia that she could still claim those pockets of joy.

Penelope must have belatedly received her silent cry for intervention. She came running out of the stable, her skirt—purple today—billowing in the breeze and her tail hooked in a way that usually made Lavinia grin. The little capuchin monkey looked around, hooting, clearly scanning for Yates, who was her favorite person in the world. When she didn’t spot him, Lavinia half expected her to turn back to the stables and settle for Hector.

Instead, she ran their way, no doubt to climb Marigold and take a place on her shoulder, since Yates’s wasn’t available.

But no, it was Lavinia that she leapt onto, going from the ground to her shoulder before she could even register her surprise. It wasn’t that she’d never played the part of Penelope’s perch before—it was that Penelope rarely chose her and never first .

Maybe the monkey really had heard her silent cry for help. Or maybe God had given the animal a nudge. Marigold hadn’t given her a hug, but someone was, more or less. Lavinia smiled and ran her fingers down the tail curling around her neck. “Good morning, Penelope.”

Marigold sighed. “I didn’t mean to imply that you would intentionally hurt him. You must know that. I only want to make certain you’re aware of the risks.”

The risks to Yates’s heart. The risk of him hurting.

Understandable. It was. Truly.

“I know. You’re a good sister.” Lavinia turned away from the stable, away from her friend. She forced another smile as she looked over her shoulder and said, “I think I’ll walk a bit, try to loosen these muscles. Say hello to Leonidas for me.”

Marigold didn’t try to stop her. Happily, Penelope didn’t abandon her either as she strode away, just put a little paw onto the top of Lavinia’s head to steady herself. Ordinarily, Lavinia would have wanted to go straight into the house, bathe, and dress in something more familiar than the exercise garb. She would have taken comfort in brushing out her hair and winding it up into a chignon. But the thought of walls didn’t suit, and the sun was warm and welcoming. Since it would likely rain again by afternoon, she might as well stay out enjoying it now.

She had no destination in mind, other than to avoid, as she always did, the path toward the seaside cliffs. She circled the house and the gardens that hadn’t been properly tended in six years but somehow looked wild and inviting instead of neglected, ending up at the far side of the property, well away from the outbuildings.

When she spotted a figure on the little first-floor balcony, she started. She hadn’t expected Lady Alethia to be out of bed yet, but she sat there with a cup of tea in hand, her eyes on the sky. Zelda must have brought pillows out to cushion the wrought-iron chair for her.

For a moment, she considered spinning about before she was spotted so that she could maintain her solitude—and avoid the embarrassment of being seen in such strange clothes. She decided against it a mere second before Lady Alethia took note of her and smiled down a greeting. “Good morning, my lady.” She didn’t so much as blink out of turn at Lavinia’s outfit.

It made her shoulders relax a degree. “Lavinia, please. All the ‘lady’ business feels a bit cumbersome in a place like this, doesn’t it?” She walked up the stone steps and took the second chair at the little table. Zelda hadn’t put any cushions on it, and Lavinia barely suppressed a wince as she lowered her aching muscles onto the cool metal.

“It does, at that. And so you must call me Alethia as well.” Her wide-eyed gaze settled on Penelope, and a delighted laugh slipped from her lips. “And who is this?”

“This is Penelope. Technically she belongs to the Caesars, but we know she’s truly Yates’s.” At the flicker in Alethia’s eyes, she realized belatedly that she really ought to curb the habit of calling him by his first name, at least in company. Fairfax was what the guest would expect.

But he’d always been Yates to her. Fairfax still felt more like his father’s name than his.

She cleared her throat. “Penelope, say hello to Lady Alethia.”

Penelope was too well trained to disobey, even if Lavinia wasn’t the one who usually gave the command. She hooted a greeting, bobbed her knees, and held out her skirt as she curtsied.

Naturally, Alethia laughed again. How could anyone be anything but charmed by Penelope? Well, anyone but Genie, who despised the animals from the circus for some reason.

But Alethia’s joy seemed far greater than most guests’. “I haven’t seen monkeys in far too long.” She held out a hand toward Penelope and said something in a language that sounded almost but not quite like Romani.

Penelope hopped down onto the table and then into Alethia’s lap. The traitor. Though seeing the pleasure on Alethia’s face, Lavinia couldn’t begrudge it. Much.

“What language is that?”

Alethia flushed. “Bengali. Sorry—my parents have forbidden me from speaking it in company, but I’m afraid I forgot myself.” She held out a finger, and Penelope wrapped her paw around it, shaking, as she’d been trained to do. Another happy laugh came from Alethia.

Something strange and aching unfurled in Lavinia’s chest. She wasn’t the only one, it seemed, whose parents had told her to deny part of herself. “Is it similar to Romani?” That would explain why Penelope obeyed.

Alethia tilted her head. “I believe they’re sister languages, but they’ve deviated over the centuries. Zelda and I haven’t found more than a couple words in common, though it’s still a delight to hear each other speak. The rhythms are the same, the sounds, the construction.” Her eyes slid shut. “Hearing the Caesars talk amongst themselves is a bit like coming home.”

The ache uncurled another petal. She knew that most people sneered when they realized that the Fairfaxes had allowed a Romani family to retire on their grounds. She herself had, only a year ago, dismissed them as nothing more than performers and servants. And to be honest, she hadn’t given them much more thought in the interim.

Hearing the warmth in Alethia’s tone when she mentioned them, though, made the truth click into alignment inside her.

The Caesars were so much more than that to the Fairfaxes. They were family. They had taught Yates and Marigold skills they never should have had, skills they now used to make a living to support them all. Romani tripped off Marigold’s and Yates’s tongue every bit as easily as Bengali had Alethia’s. Those itinerate gypsies loved her friends like their own, and her friends loved them just as much.

A few days here, and Alethia had seen them for what they were. Had opened her heart to them for her own reasons.

It was no wonder Yates had been looking at her like a besotted idiot. This young lady was everything he could have dreamed of. Pretty, from a good family, with a large enough dowry to help out around here—but more than that. Kind and mysterious and uniquely suited to the oddities that were Fairfax Tower.

Lavinia toyed with the end of her braid. Alethia seemed like a lovely young lady, but Yates deserved more than lovely, and she wasn’t willing to grant that this girl deserved him quite that easily. “Are you missing London?”

Alethia, gaze still on Penelope, made a face. “Never. Although I prefer it to Father’s estate in the south.”

Father’s estate . That was an interesting way to phrase it. Lavinia referred to her father’s estate as home . “Where would you prefer to be? If you could be anywhere in the world.”

“Calcutta.” The quick admission was followed by another grimace, then a sheepish glance her way. “I may need to extract a promise from you never to repeat anything I say here to my parents, should you meet them. It seems the pain from my wounds has made me forget myself.”

Lavinia’s smile felt odd on her lips. “I think you mean it’s made you remember yourself.”

She could all but see a shutter fall from Alethia’s eyes. “Perhaps I do, at that.” She drew in a long breath and looked out at the grounds again. “It’s lovely country here—I’ve never been this far north. A bit cold for my tastes, but beautiful nonetheless.” She quirked a brow. “Your home is nearby too, isn’t it?”

“Two miles west.” Lavinia pointed toward the grove of trees that spanned much of the distance between the estates. “My father and the late Lord Fairfax grew up as the best of friends and remained so until the day his lordship died. I spent much of my childhood here at the Tower.”

Mother had never been so quick to invite the Fairfax siblings to the Abbey. As a child, she hadn’t questioned it—she’d just been glad. The Tower was so much more fun.

Alethia’s gaze shifted into something Lavinia recognized well. Careful, probing. “You know Lord Fairfax quite well then.”

She opened her mouth, not sure what she meant to say. He used to be in love with me . Or, For a day, I dreamed of marrying him . Or, We were inseparable for seventeen years. Her stomach twisted. “He’s like a brother to me.”

It wasn’t true. He was without question one of her dearest friends, but he’d never felt like family. How could he, when he always looked at her like he had?

But the answer made something at once relax and spark brighter in Alethia’s eyes. Her lips turned up in a smile part shy and part amused. “Not to sound like every girl ever at a finishing school, but how could you look at him and see a brother? He’s so...” She twirled a hand as if ushering words into her mouth, chuckling when Penelope imitated her movement.

Exhaustion rolled over her. “Handsome, charming, witty, and worthy of modeling for a statue of a Greek god?”

Alethia laughed. “All those things. And an earl besides.” A bit of her mirth subdued. “That is what my parents noted first off.”

They would. It’s what parents did, at least in their circles. Lavinia rested her elbow on the table and her head on her hand, not caring that her own mother would have gasped and swatted at her arm for such an offense. “I’ve known Yates since he was a baby. And smelled him after he insists on helping muck the stalls.” She forced a grin, wagering that Alethia wouldn’t know her well enough to detect the falsehood in it. “He has some decidedly un-earl-like habits. You ought to know that upfront.”

You ought to know that . It sounded to her own ears, and no doubt to Alethia’s, as though she was matchmaking.

Alethia didn’t seem deterred by the stall-mucking. She fixed a thoughtful gaze on Lavinia. “Is he as kind as he seems?”

What was that note in her voice? Not questioning, not even hopeful. Something deeper, darker, more primal. Something Lavinia recognized because it had festered so long in her own heart. Desperation. Desperation to believe there was goodness somewhere. Desperation to find it.

This was where she could find that—where Lavinia had. With the Fairfaxes. With the Caesars. With the lion and the leopard and the monkey, in a house crumbling under its own weight but too proud to give up. She couldn’t begrudge her that. Something in the girl’s eyes said she needed that sanctuary as much as Lavinia ever had.

She offered a small smile. “He would risk his life to save another. Give the clothes off his back to anyone in need. Risk his own heart to make someone laugh. You’ll find no better man the world over.” She made her smile go brighter, teasing. “ And he looks like a Greek god.”

Alethia smiled, too, but it faded, and her eyes went even more contemplative. “You ... your name was paired with Lord Xavier’s last year, wasn’t it?”

Lavinia straightened again. She hadn’t given Xavier much thought in recent months, other than when their paths crossed thanks to her best friend being married to his—which wasn’t as often as one might expect, given his bursting social schedule and her reticence to fill her own this year. But now that his name was spoken, she recalled that his name had been paired with Alethia’s once or twice in Gemma’s columns in recent months.

It wasn’t saying much. “Lord X” was a favorite of the gossip columnists, and there had been speculation about him and no fewer than two dozen young ladies over the last several years. But perhaps in Alethia’s eyes, it had been serious?

In response to the question, Lavinia lifted a shoulder. “He called on me for a few months. Mostly when he was here with Sir Merritt, I being the only convenient company around.”

It was a deliberate downplay of what she had wanted to want but never quite had. Lord Xavier was a perfectly wonderful man. Even handsomer than Yates—if not so statuesque—friendly, kind, a man of faith. And he had liked her.

But that was the problem. He liked everyone —and preferred no one. He would have been a convenient match, all the more so when Sir Merritt and Marigold paired up.

Alethia lifted her brows. “You needn’t be humble with me. His mother and mine are friends—I heard her say she was surprised he hadn’t proposed to you. That it’s more serious than any other attention he’s paid anyone else.”

Lavinia had to swallow past the lump in her throat. “He ... it wasn’t a good time. He was here when we learned everything about my mother, when...” She had to pause, squeeze her eyes shut.

She oughtn’t speak true words about this to a veritable stranger. But she’d already told her parts, to inspire her to trust them. “She threatened to kill me. That was how she meant to manipulate my father. She sent me off to a masquerade, along with her maid and Lord Xavier, when she meant to set her plan in motion. I had a bad feeling and wanted to leave early, to go home. When I told him, he said, ‘Must you? You’ll be missed.’ But he didn’t offer to cut his trip short. His family was there, and ... he didn’t know what was about to happen. He couldn’t have. But when he finally returned after she’d died, I couldn’t even look at him. I was so irrationally angry at him for letting me come home with only my chaperone and walk right into my mother holding a gun on Yates. I wanted nothing to do with him.”

Alethia’s brows had knit, which Lavinia saw when she finally pried her eyes open again to see her response. “And he left it at that? He ... abandoned you in your hour of need?”

That was putting it a bit harshly, and the year’s distance allowed her to admit it. “I ordered the servants to bar him from the house and wrote him a letter saying I was in no place for a courtship, given the circumstances. I’m certain he thought he was respecting my wishes and giving me the space I needed to grieve.”

Alethia wrapped her arms around Penelope when the monkey sat down and leaned against her. “Did he never try again?”

Lavinia shrugged. “He dropped by once, in March. We had a perfectly civil conversation. We laughed together at how happy Sir Merritt and Marigold are. We talked of his family and how my father was doing. And ... that was all there was to say. It seems we’re not suited for anything more.”

The ache sent a root down to her stomach. She was the one not suited for anything more. Not with anyone, it seemed. Even her best friend saw that she was only capable of causing pain.

Alethia, however, blinked rapidly enough to draw Lavinia’s attention, and she saw tears in this stranger’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” she breathed, and Lavinia knew she wasn’t apologizing for the display. She didn’t even reach to wipe away the droplets that fell onto her cheeks. “No one should have to live with that pain. No one should have to face such monsters in their own families. It isn’t how God meant humanity to be.”

It wasn’t. But it was too often how they were . “What monsters are in your family, Alethia?” She said it softly, but still she expected her to startle, to shut off, to deny there were any.

Instead, Alethia closed her eyes and tilted her face up to the sun. “You don’t want to know.”

The words rang of truth. The kind she knew too well and wished she didn’t. “Even so. You can tell me, when you need to. I am no stranger to the realm of monsters.”

“I hope you’re a stranger to this one.” Finally, she lifted one hand and dashed it over each cheek. “It was Samira who bore the brunt of it. Samira who protected me as best she could. I...” She paused, shuddered. Her voice, when it emerged again, came out a hoarse whisper. “I don’t know what would have happened to me had she not been there to protect me. I think, sometimes, I would have died. And they would have blamed it on a local or said I was struck by a tropical disease. I would have been one more English child who died to India, and everyone would have pitied my parents, the poor viceroy and his perfect wife, and no one ever would have suspected.”

It should have been hatred that curled around her syllables, by rights. The words were dark enough to lay claim to it. But it wasn’t. It was sorrow. And, somehow, it was strength.

That was what made something new surge up in Lavinia, something she couldn’t name. “What did they do?” She barely murmured the words.

Alethia kept her gaze straight ahead. “Nothing. They did absolutely nothing.”

It wasn’t a deflection. It was a statement—that somehow, the nothing was the betrayal. The nothing was the crime.

She wanted to press, to sort out what this nothing was in response to. But a shift in Alethia’s posture said she wouldn’t say more, not now. That the words she’d already spoken had cost her too much.

Lavinia understood that. Better to focus on a different part. “You don’t hate them.” She knew her amazement came through.

Alethia’s lips curled into something too sad to be a smile. “Do you hate your mother?”

“Yes. And no. And everything in between.” There were days when she hated her with more ferocity than she’d thought a human heart could hold. Days she missed her just as fiercely. And countless days in between when she was so angry because she wanted to grieve but didn’t know how, because Mother didn’t deserve her grief. She’d robbed her even of that.

Alethia nodded. “I hated them, too, for a while. All of them. Everyone. Everyone but Samira. She was the only person in the world who loved me like family should. And one day, I asked her why she did, and she ... she said it was because that was how Christ loved her. She said that every bit of pain she bore drew her closer to Him. That the worse we hurt, the closer He holds us. The weaker we were, the more strength He’d give, if we opened our hearts to let Him in.”

Lavinia let her eyes slide shut as the words called up a memory of other words, similar words that she’d read before. “Have you ever read Story of a Soul ?”

“It doesn’t sound familiar.”

“St. Thérèse’s writing, the one they call the ‘Little Flower.’ A friend from school sent it to me when she heard I was still so ill. It took me a year to work my way through it—she sent me the French version, and the language is so flowery—but it was worth the effort. She speaks of the ‘little way.’ Of dedicating each moment, each pain, each everything to God. Relying on Him. Trusting Him in it and through it and for it, seeking what He would teach us and drawing closer to Christ through the suffering, as you said.”

“It sounds like a beautiful theology.”

She opened her eyes, though the sky blurred. “It saved my life. When I stopped focusing on how weak and miserable I was, I stopped being so weak and miserable. It took time, but I felt restored. Reborn. Renewed. Then, when finally I could venture beyond my room, I stumbled into some of Mother’s secrets.”

She winced at the memories. No—she winced at how quickly her new depth of faith had gone hard and dry and withered. Had she been the shallow soil of the parable? Quick to spring up and quick to burn in the heat of the sun?

Silence stretched between them for a long, infinite moment. And then Alethia said, “Sometimes I feel so alone. Like my pain has isolated me from the rest of the world.”

It wasn’t a question, but still Lavinia whispered, “ Yes .”

“Samira said that when I feel like that, I should remember that it’s the arms of Christ that are my protective walls, not any I can build. That He is my shield. That when I feel the most alone, I should remember that is really when I’m most protected. That I’m not isolated—I’m enveloped by His love.”

Now Lavinia was the one reaching up to wipe tears from her cheeks. When she was sick, the walls of her home had felt like a prison, holding her in when she wanted only to be out. But this last year, they’d been her solace, offering a place of respite from a world that could never understand, because it didn’t know.

Why hadn’t she made the connection to the Lord? Why hadn’t she revisited what had gotten her through the first horror?

Because, deep down, she must have thought God had betrayed her, too, when He delivered her from death only to toss her into a nightmare. She hadn’t paused to see that the walls of that nightmare were His arms. That He wasn’t trapping her there with the monsters—He was shielding her from every ravenous beast that tried to devour her.

He hadn’t stepped in and changed her mother. But He had stepped in and spared every other life. He’d stepped in through those who were faithful to Him—Marigold and Yates and Sir Merritt. Much as she flailed against Him, He held her close.

She sniffed and finally made herself look over again. Alethia looked no more whole than she did, every bit as shattered. Every bit as desperate to cling to a hand stronger than any human’s. “Don’t take this wrong way, my lady—but I’m glad you were shot so you had to come here with us.”

Alethia’s laughter was just the thing they needed to chase away the clouds. Eventually, Lavinia would have to go inside and write down the bits of clues Alethia had shared about her history with Samira, in case it could help them find her. But for now, she wanted to sit with her new friend.