And she hadn’t even mentioned the magic part of it. Imogen knew a tiny bit about Evelina’s talent—it was impossible to hide such a gift from her very best friend, especially in the confines of the academy—but she had never told her everything. There were only so many secrets she could ask her friend to keep.
Evelina started to drag the comb through her locks, wincing as it snagged. “I was nearly caught by a couple of the servants. I crawled out the window to hide and ended up in the oak tree. I just about fell out.”
Imogen laughed—a hearty chuckle that had nothing to do with her delicate looks. “I wish I’d been there to see that!”
“I beg your pardon? It was most distressing!”
That only made Imogen laugh the harder, a healthier pink rising to her cheeks.
“I’m being serious.” Evelina frowned with mock severity.
Imogen gave her a scathing look. She looked brighter for the conversation, but shadows still smudged the skin under her eyes. She truly wasn’t well.
“I’m sorry for being so thoughtless,” Evelina said. “If I’d been caught, your father would have blamed you as much as me. I’m in this house at your invitation, and I have no right to risk its reputation, or yours.”
Imogen shook her head. “Your escapades don’t frighten me.”
“They should. I’ll land you in trouble yet.”
“I can look after myself.”
Evelina felt something tighten inside. At school, she’d been the one who’d nursed Imogen when she fell ill. She’d been the guard dog when schoolroom bullies loomed. She still felt fiercely protective. “I should know better.”
“You can’t be anything but who you are.”
“And what is that?”
Her friend squinted in a considering way. “I’m not sure yet.”
“But you’re going to be brilliant, Imogen Roth. The belle of all London.”
Now that they had completed their education—an event slightly delayed because of Imogen’s illness and Evelina’s late start—this would be their first Season. Evelina had promised to be her companion through the balls and routs and the inevitable string of suitors—or at least as much as her modest place in the world would allow. A champion until death, Imogen had called her, although Evelina suspected her role would be short lived. Despite her health, Imogen was too beautiful to remain unmarried long.
As for Evelina—she doubted she would marry. At least not now. Unlike Imogen, she would not be presented to the queen—the seal of approval that granted worthy young women access to Society. Just before Easter, the summons had been sent to those young ladies deemed suitable for the honor, and Evelina had not received one. That limited which parties she would be invited to, and which young men she would have the chance to meet, and how far she could accompany Imogen. Even though her heart yearned to dance at the Duchess of Westlake’s ball, she would never set one slipper on that glorious polished oak floor. Grandmamma Holmes would give her a dowry, but nothing like what Lord Bancroft could bestow on his daughter. Barring a romance worthy of Sir Walter Scott, Evelina’s future lay in something other than a brilliant match.
Perversely, that bothered her less than missing out on the fun of the Season. It was hard to miss a man she would never meet, but she itched to go dancing. As it was, she would have to content herself with family gatherings, like Lady Bancroft’s birthday party, or improving occasions, like the opening of the Gold King’s show of ancient Greek artifacts at the new Prometheus Gallery. All of the exclusive events, to which only the cream of Society was invited, she would have to experience from the sidelines.
The sense of passing time tugged at Evelina like a dull, persistent pain. She and Imogen had been inseparable for years. This would be the last few months before they went their separate ways into womanhood. No doubt Imogen would rise to a title. Evelina would … well, she had her plans.
Dora’s light step sounded in the passage. Evelina squeezed her friend’s hand. “Shall I stay with you tonight?”
“Stop playing the mother hen. It was just a dream. Nothing more.”
Evelina rose, picking up her things. “Then I had better go to bed myself. Sleep well.”
“Good night.”
Dora entered with the sleeping medication just as Evelina left. The maid bobbed a curtsey as she passed, but gave Evelina another assessing look. No doubt looking for twigs in her hair.
Still, Evelina hovered outside Imogen’s door, unease seeping through her flesh. For all her efforts to avoid getting caught in the attic, Dora had seen her wandering the house. Since Evelina had caught Dora kissing the second footman last Tuesday, the maid was unlikely to speak of her twiggy disgrace. Any good servant knew the value of a little
Evelina stared into the candle flame, no longer bothering to hide its light. Naked, it flickered and dipped in the air currents, as exposed as she felt. She had to be more careful.
Imogen had opened the doors to her heart and her home, and offered it without reserve. But her friendship—the only one Evelina could truly claim—could not shield her if things went wrong. Lord Bancroft’s pretty daughter was only a young woman, with no power or money of her own.
So much hung by a thread. Evelina listened to the rattle of the oak branch on the window, the quick patter making a counter-rhythm to the longcase clock. The sense of passing time did nothing to soothe her anxiety.
She heaved a quick breath, her chest too tight for a proper sigh. How on edge was she that a small incident could overset her?
Positive action was the only antidote to this mood. Her problems could wait. She would hide her box and then take her old place in the armchair by Imogen’s bed—just in case the nightmares returned. No one, especially not Imogen, should wake up alone and afraid.
She’d no sooner finished the thought than a flicker of shadow caught the corner of her eye. With the candle held aloft, she scanned the corridor.
No one was there. The only movement was her own reflection in a narrow mirror that hung outside Imogen’s door. Maybe that was what she had seen: the swing of her skirts. Forcing herself to breathe, Evelina strode toward her bedroom door.
The candle blew out, leaving her in utter blackness. Evelina stopped midstride, nerves straining. Someone passed by to her left, leaving a scent of sweat and brandy. She didn’t hear footsteps on the soft carpet, but felt the displacement of air—a light exhalation like the sound of a gloating smile.
Her skin shrank against her bones. Panic sent her skittering a few steps. “Who’s there?” she whispered.
But there was no reply, just the insistent
The silence shredded her nerves. She listened intently, straining every sense, but could detect no sound—no footfall, no whisper, no breath. Had the figure been going toward the stairs or away from them? She couldn’t tell.
She retraced her steps, finding her way back to Imogen’s door, but still she sensed nothing. At last, she decided it would be safe to leave for the time it would take to put her box away. The presence she had felt—if there had been one at all—was gone.
With one hand skimming the wall, she hurried to her door, groping to find the familiar shape of the handle. It rattled open and she plunged inside. Moonlight streamed in the windows, giving the impression of a photograph. For a long moment, Evelina stood with her back to the door, one hand grasping the key that she used to lock herself in.
Had she been imagining things? Should she wake the footmen and have them search the house?
No, that would be awkward. And she hadn’t actually seen anyone. It was probably just Tobias, come home after a night of carousing.
She allowed herself a wry smile. That had been no remnant of the dead. She knew spirits well enough— anyone with her gifts saw them once in a while. It had to be Tobias.
Her heart still pattered, but slowly the calm dignity of the guest room—the pale counterpane, the wardrobe painted in Italian scenes, and the heavy velvet curtains—had its effect. Finally relaxed enough to move, Evelina left her post by the door.
