He nods his head a couple of times, huffing and puffing as if it’s been a strain for him to walk the few feet from the house to me. He turns his head to look back at the house, then shifts his gaze back to me.
“May I ask…” he begins.
“As long as it isn’t something I don’t wish to answer.”
He smiles, but doesn’t say anything right away, then he squares his shoulder and clears his throat. “What I am going to ask, it isn’t proper and I should not be asking this of my country’s leader, but it is important when making dresses.”
“Ask it then,” I state, arching a brow as I wait. I’m not sure what could be so important when it comes to fabric, but whatever it is, I am curious to hear it.
He shifts from side to side. “Is she your mistress? See, if she is, I need to change some of the designs that I had in mind.”
I could be angry, but it’s a simple question and he thinks that it matters what her clothing looks like, so he thinks that he needs to know. I could deny him the answer. I should, after all, do just that. Instead, for whatever reason, I don’t. Perhaps it’s because I want to believe that she’s inconsequential to me, so I try to convince him that she is, or maybe I am as she says—an asshole.
“She is my mistress, for now.”
He nods his head. “Thank you, sir. I’m sorry I had to be so forward as to ask, but it changes designs.”
He starts to walk away from me, but it’s nagging at me, the way he made it clear it changed the way dresses are designed.
“How does it change the dresses?” I call out.
Instead of answering me from his spot, he makes his way back over to standing in front of me. “The dresses will be a bit more daring, a bit flashier and lower cut, especially for the ball gowns.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to respond, he spins around and walks away from me. I wonder if I’ve just made a grave mistake. It seems by these dresses, everyone will know that she is a kept woman, that she is the mistress to the man who is the leader of this country.
BIRDIE
The dressmaker leaves, but not before talking with Colt for a few moments. I watch them from the window, wondering if Colt can feel my gaze on him. He doesn’t look back at me, doesn’t give me any indication that he does. Instead, I watch him walk out to the barn and never look back.
“Are you ready to learn some more?” Florence asks from the doorway.
Turning around, I’m surprised to see her standing there and even more surprised that she wants to work with me again. We accomplished absolutely nothing the last time. I shake my head, unsure that I am, in fact, ready to work some more.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
She smiles, it’s knowing, and she dips her chin once. “Let’s go into the library, maybe just chat a bit?”
I’m not sure what she would want to talk about, but I give her a smile and start to walk in her direction, she turns from me and I follow her into the library. I haven’t been in the room before, so as soon as the scent of old books hits me, I stop.
Lifting my head, I gasp at the sight before me. There are hundreds of books, row after row, stacked from floor to ceiling. I don’t know anything about them yet, but I am surely going to find out.
I want to read them all, one by one, and I have a feeling since I haven’t been able to sleep much that it won’t take me long to get through them all. Ignoring Florence, I walk as if they’re calling me to them, I glide toward the case.
Reaching for the first book in view, I slip it from its place on the shelf. I’m under no illusion that I’ll actually know any of these, we’re in another dimension or something after all, but I still read the title.
Madame Frederick’s Tale
Turning to Florence, I hold the book up, considering there is no back jacket or blurb to read, I ask her if she knows what this one is about.
Her eyes widen and she grins. “It’s about a bored woman who had everything she could have wanted, and yet, she craved more. She got that more, then found herself easily bored with that. She ruined lives, that one did.”
I grin. “Sounds like Madame Bovary, it even has a similar title, huh.”
“Come and sit with me,” she offers as she makes her way toward the small sofa in the room.
Clenching the book in my hands, I follow behind her and sink down on the sofa next to her. Florence watches me for a long moment and I wait for her to speak, but she doesn’t say anything right away, instead she watches.
“Your career, women have these where you’re from?” Nodding, I tell her yes. “It is to take portraits of people?”
I smile, shaking my head. “Yes and no. I photograph all milestones, birthdays, pregnancies, weddings, families, and sometimes people with their pets.”
“This is what they do in your world? Celebrate normal life?”
I hum. “They do, I suppose. People like to capture moments of their lives in photographs, then look back on it in remembrance. Especially, after a loved one is gone, it’s a way to keep them alive, to remember the fond times.”
Florence nods. “I would like for you to take my picture before I leave here. Logan will probably never have children anytime soon, and I am getting no younger. One day he may want them to know what their great-grandmother, the witch, looked like.”
Smiling, I reach over to her and wrap my hand around
