Ember knew “waste it” meant “marrying a man with an income of less than five thousand pounds yearly.”.
When Vanessa’s eyes began to gleam with pride, Ember turned away. Over the years, she’d seen the way her stepmother’s words could influence Vanessa. Her stepsister had gone from a pretty, cheerful, caring girl of Ember’s own age, to a vain and prideful young woman—one who was, admittedly, the most beautiful creature in the clan.
Sometimes, Ember wondered if the girl she used to know was still in there somewhere.
Dinnae be stupid. She and Bonnie loaned ye the gown and undergarments, did they no’?
Aye, they had. They were still her sisters after all, and she knew they both cared for her. The three of them had known Machara would object to Ember attending the ball; not because of the reasons she’d screeched, because the inn could survive without them for the evening, but because she didn’t want her own entrance—and that of Vanessa—marred by Ember’s presence.
Sometimes it seemed everyone on Oliphant Land knew just how little the baroness thought of her stepdaughter. Ember used to be important, back when her father was alive. But with him gone, the rest of the clan seemed to have forgotten she was once considered the best young engraver around and had now relegated her to drudge.
Just as her stepmother did so often.
Only, whereas Machara had done it on purpose, Ember was certain her clan hadn’t intended to be cruel.
And that was one thing which kept her going.
As she was preparing to slip out the door—she knew it was best to allow her stepmother to believe she’d accepted the no-ball edict—the older woman suddenly snapped around. “Ember! The shoes!”
“Pardon?” Ember asked, turning halfway out the door.
Her stepmother huffed and rolled her eyes as she patted Vanessa’s cheek once more, then crossed back to reconstruct Bonnie’s coiffure. “The shoes, the shoes, ye dolt! My daughters’ shoes. The things they wear on their feet.”
“I ken what shoes are, Stepmother,” Ember managed coldly.
Machara narrowed her eyes at her. “Then fetch them. Ye’ve been tinkering with them in yer da’s workshop, have ye no’? My Vanessa told me she and Bonnie wanted to wear some of yer creations or none at all, so I graciously agreed. At least they’ll be unique.”
The last was muttered as she swept Bonnie’s hair atop her head once more.
Ember, knowing her stepmother couldn’t see her, stuck her tongue out at the woman’s back.
But all she said was, “Aye, I polished the shoes this morning.” Along with her own, the ones she was planning on wearing that evening.
To the ball.
Which her stepmother didn’t realize she planned to attend, with or without her permission.
“Good, good,” Machara snapped impatiently, not so much as sparing a glance at Ember. “Go and fetch them. And check if Auld Ben needs help with the supper guests while ye’re down there. We’ll likely be ready by the time ye return.”
Bobbing a sarcastic curtsey, Ember glanced at Vanessa in the mirror, wondering if her sister would have to stifle her giggle at her show of defiance. The two of them used to laugh at Machara’s imperious ways, and though it was a small thing, it was another small thing which had kept Ember going through all these hard years after Da’s death.
But Vanessa was staring at her own reflection, stroking the skin of her neck with the back of her fingers, likely admiring the beauty her mother so often praised.
Apparently, she was practicing how to be imperious herself.
Stifling a sigh, Ember slipped from the room, knowing the sooner she complied with her stepmother’s orders, the sooner they’d all depart for Newfincy Castle, leaving her to prepare for her own evening at the ball.
She was humming quietly in excitement as she hurried down the back stairs towards her father’s small workshop behind the kitchens. All of Oliphant Lands—and a good portion of their section of the Highlands—had been buzzing with news of the ball. Mr. DeVille had been raised to a level of aristocracy, despite being American, because of his close association with the Princes, the Lairds of Oliphant. He must be a wealthy, sophisticated man indeed, to be given such responsibility and honor.
Tonight’s ball might be to welcome him officially to the clan, but as far as Ember was concerned, it was a chance for her to have some much-needed fun. A chance to smile and dance and enjoy herself for once.
She patted her hair tucked under the unsightly cap the baroness insisted she wear to cover the “scandalous” hair she’d been named for. Tonight, at the ball, Ember planned to wear her deep red curls down, flowing around her shoulders, certain in the knowledge no one would recognize her. She could be someone else, even if only but a few hours.
She’d been looking forward to it for weeks.
But when she stepped into the workshop, she took a moment to simply inhale the sharp scents of oiled metal and old leather and forget the demands on her time. For just a moment, here in her—and her father’s former—sanctuary, she was at peace. Exhaling, she rolled her shoulders and smiled.
This room used to be part of the old kitchens before her stepmother’s first husband expanded the inn. It was used as storage before Da married Machara, but he was happy to clean it out and convert it into his own private space. He’d spent his days at Oliphant Engraving overseeing the process by which metal was poured and shaped and filed into firearm components, then engraved with delicate commissioned designs sent all the way from the Prince Armory in America. But in the evenings, Da would settle in here to tinker with his latest machine.
And Ember would join
