I pick at tiny pieces of the scone, eating it slowly. “I had hoped to bargain for Gustin’s freedom—a portrait in exchange for his release.”
“I don’t see your good-for-nothing brother, so I assume you were not successful.”
“I was attacked by goblins on the way to Lord Ambrose’s estate. They destroyed my painting supplies, so when I arrived at the marquis’s house, I was destitute, without a way to even earn my keep.
“Lord Ambrose agreed to take me in and let me work to buy new supplies. He never said he’d free my brother, but we had an arrangement of sorts.”
“What kind of arrangement?” she asks darkly.
Laughing, I wave away her concern. “Not the kind you’re worried about. It was all very right and proper.”
“I still don’t like it.” Then her face softens. “But I’m glad you’re home.”
“He’s been nothing but kind to me,” I assure her. “Wallen and the housekeeper as well.”
“And the rest of his staff?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Let’s not talk about them.”
Mrs. Fletcher laughs, shaking her head as if it’s all too ridiculous to contemplate, and then she nudges the scones my way. “Go on, have another. It sounds like you’ve been starving this whole time. You can tell me more as you eat.”
I don’t mention the loophole Brahm discovered in Gustin’s wager, or that my heart has gotten far more involved than is safe. I don’t tell her about the queen, or the fact Lord Ambrose is actually the eldest prince of West Faerie. But even with omitting all that, Mrs. Fletcher’s scowl becomes darker as I continue my story.
Deciding it’s best to change the subject, I direct the conversation back to her grandchildren, where it stays until Wallen clears his throat in the doorway.
“The wagons are unloaded, Miss Gravely,” Brahm’s valet says solemnly, his expression cooler than it was when he drove Brahm and me into Kellington. Perhaps he’s uncomfortable on this side of the bridge. “We’ll return shortly with another load. The transfer will take the better part of the day. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” I say quickly. “I’m so grateful.”
With a grim smile and a nod, he leaves the room.
Mrs. Fletcher produces a rag from her bundles, and she begins bustling about the kitchen, dusting the workbenches as if desperate for something to do. “So, tell me, when will I meet this Lord Ambrose? Surely he’ll want to introduce himself to his staff.”
“I’m not sure.” I grow worried as I think about Brahm returning home last night. “It might not be until after Year’s End.”
I look out the window, toward the back of the estate. In the distance, past fields and small groves of dormant trees, the thick, tall conifers of Rose Briar Woods rise toward the gray sky.
Never has the river that separates our world and theirs felt so vast.