SABINE
I trace the scar on the inside of my hand with the tip of my finger, wincing as I remember the searing pain of the copper against my skin.
“Sabine?” Alice says as she steps into the sitting room, holding up a triangle of cream lace. “I found this shawl on a bench in the garden. Is it yours?”
I quickly lower my hand, not wanting my brother’s wife to catch me looking at it. “It’s not mine. Have you asked Regina?”
Alice frowns at the lightweight fabric. “I haven’t seen her.”
I wait in silence, hoping she’ll leave. Alice is nice enough, and she saved my life just a few months ago, but her connection to our family is a strange one. I always feel mildly uncomfortable around her.
“I’ll check in the conservatory,” she says absently, turning to leave. Suddenly, she stops and looks back at me. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I answer, my tone a little sharp. “Why?”
Alice’s eyebrows fly up, but she quickly recovers from her surprise. “No reason.”
Forcing a smile, I add, “I was lost in thought, that’s all.”
Her expression softens, and she nods as she leaves. But five minutes later, Brahm strolls into the room, looking like he wants to talk.
“I didn’t mean to snap at your wife,” I tell him, preparing myself for a lecture.
My brother sits in a chair across from me, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Alice didn’t mention you snapping. She said you seem upset.”
“I’m not.”
“Good—you’re taking a holiday. You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself.”
I roll my eyes as I stand and walk to the window, staring at the gardens. The wild roses are in full bloom at the edge of the property.
They’re always flowering, as it’s always spring in West Faerie. I’ve never seen winter, summer, or autumn.
It’s been spring every day of my life.
“I’ve been here less than a week, and I’m already bored to death,” I say to Brahm. “Whatever do you do here? Besides donning a mask and pretending to be a highwayman.”
“I haven’t worn a mask since the last masquerade,” he laughs.
It was the first one since Mother succumbed to her own curse. It was also the first I’ve ever enjoyed.
“You could walk the gardens,” he suggests.
“I’ve done that already.”
“Read a book?”
I make a noncommittal noise.
“I’m sure Alice would let you paint with her.”
I roll my eyes at the idea, and Brahm laughs again.
“Or,” I say carefully, studying a butterfly as it lazily wings its way through the flower beds, “we could go into Kellington?”
“Sabine.” Brahm’s voice changes, becoming stern. “You know we cannot.”
“Says whom?” I demand, looking back at him. “Mother? Last time I checked, she was unconscious.”