Passion (12 page)

“I don’t think so, I’m afraid.”

He’d made it to the door by then, and was parting the curtain on the window to see if Cam was stil outside. He was.

Cam’s back was to the shop, and he was making animated gestures, tel ing some fabricated story in which he was surely the hero. He could turn around at the slightest provocation. Then Daniel would be caught.

“Please, sir—stop.” Lucinda hurried toward Daniel. “Who are you? I think I know you. Please. Wait.” He’d have to take his chances on the street. He could not stay here with Lucinda. Not when she was acting like this. Not when she was fal ing in love with the wrong version of himself. He’d lived this life before, and this was not how it had happened. So he had to flee.

It kil ed Daniel to ignore her, to go away from Lucinda when everything in his soul was tel ing him to turn around and y right back to the sound of her voice, to the embrace of her arms and the warmth of her lips, to the spel binding power of her love.

He yanked the shop door open and ed down the street, running at the sunset, running for al he was worth. He did not care at al what it looked like to anyone else in town. He was running out the fire in his wings.

SEVEN

SEVEN

SOLSTICE

HELSTON, ENGLAND • JUNE 21, 1854

Łuce’s hands were scalded and splotchy and tender to the bone.

Since she’d arrived at the Constances’ estate in Helston three days before, she’d done lit le more than wash an endless pile of dishes. She worked from sunrise to sunset, scrubbing plates and bowls and gravy boats and whole armies of silverware, until, at the end of the day, her new boss, Miss McGovern, laid out supper for the kitchen sta : a sad plat er of cold meat, dry hunks of cheese, and a few hard rol s. Each night, after dinner, Luce would fal into a dreamless, timeless sleep on the at ic cot she shared with Henriet a, her fel ow kitchen maid, a bucktoothed, straw-haired, bosomy girl who’d come to Helston from Penzance.

The sheer amount of work was astonishing.

How could one household dirty enough dishes to keep two girls working twelve hours straight? But the bins of food-caked plates kept arriving, and Miss McGovern kept her beady eyes xed on Luce’s washbasin. By Wednesday, everyone at the estate was buzzing about the solstice party that evening, but to Luce, it only meant more dishes. She stared down at the tin tub of scuzzy water, ful of loathing.

“This is not what I had in mind,” she mut ered to Bil , who was hovering, always, on the rim of the cupboard next to her washtub. She stil wasn’t used to being the only one in the kitchen who could see him. It made her nervous every time he hovered over other members of the staf , making dirty jokes that only Luce could hear and no one—besides Bil —ever laughed at.

“You children of the mil ennium have absolutely no work ethic,” he said. “Keep your voice down, by the way.” Luce unclenched her jaw. “If scrubbing this disgusting soup tureen had anything to do with understanding my past, my work ethic would make your head spin. But this is pointless.” She waved a cast iron skil et in Bil ’s face. Its handle was slick with pork grease. “Not to mention nauseating.”

Luce knew her frustration didn’t have anything to do with the dishes. She probably sounded like a brat. But she’d barely been above ground since she’d started working here. She hadn’t seen Helston Daniel once since that rst glimpse in the garden, and she had no idea where her past self was. She was lonely and listless and depressed in a way she hadn’t been since those awful early days at Sword & Cross, before she’d had Daniel, before she’d had anyone she could truly count on.

She’d abandoned Daniel, Miles and Shelby, Arriane and Gabbe, Cal ie, and her parents—al for what? To be a scul ery maid? No, to unravel this curse, something she didn’t even know whether she was capable of doing. So Bil thought she was being whiny. She couldn’t help it. She was inches away from a breakdown.

“I hate this job. I hate this place. I hate this stupid solstice party and this stupid pheasant souf lé—”

“Lucinda wil be at the party tonight,” Bil said suddenly. His voice was infuriatingly calm. “She happens to adore the Constances’ pheasant sou é.” He it ed up to sit cross-legged on the countertop, his head twisting a creepy 360 degrees around his neck to make sure the two of them were alone.

“Lucinda wil be there?” Luce dropped the skil et and her scrub brush into the sudsy tub. “I’m going to talk to her. I’m get ing out of this kitchen, and I’m going to talk to her.”

Bil nodded, as if this had been the plan al along. “Just remember your position. If a future version of yourself had popped up at some boarding school party of yours and told you—”

“I would have wanted to know,” Luce said. “Whatever it was, I would have insisted on knowing everything. I would have died to know.”

“Mmm-hmm. Wel .” Bil shrugged. “Lucinda won’t. I can guarantee you that.”

“That’s impossible.” Luce shook her head. “She’s … me.”

“Nope. She’s a version of you who has been reared by completely di erent parents in a very di erent world. You share a soul, but she’s nothing like you. You’l see.” He gave her a cryptic grin. “Just proceed with caution.” Bil ’s eyes shot toward the door at the front of the large kitchen, which swung open abruptly. “Look lively, Luce!”

He plunked his feet into the washtub and let out a raspy, contented sigh just as Miss McGovern entered, pul ing Henriet a by the elbow.

The head maid was listing the courses for the evening meal.

“After the stewed prunes…,” she droned.

On the other side of the kitchen, Luce whispered to Bil . “We’re not finished with this conversation.” His stony feet splashed suds onto her apron. “May I advise you to stop talking to your invisible friends while you’re working? People are going to think you’re crazy.”

“I’m beginning to wonder about that myself.” Luce sighed and stood straight, knowing that was al she was going to get out of Bil , at least until the others had left.

“I’l expect you and Myrtle to be in tip-top shape this evening,” Miss McGovern said loudly to Henriet a, sending a quick glare back at Luce.

Myrtle. The name Bil had made up on her let ers of reference.

“Yes, miss,” Luce said flatly.

“Yes, miss!” There was no sarcasm in Henriet a’s reply. Luce liked Henriet a wel enough, if she overlooked how badly the girl needed a bath.

Once Miss McGovern had bustled out of the kitchen and the two girls were alone, Henriet a hopped up on the table next to Luce, swinging her black boots to and fro. She had no idea that Bil was sit ing right beside her, mimicking her movements.

“Fancy a plum?” Henriet a asked, pul ing two ruby-colored spheres from her apron pocket and holding one out to Luce.

What Luce liked most about the girl was that she never did a drop of work unless the boss was in the room. They each took a bite, grinning as the sweet juice trickled from the sides of their mouths.

“Thought I heard you talking to someone else in here before,” Henriet a said. She raised an eyebrow. “Have you got yourself a fel ow, Myrtle? Oh, please don’t say it’s Harry from the stables! He’s a rot er, he is.” Just then, the kitchen door swung open again, making both girls jump, drop their fruit, and pretend to scrub the nearest dish.

Just then, the kitchen door swung open again, making both girls jump, drop their fruit, and pretend to scrub the nearest dish.

Luce was expecting Miss McGovern, but she froze when she saw two girls in beautiful matching white silk dressing gowns, squealing with laughter as they tore through the filthy kitchen.

One of them was Arriane.

The other—it took Luce a moment to place her—was Annabel e. The hot-pink-headed girl Luce had met for just a moment at Parents’ Day, al the way back at Sword & Cross. She’d introduced herself as Arriane’s sister.

Some sister.

Henriet a kept her eyes down, as if this game of tag through the kitchen were a normal occurrence, as if she might get in trouble if she even pretended to see the two girls—who certainly didn’t see either Luce or Henriet a. It was like the servants blended in with the lthy pots and pans.

Or else Arriane and Annabel e were just laughing too hard. As they squeezed past the pastry-making table, Arriane grabbed a stful of flour from the marble slab and tossed it in Annabel e’s face.

For half a second, Annabel e looked furious; then she started laughing even harder, grabbing a fistful herself and casting it at Arriane.

They were gasping for air by the time they barreled through the back door, out to the smal garden, which led to the big garden, where the sun actual y shone and where Daniel might be and where Luce was dying to fol ow.

Luce couldn’t have pinned down what she was feeling if she’d tried—shock or embarrassment, wonder or frustration?

Al of it must have shown on her face, because Henriet a eyed her knowingly and leaned in to whisper, “That lot arrived last night.

Someone’s cousins from London, in town for the party.” She walked over to the pastry table. “They nearly wrecked the strawberry pie with their antics. Oh, it must be lovely, being rich. Maybe in our next lives, hey, Myrtle?”

“Ha.” It was al Luce could manage.

“I’m o to set the table, sadly,” Henriet a said, cradling a stack of china under her eshy pink arm. “Why not have a handful of our ready to toss, just in case those girls come back this way?” She winked at Luce and pushed the door open with her broad behind, then disappeared into the hal way.

Someone else appeared in her place: a boy, also in a servant’s out t, his face hidden behind a giant box of groceries. He set them down on the table across the kitchen from Luce.

She started at the sight of his face. At least, having just seen Arriane, she was a lit le more prepared.

“Roland!”

He twitched when he looked up, then col ected himself. As he walked toward her, it was her clothes Roland couldn’t stop staring at. He pointed at her apron. “Why are you dressed like that?”

Luce tugged at the tie on her apron, pul ing it of . “I’m not who you think I am.” He stopped in front of her and stared, turning his head rst slightly to the left, then to the right. “Wel , you’re the spit ing image of another girl I know. Since when do the Biscoes go slumming in the scul ery?”

“The Biscoes?”

Roland raised an eyebrow at her, amused. “Oh, I get it. You’re playing at being someone else. What are you cal ing yourself?”

“Myrtle,” Luce said miserably.

“And you are not the Lucinda Biscoe to whom I served that quince tart on the terrace two days ago?”

“No.” Luce didn’t know what to say, how to convince him. She turned to Bil for help, but he had disappeared even from her view. Of course. Roland, fal en angel that he was, would have been able to see Bil .

“What would Miss Biscoe’s father say if he saw his daughter down here, up to her elbows in grease?” Roland smiled. “It’s a ne prank to pul on him.”

“Roland, it is not a—”

“What are you hiding from up there, anyhow?” Roland jerked his head toward the garden.

A tinny rumbling in the pantry at Luce’s feet revealed where Bil had gone. He seemed to be sending her some kind of signal, only she had no idea what it was. Bil probably wanted her to keep her mouth shut, but what was he going to do, come out and stop her?

A sheen of sweat was visible on Roland’s brow. “Are we alone, Lucinda?”

“Absolutely.”

He cocked his head at her and waited. “I don’t feel that we are.”

The only other presence in the room was Bil . How could Roland sense him when Arriane had not?

“Look, I’m real y not the girl you think I am,” Luce said again. “I am a Lucinda, but I—I’m here from the future—it’s hard to explain, actual y.” She took a deep breath. “I was born in Thunderbolt, Georgia … in 1992.”

“Oh.” Roland swal owed. “Wel , wel .” He closed his eyes and started speaking very slowly: “And the stars in the sky fel to the earth, like figs blown of a tree in a gale …”

The words were cryptic, but Roland recited them soulful y, almost like he was quoting a favorite line from an old blues song. The kind of song she’d heard him sing at a karaoke party back at Sword & Cross. In that moment, he seemed like the Roland she knew back home, as if he’d slipped out of this Victorian character for a lit le while.

Only, there was something else about his words. Luce recognized them from somewhere. “What is that? What does that mean?” she asked.

The cupboard rat led again. More loudly this time.

“Nothing.” Roland’s eyes opened and he was back to his Victorian self. His hands were tough and cal used and his biceps were larger than she was used to seeing them. His clothes were soaked with sweat against his dark skin. He looked tired. A heavy sadness fel over Luce.

“You’re a servant here?” she asked. “The others—Arriane—they get to run around and … But you have to work, don’t you? Just because you’re—”

“Black?” Roland said, holding her gaze until she looked away, uncomfortable. “Don’t worry about me, Lucinda. I’ve su ered worse than mortal fol y. Besides, I’l have my day.”

“It gets bet er,” she said, feeling that any reassurance she gave him would be trite and insubstantial, wondering if what she said was real y true. “People can be awful.”