Page 26 of The Awakening of Ivy Leavold
“Play?”
He opened his eyes. “What they were playing earlier. Blind Man’s Buff.”
I hardly saw how that would alleviate my current discomfort, but I said, “If that is what you would like.”
“I think you’ll find that it is whatyouwould like.”
“Miss Leavold is going to play with us,” Mr. Markham announced as we entered the room once more.
The girls clapped their hands delightedly.
“But I must set down some rules,” he continued.
The girls pouted. He gave them a stern look.
“Gather round. No, not you Miss Leavold. Wait over there.”
They clustered around Mr. Markham, talking in low murmurs, while I stood uncomfortably by myself, feeling excluded from their conference and also feeling trepidatious about the contents of it at the same time. He had said we were going to play Blind Man’s Buff—what could there be to talk about?
The group dispersed and Ned came over to tie the blindfold around my head, knotting it securely. I could hear the people moving about the room, finding hiding spots behind furniture and curtains.
A cool glass pressed against my mouth. “It’s only wine,” Ned said. “To help you relax.”
That didn’t sound so bad. I parted my lips and drank as Ned held the glass for me.
“Have you ever played before?” he asked.
“As a child.”
I could hear the smile in his voice. “Our rules are a little different. You’ll see. But the premise is the same—search for the others. If you can name the person you’ve captured, then they are out of the game. If you cannot name them, then they are free to escape. Are you ready?”
“I suppose.”
“Well then. Best of luck, Miss Leavold.” And Ned’s warm presence was gone.
With the blindfold obscuring my sight, my other senses heightened. I could still taste the wine on my lips, feel the heat from the nearby fire on my back. Shoes shuffled on the carpet as I took a tentative step forward. I could hear the rustling of gowns, the occasional giggle and the ensuingshh.
I reached out a hand, following the noise, using my memory as best I could to navigate around the furniture. My fingertips grazed something—a sleeve—the sleeve of a dinner jacket—and I seized the arm within it and pulled its owner close. I reached up to touch their face, to make an identification, and then I felt lips pressed against mine. Not Mr. Markham’s lips—these were fuller, gentler. I felt myself tense under the unexpected touch—Mr. Markham was watching and I felt some sort of loyalty to him, however misguided that loyalty was.
“It’s okay,” the person whispered. “It’s part of the game.”
The Gallic accent gave him away. “Hugh?” I guessed.
“One for Miss Leavold,” I heard Helene say.
I kept walking, bolstered by this little victory. Arms out, fingers flexed, I ran right into a woman who smelled of something spicy and exotic. I wondered if she would kiss me too, but instead, she wrapped her fingers around mine and placed them against her chest, sliding them down from her breasts to the nip of her waist and then the swell of her hips. The embroidery on her dress scratched against my palms. Who had been wearing an embroidered dress?
“Adella?”
“I am Charlotte,” she said with a throaty giggle.
“What’s the verdict, Markham?” someone asked.
“Relieve her of it,” he answered.
And then a couple pairs of hands spun me around and started tugging at my dress.
“Wait—” I protested feebly.
