Page 40 of A Fragile Enchantment

“Yeah.” Kit dragged a hand through his hair, his voice rough. “Yeah, fine.”

He stalked back to their picnic blanket and slumped down at the base of the tree’s trunk. Dappled shadows rippled across his drawn face, and the breeze swept his dark hair back. He sat perfectly still, radiating a steady aura of regret and self-loathing.

“… gets like this sometimes…” Sinclair’s low voice drifted in and out of Niamh’s focus, carried lightly on the wind. “… a few minutes to calm down…”

Kindness? It’s nothing like that,Kit had told her.My body works faster than my mind.

Wasthiswhat he’d meant? When they’d been interrupted on the balcony that night, his magic had reacted immediately to his surprise, as though it’d been primed for a threat. Concern and frustration needled at her. Kit so clearly believed the worst of himself. But whatever he’d done before he was sent away, whatever it was that plagued him now, it couldn’t be catching.

Tentatively, she approached him. “May I sit here?”

Kit didn’t reply, which she decided to take as permission.

She retrieved the embroidery hoop and settled beside him in the grass. This close, with their shoulders nearly touching, she could feel him trembling. If it would not cause the scandal of the century, she’d rest her hand over his. But perhaps there was something else she could do.

She hadn’t meant to use her craft today after how much she’d abused it to prepare for the ball. But for someone in need, shecould always find something to spare. There was always more of herself to give.

She let her eyes flutter closed and reached deep inside herself. Her magic lay curled up, drowsing, but when she called, it turned toward her like a loyal hound. It came to her, on slow and weary paws. Memories stirred within her. A cool hand against her feverish forehead. Tea pressed into her hands at the end of a long day. The warmth of her blankets on a frigid winter morning. A friend’s arms around her after a crushing disappointment.

Her throat constricted with longing for those small comforts, and she channeled that feeling into thread. It glimmered with golden light in her hands. She embroidered, until Kit’s breathing evened out beside her—until it fell quietly into rhythm with hers.

12

The next morning, before she even dragged herself out of bed, Niamh called for tea and a copy of every popular gossip column in Sootham. She scoured each of them front to back for any sign of her imminent demise, but today’s reports on the royal couple’s picnic were mercifully uninspired.

A mysterious storm brewed over Eye Park early yesterday afternoon,crowed one. Could it be an inauspicious sign?

What sort of gown will our Provincial Beauty design next?asked another.One must wonder if one disgraced Mr. S— will prove a distraction or a muse. Only time will tell, but I, for one, always hope for a redemption story.

No one had noticed her and Kit’s friendship—if it could even be called a friendship at all. Even Lovelace had spared her. They’d focused their attention today onMistress HC—Helen Carlile, shepresumed—an Avlishwoman who’d begun advocating fiercely for the Machlish earlier this year. Yesterday, she’d apparently accosted Jack on his morning ride. Despite the display at the inaugural ball, Lovelace’s pressure, and Carlile’s best efforts, it seemed he had no intention to even consider the protesters’ demands.

What would it take, she wondered, to get him to act?

Niamh sighed fretfully. When she moved aside the newspaper, an envelope slipped out from between the pages. Immediately, she recognized the black wax seal. Finally, Lovelace had replied. With shaking fingers, Niamh tore it open.

Miss Ó Conchobhair,

I understand entirely. I, after all, write anonymously. We all have things we are not willing to risk. Should you change your mind, however, you know how to reach me.

L

She almost wept with relief. She didn’t know what she’d expected. Cruelty? Retaliation? Blackmail? As ridiculous as it was, she couldn’t help but leap to the worst possible conclusion. But now, she was free. As the weight lifted from her, she realized just how exhausted she was. She’d pushed herself too hard yesterday at the park, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret it. When she’d finished her embroidery, she’d looked up to find Kit watching her with something like reverence.

Niamh dragged herself out of bed and went to her vanity. But when she caught a glimpse of her reflection, her next breath did not come. Her freckles stood painfully stark against her wan skin, and her eyes shone a brighter blue against the sleepless red ringing her irises. But that was not what troubled her.

With trembling fingers, she pulled on the lock of silver at her temple, shockingly pale against the black of her hair. Seeminglyovernight, the white had encroached farther, like cold fingers of too-early frost. Still, she couldn’t breathe. Another grain of sand in the hourglass of her life, gone, and she had wasted it playing lawn games. Running amok like achild. She couldn’t be so careless with her time again.

From the moment her symptoms began, her own ghost had begun haunting her. It waited for her, inevitable, a figure at the end of a long, dark corridor. She’d been running for so long now, she dreaded what would happen if she stopped. She couldn’t face all the things that would catch up to her.

No matter what she did, it would never be enough.

Niamh turned sharply away from her reflection. The close air of her room pressed down on her. If she remained confined here much longer, she’d waste half the day on fretting. There was no way to know for certain when she would die, and even if there were, it wasn’t as though she could change anything by worrying.

All she could do was go day by day.

Niamh collected her charcoal and sketchbook and slipped through the door of her bedroom. Her wanderings carried her through the labyrinth of hallways, until she found the doors to the garden terrace. Color-coordinated flower beds formed stark, geometric patterns. A gravel-lined path cut in straight, harsh angles toward a hedge maze. Farther back, a perfectly symmetrical line of trees stood guard against the unruly woods beyond the property line. And at the center of it all, a statue rose from the burbling fountain like a nymph. It stared back at her with its unseeing marble eyes. Everything was measured, clipped, tamed—just as its owner was. Despite all the green, it struck her as lifeless.

“You.”