Page 74

Sixteen

“Suffering becomes beautiful when anyone bears great calamities with cheerfulness, not through insensibility but through greatness of mind.”

Aristotle

Gwen sat still as stone, her fingers buried in Buttercup’s soft fur, absently stroking the spaniel’s silky head as sorrow dulled her senses. She felt as though she had been hollowed out, the fire in her chest reduced to brittle ash.

Footsteps approached in the corridor. They slowed, then came to a halt just beyond the locked door.

“Gwen?”

His voice.

Lord Aidan Abbott. Her husband. Her betrayer.

Gwen did not respond, nor did she turn her head. A tear slipped down the slope of her cheek, cool against her skin, and she dashed it away with the back of her hand. A part of her wanted to rise and throw open the door. To demand answers. To hear some explanation that might lessen the ache.

But she was not ready.

Her delicate, precious dreams had been crushed, and all she could do was sit amidst the wreckage and mourn.

“I am so sorry, Gwen,” came the muffled voice again. “Please … let me in so we can speak of what happened.”

Buttercup shifted in her lap, lifting her head with a worried whimper, brown eyes searching Gwen’s face for reassurance. Gwen shook her head slowly, whispering, “Not today, girl. Not today.”

“Gwen?”

His voice—low, coaxing—scraped raw along her nerves. How easily he had lied to her, all soft-spoken charm and ardent glances. Aidan Abbott was no hero. He was Hades, spinning poetry as he lured her into the underworld.

And she, Gwendolyn Smythe, the Spotted Giraffe, had been fool enough to believe him.

Footsteps retreated down the corridor. Buttercup huffed quietly and tucked her head against Gwen’s ribs once more.

Outside the window, the storm rolled away in slow procession. Golden light spilled across the floor in stripes, growing more vivid as the clouds thinned. The sky bloomed with color. Dusky violet, burnished rose, fire-bright orange. A wound bleeding beauty into the twilight.

The handle of the door rattled again.

Gwen did not stir.

Then came another knock.

“Gwendolyn Smythe, are you in there?” Octavia’s voice was hushed with worry. “Are you well?”

Gwen remained where she sat, her fingers lost in Buttercup’s silky ears. She offered no answer. The door handle rattled again.

“Let me in. Please. I only wish to know that you are well.”

Still Gwen made no reply. She could not be expected to soothe others when she herself felt splintered down the center. Whatever came next could wait. This moment belonged to grief.

The wreckage of what might have been, the dreams she had dared to nurture, lay strewn about as so much debris in a field after a tempest. She would gather the pieces come morning. But tonight … tonight was for mourning what she had believed was true.

A beat passed. Then another. At last, the gentle echo of retreating steps marked Octavia’s departure.

Darkness embraced the room. The sunset had faded, leaving no trace but a dusky gray. Shadows softened the furniture, and Gwen sat unmoving save for her hand gliding over Buttercup’s warm back. The little dog curled in her lap like an ember of comfort, and Gwen clung to that flicker of warmth with quiet desperation.

She considered rising. Perhaps she ought to light the lamp or change into her night rail. But the effort seemed monumental. Instead, she turned her cheek to the velvet cushions of the chair, letting memory carry her to a time when she had been a girl with a mother who brushed her curls and promised the world held joy and love in abundance.

She longed for her mother’s arms. For the balm of that soothing voice and the scent of lavender water and linen.