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Even though she was still chilled from the morning air, Fia’s cheeks warmed at the thought of how gently she’d woken him only yesterday, her lips pressed to his.
Never again.
Before she could brush past him, he spoke, as if the night hadn’t separated them and ended the conversation. “Will you let me tell you the rest?”
Fia had, of course, spent much of the night fuming over his lies when she wasn’t grappling over the thought of her mother writing curses, unable to understand his betrayal and wanting to rip the answers out of him, but she couldn’t bring herself to say yes to him. She was angry, and worse, she was hurt.
“No.”
Very deliberately, she strode out of the room. Fia thought Andromeda would come with her, but evidently, she’d stayed to hear him out. Or tell him off.
Through the door, Fia overheard Andromeda’s firm voice. “What were you thinking?”
Penbrook groaned, as though he realized he hadn’t been thinking at all. He mumbled something, then said more clearly, “… was searching for the thief. I thought she’d report me if she knew I had the grimoire.”
“She wouldn’t have,” Andromeda said, coming swiftly to Fia’s defense.
“No, maybe she wouldn’t, but I didn’t know that then. We were strangers. Anyway, the longer I went without telling her, the worse it would have been if I did. It was my fault the Cloaks suspected her.” He paused, then wretchedly said, “She would have despised me.”
“Accomplished.”
“Andromeda, you’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to. You made everything immeasurably worse, and so complicated. We went all the way to Bramble and then you had Fia goose chase through the manor for a book that wasn’t even there. Or rather, that you planted there while we were dancing to pass off blame. I’m almost sorry for Sebastian Smith.”
“Don’t be,” Penbrook said without hesitation. “He must be responsible for the ruin of curses, and he has her mother’s spellbook. That’s what I’d hoped we’d find for Fia at the Willows.”
It took Fia a moment to process what he meant, and when she did, her stubbornness gave way to outrage.
“You knew Sebastian had my mother’s book?” Fia cried, stalking back into the kitchen and not caring at all that she’d exposed her eavesdropping. “And you kept that from me too?”
Penbrook flinched at the sudden sight of her. But Andromeda wore the glimmer of a smile, as if she’d suspected Fia had been standing on the other side of the door all along.
“I’m sorry.” Penbrook’s eyes darkened remorsefully. “I should have told you, but when I didn’t find your mother’s spellbook that night, I thought maybe I’d gotten the spell wrong. And… I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
“What spell?”
He squirmed under her gaze. “The looking spell.”
That day at Fortune’s End, when he’d claimed to be searching for The Book of Ribs and had sketched the Willows, he must have been seeking her mother’s spellbook instead—because he couldn’t risk his own spell showing that he possessed the stolen grimoire. Just as he’d been so charming that day the Cloaks had shown up at the door, insisting they leave. Not for Fia’s benefit, but for his own. If Rowen Fallow had searched the spellshop, Penbrook would have been caught then and there.
“I wanted—”
“It’s not about what you wanted.” Andromeda glowered at Penbrook.
Penbrook wasn’t listening to Andromeda, though, and he wasn’t looking at her either. He had eyes only for Fia, and they were dark with desperation. “I know I’ve made a mess of things, but the very last thing I wanted was for you to be looking at me the way you are now.”
Fia tilted her head. “You should be more worried about what I’m thinking.”
He flinched, as if she’d cut him right to the heart. “Fia—”
“It doesn’t matter.” Okay, maybe now she was the one lying, but it felt better to pretend it was the truth. “Just… let me be.”
Penbrook hesitated, then, in defeat, he swallowed the rest of his words. And watched as she left the room.
Fia, however, couldn’t avoid him for long. They still had Montrose’s party to attend, and there was no leaving Penbrook back at the spellshop. He was the one who needed a peek at the invitation to the masque in order to mirror it.
So now she sat uncomfortably beside him, because Grace had made an entire seating arrangement. Instead of planning an ordinary picnic with blankets casually spread on the ground where one might avoid whomever they liked, Grace had overtaken one of the gazebos in Lorelei Park and spent the morning decorating its edges with a garland of gold and russet leaves. Beneath it, one long table stretched its length, adorned with autumn flowers and set with pretty ivory plates and mugs for cocoa or hot apple cider. Grace had draped the thirteen chairs with cozy blankets. Even though the day was clear and bright, there was a bite to the late October air. Among the scattering of leaves down the table’s long center sat trays of toasted sandwiches and a steaming pot of butternut squash soup. A tall chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and chocolate curls rested in the table’s center, probably baked by Norie.
