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The sight of her made Ambrose forget whatever thought had been forming.

Marina studied him for a moment, then spoke again, her voice even softer. “Ambrose?”

Then, while his mind still struggled for a response, she took a step closer. Her movement made his breathing heavier, and somewhere inside his mind, the only coherent thought he could manage was painfully simple.

Please, do not come any closer.

“Your belongings have been returned,” he said. “They are being unloaded now.”

“Wonderful. I thank you. I trust your journey was peaceful?”

“As expected,” he replied. She was so beautiful. And she smelled lovely, like vanilla and cinnamon. He wanted to tell her that he’d missed her but he could not bring himself to. His darkness would swallow her light, and her light shone so brightly it would burn him.

“I see. Would you care to join me? I am drinking Negus, the first of the season, and Luna and I are enjoying the fire.”

There was something hopeful in her voice, as if she had indeed expected him. Alas, he could not allow his desire to be near her to win out.

Instead, he stepped back. “No. I am fatigued. I shall rest. I bid you—and your creature—goodnight.”

With that, he hurried away toward his chamber, determined to leave his foolish notions behind.

Seventeen

Ambrose slept late the following day and made sure to avoid her. He did the same the next two days as well.

On the third day, he rose only by mid-afternoon, and he saw that she had been hard at work once more.

Many of the pots he’d retrieved from her ruined cottage had been set out around the house. Two even stood outside his door, as if she were only waiting for him to rise to carry them inside.

What was more, the banister had been decorated with garlands made out of dried leaves, another item he’d brought back. She’d listed ‘bags of dry leaves’ specifically, underlined three times. He’d wondered what they were for. Now he knew.

He’d spent half the day wishing he would run into her, and half dreading it. A peculiar new hobby he’d acquired since her arrival.

Alas, he did not see her. He’d taken dinner alone and returned to his chamber to read, but now, at midnight, he found he

could not sleep at all.

Thus, he decided to see Emma. He’d already visited her once, in the afternoon. He’d had to get one of the footmen to close the curtains for him and he hadn’t stayed very long.

Nighttime was when he preferred to see his niece.

The nursery door opened with a creak, and Ambrose stepped inside, shielding the flame of his candle with one hand. Emma slept in her crib, her small face peaceful beneath the blankets. He leaned over her and smiled.

He had so few memories of his sister Janet. In truth, he had only one clear memory: the dreadful afternoon when he had escaped his rooms to see her as a baby, and his parents and their guests had been horrified by his appearance. Emma looked so like the infant he remembered that sometimes the sight of her hurt.

Ambrose settled into the chair beside the crib and watched her sleep. One day she would ask about her mother. What could he tell her? He knew almost nothing of Janet as a girl, or of the woman she had become. He had lost the chance to learn.

A scratching sound beneath the crib interrupted his thoughts. He bent forward. Two green eyes gleamed from the shadows. Luna. He’d come across the cat at least three times that day. Twice she’d followed the wet nurse with Emma as they went outside, and the third time she’d been in the nursery when he’d stopped by earlier. As if she were standing sentinel for Emma.

“You again,” he murmured. “Are you stalking me? Should you not be keeping company with your mistress?”

Luna crawled out from beneath the crib, stretched her front paws and then her hind legs, and sat down to wash one back paw with elaborate care.

“So graceful,” he muttered.

This had become their habit since the wedding. Ambrose visited Emma after dark, when he could be certain the nursery curtains were drawn. If she was awake, he spoke to her or read aloud. If she slept, he sat quietly and kept her company. Each night, Luna appeared beneath the crib, as though she had appointed herself the child’s guardian.

Against what, Ambrose could not imagine. Perhaps the cat considered him the danger. Still, she had not hissed at him since their first meeting at the cottage. He was not entirely comfortable with her, but he had begun to suspect that she meant Emma no harm.