“It would, Meg. It would please me greatly,” he said, though the words fell flat. “But it will be difficult at first. An adjustment for us both.”
“Yes, sir—papá,” she said, raising her eyes to meet his at the correction, a smile pressing dimples into the corners of her mouth once more.
He froze, still as a rabbit catching scent of a wolf, seeing himself there in the twist of her lips and dimples so deep they seemed to cut straight to the bone. “Now go,” he whispered, watching how she slipped her tiny hand into Maude’s and they trotted away, taking much of the light away with them.
He retreated into his chambers and, closing the door, slid the bolts back into place. A child. He had a child—someone who would go on beyond him and bear some part of him into the future. Someone to carry his name and deeds beyond his eventual demise.
He had his immortality and quite by accident. But she was there. And so very small, so slight and frail and so seemingly ephemeral.
Chapter Five
Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind …
—THE BIBLE
Philadelphia
Down the hallway and up one flight of stairs Laura and Lady Astraea went, the only noises the echo of their shoes on the wooden floor, the sound of breathing, and the occasional strangled sob uttered by Lady Astraea.
Arriving at Lady Astraea’s door, Laura moved to open it, withdrawing when her ladyship reached out as well. “I did not do it, you know,” Lady Astraea said in a strained whisper. “I have never lain with another man. I have never even imagined it.” She wiped clumsily at tears leaking from her eyes. The small bit of makeup she used to color her cheeks in the European fashion smeared on the heel of her hand and she stood a long minute staring at the lace ringing her delicate sleeve and just barely showing the tender white flesh of her wrist.
“I believe you, milady,” Laura assured, pressing down on the door’s handle to pop it open. “Here. In we go.”
Inside, Laura secured the door, moved the fireplace poker, and checked the connecting door. She turned the key in that one’s lock and slid the bolt home.
She set the candles first, eyeing the stormlights with curiosity. She had heard all linked stormlights would extinguish once it was known the family had lost rank. They would be cast into the literal dark as much as their name had been cast into the figurative. While the room now blushed with a cool cast of light, Laura realized she had only ever seen the Astraea rooms illuminated by steady stormlight. The flicker and flare of flame would make everything strange in comparison.
Lady Astraea moved ghostlike across the broad floor to sit on the edge of her bed, fingers smoothing out the small wrinkles in the quilt her mother had helped her make years ago—a quilt that had laid silently in her hope chest until Morgan Astraea came along. She smiled a moment, remembering.
But reality caught her again and she coughed, drawing her arms tight about her shivering body.
“Oh, milady,” Laura cooed. “Have no worries. There is a bit of a chill in the night’s air. I shall build you a fine fire to warm your body and brighten your spirit. Nothing cheers me so much on a grim day,” the girl said, shuffling about the fireplace to set the kindling and find the firestarter, “as a merry fire.”
She arranged the tinder and coaxed a fire to life, humming softly as she did. The humming became enunciated, the words growing clear.
No storm that ever strikes
Shall leave me helpless and afraid
And if darkness lingers heavy
I’ll be fearless and brave
But if ever I am wary
If ever I am scared
I will listen to the wind
For the answer’s always there
The sun burns like an ember
The air is cool and calm
But nothing lasts forever
In this world you must take on
The ground will shake and tremble
As the clouds divide
Rivers flood the land
Lightning parts the sky
When there is no one there to guide you
And no one there to help
Your courage is the key
To freeing yourself
“What is that?” Lady Astraea’s question stopped her.
“What, milady?”
“That tune?”
“Ah, it is called ‘Reeling.’ A play on words, if I am correct. My good father used to sing it to me as he dandled me on his knee. I think I might someday sing it to my own wee one, God grace me with one,” she said with a smile.
Laura picked up the song where she had left off, singing,
The sun burns like an ember
The air is cool and calm
But nothing lasts forever
In this world we must take on
The ground will shake and tremble
As the clouds divide
Rivers flood the land
And lightning parts the sky
When there is no one there to guide you
And no one there to help
Your courage is the key
To freeing yourself
“I remember that song. Though singing of storms is … unseemly stuff. Lower ranks and Witches only, that.” Lady Astraea’s eyes narrowed. “How old are you, girl?”
“Seventeen.”
“And do you have a fellow?”
Laura blushed. “There is a lad who is courting me.”
“Ah, good. Does he treat you well? And you he?”
“Yes, milady. Quite so.” The girl took a rush from the metal container hanging on the wall and lit its tip to start the candles. The room shined with both stormlight and flame. Still not comparable to daylight, but fine nonetheless.
Lady Astraea smoothed her skirts. “Good, good. You may be about your business. You may lock me in for safekeeping.”
“Oh.” Laura blinked. “But…”
“I do not require a nanny. I am simply going to occupy myself here. Read a bit by the fire. Perhaps knit. I will not allow anyone in unless it is Chloe, Cynda, or Lionel.”
Laura ducked her head and bent her knees in a curtsy. “Of course, milady. That sounds fine and good to me.” She pursed her lips and glanced about the room. “Ah,” she said, remembering the poker. “Certainly Chloe would ask me to bring this along…”
Lady Astraea nodded. “Of course. Precautions should be taken so that no one does anything rash.”
Laura smiled. “Yes, milady.” She headed to the door, pausing to address her employer once more. “May I say, milady, it has always been a wondrous treat to serve within your employ. I do so love your family.” Again she curtsied, this time slipping out the door and shutting it.
There was a heartbeat before the key clicked into the lock and the tumblers turned and Lady Astraea knew she was safely ensconced inside. She waited until she heard the girl’s footsteps retreat down the hallway before she pulled out her yarn and began to knit.
To work on a sweater her husband would likely sooner burn than wear.
She muffled a cry in the mesh of knits and purls and, clearing her throat, pulled back up, straight and proud as ever a woman of the Fifth of the Nine could be. For a moment she sat perfectly still but for the slight rise and fall of her chest and the rapid pulse fluttering along her neck.
Haltingly she continued the same song Laura had begun. “No storm that ever strikes, Shall leave me helpless and afraid, And if darkness lingers heavy, I’ll be fearless and brave…”
Then, as memories overtook her and she remembered the words, her confidence grew and so did her volume—just loud enough to make the room feel a little less empty.
The stormlights flickered and for a moment Lady Astraea felt a darkness as black as her now-ruined silhouette. “Be brave,” she whispered before resuming the song as the light returned.