“Have I done something to offend you?” Cal blurts out.
She startles, then answers softly, “No. I am not upset with you. I am not upset with you at all.” Her eyes well up with tears.
“Would it help to talk about it?” he asks.
“I . . .”
The front door flies open and bangs against a column near the doorway. Duchess Girt descends upon them like a hurricane of hoopskirts, making Cal feel stifled even though they’re standing in such a cavernous space. Forget the hurricane, she reminds him of an enormous confection, piled with frosting, her hat the cake topper. That’s all he can picture now: a talking dessert.
“Hello, hello!” she calls. “Did you miss me?”
“Very much!” he says smoothly. “How was your trip?”
“Oh! Don’t ask. The country is so boring. Nobody who is anybody was there at all! The duke spent all his time in stuffy meetings and I sat around doing needlepoint, of all things. I missed an opera, a night at the theater, and the king had another reception, I’m told.” She puts the dog she has been holding down. It runs off into the house, probably to chew up Cal’s boot again.
Cal’s suspicions are raised doubly. The aristocracy descends on the countryside only after the fall social season is over, so whatever drew the duke away must have been important. And if the duke is the conspirator . . . ? Cal glances at Shadow and wonders if she has the same thought as he does, but she is only watching the dog as it scampers down the hallway.
Duke Girt walks in, followed by a team of footmen overloaded with luggage. He walks right past them without saying hello, disappearing down the hall. They hear the door to his study shut and lock.
“That all goes up to my room,” the duchess says about the luggage. The staff begins marching up the stairs with all of it.
Another footman enters, holding a single trunk. “That goes in the duke’s room,” Duchess Girt tells him.
“Yes, my lady,” he says, following the others.
“Everything ready for the party, I hope?” she asks, while smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt from traveling. She looks them both up and down and grimaces. Without her influence, they both reverted back to their own simpler wardrobes.
“Yes indeed,” Shadow says. “Cal saw the tailor this morning, before you came back. Isn’t that right?” She looks at him.
“That’s right,” he says. The tone of her voice . . . something is peculiar about it. Or maybe it is just the mood. It’s odd hearing her sound so distant.
“Excellent,” the duchess says, clapping her hands together. “What are you planning to do tonight, Lord Holton?” She looks at him expectantly.
“I was up very early this morning; I’m afraid I’m already incredibly tired. I was planning to go to bed.”
She tsks. “That’s too bad. Of course, now that I think of it, I’m tuckered out myself. Traveling does that, doesn’t it? In any case, we should save our energy for the party—there will be no sleep that night! Isn’t that right, Lady Lila?”
Shadow smiles sweetly at the duchess. “Yes, my lady, no sleep at all.”
* * *
CAL DECIDES TO ASK Shadow directly what is the matter. If he hasn’t done anything wrong, why does he feel as if he’s being punished? Why did she go from being his friend, his partner, kissing him, to ignoring him? If she’s decided she wants him out of her life and for him to have nothing to do with her, fine. But he has to know.
He takes a deep breath and raises his hand. Lowers it. Turns to walk away. No—you need to know. Before he loses his nerve he knocks on the door.
No response.
He knows she’s in there. And that she recognizes his knock. He tries again.
The door opens. A lady’s maid stands there. “The lady is indisposed at the moment, my lord,” she says.
Cal peeks into the room. Shadow is sitting on an upholstered chair in front of the mirrored vanity, wearing a floral-print satin robe, her short bobbed hair wrapped in tubes of various sizes. She locks eyes with him for a second before they dart away. She pinches the bridge of her nose. “It’s all right, Cornylia. Let him in.”
Let him in. As if she’ll merely tolerate him. That, of all things this past week, hurts the most.
She puts on rouge in the mirror while he waits, clasping his hands in front of him, to be addressed. Then she puts down the feathered puff on the vanity tray and looks up at him.
“Shall we have the first dance? Surely as guests of honor, we can claim that?” he says with a smile, trying to lighten the mood.
He waits for her customary quip. Instead she says, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
The sadness in her voice is like a punch in the stomach. “Why?”
“I can’t say. Not yet.”
“Then when?” This is agony. He lowers his voice. “What am I to do? How do I continue, not knowing what’s happening with you?”
Shadow’s expression remains impassive, but a tear slides down her cheek. She quickly wipes it away. Takes a deep breath. “Your orders haven’t changed, Cal, but mine have.”
“And you can’t share them with me?”
She looks down at her lap. “No,” she says so quietly that he almost can’t hear.
The silence between them stretches for an age. Shadow won’t look him in the eye, and Cal feels dread in his heart and a temporary weakness in his knees. All his dreams turn to ashes in his mouth. There is no future here; she has withdrawn from him. She is a closed door and he is out in the cold.
Without another word, he walks out, the door swinging closed behind him. “Excuse me, sir!” the lady’s maid exclaims when he passes, despite the fact that he bumped into her and not the other way around. She hurries back into the room as he walks away.
His first thought: I’m not attending this party. His second thought: Of course I am. I’m Caledon Holt. I am the Queen’s Assassin. He feels particularly murderous tonight.
His third thought: This is why I vowed never to fall in love.
* * *
CAL WAITS UNTIL THE revelry is in full swing—and he’s had a few drinks—before making his appearance. It’s not as grand as the Small Ball at the palace, but it’s impressive nonetheless, and the crowd is substantial. He’ll give Duchess Girt credit for that. She knows how to throw a party. And the Montrician nobles know how to show up.
Speaking of Duchess Girt . . . He spots her standing near a table of sweets, talking to some of her friends, other aristocratic women donning the same elaborate costumes and garish makeup—white faces, bright red mouths, pink rouge, sharp eyebrows.