Page 11 of Summer of Sacrifice

Heat licked up Seleste’s neck until she could feel it in the tips of her ears. Despite the playful teasing of her Sisters, she was not so much a prude as she was selective and kept her intimacies…intimate. Perhaps she should have explored what Bast had to offer along their journey.

“Thank you kindly, Bast.” She lifted her chin, a wide smile stretching across her face. “But the family in that house will most assuredly hire me.”

If they didn’t, she would stoop to influencing them. Never mind that it was forbidden. She wasn’t perfect, for goddess’ sake.

“Then let us get you inside and out of this heat.”

Seleste made no argument with that. A longing for her temperate, perfect isle lodged itself deep within her bosom once more. But she had an Order to fulfil, and whining was unbecoming. She threw her shoulders back, her sunny smile setting her face in amiable cheerfulness. “Now or never, monsieur.”

Bast chuckled, leading the way to the imposing front door, her luggage in tow. “I’m still up for never if you are.” He looked over his shoulder and winked. “These aristocratic families can be awfully stuffy. Say the word, and we’ll turn around. Go back to that pub in the inn.”

In another scenario, she might have taken him up on that offer. In their limited interaction over the last few days, she had easily deduced that this coachman bore gentleness alongside a sense of ease roughed-up, just at the edges. Presumably, this was the result of a less-than-easy life. Bast was most likely the type never to worry because there was always something to worry about and never fully serious because life had always been too serious.

As he set her luggage down and knocked on the great oak door of Whitehall, Seleste let herself ponder what it would be like to flit away with someone like him.

“What will you do when you leave here?”

Bast turned, the grin he cast her over his shoulder infectious. “I’ll go to Rochbury, as I said. But I think I’ll spend some time there.” He winked at her again. “You never know who might need to run away from a place like Whitehall.”

Wood groaned and hinges sang as the door to the château opened, drawing both their attention. A rail-thin woman stood before them. Three of the tiny woman wouldn’t have equalled Seleste’s curvacious size, and she blocked the entrance insufficiently. Taking one look at them, her face dropped into a scowl.

“How can I help you?” she said, her voice betraying how very little she wanted to be of any sort of help. “Did your carriage break down? We have no room for guests, and our stable is full.”

Seleste gently nudged Bast to the side, pushing forward toward the brusque woman. “Good afternoon, madame. I am here in response to the advert in the papers. Your need for a maid who does not hail from Merveille.” She put a hand to her chest and smiled. “I am Seleste, from Drifthollow.” A half-truth, considering she had not lived there but three moons a hundred and fifty years ago and had only elected to travel from there on this occasion so as not to lie fully.

The responding silence stung a bit—like the tightening of the skin after too long in the sun—as the woman looked her up and down with distaste. Alas, Seleste was used to such lingering looks, and her smile remained. Ignorance was a fatal flaw she was all too familiar with to let it rattle her any longer. It had long reared its ugly head in the hanging of witches, the burning of alchemy texts, or the oppression of those deemed lesser because of their skin colour or social standing.

“Madame Riley,” a voice spoke from behind the door, breaking the tense silence. “Who is there?”

The older woman ran a hand down her aproned front, flustered, and opened the door wider. “‘tis someone responding to the advert about servants for the château this Summer, my lady.”

Out of the shadows stepped a woman so refined and elegant that Seleste might have thought her royalty. Madame Riley bled back into the shadows as the other woman glided forward. Her white day dress was sprinkled with almost imperceptible sprigs of pink, the exact shade of her lips and rosy cheeks. She smiled beautifully, and Seleste thought perhaps she was a Summer nymph instead.

“What a lovely surprise. I was told by the agency that no one would be here until tomorrow to interview for the position. Come, come,” she said, waving them forward. “Leonard there will take the luggage.”

She pointed toward a quiet young man in an expensive livery, and Bast quickly handed off the luggage. With a murmured farewell and a dip of his chin, he was out the door, and Madame Riley shut it behind him. A brief sadness passed through Seleste at their abrupt parting.

“Come, then,” the Summer nymph said, “I’ll show you to the parlour and bring in refreshments.”

“My lady,” Madame Riley clucked, “you needn’t do my job for me.”

Seleste silently observed, sifting through the loudness already filling her senses. She couldn’t have stopped it if she’d tried. Which, of course, she did not try to do.

Madame Riley lacked confidence in her position, which led Seleste to believe she’d had difficulty in her life, understanding that other people’s choices and reactions did not always equate to dissatisfaction with her. My lady still had not introduced herself, a great faux pas amongst the beau monde, and Seleste wondered what it was she felt the need to hide in doing so. Leonard, stiff as a board and holding her luggage, was a doormat. Someone everyone in his life walked all over, even if unintentionally.

If the Grimoire had not been what brought her to Whitehall, Seleste’s first target would have been Leonard—to help him see his worth and find his voice. He had far too many years left in his young life to continue living as he did. Then, she would have moved on to Madame Riley, who had similar insecurities, but they were all tangled up with pride. A messy business to unravel, indeed…

Seleste mentally cursed herself. She would not meddle. She would not get involved.

“Nonsense, Madame Riley,” the lady of the house was saying. “You have hardly half a staff at present, and I can certainly lend a hand until the others are sent along by the agency in Merveille. Besides, my husband is feeling ill, and I’d like to take him tea myself.” She began walking briskly down the corridor, the gold strands in her brown hair gleaming as she passed all the open windows letting in the glowing afternoon sun.

Madame Riley scurried after her, and Seleste began to do the same, but Leonard still stood there like a statue. “Madame Riley,” Seleste called tentatively.

When the woman turned around, Seleste discreetly tilted her head toward Leonard. Madame Riley scowled and whispered something—most likely foul—under her breath before her eyes went wide for her slip of the tongue, and she darted a look behind her at her mistress, who was already gone.

“Leonard,” Madame Riley snapped, stomping back toward them, “take the luggage to the Yellow Room, as Mademoiselle–eh–” She looked at Seleste. “What was it?”

“Seleste, ma’am.”

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