Page 33 of Summer of Sacrifice

In the span between his entrance within the doorway and his first step inside the room, she took note of the dampness of his jacket, as well as traces of mud on his boots. Obviously, he would have traversed through the rain to arrive at the house from his châlet, but it was more than wet shoulders and droplets here or there—the result of a mad dash. No, he was soaked through to the bone.

Surely, he had not been riding since before the rain began, only to be caught in its downpour. It was already coming down quite hard by the time she’d risen, and that was well before the sun.

Lord Bardot paid her no mind and set his book down with a solid thunk on the desk situated in the corner of the room. Lips in a thin line, he dropped into the chair and uncorked the inkwell. As he set to taking notes, Seleste cautiously approached.

“My lord,” she said evenly, “it appears you were caught out in this nasty weather. Would you like for me to build up the fire?”

He looked up at her briefly through his wet lashes, not bothering to lift his head from his notes. Droplets from his sleeve were plopping onto the parchment, much to Seleste’s dismay.

“I was not caught in the rain.”

Clearly, he had been. She could even see stray horse hairs at his wrist, snagged in the buttons there. Was this his attempt to save face as much as it was her attempt to get him to speak to her? “But you are soaked through, milord.”

Lord Bardot never stopped writing but sighed heavily. “Not that it makes any difference to you, but I enjoy riding in the rain.”

A small tremor of surprise went through Seleste. It was a pleasant feeling and one she did not often feel. There was very little that truly surprised her. It was simply too easy to make out all the information beforehand. Often, it was overwhelming. It was the reason she sequestered herself on her isle where there was nothing to observe about other people.

But she’d been wrong about Lord Bardot. He hadn’t misjudged the weather or gone out in the wee hours of the morning before his usual time. He’d kept his schedule and gone out to ride in the rain because he enjoyed it. When she only stood there dumbfounded, he looked at her first with just his eyes again before finally turning in his seat to peer up at her fully, a bewildered look on his face.

“A fire would be nice. Thank you,” he finally said, presumably in an attempt to stop her staring.

He returned to his notes, his brows crinkled together in the middle, while Seleste built up the fire to a nice, steady heat. Rising from in front of the hearth, she gathered her supply basket and decided to return to the drawing room later to complete her dusting. Lord Bardot was clearly in a foul temper, and she would rather observe why that might be prior to attempting an actual conversation again.

Just fucking ask him why he’s such a crotchety arse, Sorscha would say. And Seleste had to suppress a laugh at the thought of her brash Sister Spring. Perhaps she ought to take the phantom advice…

“Are you all right, milord?” She let the words tumble out before she could stop herself.

“Pardon?” He eyed her briefly with a quizzical look before returning his gaze back to his work again.

“It is only that…you always seem to be in a foul temper, and I wanted to ask if you are all right.”

He’d set his quill down in the middle of her sentence and was regarding her with enough intensity to make her want to squirm, though she did not.

“I’m fine.” His tone was even, if not a bit annoyed. “I merely have little tolerance for chit-chat and dull conversation.” Their particular dull conversation was clearly over in his mind, as he took up his quill yet again.

“Very well.” Seleste let her perpetually sunny smile drip into her words, determined not to take the man’s insult. “If you ever have the need to discuss existentialism or something of the like, I’d be happy to oblige.”

His hand stilled over his notes. Slowly, he sat back in his chair. “Existentialism?”

Seleste shrugged, the low knot of her braids tickling the back of her neck with the movement. “I take special interest in the value of mortal existence and the hold that free will has on that value.” Lord Bardot regarded her silently with narrowed, curious eyes. “Enjoy your studies, milord.”

She walked away, wondering if she should have chosen a topic more corporeal, as the textbooks she’d seen in his châlet had all been anatomical in nature, as were the notes he’d been penning. When she reached the door and turned to dip into a curtsy, he was still watching her carefully, but one side of his lips twitched before she left the room.

Chapter

Seven

AGATHA

“Hullo, little ghoul darlings.”

Agatha knelt amongst the whorling shadows that were swishing her skirts, and a giggle blossomed from her. Oddly enough, the Netherrealm felt familiar, in more than just the fact she’d visited it once before—by poisoning herself with nightshade berries in the Spring to make it there.

When she finally stood, Grimm was watching her, his face unreadable. A wistful sorrow filled her veins from him, and her smile faded.

“They remember you,” was all he said.

“They swarmed me when I was here before.”

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