Page 45 of Summer of Sacrifice

Lord Bardot looked down at the basket in her hands. “Ice and lemons. Ah, you’re preparing for tea time. If you find a free moment, there is something I’d like to show you in my châlet.”

Without waiting for a response, he began to walk away, but turned back, cheeks still pink. “That was not meant to sound ominous. Or lacking propriety.” He offered her a crooked, embarrassed smile and she laughed, attempting to ease his suffering.

“Of course, my lord. My designated downtime is approaching shortly.”

With a small dip of his head, Lord Bardot set off, presumably for his châlet, and Seleste made her way toward the kitchen, grinning to herself.

After laying out her spoils on a cutting board, she set to gathering all that was needed. She told herself her rush was due to the approach of tea time, or because the ice was rapidly melting, but she knew full well it was, at least in part, due to her anticipation of seeing what Lord Bardot had to show her. Items gathered—a sharp knife, sugar, a citrus press, a mallet, and a large carafe—she set to work.

Squeezing lemons into a glass carafe was amongst her favourite memories, not only with her parents and for those who visited within their old coven, but also during that last Summer spent just the Sisters Solstice, hiding away in Drifthollow. Before Prue took her away. Before they all changed.

Carafe full and the sharp scent pushing away the tartness in otherwise sweet memories, Seleste began slicing the remaining two lemons, relishing the task. She set each slice in one glass cup—some of the finest she’d ever handled—and moved on to her next task. She piled the ice in a cheesecloth, then began breaking it apart with a mallet. Once the pieces were chipped into small, nearly crushed bits, she dropped a handful of them in each glass. It would be just enough to chill the lemonade without chunks knocking into anyone’s teeth.

There were three serving trays reserved for tea time and one of them had never been used, not since Seleste’s arrival, anyway. It was a lovely white tray with delicately painted yellow begonias—a perfect pairing to the chilled lemonade. She set each glass on the tray and filled them to the rim, watching with delight as the lemon slices floated to the top and beads of condensation began appearing on the sides.

There was still quite a lot left, and Seleste decided to take Lord Bardot his own serving. She found a glass jar with a lid and filled it to the brim with ice and two lemon pinwheels before pouring the lemonade. His serving was frigid to the point of completely frosting the glass.

“Magie mortelle,” she murmured, screwing on the lid.

She was just placing the carafe of lemonade on the tray as Frances bustled in. “My, my!” the maid crooned, wiping at the sweat dotting her brow. “Chilled lemonade? I dare say it’s so hot out today that you will certainly be her ladyship’s favourite person in all Midlerea.”

Seleste chuckled. “I do hope so.” Thoughts of the ice brought a curiosity back to the forefront of her mind. “Frances, do you know why there is so much meat in the ice house? It seemed a terribly large sum. Is the family planning to be here longer than the Summer?”

Hiding out, perhaps? But from what? She kept those particular thoughts to herself.

Frances’ brows creased as she loaded a towelled basket with blueberry biscuits Liza had baked earlier in the morning before it was far too hot to utilise the stone ovens. “Not that I’m aware of. But I did hear Madame Riley mention something to her ladyship about guests.”

Guests? It was not an uncommon occurrence by any means for the wealthy to invite friends to stay with them at their Summer home, but his lordship was still very ill, and they had been so mum about their identity…

She could ponder that later because another idea had struck her. One that was much more enjoyable. “Would you mind if I took one of those biscuits?”

Frances winked and handed Seleste two.

Chapter

Nine

AGATHA

Wood groaned beneath Agatha’s boots as they walked through the door into their Achlys manor. It was all dark hues and baroque accents, bespoke lamps and myriad novelties. Even just walking into the great room, her breath was taken away by the beautiful art and myriad books stashed absolutely everywhere.

“Je suis chez moi.” The words escaped her in a rush at the same moment she was assaulted with memories, flooding her senses until she thought she would choke on them.

“Papa!” a little voice squealed. “You can’t catch me!” Thanasim ran past, nearly bowling into Asteria. She laughed as she spun out of his way, cradling a tiny babe in her arms. Thanasim pivoted, darting back to plant a kiss on her cheek, then the baby’s head, before launching back into a run. He’d barely made it around the corner into the dining room before two shrieks of surprise and delight erupted.

Agatha clutched her chest. It felt like her ribs were caving in. Grimm came to her side, his hand on her lower back and tears in his eyes.

“It’s such sweet torture, isn’t it?”

Spice. The aroma of peace in Asteria’s mind. It filled their home. The new manor Thanasim had built for them. She watched as he bounced Monarch as she cried, cooing at her until she fell fast asleep, her tiny head on his broad chest.

“Lord Night,” Asteria murmured, delighting in the mischievous grin that spread across his face at her tone. “Everyone is asleep.”

Thanasim gently laid Monarch in her bassinet, rolling it around the corner. “They are indeed.”

He had Asteria in his arms in one swift movement, carrying her to the rug before the hearth and its roaring fire. She was undressed in an instant, and Thanasim was kissing a line down her stomach when she burst out laughing.

He pulled back, bemused. “And what has caused this hilarity?”

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