Page 120 of Caging Darling

“We apologize for our tardiness,” says the woman, rubbing her light brown hands against the tops of her thighs, wrinkling her fine russet skirts. She addresses the Nomad quickly beforeglancing away and shifting closer to her husband, a pale man whose build I can’t help but think would not do his wife much good if the Nomad wished them any harm.

“Indeed,” says the thin man, straightening to his full height at his wife’s timid touch. “Our carriage driver experienced a dizzy spell on the way to the docks.”

“No need to apologize,” says the Nomad, gesturing them to their seats—the man’s beside Peter, the woman’s next to mine. “So long as you brought the information you promised.”

The couple glances at one another, then both take their seats, the man muttering, “Of course.”

Next to me, the woman trembles in her seat, so I lean over and whisper, “He won’t hurt you unless you give him a reason to.”

I’m not certain these are the most comforting words I could have chosen, but I’d rather err of the side of truth. Still, the woman appears grateful, nodding to me silently as her shoulders soften.

As the servants bring the first course, a steaming mutton broth, the Nomad claps his hands. “Well, no reason to bother with small talk. Lord and Lady Swindle here claim to have useful information regarding the Whittaker Manor.”

Lord Swindle hardly swallows his spoonful of broth before speaking, leaving his voice sounding gargled. “The windows—they’re enchanted. Lord Whittaker had the spells performed by a mage years ago.”

“And why would he do that?” asks the Nomad.

“Because he’s a paranoid old man,” says Lady Swindle, surprising the table with her interjection.

“I suppose he has a reason to be,” muses Astor next to me.

“How do you know the windows are enchanted?” asks the Nomad.

“I was betrothed to Lord Whittaker’s son,” says Lady Swindle. “My family’s wealth is self-made, and though Lord Whittaker was pleased with my dowry, he was suspicious of my background. My mother is Imenian, and he got it into his head that she might be summoning spirits to whisper into his ear at night, convincing him to agree to the betrothal.”

“So rather than end his son’s betrothal with you, he had his windows enchanted to keep spirits from leaking through the cracks?” says Peter.

“As I said, my dowry was difficult to dismiss,” says the lady, her husband nodding in agreement.

“Yet the betrothal ended anyway?” I say.

The lady nods. “My parents aren’t like most of the nobility. They were eager to find me a suitable match, but not at the cost of my happiness. After meeting Lord Whittaker’s son and finding him to be just as awful as his father, my parents ended the agreement.”

“For which I’m eternally grateful,” says her husband, smiling at her softly from across the table.

Even in her distress, Lady Swindle blushes.

Underneath the table, a hand brushes mine. I suck in a breath, which has the Nomad asking me if something smells awry.

“No, not at all,” I say quickly as Peter’s brows raise in suspicion from across the table.

“In fact,” says Astor, nodding toward the sheathes of dried lavender that decorate the table, “Darling loves the smell of lavender.”

Heat creeps up my neck, Peter’s attention homing in on my blotchy skin.

“I’m shocked you remember such a detail, all this time after you betrayed her,” says Peter.

“In case you’re forgetting,” says Astor, “I got to know Darling quite well during her time with me.”

Peter’s smile is poison. “Perhaps. But you never did take her to bed, did you? So I suppose there are some things I know that you don’t.”

Astor’s tanned skin drains of color. He looks at me, just the swiftest glance. My heart climbs to my throat, my blood into my cheeks. I open my mouth to deny it, but what am I to say that wouldn’t be a lie? It’s confirmation enough, and he clears his throat, straightening.

“Yes, well, some of us had the good sense not to bed our prisoner, lest there be a conflict of interest in her agreeing to it,” says Astor through almost-closed teeth.

Peter stands from his seat, arms crossed, wings flexing behind him. They fill up the space behind him, making him look colossal. “You think I forced her into it,” says Peter, like the idea is humorous.

Now it’s my turn for my cheeks to drain of color.

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