Page 131 of Bound By Crimson
Mrs. Thornwick continued. “You know, when I first met Malachai’s father, he used to write me letters. Actual letters. Ink on paper. There’s a power in waiting for something, in words that can’t be unsent.”
“That’s… really romantic,” Lyric offered. Her voice was small, her throat suddenly dry.
The older woman tilted her head, studying her. “Do you write, dear?”
“I sketch,” Lyric said. “Design work, mostly.”
Mrs. Thornwick smiled again. “Of course you do.”
Another sip of wine. Another beat of silence.
Then, casually, as if she were commenting on the weather: “I do hope you aren’t still upset about the nursery.”
Lyric’s fork paused mid-air.
“I just—I was surprised,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I thought Kai and I were going to plan it together.”
“Yes, well, he’s busy. And planning something so important shouldn’t fall entirely on you in your condition. I’ve taken care of it. The room needed warmth. Structure. A touch of legacy.”
Legacy.
Lyric smiled tightly. “Right.”
Mrs. Thornwick placed her utensils down with a soft clink. “I know it must be difficult for you, not having family to help. And being so… new to all of this.”
Lyric stiffened. “I may be new, but that doesn’t mean I’m not capable.”
“Oh, of course not. But capability and experience are two very different things. I raised Malachai, after all. And look how well he turned out.”
Lyric swallowed the retort rising in her throat like smoke.
The meal ended in silence. As the butler cleared the plates, Mrs. Thornwick folded her napkin and rose gracefully.
“I have some finishing touches to arrange in the nursery,” she said. “Do get some rest, dear. You look a bit tired around the eyes.”
She left with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
Lyric sat there long after she was gone, her hands twisted tightly in her lap, her breath catching in her chest like a thread pulled too tight.
And for a moment, she wasn’t sure if she could hold herself together much longer.
Chapter Forty-two
Compliments and Cruel-Tea
The next afternoon, Lyric was summoned to tea.
Summoned—that’s how it felt. The butler, Charles, had appeared at her door with a gentle knock, informing her that Mrs. Thornwick expected her presence in the east parlour at three. Not requested. Expected.
Lyric smoothed the wrinkles from her blouse and tied back her hair before descending the stairs. As she approached the parlour, the delicate clinking of china and the sound of high, brittle laughter reached her.
The room was suffocatingly elegant. Heavy velvet drapes smothered the light, and a long polished table was set with gleaming silver, delicate pastries, and mismatched teacups that were probably antiques. Mrs. Thornwick sat at the head, flanked by three women in muted florals and stiff smiles—cut from the same brittle cloth.
“Ah, Lyric,” Mrs. Thornwick said, gesturing to the empty seat beside her. “Do join us. We were just discussing childbirth.”
Lyric sat slowly. Every eye at the table turned to her.
“I was telling the ladies,” Mrs. Thornwick continued, pouring tea with mechanical precision, “that you’ll be having a natural birth, of course. Just as every Thornwick woman has done. No medication. No hospitals. It’s a family tradition.”
