Page 112 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
Simple. Normal.
So why did her heart pound as if she were about to steal from someone?
Her sister waited by a marble bust, looking every inch the countess she now was. Her pale blonde hair caught what little light filtered through the high windows. Too perfect. Too far removed from the girl who’d once shared a pallet with Isabel in the worst parts of Paris.
Emma turned at Isabel’s approach and smiled. “There you are. I was beginning to fear you’d been embroiled in some new nefarious plot.”
“Just traffic,” Isabel said with a laugh. “Nothing so exciting.”
“Shame. You know how I love a thrilling tale.”
The easy banter soothed some of the jagged edges of Isabel’s nerves. She’d missed it.
Emma tilted her head. “Are you going to stand there all day, or will you give me a proper hello?”
She hesitated, torn between the desperate urge to fling herself into her sister’s arms and the certainty that she couldn’t be seen embracing the Countess of Kent. That phantom itch between her shoulder blades persisted – the skin-crawling conviction of being watched.
“I can’t.” She hated the pain that flashed across Emma’s face. “Favreau might be dead, but I won’t risk anyone connecting us if they find out who I am.” She swallowed, the words sticking in her throat. “Emma and Isabel Dumont are dead. The Countess of Kent is a stranger to me, here to admire the art. Nothing more.”
Emma flinched. “I understand,” she said, but the hurt lingered in her expression. She smoothed her skirts. “How are you? Really?”
Isabel didn’t know how to answer. She’d spent so long running from Favreau and sleeping with one eye open. Now he was gone, and she should have felt relieved. Free.
Instead, she was . . . hollow. As though someone had scooped out everything inside her and left nothing behind. There was only a void where her rage and fear had burned. Without Favreau, she felt off-kilter.
“It’s like I’ve been holding my breath for years,” she said. “And now I can breathe, but it’s like I’ve forgotten how.”
“Oh, Isabel. He was your monster for so long, it’s only natural to feel a bit lost.”
Tears blurred her vision. Her attention caught on a nearby statue – a woman with her arms gone, yet there was a stubbornness to the set of her jaw. A quiet strength.
“Do you know what I find oddly comforting about these old relics?” Emma asked, following Isabel’s stare. “Despite everything, they endure. Fragmented and imperfect, but there’s so much beauty in the tenacity of their existence. Those statues have survived deluges and disasters. All the things that tried to destroy them.” Her gaze found Isabel’s. “Just like you. The parts he tried to break don’t make you less.”
That hit like a punch to the sternum. An ache in her chest spreading until it encompassed her heart – a thing still so fragile.
“I don’t know how to be me without him,” she whispered.
“You were Isabel before him. And you’re still Isabel.” Emma reached for her and stopped halfway. Even that small restraint hurt. “I know we need to be careful. I know you can’t visit. But I think it bears saying plainly: I’ve missed you more than I have breath in my body to tell.”
“I’ve missed you, too. Painfully. Every day.”
Emma fished a handkerchief from her reticule. “Look at us,” she said, blotting at her damp eyes, “weeping like a pair of tragic widows. We’ll have tongues wagging among the exhibits at this rate.” Something over Isabel’s shoulder snared Emma’s attention. “Well, now. It appears we have a shadow.”
Isabel looked. And there, at the far end of the gallery, stood Callahan. His hands were in his pockets, hair pushed back as if he’d been running his fingers through it. When their eyes met, his went soft and tender.
He told her a thousand secrets with that look.
The air was suddenly too thick to breathe. In that instant, there was no one else in the world. Only him and her and the electric thrum of connection.
“He lights you up, even from across the room,” Emma said. “I know this can’t be easy for you. Letting someone close after Favreau. Trusting him not to break you all over again. But Mr Callahan’s eyes put the sun itself to shame when they’re on you. Like he’s witnessing a miracle.”
“I love him,” Isabel whispered. “I love him so much, and it terrifies me. I’m afraid that if I look away, he’ll disappear. Or see everything I am and decide I’m not worth it.”
“The heart’s a resilient beast, but even it needs a spell to heal. Give yourself time to let yourself be loved the way you’ve always deserved by someone who knows every shattered piece of you. Like these statues: we all find beauty in broken things.”
“I’ll try.”
“That’s all anyone can ask.” Emma squeezed her arm. “In the meantime, I ought to dash. James will be wondering where I am. If you can’t visit me, send letters. Go through official channels if you must, butwrite. You’ll be an aunt by Michaelmas.”
