Page 54 of Stolen By the Duke of Ice
Plate in one hand, a candle in the other, Dahlia walked quietly along the corridor. Since she started writing again, various places in the castle inspired her to create scenes upon scenes. This particular corridor was the setting in the second chapter where the young detectives followed the Countess and her lover.
“Will they get caught?” Beside the rose pots of the hothouse, Claire had excitedly asked and in the process knocked down her cup and spilled her tea on their picnic blanket.
“Get a hold of yourself, Claire, or Joshua shall hear us!” Mary hissed. Then turning to Dahlia, she had continued, “Well, will they?”
They shall not.
She now rarely lost her way in the castle. The twins had taken her from room to room, wing to wing, so that she now had a working knowledge of the castle’s layout. The living areas, she had most certainly mastered already.
She blew out her candle and slowed her steps as she neared the sitting room. The music from the pianoforte, still beautiful and haunting, drifted from behind the closed door.
He is home.
Balancing the things she carried in one arm, she quietly opened the door with the other. Again, there sat Peter, absorbed in his music.
What emotions are you feeling to create this tune?
As before, Dahlia stood by the door. And as before, he did not look up from the pianoforte. Suddenly feeling like a trespasser, Dahlia commanded herself to move. Quietly, she walked towards him.
Only when she stood behind him did he speak.
“Lost again, You Grace?” he asked in a cold voice as his fingers stopped playing.
Dahlia gasped softly, surprised that he had been aware of her presence all along.
“No, I was—I was looking for you.”
“You have found me,” he replied without turning to look at her.
“Peter, where were you? You were not present at dinner. I thought…”
“My apologies, I should have sent word.”
“Mary and Claire were looking for you.”
“Were they?”
“Yes.”
She bit her lip.
Oh, for pity’s sake, get a hold of yourself, Dahlia!
She put the plate of food she brought on the small table beside the pianoforte.
“I brought you some food. I wasn’t sure if you had already eaten.”
His eyebrows rose at the sight of the plate.
“Do not worry, I did not need to forage in the kitchens this time; Mrs. Baker has Cook sending me a plate every night. I wonder if she thinks me always hungry.”
And now I am rambling.
“Is there anything you need, Dahlia?”
“Your Grace. Peter…” She waited for him to face her.
When he finally did, she blew out a breath.
