Page 73 of Turmoil's Target

I suppress a sigh, sinking onto the plush couch. “I don't know, Grandfather. I’m not exactly feeling up to it at the moment. Perhaps another time would be better.”

“Nonsense!” he declares, undeterred by my weak protest. “You simply must come over immediately. Cook is whipping up your absolute favorite—steak and kidney pie. And just to sweeten the deal, I’ve had her prepare a toffee pudding for dessert. You couldn’t possibly refuse.”

Despite the heavy weight in my chest, a small smile tugs at my lips. He always did know my weaknesses. The mouthwatering image of that pie, the promise of creamy toffee pudding, it's almost enough to break through the numb haze enshrouding me.

“You don’t play fair,” I accuse, but there’s no real heat in my words.

His rich chuckle crackles through the phone. “Whoever said I did? Now, I expect to see you within the hour, poppet. No arguments.”

I heave out a sigh, but I’m already mentally rifling through my closet, considering outfits. “Fine, you win. I’ll be there soon.”

“Splendid!” I can practically see his triumphant grin. “Until then, my dear.”

The line goes dead and I toss the phone aside, hauling myself up.

My limbs feel heavy, leaden, as I trudge toward the bathroom.

Maybe a hot shower will wash away some of this numbness, make me feel a little more human.

As the spray beats down on my skin, I tip my head back, eyes closed.

I don’t want to think, don’t want to feel.

But Grandfather’s call was a harsh reminder that the world keeps spinning, no matter how much I might wish it would stop, just for a minute.

Still, I wish it would pause, just long enough for me to catch my breath.

But I am a Bernard.

We do not break.

We do not bow.

Squaring my shoulders, I steel myself.

One hour, one meal. I can do this. I will do this.

Shutting off the water with a decisive twist, I step out, ready to face whatever else this wretched day has in store.

Making my way down to the garage, I hop in my car and start my engine.

The purr beneath me usually soothes me, but today, it grates.

I want to floor it, to let the speedometer climb until the world blurs into streaks of color.

But I restrain myself, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel as I navigate the familiar streets.

Grandfather’s estate looms ahead, all stately columns and manicured gardens.

The wrought-iron gates swing open as I approach, and I slip through, tires crunching on the gravel drive.

Alfred is already waiting on the steps, his lined face creasing into a warm smile as I pull up. “Miss Seraphina,” he greets me, opening my door with a slight bow. “You look lovely, as always.”

I snort, accepting his hand as I climb out. “I look like death warmed over, and we both know it.”

“Nonsense.” He shakes his head, eyes twinkling. “Though I dare say a spot of color might help. Perhaps some of Cook’s famous toffee pudding will put the roses back in your cheeks, hmm?”

Despite myself, I feel my lips twitch.

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