Page 21 of The Pureblood Daughter
Adelina stands and goes to her desk on the other side of the room, below the window looking down on the veranda. She opens the top drawer and pulls out a crisp sheet of parchment, an ink well, and a feathered quill. The desk is awash in moonlight, and the ink swirls like midnight in the glass well as Adelina dips the quill delicately.
My Lord,
I prefer my tea robust, with a splash of cream and a smidge of sugar. Not too much, mind you, or the flavor will be ruined. And I’ve always wanted to feel the rain on my bare skin, have wondered what it would feel like to stand unveiled in a summer storm.
Adelina’s mind drifts again, this time to an evening drenched in a warm rain, the viscount’s wet clothes coming away in her hands, falling into the puddles at their bare feet. The vision makes her shiver in a wholly delightful way.
I did as you asked; my tonic watered the back garden this morning. At first, I feared the illness worsening. The shakes have plagued me since waking, and my eyes are sensitive to the light. Even so, something is... different.
Painting in the garden this afternoon, I could scarcely concentrate for the vibrance of the pigments. And now, as I sit in the darkness of this room, I can smell the honeysuckle in the garden as if it were blooming on my nightstand.
I don’t know what’s happening. Perhaps a kind gentleman may offer his guidance.
—Your Midnight Auteur
Adelina lifts the parchment and blows gently to dry the ink before turning to Celeste.
“I’ll need something to tie it with,” she says to herself, unwilling to part with the crimson ribbon curving sinuously across her vanity. She reaches for the plait Rose twisted her hair into and pulls free the pale blue material binding her dark locks. Her hair falls free of the braid and flows around her shoulders as she rolls the parchment up and ties it with her hair ribbon.
Celeste allows Adelina to tie the ends of the ribbon into a bow about her thin leg, and then she spreads her feathered wings and takes flight. Her form is trimmed in moonlight as she soars silently from the bedroom window and over the towering elm before disappearing into the night.
Adelina reaches for the crimson fabric, sweeping it off her vanity as she stands before the open window, hair falling in soft waves down her back.
Just before she turns from the window, a silky voice whispers into her head.
Sleep soundly, Miss Gray. I’ll be thinking of you.
The letters become a nightlyoccurrence, and though Adelina questions Lord Rosetti time and again about his voice in her head and the mysterious tonic she continues finding ways to avoid consuming, he answers none of her inquiries.
Instead, he asks questions about her hobbies, her dreams, her upbringing. She tells him she wants a family someday, a brood of children who’ll run through their grandmother’s fine house and fall asleep amongst the flowers and birdsong in the back garden. His response makes her giddy with joy.
I’d like the same. No fewer than four, though perhaps five would suffice. I’ll leave that up to my future bride.
She asks after Celeste.
How does one come to have an owl, anyway?
The following evening, she finds he’s failed to answer her question again. Surprised she is not. His response, however, awakens something foreign and fiery inside her.
How does one come to have you, Miss Gray?
His words curl across the page, and even the flourishes on his letters are enticing. She traces her fingers over his carefully inked words, imagining his hands touching the parchment, his green eyes narrowed, that curl slipping across his forehead. Then she pictures those same hands slipping down her neck and across her shoulders, trailing a featherlight touch along her spine as her dress comes away, falling in an ocean around their feet.
For the first time in her life, shewantssomeone to have her; she wants Viscount Rosetti to have her, to take her, to make her his. None of the other gentlemen have made her feel this way, like she’s the apple in the Garden, her taste at once tantalizing and forbidden.
She dips her quill into the inkwell, poised to pen a cunning response, but her hand trembles something fierce, sending drops of black over the empty page. And no matter how she tries to quell the shakes, her fingers can’t seem to find stillness.
She sits back from the desk with a sigh, the eros she felt but a moment ago giving way suddenly and powerfully to a wave of indignation.
Why does her body disobey her so?
Why does Viscount Rosetti insist upon answering her many questions with questions of his own?
What is in that tonic, and what is this illness that refuses to loose its hold on her?
With a cry of frustration, Adelina sweeps a hand across her writing desk and sends the well of ink crashing to the floor.
At the cacophony, Celeste startles and flaps her wings, abandoning her perch on the windowsill and soaring off into the darkness. Now that she’s gone, Adelina will be unable to respond to the viscount’s letter.
