Page 255 of Once an Angel
some gruesome new coiffure for that night's dinner party, and had been trailing her for hours,
brandishing an iron and some alarming tongs that looked better suited for shoeing horses. She doubted
if any of Justin's sisters even knew the kitchen had been moved out of the basement in recent years.
They seemed to be caught in a web of perpetual girlhood. Emily thought Justin ought to boot both
them and their shiftless husbands out of Grymwilde to start homes and families of their own.
The kitchen was in an uproar. Cooks and maids scurried from oven to table, their aprons streaked with flour and their faces flushed from heat and exertion. Damp tendrils of hair escaped their crooked caps. Gracie, the toothless old cook, hovered over an enameled caldron, stirring and muttering under her
breath like one of Macbeth's witches. The salty tang of mussel chowder hung in the air.
As Emily sidled around the coal box, Gracie cocked her bulbous nose and sniffed the air. "Check the buns, Sally. I smell somethin' burnin'."
Emily sighed and blew a singed ringlet out of her eyes.
Gracie's pink gums cracked in a smile. "Never mind, Sal. It's only Miss Emily. And how are ya today,
my dear? Come to pilfer another o' my raisin buns, have ya?"
"Not today, Gracie. I just came in to . . . warm myself."
It was true there was little enough warmth in the drafty old house. The fire in Justin's eyes had been banked to an unnatural coolness that made her shiver.
One of the maids burst into tears over a pan of clotted-cream sauce and Gracie bustled over to comfort her. Emily wandered down the long galley, hoping to alleviate her boredom by peering into this pan or that one. At the sight on one of the tables she let out a cry of dismay.
"Can't cook those till it's time to serve 'em," one of the maids explained, brushing past with a tray of steaming buns. "The duchess likes 'em nice and fresh."
Emily knelt and rested her folded arms on the table, bringing herself eye to eye with a glass tank of live lobsters. Pity touched her at the sight of their shiny claws bound by thick twine. They looked helpless
and trapped.
Just like her. She imagined her own arms hobbled by ruffles, her legs by crinolines.
She cocked her head sideways, studying the lobsters. Did they dream of the sea as she did? Did they
hear its haunting rhythms? Taste its pungent tang?
At least the lobsters did not wake in the night, dreaming of a man garbed not in a crisp waistcoat and trousers, but a pair of faded dungarees. They never ached to remember his dark hair tousled by the wind, his stern features softened by laughter. She reached into the water and stroked a sleek head, surprised by the burn of tears in her eyes.
"There you are, Em!" Lily's shrill tones grated down her spine. "I've found the most enchanting coif in this magazine. Do you think Gracie might give us some egg whites to stiffen your curls?"
Groaning, Emily dropped her head. The lobsters' stalked eyes seemed to glint with sympathy.
* * *
"I won't go. I'm not hungry," Emily repeated, digging her nails into the polished oak of the door frame.
"Of course you'll go," Lily chirped, prying her free and dragging her another ten feet. "Mama wouldn't tolerate your not making an appearance. She's hoping you'll make some friends among girls of your own sort." "Girls with birds' nests on their heads?" "Don't be ridiculous. Your hair looks charming." Emily caught her reflection in a console glass as they passed. Her ringlets had been swept up and stiffened with an alarming mixture of egg white and starch. She ducked under a gasolier, afraid her hair might ignite if touched. She dug her heels into the carpet, but Lily jerked her onward. The frail-looking creature must have inherited her mother's muscle tone if not her fortitude, Emily thought. "Do hurry," she commanded. "Mama will be cranky if we're late."
Emily entered the long dining room in dread. An awkward silence fell over the gathering. She could see only a blur of seated guests, all of them staring fixedly at her head. She jerked her hand out of Lily's, wanting desperately to slither beneath the Brussels carpet.
At the far head of the table sat Justin, riveting in his black tailcoat and silk revers. The startling white of his shirt and bow tie drew out the bronze lingering in his skin. His gaze flicked to her for the briefest moment, and she lowered her eyes, fearful of revealing a hunger that had little to do with the succulent aromas wafting from the serving dishes.
A silvery peal of laughter broke the silence. Emily jerked her head up as a helpless shudder of remembered distaste rippled down her spine.
Seated next to Justin, her icy blond hair the perfect complement to his dark head, was the former toast
