Page 16 of Monster Among the Roses (Fairy Tale Quartet 1)

The three adults blinked at me as if I’d just asked the strangest question they’d ever heard. Finally, Constance said, “Ezra? What about him?”

“He didn’t…?” I flushed, realizing this was quite the awkward question to pose. “In the fire, I mean.”

“Oh! No,” Mrs. Pan was quick to reassure me. “No, Ezra was away at college by then. He’s still hearty and hale, living a few miles from here in his own house now.”

I nodded, feeling suddenly silly for worrying about him, a complete stranger. But the idea of Isobel losing both a mother and sibling at the same time was more than I could bear.

“Mr. Nash was away on a business trip that weekend,” Mrs. Pan added, not mentioning where Isobel had been.

Even though I already knew the answer, I had to confirm it. “And that’s how the daughter—Isobel—got her…that is, I mean, that’s how she became…?” I cleared my throat, trying to think up the most sensitive way to ask when a voice from behind me spoke.

“Yes, Mr. Hollander. That’s how I became the monster I am today.”

My stomach dropped at the sound of her voice before I twisted in my chair to find Isobel standing in the entrance of the kitchen, her hands fisted at her sides and blue eyes layered with icy disdain.

Earlier, she’d had her hair up in a ponytail, revealing her entire face, but now it fell down, one half working to cover the mutilated side while the other half lay tucked behind her ear to show off her good side. It filled me with a moment of regret, hoping she hadn’t felt the need to hide her scars because of me.

Across from me, Kit gasped and dove under the table to hide, while the other three adults froze guiltily as if they thought they’d been caught doing something wrong.

Flushing because her narrowed eyes made me think I’d misspoke, I stuttered, “I…I…” Gritting my teeth over such nonsense, I scowled at Isobel and moodily muttered, “I was just curious.” Seriously, how could asking a simple question be that wrong? Then, because she was still glaring at me and making me feel crappier for opening my mouth at all, I hissed, “It’s smart to learn about the household you’re supposed to be working for.”

Yeah. That sounded good. If I was supposed to do a decent job here, I needed information.

But Isobel’s glare turned into two thin slits of rage. “Rest assured, my personal life will never be any of your business. And if you simply can’t control your curiosity, then ask me directly instead of gossiping about me behind my back.”

I hadn’t even been gossiping about her, but I felt ashamed as if I had. And the way she so easily drew the shame forward pissed me off. So, I sneered. “Fine. I will. Question number one: have you always been this bitter and rude, or did the accident burn your bad attitude into you?”

I’d just wanted to ask her something—anything—to show her I wasn’t afraid to stand up to her, but as soon as the question left my mouth, I knew it was wrong. All wrong.

Dead silence filled the kitchen. Mrs. Pan, Constance, and Lewis gaped back and forth between us before the cook surged to her feet.

“Can I get you a bowl of stew, Miss Nash?” she asked as she rushed toward the stove.

But Isobel waved a hand. “No, thank you, Mrs. Pan.” Her gaze swerved my way before she added, “I’ve lost my appetite.”

As suddenly as she’d appeared in the kitchen, she was gone.

My shoulders slumped and I ran a hand through my hair. “I’m a complete jackass, aren’t I?”

Lewis choked out a sound before admitting, “Well, I’ve never seen anyone react to her the way you did, that’s for sure.”

“Is she gone?” a small muffled voice asked from under the table.

“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Pan said gently. “She’s left. You can come out now.”

No one scolded him for treating Isobel like a freak by hiding from her. It itched at my craw that they let the kid get away with hurting her feelings. And it made me feel worse about hurting them myself. Mr. Nash would probably fire me if he knew what I’d just done.

Worried about that, but even more concerned about how my behavior had affected Isobel, I rose from the table and excused myself.

I tried to find her so I could issue a genuine apology. But she wasn’t in the library. She wasn’t in the theater and I couldn’t spot her through any of the glass walls of the conservatory. So I found myself peering in at her flowers through the windows instead, wondering, why roses? Did she just like the peace and serenity that came with gardening? Flowers couldn’t knock her ego down by hiding from her under a table or making her feel like less of a person.

Or was it a simpler reason, like maybe they just smelled good?

Or did it stem from something more psychological? Maybe she believed she’d become so hideous after the fire that she needed to make up for it to the world by creating something beautiful. Balance things out.

I hoped that wasn’t the case. I hoped I hadn’t made her feel ugly by arguing with her.

I hoped she’d become a hermit in this huge house because she was just that big of an introvert and didn’t like people. I hoped the scars didn’t rule any part of her life at all. I hoped I hadn’t made everything worse.

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