Page 21 of Emma & Edmund

If he failed to produce himself, her public rejection would be easy rumor fuel.

Besides, it wasn't as if he could do as he did on the balcony in the middle of a dance floor.

The strumming of the final tunings sounded discorded and distant, worry buzzing in her ears. Despite her mounting apprehension, she kept her spine straight and a placid smile on her lips. No one needed to have an inkling of her anxiety.

Emma couldn't hear her over the beginning notes of the first song. Acting as an invitation, couples took to the dance floor in a parade of silk and giggles. She tried to nonchalantly look through the considerably thinner crowd on the sidelines, in hopes she perhaps just missed him among the bodies. In this effort, her gaze locked with Margaret's wide, confused eyes, being escorted onto the floor by one of her many admirers.

As the song swelled, Emma gave up the search. William Tate was not there. At the very least, she didn't catch sight of him on the floor with another either, so her pride could survive that sting at least.

But all the rational in the world could not unsour grapes. Watching the happy, lively couples had Emma's lip curling, and bitterness coated her tongue. What's worse, even after seeing her clear situation, a replacement did not present themselves.

Turning away, she flew from the ballroom as quickly as she could, plastering a serene look on her face even if it did extraordinarily little to quell the pitying looks cast her way. Being slighted was one thing, but being pitied was so much worse, and the bitterness turned to bile.

Plopping down on a bench in the empty gallery, she buried her face in her hands. What had gone wrong? Why can't she just act like everything's all right?

From the next floor, her bed was calling her name.

"I'm only telling you what I've heard," the high-pitched voice of Sophia Hawthorn broke through her thoughts. Snapping her eyes up, Emma saw that her quiet room had been infiltrated by a small group, apparently just passing through. If they had noticed her, they were doing very well to pretend otherwise.

"But what was Lady Charlotte thinking? What outdated entertainment." Victoria Tate, sans brother, bemoaned.

"Fortune telling is still very in vogue in the countryside, I hear," Tobin Crosgrove, a man Emma loathed to be stuck in conversation with, added.

A fortune teller was coming? Emma perked up, the wheels of thought starting to turn in her mind without her even meaning to. Perhaps her brain was looking for any excuse to escape.

"Apparently so," Sophia said, "But doesn't it all feel a bit-"

"Excuse me!" Emma popped up from her spot, rushing to the group almost halfway out the door. "What are you talking about?"

Victoria did well to cover her look of displeasure, either by the sudden question or Emma's very appearance, smiling tightly as she approached the group.

"Why," Victoria started airily, "you don't know? This is your party after all! Why would the dame bring in entertainment without your approval?"

"Knowing Charlotte," the eldest of the group and rumored former lover of the countess, George Crosgrove, joined in, "half of this event was already planned by the time you were found, Miss Thompson."

"Either way, I am excited about the news." Emma had donned her most charming tone, knowing it would do little to Victoria but hoping to pull more information from the others. "Who is she? When will she be here?"

"Rumor has it, she's already on her way. But you're lying to yourself if you think we managed to glean any further information from Charlotte before she flew off again." Victoria snapped her fan open, breezing her flushed face. Emma had seen her twirling in the ballroom not too long ago.

"Are you wanting to go first, Emma?" Sophia asked, curiosity lacing her words. "What are you hoping to ask?"

"Well, I need to determine that, don't I?"

Their use depleted, Emma turned on her heel and left them behind. She didn't know where her feet were leading her, didn't hear the people that called out to her, her mind whirling through a half-formed plan.

If there was one thing Jonathan's escapades had taught her, the world of vagabonds is small. If Edmund had been unsuccessful in his search thus far, the easiest way would be to target the very fringes of society, finding the witches through them.

An hour ago, she had zero intentions of pursuing this odd quasi-goose chase for Edmund's humanity. And now, it consumed her.

Halfway down a darkened hall she didn't remember storming down, Emma stopped in her tracks. She had nothing but confidence in the fact this woman would knowsomething,but how could she, Emma Thompson, extract that information? And how was she to trust it?

What did Edmund even need to know?

She began wandering again, roving over the possibility in her head. He knows the witches are somewhere on the Mersey, but what else did he need? What if she met with the fortune teller and received nothing but a cold lead?

Just as she entered a lively parlor, complete with a slurry, out-of-tune quartet surrounding the piano, a flutter of movement caught Emma's eye. Upon seeing who had caught her attention, glee burst through her.

"Mr. Anthony!”

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