swept her up into his arms. “Pretend I’m Vaughn. Better yet, pretend I’m someone far more handsome and desirable
than my deplorable friend.” He smiled, flirtatious, but harmlessly so, as they ascended the stairs.
In moments, she was in her own boudoir with her maid and housekeeper fussing over her. Mr. Sandison made her a profound leg
and excused himself. “I’ll be downstairs until made superfluous,” he said, before whisking himself out of the room, the skirts
of his coat swinging with an almost jaunty air.
Viola stared at the door. Sandison was enjoying himself. It was appalling, and yet she found herself smiling. What sort of
man enjoyed such an evening?
Dismissing him from her thoughts, Viola crossed the room and collapsed on the seat before her dressing table. Tentatively,
she leaned forward to examine the damage. Blood streaked her hair, covered one side of her face and neck, and crimson and
burgundy rivulets traced a path down her chest to bloom onto her gown like some exotic Chinese flower. Against her powdered
skin and hair, theeffect was garish. She turned her back to her reflection and began to strip off her gloves.
“Mrs. Draper, can you please get me some hot water?”
Her housekeeper nodded her head decisively, enormous nightcap flapping about her ears. She rushed out the door, bellowing
for the maid of all work at the top of her lungs.
Her ladies maid gave her a wan smile as she stood. Viola tossed her gloves on the floor with a shudder. Nance tsked over the
state of her gown as she stripped it off her. “At least your stays haven’t been touched, and I think it’s likely I can get
the few spots on your shift clean if I wash it immediately.”
“Never mind about that.” Viola flicked the pile of expensive silk away from her with her foot. “Burn it all, throw it in the
midden. I don’t care. Just get rid of it.”
Viola pulled on her oldest and most comfortable dressing gown, its frayed velvet cuffs oddly comforting. Mrs. Draper reappeared
with a pitcher of steaming water and an armful of towels. Behind her, little Sally bustled in with a tray of small lemon cheesecakes
and a glass half full of amber liquid.
“Brandy, ma’am. Mr. Sandison’s orders.” She said it as though that made it law.
Viola felt a bubble of laughter swelling within her chest, pushing the cold horror of the evening to the fringes. While her
servants fussed about the room, Viola returned to her dressing table and forced herself to eat. The filling was sweet on her
tongue, the crust simply melted, a thousand layers of buttery flakes. She washed it down with a healthy amount of brandy,
letting the warmth seepthrough her, from lips to throat to stomach and out to her frigid limbs.
Nance lit the candles that flanked her mirror, smoke curling up from the twisted length of paper in her hand. Viola turned
her head to the right, and a pristine, if tired, woman gazed out at her. Only the deep circles under her eyes spoke to her
true state. Turning her head to the left revealed the ghostly apparition of a murdered queen. Something right out of Shakespeare.
She picked up a towel, soaked it and rung it out, and began cleaning the blood from her face. The hot water stung, but she
held the cloth firmly to her wound, loosening the clot that matted her hair.
Nance finished disposing of her clothing and returned to brush out her hair, carefully stripping out the powder along with
the tangles. She was making the small clicking sound with her tongue that she always made when distressed. Pin after pin clinked
into the black, japanned box on the table as Nance plucked them from the wreck of her coiffure.
A second towel joined the first in a damp pile draped over the empty ewer before a peremptory knock on the door set Viola’s
heart racing, and Vaughn appeared behind her in the glass. Even in reflection, his eyes burned, and the set of his jaw was
impossible to miss. He hadn’t
than my deplorable friend.” He smiled, flirtatious, but harmlessly so, as they ascended the stairs.
In moments, she was in her own boudoir with her maid and housekeeper fussing over her. Mr. Sandison made her a profound leg
and excused himself. “I’ll be downstairs until made superfluous,” he said, before whisking himself out of the room, the skirts
of his coat swinging with an almost jaunty air.
Viola stared at the door. Sandison was enjoying himself. It was appalling, and yet she found herself smiling. What sort of
man enjoyed such an evening?
Dismissing him from her thoughts, Viola crossed the room and collapsed on the seat before her dressing table. Tentatively,
she leaned forward to examine the damage. Blood streaked her hair, covered one side of her face and neck, and crimson and
burgundy rivulets traced a path down her chest to bloom onto her gown like some exotic Chinese flower. Against her powdered
skin and hair, theeffect was garish. She turned her back to her reflection and began to strip off her gloves.
“Mrs. Draper, can you please get me some hot water?”
Her housekeeper nodded her head decisively, enormous nightcap flapping about her ears. She rushed out the door, bellowing
for the maid of all work at the top of her lungs.
Her ladies maid gave her a wan smile as she stood. Viola tossed her gloves on the floor with a shudder. Nance tsked over the
state of her gown as she stripped it off her. “At least your stays haven’t been touched, and I think it’s likely I can get
the few spots on your shift clean if I wash it immediately.”
“Never mind about that.” Viola flicked the pile of expensive silk away from her with her foot. “Burn it all, throw it in the
midden. I don’t care. Just get rid of it.”
Viola pulled on her oldest and most comfortable dressing gown, its frayed velvet cuffs oddly comforting. Mrs. Draper reappeared
with a pitcher of steaming water and an armful of towels. Behind her, little Sally bustled in with a tray of small lemon cheesecakes
and a glass half full of amber liquid.
“Brandy, ma’am. Mr. Sandison’s orders.” She said it as though that made it law.
Viola felt a bubble of laughter swelling within her chest, pushing the cold horror of the evening to the fringes. While her
servants fussed about the room, Viola returned to her dressing table and forced herself to eat. The filling was sweet on her
tongue, the crust simply melted, a thousand layers of buttery flakes. She washed it down with a healthy amount of brandy,
letting the warmth seepthrough her, from lips to throat to stomach and out to her frigid limbs.
Nance lit the candles that flanked her mirror, smoke curling up from the twisted length of paper in her hand. Viola turned
her head to the right, and a pristine, if tired, woman gazed out at her. Only the deep circles under her eyes spoke to her
true state. Turning her head to the left revealed the ghostly apparition of a murdered queen. Something right out of Shakespeare.
She picked up a towel, soaked it and rung it out, and began cleaning the blood from her face. The hot water stung, but she
held the cloth firmly to her wound, loosening the clot that matted her hair.
Nance finished disposing of her clothing and returned to brush out her hair, carefully stripping out the powder along with
the tangles. She was making the small clicking sound with her tongue that she always made when distressed. Pin after pin clinked
into the black, japanned box on the table as Nance plucked them from the wreck of her coiffure.
A second towel joined the first in a damp pile draped over the empty ewer before a peremptory knock on the door set Viola’s
heart racing, and Vaughn appeared behind her in the glass. Even in reflection, his eyes burned, and the set of his jaw was
impossible to miss. He hadn’t
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