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The Devil's Tangle: Woven Fate, #1
The Devil's Tangle: Woven Fate, #1
The Devil's Tangle: Woven Fate, #1
Ebook492 pages6 hoursWoven Fate

The Devil's Tangle: Woven Fate, #1

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A stolen rose, a mad prince, a sister's sacrifice, and the dark curse that binds them.

Music is Dahlia's life. Born with the uncanny ability to play any instrument she picks up, her songs seem to possess the power to transfix, soothe, and even heal their listeners. But in her world of expected propriety and dutiful acceptance of her future as the wife of Lord John Beaumont such a gift has no place. Like the ruined castle at the center of the wildwood it reminds people of the old stories. Stories of enchanted beasts, changelings, and immortal bargains. Stories better forgotten. But on the night of solstice those ancient tales come crashing into reality when Dahlia's younger sister, Helena, plucks a rose from the ruined castle's overgrown garden.

For centuries Caspien Greythorn has been a loyal servant of the Master, the fae prince who guards the forgotten castle that was once a bridge between realms. But when a foolish mortal girl steals from the palace garden and her equally foolish sister begs to be punished for the theft in her sister's place that loyalty is stretched to breaking point. Who is this strange young woman with eyes like burned honey and the exiled prince's gift of song? Is she the soul rumoured to be able to break the Master's curse or is she just a deadly distraction?

What is the price of a single rose? For Dahlia and Caspien, it just might cost them everything.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherC. E. Page
Release dateMar 31, 2025
ISBN9780645284577
The Devil's Tangle: Woven Fate, #1
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    The Devil's Tangle - C. E. Page

    1

    DAHLIA

    One could find music in everything if they just allowed themselves to be still and observe the world like a dreamer wandering the fields of night. The staccato clip of a trotting horse, the rattle-clack of the cart, and jingle-snap of the harness. A trill of birdsong and the lowing of cattle as both greeted the new day. The world was rife with sound and song, and simply existing in it made Dahlia’s fingers itch to put bow to string.

    Motes of dust twirled like tiny dancers through the beam of morning sunlight slanting through her bedroom window. Their gentle drifting became an excited flurry as she lifted her violin and tucked the edge under her chin. She set the bow to the strings, closed her eyes, and she drew out the first note, then the second. The tuning was slightly off. A tiny twist of one of the pegs and a plucked a string was followed by a nod before she began to play again, letting herself get pulled into the swell of the building melody. Something deep within her core fizzed and a shiver of gooseflesh prickled along her arms as colours flashed across the backs of her eyelids. She had been in love with music for as long as she could remember. It was in her blood, pulsing in a way that soothed her heart and permeated her soul.

    The door downstairs thudded open, startling her into playing an off note and she opened her eyes.

    Murmured words drifted up through the floorboards, and though she leant forward and listened they were too soft to make any real sense of. With a shrug, she settled herself to play once more.

    Dahlia, her mother’s voice called.

    Releasing a sigh, she set the violin and bow down. Coming, she called back then grabbed a ribbon from the basket beneath her mirror and quickly braided her golden hair as she hurried downstairs.

    Morning, Natty. Mrs Thomson, Dahlia said as she stuck her head through the kitchen door.

    Both women turned her way. The stout older one tending a large pot—the smell emanating from it suggested it contained the makings for her delicious berry jam—frowned. Your mother is waiting for you in the parlour.

    And I’m on my way there now. I was just⁠—

    Hungry, both women said together, the elder’s frown twitching into a smile.

    Natty lobbed an apple to Dahlia, and she caught it. Thank you, Natty, she said with a wide smile of her own.

    Natty dipped her head. You’re welcome, Miss.

    Good morning, Mother, Dahlia said as she entered the parlour.

    Perfect timing, my sweet. Corlette Burrows looked up from the letter she had been regarding as though it offered her wildest wishes on a silver platter.

    You did call for me, but perfect timing for what?

    Her mother’s cobalt gaze dropped to the letter once more before she folded it and tucked it out of sight under the edge of the tray on the table beside her. It is such a lovely morning. Why don’t you and Helena head into town with Natty? Helena has been asking for some ribbons and Mr Howard has a new collection of hairpieces. You might find something to wear to the Beaumont gala tonight.

    Dahlia studied her mother’s face as she bit into her apple. Is⁠—

    Don’t you dare speak until you’ve swallowed that mouthful. You must start making an effort to comport yourself as is fitting of a woman of your calibre.

    A wo— That blue gaze narrowed, and Dahlia swallowed. A woman of my calibre? Have you forgotten I am an unruly waif of questionable lineage by way of my father’s side? She enquired, not quite able to keep the sass from her voice.

    A sweet but hollow smile touched her mother’s mouth. What are you talking about, my sweet? Your father is from a good family with wonderful prospects.

    Helena’s father you mean?

    Helena was to be Corlette’s saving grace—there was no question of the legitimacy of her birth. Dahlia, if her mother was to be believed, had simply been born early, her fair colouring a throwback to a long-dead family member and not a gift from her actual father.

    "Dahlia, her mother warned, we have been over this more times than is surely necessary. You are an intelligent young woman; you must understand that casting doubt on the legitimacy of your birth would not only ruin your prospects but Helena’s as well. If you are so determined to have no concern for your own welfare, at least be considerate of your sister’s."

    They stared each other down for the space of several heartbeats, her mother’s chin tilted to meet Dahlia’s look of defiance, but the rest of her features remained a blank façade.

    Dahlia released a sigh. As you wish, Mother. She took another bite of her apple then turned on her heel to hunt down her sister—half-sister—her mother could twist the truth all she wanted, but Dahlia knew better. Though it was hard to imagine her mother ever allowing herself to be swept up by the romance of a moonlit night and the husky wiles of a handsome troubadour, which is how Dahlia always imagined her provenance. One night of wild abandon—one mistake that would haunt her mother for life. It explained so much. The fact that Dahlia had been forbidden from seeing any travelling poet, magician, or minstrel. Also, her love for music and her innate ability to quickly learn any instrument she took an interest in, though the violin was by far her favourite. Thankfully, her mother had not forbidden her from learning to play the old one she found in the barn, though she frowned and sighed whenever Dahlia played.

    Helena was outside chatting with Natty as the latter fed the chickens. Her sister’s dark hair hung in two neat braids, tied with blue ribbons that matched the colour of her eyes. She was a good six years younger than Dahlia, having just entered her seventeenth year, and as different in temperament as she was in looks. But Dahlia had loved her fiercely nearly from the moment she had entered the world. She had not been an easy infant, prone to bouts of colic and general malaise, and had driven their mother to the point of despair until they had realised that Dahlia’s music could soothe her. Dahlia suspected that was the one thing that had prevented her mother from taking her violin away and forbidding her from ever playing again.

    Mother has suggested we go into town, Dahlia said after finishing the apple and tossing the core to the cow by the chicken coop.

    Does this excursion have anything to do with the letter from Lord Beaumont? Helena asked.

    "Mother failed to mention the contents of the letter, but I suspect so given she implored me to comport myself in a manner fitting of a woman of my calibre. She rolled her eyes. Of course she plucked that phrase straight from John himself."

    It does sound like something Lord Beaumont would say and a letter bearing his seal was delivered this morning, Helena said and gave her a sweet smile. Perhaps he intends to ask for your hand at the gala this evening.

    "Don’t you start." Dahlia reached out to ruffle her hair, but Helena took a quick step back.

    It took me ages to get it to sit right this morning. She smoothed her hands over her crown and down the length of her braids. But I think he might. He was here several days ago when you were at the market with Mother, and he spoke to Father at great length before leaving with a definite spring in his step.

    For most young women in the village, John Beaumont was desirable husband material with his sprawling estate and formidable lineage, but he was a straightlaced bore of a man who had a great love for propriety and very little love for music. In fact, he had been one of the loudest voices in the movement to prevent the troubadours from being welcomed in the town square. According to him such frivolities existed only to distract good people from their work. If Dahlia were to wed him, she would likely be expected to give up her music, beyond those pieces that the lord of the house deemed appropriately sombre. It was a shame really. His mother and hers had been extremely close when they were younger and until his mother’s death, Dahlia and John had been as thick as thieves. But then he lost both his parents in quick succession and had been forced to step into shoes far too big, much too fast.

    If that is the case, he will find himself disappointed. Dahlia ushered her sister back towards the house. Go get your bonnet and shawl. We’ll walk today.

    I think you will be the one harbouring disappointment, Lia. Mother and Father would never let you turn down such a desirable match.

    Helena was right, of course, but perhaps Dahlia could persuade John to turn his attentions elsewhere without the need to reject him outright.

    We should take the road past the Beaumont estate, Helena said, skipping ahead to the branching road that would take them closer to the estate in question.

    Doesn’t the wildwood border parts of that road? Natty asked as she tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

    There’s no need to be frightened of the wildwood, Natty. Mother’s wrath if we are delayed by taking an unnecessary detour, however … Dahlia gave Helena a pointed look.

    Her sister frowned. Where has your sense of adventure gone, Lia? Don’t you want to see if you can sneak a peek of the ruin? Maria said the briar was in bloom.

    You know better than that, Helena. The ruin is dangerous no matter how pretty its flowers.

    The castle? Natty asked, her gaze turning in the direction of the expansive forest in which the ruin was hidden. Isn’t that place … A blush coloured her cheeks and her attention dropped to her feet as she mumbled, haunted?

    Oh, terribly so, Helena said, her eyes bright and her smile wide.

    Dahlia shook her head at her sister. Helena is just trying to scare you. There are lots of stories about the ruin. What it once was, why it was abandoned, that it is haunted, and that it is home to all manner of strange beast straight from the realms of Faerie but, regardless of whether there is any truth to the stories, the ruin is dangerous and should be avoided.

    Faerie? Natty touched the iron-wrapped finger of rowan wood hanging around her neck.

    Such, supposedly charmed, amulets were often sold by travelling peddlers, but Dahlia’s grandmother had always said they were practically useless. Only certain types of fae and otherkin were repelled by iron and rowan. If one wanted complete safety from everything supernatural, they would need to cover themself from head to toe in trinkets made of every metal, wood, and stone imaginable. Common sense, caution, and respect were the best guardians when dealing with anything magical in nature, she had always said.

    The rumours about the castle are just stories, Natty. Dahlia reassured her, even if she believed otherwise.

    Stories, Natty echoed with a nod, and she released the charm. Probably best we avoid the wildwood road anyway. We should get to town and back as quickly as possible to ensure we return with ample time to get you both ready for tonight’s gala.

    Helena looked like she might object as Natty started down the road that would take them a more comfortable distance away from the wildwood, but Dahlia shook her head and steered her sister after the maid.

    As they wandered along the road, Dahlia let the other girls pull ahead. Their buoyant conversation drifted back to her, and she hummed to herself. It was the song that always seemed to consume her mind in times of quiet. Starting gently, the melody then built in a dramatic crescendo before softening once more into an almost sombre melancholy. She couldn’t remember when she had first learned it—it was almost like it had simply been birthed from the very fabric of her soul. And perhaps it had. She glanced towards the wildwood. Sometimes on nights when the moon was high, she fancied she could hear the echoes of otherworldly music drifting across the tops of those trees. Music and a long, lonely⁠—

    Dahlia! Fingers snapping an inch from her nose brought her attention to her sister’s frustrated face. What are you doing?

    Nothing … Dahlia replied. Natty was standing in the middle of the road, a good fifty meters ahead of them, with a puzzled expression on her face.

    You stopped walking, and you were— Helena shot a furtive glance at Natty. "Humming," she hissed, and pointed to the small group of larks sitting in the branches of a tree by the edge of the road, their heads cocked as though they were listening.

    A coincidence, Dahlia said and shooed the birds.

    With a loud trill, they took flight. The sunlight glinted off the edges of their wings as they wheeled above the road before disappearing in the direction of town.

    Helena studied Dahlia’s face for a beat longer then turned and hurried back to Natty.

    Dahlia sucked her lip between her teeth and followed them. It wasn’t the first time Dahlia’s music had attracted wildlife. The first had been a fox, the red of his coat like flames in the sunlight and the black of his legs and tips of his ears so dark it was like they had been dipped in ink. He’d sat with her in the garden while she sang to a much younger Helena until their mother had happened upon the scene and chased him away with a broom. Ever since, she’d attracted all manner of creature from dormice to ravens.

    When they rounded the bend into town, Helena let out a delighted squeal and skipped ahead towards a group of brightly clothed tumblers performing in the street.

    A lilting tune drew Dahlia’s attention to a painted wagon. Several musicians sat sprawled around it, tuning their instruments and laughing amongst themselves. An older man stood farther away from them watching over a table full of wares as he played an ebony violin. His long hair was the same golden colour as Dahlia’s, and even from this distance she knew his eyes would be the same shade of bright toffee. She didn’t know his name, but she had seen him once before, a long time ago. The moment her mother had noticed him, she had dragged Dahlia away from the market, her grip so tight it had left a ring of red around Dahlia’s arm when she finally let go. That was the day she had laid down the rule about avoiding the troubadours; the day Dahlia had started to suspect that she and Helena did not share the same father even if their mother was adamant they did.

    Her feet had carried her to the musician’s table before she realised she was moving.

    He gave her a warm smile and ended his song with a flourish and bow before laying the violin on the edge of the table. Lines of gold inlaid the ebony wood of the instrument’s body, five larks in flight; their eyes seemed to glitter with life.

    Do you play?

    The question snapped her attention away from the instrument to the man’s molten toffee eyes. His gaze was so deep, like one could fall right into it and get lost in a myriad of secrets and song. She gave a slow nod.

    It is a lovely instrument. Would you like to give it a try?

    She rolled her lip between her teeth, and shook her head. I shouldn’t. But oh how her fingers ached to pick that violin up and trace the curves of its body, to lay the bow against its gleaming strings and pull forth that song from the centre of her soul.

    A shame. If I can’t tempt you into playing a song, perhaps there is something else you seek. He cast his hand over the table in front of him.

    Delicate trinkets and elaborate pieces of jewellery glittered in the sunlight that flooded the emerald velvet covering the table’s surface. Dahlia’s gaze skipped over the more embellished objects to a bronze hairpiece that depicted a circle of five flying larks with tiny beads of amber set in the place of their eyes.

    The man picked up the hairpiece and traced his finger over each delicately wrought bird. Ah yes. He offered it to her.

    Her mother had sent them into town specifically to look at Mr Howard’s new collection of hairpieces. This man was most certainly not Mr Howard and were Dahlia to return home with anything she purchased from the troubadours, her mother would be livid. I really shouldn’t⁠—

    Humour me. The words were soft, but they set a strange note ringing in the back of her mind and her hand twitched towards the offered trinket.

    The metal was warm from the sun but much lighter than expected and it seemed to thrum against her fingertips. It is lovely.

    Would you like it?

    Dahlia shook her head and held the piece out to him, though deep at her core she desperately wanted to keep it. I can’t … my mother.

    He closed her hand over the hairpiece and pushed it back towards her. It’s yours.

    That feeling in her stomach calmed. How mu⁠—

    A gift. There was something about the line of his smile that made her swallow. But if you must insist on paying me, then perhaps a song, his gaze flicked to the ebony violin, or your name.

    She rocked back on her heels. ‘Never give your name to anything immortal.’ Her grandmother’s voice echoed across her mind. I⁠—

    There you are, Dahlia. Helena grabbed her elbow.

    Dahlia shook off the torpor that had stolen across her mind and glanced at her sister.

    You didn’t buy such a plain piece when you could have had something like that did you? Helena pointed to a silver comb with a flourish of rainbow feathers and bright roses made of silk ribbon.

    I was just … She looked up, but the man was gone and, in his place, stood a girl with dark brown skin and turquoise ribbons laced through her hair.

    Anything else I can help you with? the girl asked cheerfully.

    No thank you. Dahlia gave her a small smile and tucked the hairpiece into her reticule.

    As Helena led her away towards Natty, Dahlia glanced back at the practicing musicians. The man with the golden hair leant against the side of the wagon, a jaunty tune spilling from his violin. He winked as her eye met his, and she snapped her attention back to her sister and Natty.

    Did you get your ribbons?

    Yes. You know Mother will be furious that you bought something from the troubadours’ stall, Helena said.

    Dahlia drew a deep breath then shrugged. If you’re finished then we should be heading for home.

    When they returned home their mother was sorting through the contents of a large trunk in the parlour.

    There you are. Did you stop by Mr Howard’s store? she asked as she straightened and stretched.

    I did and look, Helena said as she revealed a silver comb studded with a spray of enamelled forget-me-nots and baby’s breath. It will perfectly match the pendant Lia got me for my last birthday, she added before she plonked herself down on the settee by the window.

    Did you find anything you liked? Their mother turned to Dahlia.

    Not at Mr Howard’s, Dahlia admitted as she settled into an armchair.

    I’ll go see if Mrs Thomson needs me, Natty said with a dip of her head before she hurried from the room.

    What do you mean not at Mr Howard’s? Dahlia’s mother asked, her tone dangerously level.

    I umm … Dahlia’s reticule felt suddenly heavy in her lap.

    Dahlia?

    I didn’t make it to Mr Howard’s shop. I found something at the troubadours’ stall, she mumbled the last two words.

    How many times do I have to tell you to stay away from—never mind—well?

    Dahlia took the hairpiece from her bag and held it out.

    Her mother went completely still, the colour draining from her cheeks as her eyes flicked from the hairpiece to Dahlia’s. Who sold that to you? The words were strained like her mother was trying extremely hard to keep calm.

    One of the tumblers, Helena said.

    Their mother released a breath and then nodded. It is lovely. I can see why you chose it.

    Dahlia blinked as her mother turned back to the trunk. That was it? All those times Dahlia had avoided the troubadours because she was afraid of her mother’s ire, and she barely batted an eyelid?

    Yes, this will do nicely, their mother said as she pulled out a gown of cornflower blue taffeta with navy velvet accents and held it towards Helena.

    Helena leapt to her feet and took the offered dress with a squeal of delight. What is Dahlia going to wear? she asked as she laid the gown reverently over the back of the settee.

    Perhaps … Their mother unearthed a pink gown from the trunk and held it up, gesturing Dahlia forward.

    Dahlia tried not to scrunch her face up as her mother held the blush fabric under her chin and tilted her head.

    Hmm … With a frown she discarded the dress, and Dahlia let out a relieved sigh.

    What about this one? Helena was headfirst in the trunk, clouds of multicoloured fabric shrouding her. She straightened, pulling something out from the very bottom.

    It was a dress Dahlia had only ever seen once before—deep emerald-coloured velvet and silk cut in an out-of-date fashion, with a corseted bodice and flowing skirt—and the sight of it made their mother frown deeply.

    The green will suit Lia’s colouring. Helena held the gown up and tilted her head the way their mother had done with the pink.

    Perhaps, but⁠—

    Sorry to interrupt, but this just arrived. Natty entered the room carrying a large parcel tied with a black velvet ribbon. The card hanging from it bore the Beaumont crest, and Dahlia bit down on a sigh as the sight of that crest reminded her of the seemingly inescapable future that was to ensnare her in a mere handful of hours.

    Place it on the table please, Natty, their mother said.

    Once Natty had laid the parcel down, their mother untied the ribbon and let out a delighted sigh.

    Amethyst velvet and lilac silk greeted them as their mother lifted the gown from its wrapping with the same reverence that Helena had shown the blue. It had the high waisted line that was the current fashion, with delicate beaded sleeves. The dark velvet overdress was split up the front to reveal the soft folds of lilac within.

    Oh, Lia, it’s beautiful, Helena whispered as she stroked the overskirt.

    I still prefer the green. Dahlia said softly.

    Her mother frowned, regardless, you will wear this dress, Lord Beaumont has so generously gifted it to you. It would be rude to deny him.

    Deny the acceptance of his gift or his hand? Dahlia couldn’t be so easily bought, but Helena was right—their parents would never let her turn John down. Why he insisted on pursuing her when they had so little in common and he could have any other young woman in the village was beyond Dahlia. She chewed the inside of her cheek as her mother folded the gown delicately back into the wrapping.

    If her parents were going to force her to marry him then maybe instead of continuing to fight the inevitable, she could broker some kind of deal. After all, if John wanted to marry her so badly, he’d have to accept her, dubious musical frivolities and all.

    2

    DAHLIA

    By the time evening had drawn close, the knot in Dahlia’s stomach had shifted into a tense mass that stole her hunger. It wasn’t the shifting butterflies of gleeful anticipation; it was the raging wild boar of trepidation.

    Freshly out of the bath and dressed in her undergarments and robe, she stared down at the dress waiting on the foot of her bed. The dress John had bought for her. It was lovely but it stirred a heavy feeling deep within her stomach. She picked up her violin and moved to the window. Positioning her fingers on the right chords, she laid the bow against the strings and drew out that song from deep within her. The soft melancholy of the music drifted around her and she closed her eyes, letting its soothing strains twist over the fabric of her being and chase away her fear.

    Dahlia!

    The bow screeched on the strings as she jumped at her mother’s tone.

    Now is not the time for music. Here. She pushed a bundle of cloth into Dahlia’s arms. The cut of that dress is lower than your others, so none of your current undergarments will suit.

    Dahlia gently placed her violin away and examined the garments. The stockings were a fine, almost silky pair that looked brand new with soft, black velvet ribbon ties at their tops. A delicate scrollwork of black embroidery embellished the hem and the neckline of the slip. She placed the stockings and slip on the bed then lifted the stays to examine them. Like the other items, they looked brand new and they had the same dark velvet ribbon lacing up the front.

    You procured these rather quickly. Did you know John was sending the dress?

    Her mother gave her a strange look. "Lord Beaumont has been ever so generous. You should consider your choices this evening very carefully."

    Dahlia’s gaze dropped to the stays still in her hands and a lump rose up her throat. Did John send these as well?

    Her mother turned away to rummage in the drawer where Dahlia kept her jewellery.

    Mother?

    He’s a good man, my sweet, and he’ll give you a good life.

    A life where I must deny the very essence of my nature. A life of propriety and quiet duty. A life without my music, Dahlia muttered and tossed the stays onto the bed. I was not made to be a lord’s wife, Mother.

    He is not the boorish monster your mind has made him. Her mother scowled at the lark hairpiece on Dahlia’s dresser before she pulled a small amethyst-studded comb from the drawer.

    At least let me choose my own jewellery, seeing as every other choice this evening has been denied.

    Her mother dropped the comb back into the drawer. "Dahlia, she warned, this match is happening whether you like it or not. So you can choose to embrace your future with open-armed gratitude or you can live out the rest of your days in bitter misery. Either way, it will be as Lady Beaumont."

    Dahlia drew a deep breath and slipped out of her old undergarments. She pulled the new slip over her head then picked up the stockings and slid them on, securing the ties tighter than she probably needed to. When it came to the stays, her mother took over. She tucked and tied and adjusted until Dahlia’s cleavage was on full display.

    Is that completely necessary?

    It can’t hurt. A woman must use all her assets to her advantage, her mother said as she held the gown out for Dahlia to step into. She arranged the beaded sleeves on Dahlia’s shoulders then smoothed everything out and made sure it was sitting just right before cinching the ties. Gorgeous, she said as she stepped back to admire her work.

    I am uncomfortable and can barely breathe, so I would say that I look like a paragon of beauty, Dahlia muttered as she moved to the dressing table and picked up the bronze hairpiece.

    Lia, are you ready—oh wow. Helena stopped in the doorway, her blue eyes widening as they took in Dahlia. That dress is so pretty.

    Thank you. Dahlia gave her what she hoped didn’t look like a forced smile.

    You said you’d help me with my hair, Helena said as she fingered the forget-me-not hanging at the base of her throat. She was right—the comb she had purchased would match it perfectly.

    I hadn’t forgotten. Sit. She gestured to the seat by the small dressing table.

    Helena dropped into the chair and straightened her back as she admired herself in the mirror.

    Dahlia combed out her sister’s glossy dark locks and then twisted them up and secured them with several pins before sliding the comb into place. She had left some of Helena’s hair down and their mother made a noise from her perch on the side of the bed but said nothing.

    I look so elegant. Thank you, Dahlia. Do you want me to do yours or … Helena glanced their mother’s way.

    You can do it, Dahlia said as she handed her the lark hairpiece.

    The faceted amber of the birds’ eyes glittered as Helena tilted it and traced her finger along one of the bird’s wings, examining the craftsmanship.

    I know I called it plain at the market, but it really is lovely, she whispered as Dahlia dropped into the chair she had vacated.

    Their mother and gone strangely still—the same way she had when Dahlia had revealed the hairpiece earlier. The look in her cobalt gaze was calculating as it set on Dahlia’s reflection, and after a few moments she stood and left the room.

    Helena’s eye met Dahlia’s in the mirror in silent question, and Dahlia shrugged. For a very long time, Dahlia had been sure that there were two different versions of her mother sharing the one body. One was the light-hearted woman who smiled when she found a lady beetle crawling on the herbs planted by the kitchen door or showed her daughters how to make wishes on the spent heads of dandelion flowers. The other was often tired and stern, she had a great love for rules and maintaining appearances, and very little love for anything that might have even the tiniest hint of whimsy. Over the years, the stern stickler for propriety had won out.

    Their mother returned to the room just as Helena was securing the hairpiece around the small bun she had made by pulling back the top half of Dahlia’s hair. The rest of Dahlia’s long golden locks hung freely down her back, the ends dancing against her shoulder blades.

    What do you think? Helena asked their mother.

    She didn’t respond. She was studying the necklace that was laid over her fingers, her mouth tucked in at one corner like she was working through some internal struggle. After a few moments, she looked up and handed the necklace to Dahlia.

    It was a perfect match for the hairpiece: five bronze larks chasing each other in a neat line, their amber eyes shining bright. Dahlia met her mother’s gaze.

    It was a gift, a very long time ago. There was something about the way she canted her head as she spoke that told Dahlia she would not elaborate further, but Helena asked.

    From Father? But his gifts are always so …

    Boring, sturdy, serviceable? Dahlia could think of many more adjectives for their father’s gifts, but they were always something necessary rather than frivolous and, as far as Dahlia knew, he had never given their mother so much as a single ribbon let alone a piece of jewellery as lovely as this one.

    It didn’t come from your father, she said tightly, and at Helena’s shocked expression she added, I was young once and your father was not my only suitor you know. Just put it on.

    Dahlia held the necklace in place across her collarbone, and Helena fastened the clasp. Like the hairpiece, the necklace was lighter than she expected, and the cool metal seemed to throb against her skin, but the feeling passed as she examined her reflection. It did look lovely, the glittering beads of amber in the place of the birds’ eyes made them seem alive. With a steady breath, she turned to await her mother’s inspection.

    You look lovely, my sweet. Her mother handed her a pair of black dancing slippers and then ushered Helena out the door. Lord Beaumont has sent a carriage.

    Dahlia paused in pulling on the second slipper. For a moment there she had almost forgotten the impending proposal, but the weight of expectation settled heavily in her stomach once more at her mother’s words.

    The Beaumont mansion’s ballroom had been decked with elegant displays of flowers, and couples twirled across the dance floor to the sophisticated harmonies of a string quartet. Along one side of the room several pairs of French doors that lead to the garden were open, allowing the heavy scents of night-blooming flowers to drift into the edge of the space. Dahlia wandered that way as soon as the pleasantries were done.

    She had one foot poised to step over the threshold when a hand caught her elbow and pulled her up short. Composing what she hoped was a friendly smile, she turned, not surprised to find John’s pale blue gaze fixed on her. That gaze dropped for a fraction of a second to the neckline of her gown then flicked up again.

    J— She glanced over his shoulder and found her mother watching them so dipped into a tiny curtsey and corrected herself. Lord Beaumont.

    Please call me John. May I be so forward as to call you by your name, Miss Burrows?

    She nodded. It felt unnatural for them to be formal with each other. After all, they had known each other since they were scuff-kneed children running about the town and making up their own versions of the wild stories featuring the ruined castle in the wildwood just beyond the borders of the Beaumont estate. Then his parents had died, and John had changed; gone was the imaginative young boy whom she might not have

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