previous day must have . . .
The previous day.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Arianna pressed her palms to her brow. Was this living, breathing nightmare really less than twenty-four hours old? Burnt powder. Twisted screams. Spattered blood. The smell of death. A churning vortex of spinning, swirling memories stirred a sudden nausea.
No, no, no, it was hunger that had her feeling light-headed, not fear.
“Signorita?” The knock came again.
“Sí.” Throwing back the covers, Arianna reached for her wrapper. The maid had brought her nightclothes the previous evening, gorgeous silken garments that slid over the skin like a whisper of tropical air. And certainly far more costly than any clothing she had ever possessed, she reflected, catching sight of herself in the cheval glass.
Dear God, in such borrowed finery, I actually look like a real lady .
A wink of light. A mere illusion. From her father she had learned how easily perceptions could be manipulated.
Turning abruptly, Arianna called, “Come in,” then added in Spanish, “Pase, por favor . ”
The door nudged open and a middle-aged woman entered, carrying a silver tray nearly as wide as her own ample girth. It was loaded with food, the aroma of fresh-baked rolls and fried York ham mingling with the sugared scent of steaming hot chocolate.
Despite her earlier queasiness, Arianna suddenly felt ravenous. “Thank you— Gracias ,” she said as the woman set it down on a small table by the windows.
“De nada . ” After carefully arranging a fork and knife atop a starched white napkin, the woman gestured for Arianna to sit.
Pausing only to pick up a folded sheet of paper from the dressing table, she hurried to comply. A full cup was already waiting, and as the first swallow swirled down her throat, she let out a little sigh.
“Ambrosial,” she murmured, savoring the rich taste of the cacao mingling with hot and sweet spices.
“Good?” asked woman in tentative English, her dark eyes watchful.
“Very good,” replied Arianna. “Cinnamon, anchiote, vanilla . . .” She took another sip. “And some spice I can’t quite place.”
The woman tapped a finger to a tiny dish beside the chocolate pot and mimed a sprinkling motion. “Nuez moscada . ”
“Ah. Nutmeg.”
Nodding, the woman turned to leave, but Arianna placed a hand on her arm. “A moment, por favor .” Handing over a recipe that she had scribbled out earlier, Arianna managed, through a mixture of English, Spanish, and hand language, to communicate what she wanted.
The woman’s solemn expression gave way to a tiny smile. “ Sí, sí . I understand, signorita. I will take this to Bianca.”
“Tell your cook that if she doesn’t have the ingredients in her pantries, they are all easily obtainable in London,” said Arianna. “I will be happy to come down to the kitchen if she has any questions.”
Tucking the paper in her apron, the woman bobbed her head and hurried away.
“A lost cause,” she muttered to herself. “But then, who am I to talk?” Her stomach growled in answer. “Right—let the condemned eat a hearty meal.”
After the first few bites, Arianna felt her mood brighten. The warmth of the chocolate, the dappling of the sun, the twittering of birds . . . a new day, and with it, she must look at her situation with a new perspective.
During the night, she had already decided on a change of plan. Her first impulse had been to escape, but on further reflection that seemed a bad choice. Flee now, and she would likely never get another chance at revenge.
Revenge. Her knife hovered for a moment over the plate. Strangely enough, she hadn’t yet decided what she wanted. Was it to coax a confession from him and then slide a blade between his ribs? Or somehow see him brought to justice for his crime?
Either way, what mattered was that when the time came, Concord would know that a Hadley had not allowed the truth to die along with her father. But to do that, I must get close.
The previous day.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Arianna pressed her palms to her brow. Was this living, breathing nightmare really less than twenty-four hours old? Burnt powder. Twisted screams. Spattered blood. The smell of death. A churning vortex of spinning, swirling memories stirred a sudden nausea.
No, no, no, it was hunger that had her feeling light-headed, not fear.
“Signorita?” The knock came again.
“Sí.” Throwing back the covers, Arianna reached for her wrapper. The maid had brought her nightclothes the previous evening, gorgeous silken garments that slid over the skin like a whisper of tropical air. And certainly far more costly than any clothing she had ever possessed, she reflected, catching sight of herself in the cheval glass.
Dear God, in such borrowed finery, I actually look like a real lady .
A wink of light. A mere illusion. From her father she had learned how easily perceptions could be manipulated.
Turning abruptly, Arianna called, “Come in,” then added in Spanish, “Pase, por favor . ”
The door nudged open and a middle-aged woman entered, carrying a silver tray nearly as wide as her own ample girth. It was loaded with food, the aroma of fresh-baked rolls and fried York ham mingling with the sugared scent of steaming hot chocolate.
Despite her earlier queasiness, Arianna suddenly felt ravenous. “Thank you— Gracias ,” she said as the woman set it down on a small table by the windows.
“De nada . ” After carefully arranging a fork and knife atop a starched white napkin, the woman gestured for Arianna to sit.
Pausing only to pick up a folded sheet of paper from the dressing table, she hurried to comply. A full cup was already waiting, and as the first swallow swirled down her throat, she let out a little sigh.
“Ambrosial,” she murmured, savoring the rich taste of the cacao mingling with hot and sweet spices.
“Good?” asked woman in tentative English, her dark eyes watchful.
“Very good,” replied Arianna. “Cinnamon, anchiote, vanilla . . .” She took another sip. “And some spice I can’t quite place.”
The woman tapped a finger to a tiny dish beside the chocolate pot and mimed a sprinkling motion. “Nuez moscada . ”
“Ah. Nutmeg.”
Nodding, the woman turned to leave, but Arianna placed a hand on her arm. “A moment, por favor .” Handing over a recipe that she had scribbled out earlier, Arianna managed, through a mixture of English, Spanish, and hand language, to communicate what she wanted.
The woman’s solemn expression gave way to a tiny smile. “ Sí, sí . I understand, signorita. I will take this to Bianca.”
“Tell your cook that if she doesn’t have the ingredients in her pantries, they are all easily obtainable in London,” said Arianna. “I will be happy to come down to the kitchen if she has any questions.”
Tucking the paper in her apron, the woman bobbed her head and hurried away.
“A lost cause,” she muttered to herself. “But then, who am I to talk?” Her stomach growled in answer. “Right—let the condemned eat a hearty meal.”
After the first few bites, Arianna felt her mood brighten. The warmth of the chocolate, the dappling of the sun, the twittering of birds . . . a new day, and with it, she must look at her situation with a new perspective.
During the night, she had already decided on a change of plan. Her first impulse had been to escape, but on further reflection that seemed a bad choice. Flee now, and she would likely never get another chance at revenge.
Revenge. Her knife hovered for a moment over the plate. Strangely enough, she hadn’t yet decided what she wanted. Was it to coax a confession from him and then slide a blade between his ribs? Or somehow see him brought to justice for his crime?
Either way, what mattered was that when the time came, Concord would know that a Hadley had not allowed the truth to die along with her father. But to do that, I must get close.
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