The Longest Night: A Drake Chronicles Novella by Alyxandra Harvey
Authors: Alyxandra Harvey
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Daphne confided. “She’s quite desperate.She fancied herself in love with Lee. Worse, she fancied him in love with her.”
“You’re positively wicked,” Lilybeth said.
“Hush,” Sophie added. “We’ll be overheard.”
Daphne, for all her fluttering eyelashes and simpering smiles, looked smug. Until
she realized the young men were watching, and then she blushed prettily. Emma felt
bad for Julia. The other girls turned to look at her expectantly. She didn’t know
what to say. She didn’t want to get married. She didn’t want to poke fun at others
to be noticed. She didn’t want to wear white dresses, as expected of all debutantes
in England. She simply didn’t fit. She never had.
“I think Julia’s very nice,” Emma said finally, just to fill the silence.
Daphne shook her head on a sigh. “Let’s go, girls,” she added, pityingly. They moved
off like a flock of geese, whispering and giggling. One of their beaus trod on Emma’s
foot as he hurried to follow and didn’t notice enough to apologize. Emma gave serious
consideration to tripping him. Especially when he jostled her hard enough to make
the ribbon slip off her wrist.
The perfume bottle fell to the floor. It broke in half, leaking thick fluid that smelled
like rot and roses. A crystal bead rolled out, coming to a stop against her foot.
She stared down at it, annoyed. “That was my mother’s,” she snapped, but he was already
gone.
She bent to gather the pieces. One of the shards sliced into her left thumb, drawing
blood through the thin silk of her glove. Around her, a country dance was in full
swing, polished shoessqueaking, and skirts flouncing. Aunt Mildred searched the floor for her and her cousins.
If Emma crossed the room in order to make her way to the library to hide out with
Gretchen, she’d be caught. She needed a quiet corner. For some reason, holding the
broken pieces of her mother’s perfume bottle made her want to cry.
She eased backward until she was mostly hidden by the potted palms. She slid along
the wall until she came to the nearest doorway and then stepped into the relative
peace of the hall. A silver candelabrum filled with beeswax candles burned on a marble
table. The soft, humid scent of orchids and lilacs drifted out of the conservatory.
She pulled off her stained glove so as not to instigate one of her aunt’s mind-numbingly
dull lectures, and practically dove into the indoor garden.
Extensive windows and a curved glass ceiling held in the warmth and moisture of hundreds
of flowers. The marble pathway wound around pots of daffodils, lilac branches in glass
vases, and banks of lilies pressing their white petals against the windows. She tried
to see the stars through the ceiling but mist clung to the glass, obscuring the view.
Instead, she contented herself with wandering through the miniature jungle, listening
to the faint strains of a waltz playing from the ballroom.
It wasn’t all she heard.
The soft scuff of a shoe had her turning around, frowning. “Is anyone there?”
She thought she caught a shadow, but it was gone before she could be sure. It wasn’t
the first time since her coming out that she’d thought someone was watching her. Only
it didn’t just feel like being spied on.
It felt like being hunted.
It made no sense. Who would bother to spy on her? She was the seventeen-year-old daughter
of an earl. She was barely allowed to visit the chamber pot without a chaperone. Nothing
interesting ever happened to her.
Shivering, she reminded herself not to be a goose. There were a hundred reasons why
someone would walk through the garden room and not want to be seen. Like her, they
might be hiding from a chaperone. Or more likely they were looking for a private place
to steal a kiss. That was why there were so many strict and tiresome rules about proper
behavior; no one wanted to follow them in the first place.
Thumb throbbing
“You’re positively wicked,” Lilybeth said.
“Hush,” Sophie added. “We’ll be overheard.”
Daphne, for all her fluttering eyelashes and simpering smiles, looked smug. Until
she realized the young men were watching, and then she blushed prettily. Emma felt
bad for Julia. The other girls turned to look at her expectantly. She didn’t know
what to say. She didn’t want to get married. She didn’t want to poke fun at others
to be noticed. She didn’t want to wear white dresses, as expected of all debutantes
in England. She simply didn’t fit. She never had.
“I think Julia’s very nice,” Emma said finally, just to fill the silence.
Daphne shook her head on a sigh. “Let’s go, girls,” she added, pityingly. They moved
off like a flock of geese, whispering and giggling. One of their beaus trod on Emma’s
foot as he hurried to follow and didn’t notice enough to apologize. Emma gave serious
consideration to tripping him. Especially when he jostled her hard enough to make
the ribbon slip off her wrist.
The perfume bottle fell to the floor. It broke in half, leaking thick fluid that smelled
like rot and roses. A crystal bead rolled out, coming to a stop against her foot.
She stared down at it, annoyed. “That was my mother’s,” she snapped, but he was already
gone.
She bent to gather the pieces. One of the shards sliced into her left thumb, drawing
blood through the thin silk of her glove. Around her, a country dance was in full
swing, polished shoessqueaking, and skirts flouncing. Aunt Mildred searched the floor for her and her cousins.
If Emma crossed the room in order to make her way to the library to hide out with
Gretchen, she’d be caught. She needed a quiet corner. For some reason, holding the
broken pieces of her mother’s perfume bottle made her want to cry.
She eased backward until she was mostly hidden by the potted palms. She slid along
the wall until she came to the nearest doorway and then stepped into the relative
peace of the hall. A silver candelabrum filled with beeswax candles burned on a marble
table. The soft, humid scent of orchids and lilacs drifted out of the conservatory.
She pulled off her stained glove so as not to instigate one of her aunt’s mind-numbingly
dull lectures, and practically dove into the indoor garden.
Extensive windows and a curved glass ceiling held in the warmth and moisture of hundreds
of flowers. The marble pathway wound around pots of daffodils, lilac branches in glass
vases, and banks of lilies pressing their white petals against the windows. She tried
to see the stars through the ceiling but mist clung to the glass, obscuring the view.
Instead, she contented herself with wandering through the miniature jungle, listening
to the faint strains of a waltz playing from the ballroom.
It wasn’t all she heard.
The soft scuff of a shoe had her turning around, frowning. “Is anyone there?”
She thought she caught a shadow, but it was gone before she could be sure. It wasn’t
the first time since her coming out that she’d thought someone was watching her. Only
it didn’t just feel like being spied on.
It felt like being hunted.
It made no sense. Who would bother to spy on her? She was the seventeen-year-old daughter
of an earl. She was barely allowed to visit the chamber pot without a chaperone. Nothing
interesting ever happened to her.
Shivering, she reminded herself not to be a goose. There were a hundred reasons why
someone would walk through the garden room and not want to be seen. Like her, they
might be hiding from a chaperone. Or more likely they were looking for a private place
to steal a kiss. That was why there were so many strict and tiresome rules about proper
behavior; no one wanted to follow them in the first place.
Thumb throbbing
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