He hesitated, but must have been too timid to put up a fight, because he nodded and backed away.
When we left, Blaise pulled the door shut behind her. The thud of it closing sounded more like closing the door to my future.
No, not my future. One of many possible futures.
I’d simply find myself a better one.
“Ellie?” she asked once the footman rounded the corner.
“Yes?”
“Do you love him?”
My breath caught; my words hitched in my throat for a moment. But I recovered quickly enough. A child of my mother’s would. “I suppose I did… I suppose I do. But I won’t for long. I won’t give my heart to someone who doesn’t want it. At least, I won’t let him keep it. Not for much longer, anyway.”
Blaise swallowed, and for a moment I thought she might cry again. I’d never seen that before, not from anyone other than my parents—someone hurt like that on behalf of someone else. I wondered then how often Blaise absorbed pain that shouldn’t have been her own, how much she hid underneath that free-spirited, lazy facade of hers.
“For what it’s worth, he should have picked you,” Blaise said.
A pained smile tugged at the corners of my lips. “That’s certainly worth something.”
“I think maybe,” she said, looking up at me, “I think maybe you’re the right choice for him. But perhaps he’s not the right choice for you. If he was, then he would have seen that.”
I nodded, too overcome with conflicting emotions to respond properly.
Blaise must have understood, because she took my hand in hers and walked beside me as I left this version of my future behind.
CHAPTER 50
EVANDER
It’d been an entire mooncycle since I’d seen Ellie Payne’s smirk, sensed her laugh upon my ears, thought I’d heard her laughter echoing down the corridors.
Yet still, Ellie Payne, that relentless, insufferable, unforgettable woman, refused to give me a moment’s peace.
The footsteps in the hallway were always hers. Until they weren’t, and Blaise or Imogen or any number of servants peeked their heads into my room to ask if I was hungry or thirsty or in need of anything.
I never was, though sometimes I would tell Blaise that if she could find me a glassblower with an affinity for lobster, I’d be much obliged. She’d hide her wince at my desperation behind a joke about how I should ask Imogen to do it.
And then Ellie Payne was in the forest, infecting my nostrils with the scent of rainwater and lavender as I attempted to get some fresh air to clear my head.
She was completely ruining my desire for exercise.
I’d come to dread lobster night.
I used to love lobster night.
Yep. Ellie Payne was in my life for a grand total of two months, and she’d managed to ruin my immortal existence.
Two months. That was 1/1200 of my life.
I’d calculated it; that’s how bored I was without her.
The castle had become too stuffy, too quiet, so I’d found myself wandering into town, a hood pulled over my face so no one would recognize me.
I’d even walked all the way to her family’s cottage one day.
Okay, two days.
Maybe three.
But I’d stopped doing that. One time was one thing. Three times was bordering on stalker behavior.
It wasn’t that I was trying to stalk Ellie, though. Every time I found myself straying down the path toward her family’s cottage, it had been with the intention of banging on her door, demanding to be let in.
I’d prepared at least sixty-three speeches. Unfortunately, there weren’t many variations of I love you that made up for the fact that, in a moment of rash decisions, I’d picked the freedom of a psycho murderer over Ellie’s safety.
Rash. It’d been the part of me my father had always despised, the thorn lodged within my soul he’d expected to be my ruin.
My father hadn’t been wrong.
In my rash moments, I’d chosen Cinderella.
But in the quiet moments, in the longs walks past the sunflower fields with the dust caking my shoes and the snowcapped mountains in the distance, in the eerie moments of silence before I fell asleep, when nothing in the castle seemed awake, not even the crickets that dwelled within the cracks in the mortar… In those moments, I chose Ellie every time.
Perhaps that was what kept me from knocking on Ellie’s door, despite the speeches I’d prepared—Fates, I had a robust collection of wilting flowers piled up in the corner of my room collecting dust, from all the times I’d stopped by the florist and purchased two bouquets—one for Ellie, one for her mother in case Ellie decided she wanted me thrown out of the house before I got the chance to speak my mind.
Ellie probably didn’t like flowers, anyway. She’d probably interpret my getting them for her as yet another example of how I didn’t understand her—not really.
