Curse of the Wolf King: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling

Book 1: Entangled with Fae

by Tessonja Odette

Genres: Gaslamp; Romantic Fantasy; Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology; Fantasy Romance; YA Epic Fantasy; YA Fairy Tales & Folklore; fairy tale retelling; faerie; Beauty and the Beast; fae; fairy tale romance; fae romance

Synopsis

A beastly fae king with a deadly curse.
A devious bargain to break it...

All Gemma Bellefleur wants is to leave her past behind and forget the day scandal broke her heart. But when she's captured by a trickster fae king who threatens to hold her for ransom, she'll find herself at the top of the gossip column yet again.

Unless...

Plagued by a curse that will soon claim his life, the human-hating King Elliot will do anything to save himself. And if Gemma can use that to her advantage, she might be able to bargain her way to freedom. All she has to do is help him break his curse.

There's just one hitch—to do so, they'll have to trick someone into falling in love with the beastly, brooding Elliot.

With a devious alliance made, their scheme begins, bringing Gemma and Elliot into very close quarters. Soon, an unexpected desire stirs where once there was only hate. But Gemma must fight it. For when the curse is broken, Elliot will return to his true form—a wolf—and be lost to her for good.

Can Gemma sacrifice her budding feelings to save the king's life? Or will love force her to give up something even greater...her heart?

ACOTAR meets Bridgerton in this standalone fairytale retelling of Beauty and the Beast. If you like slow burn romance, wolf shifters, and brooding fae royals, then you'll love this swoon-worthy story in the Entangled with Fae series.

*NOTE this book is upper YA/NA featuring mature situations and some adult language. The romance is slow burn but leads to moderate steam.

Curse of the Wolf King is a complete stand-alone novel set in the same world as The Fair Isle Trilogy. Journey back to Faerwyvae or begin your adventure for the first time with this enchanting tale. Each book in the Entangled with Fae series can be read on its own and in any order. Happily ever after guaranteed!

Release date: April 7, 2021

Publisher: Crystal Moon Press

Print pages: 356

Content advisory: moderate steam, mature situations, and some adult language

Sample

Chapter One

 

Just breathe. They can’t hurt me from here. No one can.

I release a heavy sigh, my breath fogging the window glass and obscuring my view of the enormous snowflakes that fall on the other side, floating from the vast white sky to the streets below. I press my forefinger to the fogged glass, tracing a circle, then several lines radiating out from its circumference. By the time I draw my last line, the image fades, taking with it my temporary sun.

I let out another sigh, my brow pulling into a scowl. I despise snow. Almost as much as this town. 

I squint beyond the snowflakes to the bustling streets outside my home. A row of townhouses identical to mine line the opposite street. One family all but spills from their doorway in their haste to get outside, gathering their composure when they reach the cobblestone street. The father straightens his cravat, tips his hat, and mouths what I can only imagine are kind greetings to passing neighbors, who in turn stop to chat. Their words are too distant for me to hear from inside my townhouse’s parlor, but the delighted squeals of the children are loud enough to reach me. A boy and girl grin up at the sky as they bounce up and down on the balls of their feet, faces alight at the sight of snow. It’s almost enough to make me wonder if the falling flakes of freezing doom perhaps aren’t the worst after all. However, all mirth from both myself and the children is stripped away when the mother swats at them, prodding her progeny into silence and well-behaved postures before contriving exaggerated smiles for her neighbors’ sake.

“Why, of course, Mrs. Aston,” I say under my breath, tone mocking, “you most certainly should strip the joy from your happy children while you can. Wouldn’t want their enthusiasm for life’s early pleasures to stain your well-kept reputation.”

I shake my head and turn away from the window with a huff. Mrs. Aston, like everyone else in the town of Vernon, is yet another simple-minded, judgmental prude. I can’t believe I was ever so naive to think this place would be a fresh start. A place where I could escape the rigid structures of human society and just be…me.

But no. There’s no room for me, not when society has already decided who and what I should be. A daughter. A woman. A wife-in-training. Quiet. Demure. Chaste. 

One would think moving to an isle ruled by the fae—magical creatures I once thought could never belong outside mythical stories—would provide a fresh perspective on social norms. When Father announced he was moving me and my youngest sister from Bretton to Faerwyvae, and to the Winter Court of all places, I felt a mix of emotions. Terror. Shock. Relief. And, yes, most pathetic of all, hope. I should have known better. For it turns out, the human towns in Faerwyvae are just as uptight as the cities in Bretton.

If only I could go home. To my real home. Not here. Not even Bretton, but to the home of my childhood where the sun shone year-round, browning my skin as I played outdoors with my sisters, not a care in the world to dampen our spirits. That was joy. That was happiness. That was when our family was whole, and Mother was still…

My shoulders stiffen. Shaking the ruminations from my mind, I stride to the fireplace at the opposite end of the parlor. I cross my arms and pop my hip to the side as I glower at the meager flames. An unladylike countenance, I’m sure, but considering I’m alone in my family’s parlor, I really couldn’t give a damn.

I suppress a shudder, wishing the heat of the fireplace could more adequately warm the room. How is it that I live in a land filled with magic, and yet we’re still plagued by the same unreliable hearths I left behind? The Winter Court, more than any other court in Faerwyvae, should make proper heat a priority for its residents. Shouldn’t it? 

I grit my teeth, releasing a grumble of muttered curses.

Saints Above, why am I so on edge today?

As if in answer, my gaze is drawn to the tea table in front of the couch, where a well-worn book rests, taunting me.

Oh, that’s right. Because I’m out of reading material. Again.

I move to the couch, retrieving the shawl draped over one of the pillows and wrap it around my shoulders. I pick up my book and settle into the cushions, smoothing the folds of my blue satin skirt close to my legs, wishing I’d worn wool hose today instead of silk stockings. Then I pull the cord of the tall floor lamp next to me, igniting a warm, subtle glow that lights my pages. 

We may not have leading-edge technology for heating, but at least we have electricity for light—or a form of it, I should say. Unlike Bretton, where light is generated by traditional means, here it comes from strange fae magic, traveling along lay lines, or some such. 

I flip past the title page of my book, which reads The Governess and the Rake, to page one. The familiar words set my nerves at ease as I begin to read. But as I make it to page three, I find my mind beginning to wander. As much as I love my book, I’ve already read it three times. I want something new. Need something new.

I slam the cover shut and return it to the table. Bringing my thumbnail between my teeth, I make my way back to the window to look out at the streets that have grown even busier in my short absence from my post.

My heart races as the bodies that swarm the streets grow denser, the chatter of excited pedestrians compounding with horse hooves, carriage wheels, and the rare automobile until it becomes an audible roar of sound.

I’m transported to a similar street in recent memory, one crowded with sneers and whispers. Eyes that burn with hate and scorn. All directed at me, as barbed as if they were lashes upon my flesh.

I bite the inside of my cheek, which helps me recover my bearings.

Just breathe. This is here. This is now. 

Damn it all to hell, I really need a new book. Otherwise, my mind will be the death of me. But new books mean leaving this room. Walking in the saintsforsaken snow…amongst all those people.

I swallow hard.

We’ve been living in Vernon for three weeks now. The first week was almost a respite. Being a newly opened resort town near the mountains of the Winter Court, Vernon welcomed us as one of the first families to take up residence. The shops were new and stocked to the brim with untouched goods, which thankfully included a bookshop. That became my immediate haven, and I confess, I spent my weekly allowance during my first trip there. The second week brought more new families settling into the empty homes, including the nosy Mrs. Aston. Still, I continued to escape into my books and replenish my wares as soon as one story was finished. The start of this week, however, brought a flood of residents, some permanent, others visitors. All bursting with anticipation for what is considered a momentous event—the start of the Winter Court’s social season.

I once was excited by social seasons, but now I dread them. Dread with a capital D and a string of colorful curses. The kind a lady should never say. Shit. Damn. Hell. 

I really, really need a new book.

Clenching my fingers into fists, I stare out at the streets one more time and give myself to the count of five to feel afraid.

One.

The bookshop is just a few blocks away.

Two.

No one here knows my past.

Three.

They don’t know me at all.

Four.

And if I have anything to do about it, no one ever will.

Five.

With a deep inhale, I straighten my posture, swallowing my fear. Then I suck in my stomach, aided by my tight-laced corset, and throw back my shoulders. I pat my black tresses, ensuring every wavy strand is secured in its fashionable twist at the nape of my neck. Lifting my chin, I press my lips into a haughty smile, the first ingredient that makes up the mask I must wear. The persona I present to the world. The kind that keeps me strong. Confident. Impervious to pain.

A lie, yes.

But one that I, Gemma Bellefleur, wear so well.

 

Chapter Two

 

Head held high, I exit through my front door. The chilly air immediately strikes me, teasing the warmth from my thick wool coat. My sable collar brushes my cheeks as I pull it higher, wishing it were tall enough to cover my ears. At least my wide hat protects me from the falling snowflakes that continue to float down from the sky

Sound is amplified tenfold from what it had been behind the safety of my parlor window, sending my pulse pounding. And yet, my smile doesn’t slip. I give way to not a single flinch as an automobile roars by, sending pedestrians hurtling out of its path. Part of me begs to rush back inside, back to the warmth of the fireplace, to the quiet of the parlor, but I shove that part of me into the recesses of my mind and focus on the task at hand. 

Just breathe. Just smile. Just pretend.

With a deep breath, I descend the front steps to the sidewalk below, my low-heeled boots crunching into the dusting of fresh snow. The snow here is always fresh, never accumulating higher than a quarter inch on the streets, no matter how much has fallen the day before. It must be magic that keeps it that way.

“Miss Bellefleur!” a voice calls from across the street.

Mrs. Aston gives an enthusiastic wave, and I curse my reactions for being so automatic. If I hadn’t made eye contact, I could pretend I didn’t see her. But it’s too late. She’s already crossing the street toward me. I manage to suppress a groan, although I’m sure I can’t keep my full displeasure from my eyes. To counteract it, I force a smile.

“Miss Bellefleur,” she says when she reaches me, “is your father home? I was hoping to have you and your sister over for dinner tonight.”

Bodies weave around us on the sidewalk, making my breath hitch. I hate standing still in a crowd. Hate it. I can almost hear whispers, jests, snide comments laced beneath the roar of footsteps, pitched within the blare of an automobile horn—

I blink a few times, breathing the memories away. This is here. This is now. I refocus on my outer composure and recall Mrs. Aston’s question. “No, my father is not home,” I say and leave it at that.

“Oh, but I must have you over. You simply have to meet Gavin. He’s finally arrived in town.” Her eyes are alight with excitement, her smile oozing saccharine sweetness.

“Gavin,” I echo flatly.

Her grin falters. “My eldest son. You recall I told you about him when I was last over for tea?”

“Ah.” I nod. Now I know what this is about. It’s the social season’s most heinous of activities. Matchmaking. Time for a swift exit. “My father and sister are in the market square. I’m sure you can speak to him when he returns.” 

I take a step to the side, but she mirrors me.

“Oh, but did you hear about Miss Weathersbee?” She lowers her voice just enough to feign discretion, although hardly quiet enough to truly avoid being overheard. “I was most surprised when I heard. She’d taken a walk—unchaperoned—with Mr. Evans. And—”

“Mrs. Aston,” I say, allowing some sharpness to infuse my tone, “I doubt this is any of my business to know, considering I am acquainted with neither Miss Weathersbee nor Mr. Evans.” 

Heat flushes her already heavily rouged cheeks. She purses her lips, then returns them to her false grin. “Miss Bellefleur, I was simply leading up to tell you that they spotted a wolf. Two of them! Right on Whitespruce Lane at the edge of the woods. I merely wanted to warn you.”

I grit my teeth. That’s how some of the vilest rumors start, the kind that are cloaked in a way that makes the news seem prudent to share. I’ve heard it all before. I’d be a terrible friend if I didn’t confess, or I only say this because… There’s always a reason. Always a way to rationalize why one must invade another’s most private moments.

I curl my fingers into tight fists, feeling the stretch of my kid gloves. It takes all my restraint to maintain my composure. At least my irritation has overridden my fear. I can hardly see the bustling bodies that continue to shove past us. When I speak, my words come out calm. Collected. Just like my outer persona. “We do live in the Winter Court, Mrs. Aston. Spotting wolves at the edge of the forest is hardly news worth spreading, regardless of the gossip you’ve so neatly tied to it.”

I expect another blush, but she’s nonplussed. In fact, she seems encouraged, her smile brightening. “They could have been fae wolves.” 

“Here?” I say with mock concern. “At the heart of a fae court? Why, never in all my days would I have thought such a thing possible.”

This time, she seems to catch the hint. She folds her hands before her with a huff. “We don’t see many fae here, Miss Bellefleur. This is a human town, after all.”

“Vernon has only been open for a matter of weeks.”

“Which means every sighting of a fae is news!” She places a hand on my arm, her words taking on a condescending tone, her cadence slowing. “Gemma, dear, you are new to Faerwyvae and are not yet versed in our ways. The fae may rule us and they may mingle with humans freely in some cities, but very rarely here in the south. The northern cities near the palace of the seelie king are where most high fae live, and the lesser fae, like the wolves and bears, tend to stay away from towns like ours.” 

I plaster a smile over my lips and tilt my head. “On the contrary, I have been told all of this. I’ve also been told the fae take offense to the terms high fae and lesser fae and prefer the terms seelie and unseelie, so I suggest you forgo repeating the former.” 

She waves a dismissive hand. “That’s only if they hear you use such phrasing. It’s not likely I’ll offend anyone here. As I’ve already said, there’s hardly a fae living in Vernon. Unless, of course, you count Mr. Hamish’s new wife. Have you met her yet? She looks like one of us, but they say she’s half pixie! Can you even imagine?”

There’s really no getting through to this woman, is there? Then again, based on our previous encounters, I shouldn’t have expected this conversation to go any different. “I must be going, Mrs. Aston.” 

Again, I step away, only for her to shadow me.

“Where are you off to? Perhaps we can go together? We’re on our way to meet Gavin. I’m sure an early introduction—”

“What a kind and generous offer,” I say without warmth, “but I must be on my way alone. Good day.”

She opens her mouth to object, but I’m already taking my leave—with haste this time. 

 

The bookshop, like always, is nearly empty. 

As soon as the door closes behind me, I feel like I can breathe. More than that, I can finally let my guard down. Here I can be myself. Here I can find quiet.

I head for the bookseller, Mr. Cordell, who nods at me with a warm smile as I reach his counter. He’s an older gentleman, perhaps twenty years my father’s senior. His hair is gray, his eyes a watery blue. I return his smile, this one genuine, unlike the one I wear among the other townspeople. 

“How many today, Miss Bellefleur?” Mr. Cordell asks.

“That depends. Anything new?” 

He pretends to ponder, squinting at me as he taps a finger to his chin. “Well, I have plenty new. But the kind of books you’re after…”

“Don’t hold out. Tell me!” I say with a laugh. 

With an exaggerated sigh, he reaches beneath the counter and takes out a rectangular bundle wrapped in cloth. He barely has a chance to push it across the counter toward me before I gather it up and tear off the wrapping. I can’t contain my excitement as I read the title. The Governess and the Earl.

My breath catches. This is the newest book in the Governess in Love series. And it’s here. In my hands. My mouth falls open as I hug the book to my chest and meet Mr. Cordell’s eyes.

He gives me a knowing nod. “It’s quite good.”

“You read it already? That’s so unfair. You should have hand-delivered it to me at once.”

“Perhaps,” he says. “But then how else would I get you in here to brighten up my dreary shop? There are so few others in town with such keen tastes.”

I must confess he’s right. I’ve hardly met another soul who appreciates the intricate art of the romance novel more than Mr. Cordell. He’s probably the most—if not only—pleasant surprise I’ve had since moving to Vernon. “You’re saving my sanity, you saintly old man.”

“I’m not sure if I can be considered a saint after reading chapter eighteen. There are few things that can make me blush anymore, but…just you wait.”

My entire being hums with my eagerness to get home and dive into my book straight away. But considering how quickly I finished the last book, I should probably take home more than one. “Is this the only new arrival?”

“Oh, no. There’s plenty more. I knew you’d be most excited about that one, and it would be a crime not to reserve your copy at the counter. Go ahead and browse. You know where to find the good stuff.” He gives me a wink, and I make my way to the back of the store, The Governess and the Earl still clutched close to my chest. 

I reach the romance section, a wall of my favorite books spanning before me, most of which I’ve read once, if not several times. The aroma of paper envelops me like a warm blanket, one that feels like home. Safety. I’m so comforted in this moment, tears begin to prick my eyes. I run my fingers along the spines of the books, reading each title with care as if greeting a dear friend. I am, in truth. For here I am amongst my true peers. Men and women who’ve been swept beneath the tides of love, overcome by its grief and madness, in all its glorious stupidity. Of course, the characters in these books always end up with their lovers, safe and happy on the other side of scandal, betrayal, and heartache. Unlike myself.

Perhaps that’s why I choose to disappear into books. It’s a place where I can feel seen for who I am and everything I’ve been through. Where I’m not judged for the things I’ve done or the messes I’ve made. And in these books, I can give myself the ending that was stolen from me. The ending I no longer believe exists in real life.

Love.

Just like my outward persona, it’s a lie.

I continue my exploration of my silent companions, adding each intriguing new title to a pile on the floor, until I discover a spine that I know is immediately out of place. I don’t even need to read the title to know the book has been misshelved, for its bland color and unwieldy size say anything but romance. Such a crime could never be pinned on Mr. Cordell. No, this is the result of careless shoppers, the kind that make my blood boil. With a grumble, I remove the interloper and place it on top of my books. Seeing how tall my pile has grown tells me my shopping trip should probably be at an end, otherwise I’ll surpass my week’s allowance and end up owing Mr. Cordell at my next visit. 

I gather my merchandise, plus the wayward book, and head for the counter. Only now do I realize how busy the shop has become while I’ve been enchanted in my quiet corner. Couples stroll arm in arm, browsing the shelves as if they are looking at fragile artifacts and not dear friends. A pair of young women chat near a table of books, idly handling them without so much as looking at what they touch. I’ve never seen the shop with more than one or two patrons visiting at a time, and now it’s downright crowded. If this is what it’s going to be like now that Vernon’s social scene is in full swing, I must begin my visits to the bookshop much earlier in the morning. 

Making a beeline for Mr. Cordell, I quicken my pace. I’m nearly there when—

“Infinite Suffering in the Garden of Happenstance.” A young man, perhaps a few years older than I, blocks my path, eyes not on my face but my chest. Or the books that cover it.

I pull my merchandise closer, heart racing at his unexpected proximity. Not out of excitement, but a fleeting terror. I take a few breaths to steady my nerves and back up a step to put space between me and the man. “Excuse me?”

He finally meets my eyes. I admit he’s handsome with his dark hair and eyes, his fashionable black jacket, sky blue waistcoat, and matching cravat. But his looks are marred by the condescending grin he wears, and when he speaks, his voice carries a nasal quality that grates on my ears. “The book,” he says. “The finest piece of Brettonish literature, and I must say, I am delighted to see one so beautiful as you holding it. I know by that alone that you are a woman of supreme breeding and unparalleled intelligence.”

With an inward groan, I realize he’s mistaken the misplaced book as something I’m actually interested in. More irksome than that is his assumption that my level of intelligence can be measured by what I read. “Sir, I—”

“Gavin Aston,” he says with a bow.

I almost laugh. So, he’s Mrs. Aston’s son. What a surprise. “Mr. Aston—”

“And you are?”

I clench my jaw. “Gemma Bellefleur. And I—”

He lifts his chin with what he probably thinks is a charming grin. “Call me Gavin.”

I narrow my eyes. “Mr. Aston,” I say, punctuating each word for emphasis, “I am in a hurry to purchase my books.”

“Ah, yes, how foolish of me.” Before I can react, he takes them from my arms and hefts the stack onto the counter. 

I rush after him. “I can carry my own books.”

He pays me no heed. “Allow me to escort you home. You shouldn’t walk in the snow with such heavy merchandise.”

I straighten my posture, bringing us nearly eye to eye. I’m tall for a woman, with broad shoulders and wide hips. It’s what my father calls a sturdy build—an insult, I’m sure, but I take pride in my figure. It helps add strength to my false persona. Compared to me, Mr. Aston is slim and lean. I highly doubt he’s much stronger than I am. “Like I said, I can carry my own books.”

“Then perhaps you can allow me to carry conversation instead? I daresay I’ll find few others in town with intelligence to match mine.”

I turn toward the counter and meet the furrowed brow of Mr. Cordell, whose eyes dart from me to my unwelcome companion. “Mr. Aston,” I say without looking at him, “you assume too much of my intelligence. I assure you, we are not as matched as you think. There is, in fact, a vast discrepancy between us.”

“I appreciate your modesty, but you need not be quite so self-deprecating. It’s clear you are at least my half, if not my equal.”

My hands tremble from the restraint it takes not to shake the sense into him with a punch to the nose. Instead, I attend to my stack of books. With an exaggerated motion, I push the misplaced book across the counter toward Mr. Cordell. “This was misshelved. I will not be buying it, but the others I will take. Oh, and today’s paper, please.”

I refuse to look Mr. Aston’s way, although I can feel his gaze burning into me. 

Mr. Cordell nods and begins to draw up my bill, gaze flashing toward Mr. Aston time and again, who still, for whatever saintsforsaken reason, has yet to get the hint and leave. The old bookseller hands me my bill, as well as my books and newspaper, all bundled neatly together with string. “That will be twelve quartz chips, my dear.”

I retrieve my purse and shell out twelve pieces of clear, crystalline quartz—the currency of the Winter Court—and collect my books.

Mr. Aston holds out his arm, all smiles. “Shall we?”

Gritting my teeth, I force myself to meet his gaze. “There’s a word where I come from, and perhaps I should have used it sooner, for I’m certain it is a word well-known in Faerwyvae as well. The word is no.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “You truly are clever—”

“Gemma!” a female voice says with a gasp. I don’t need to look to know who it belongs to. 

Today of all days, I mutter to myself. With all the effort I can manage, I plaster a smile over my lips to conceal the snarl I’d rather show, and face my nemesis. 

Imogen.

 

Chapter Three

 

Imogen greets me with a superficial hug, oblivious to the books I hold between us. “Dearest Gemma,” she says, her blonde curls bobbing beneath her pink hat. “I was so put out when I arrived at your house and you were not in. Did you forget our plans for tea?”

“I did not forget them, for we never made them,” I say. “I recall you telling me you’d be over for morning tea, but I do not believe I affirmed I would be home to receive you.”

She laughs, but her blue eyes go steely. “You’re so funny, Gemma. However, your father wouldn’t like to hear of you missing any of our dates.”

“No,” I say with a sigh, “I doubt he would.” Curse my father for setting me up with Imogen Coleman, daughter of the vile woman he’s been courting since we arrived in Vernon. She calls herself my friend, but in truth, she’s more like my jailer. Here to keep me prim, proper, and well out of scandal’s vicious grasp. 

“It’s a good thing I knew just where to find you.” She then turns to the infernal man next to me. “I see you’ve met Mr. Aston already. We’re old friends.”

Ugh, of course they know each other.

“A pleasure to see you again, Miss Coleman,” he says with a nod. “I wasn’t aware your family would be vacationing here.”

She swats him playfully on the arm. “You should know better by now. My family should be expected at all the liveliest social seasons.”

“Yes. In fact, one would almost say you chase them.”

I’m taken aback by the jibe, impressed to hear the first intelligent thing from his lips.

Imogen’s face flashes with a scowl, but she quickly replaces her smile. “Mr. Aston, you must escort us home and carry Miss Bellefleur’s books.”

“No,” I say before he can take a step toward me. “I’m desperate for some time alone with my dear friend.” Words I never expected I’d come to say about Imogen, that’s for sure.

Mr. Aston frowns, hands extended toward the books I hold in a viselike grip.

“Ah, Mr. Aston,” comes the bookseller’s voice. “I overheard your love for Infinite Suffering in the Garden of Happenstance. If you enjoy that, I have a new book all the intelligent young men are raving about.”

My companion perks up at that. “Yes! Yes, I would like to see this book indeed. I will leave you two to talk amongst yourselves. I do know how ladies love to gossip.” With a wink, he rushes to join Mr. Cordell, giving me a glorious escape. 

Well, sort of. There’s still Imogen.

We exit the bookshop, which sends my stomach plummeting. Gone is the comforting smell of paper, the dim indoor light, replaced instead with blinding white snow and crowds. At least my anxiety has all but retreated in the wake of my rage at Mr. Aston. It makes returning to the busy streets much easier to bear than it had been when I first set off. It’s always like this when I leave the house these days. Terrible at first, most often from the vantage inside my own head. Then nearly as bad when I first step outside. But I grow used to it as my memories of the past fail to materialize in the present.

This is here. This is now.

Imogen points across the street. “Oh my goodness. Is that…a fae?”

I follow her line of sight to the elegant hotel-to-be still under partial construction. Outside it, a male figure with brown hair and horn-rimmed spectacles confers with a copper-haired woman next to him. While the woman appears human, aside from her odd choice of clothing—a brocade coat in vibrant chartreuse—the male has distinctly pointed ears. The sidewalk around them is nearly empty, with many crossing the road to give them space. As much as I hate to admit Mrs. Aston being right about anything, it is true that very few fae have come to Vernon so far, and when they do, they tend to be a bit of a spectacle. The two figures across the street, however, don’t seem to notice, as their attention is fixed on the hotel’s facade. 

“I can’t believe they’re still working on the Verity Hotel,” Imogen says with a pout. “It’s the only one with space for a proper ballroom. How can we have a true social season without a place to dance?”

I internally roll my eyes. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”

“I wish they’d hurry. You’d think hiring a fae interior designer would make the process faster, not slow it to a snail’s pace.” Imogen continues to glare at the hotel, as if that alone could speed the construction, until a petite young woman approaches. 

She wears an enormous blue bonnet—although she looks old enough to wear much more mature fashions—and a gray wool coat with fraying hems. “I’ve picked up your ribbons,” she says to Imogen.

Imogen doesn’t so much as look at her. “Take Miss Bellefleur’s books, Ember,” she says, pointing at me before she starts off down the sidewalk.

The girl named Ember takes my burden with a warm smile, adding to arms already laden with bags and boxes. 

“Thank you,” I say to her, then join Imogen. “Is she a new maid? I haven’t seen you travel with her before.”

Imogen leans in close and mutters, “She’s my stepsister. Might as well make her useful.”

I nearly trip over my boots as I whirl back to the girl, heat rising to my cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were a maid. Here, let me take them back.”

“Really, it’s fine,” Ember says.

“Yes, it’s fine,” Imogen echoes, but with more ice in her tone. She pulls me to face forward, her smile never faltering as she says, “It’s improper to carry your own books, Gemma dear. You’ll never snag a husband like that.”

Her words return my irritation, but they also remind me to replace my mask. My unflustered persona. With more grace than I truly feel, I ask, “And what about your sister? If such a thing is improper for me, is it not improper for her to carry my books?”

She lets out a high-pitched laugh. “Ember isn’t on the market for a husband. We are. As someone older than you, you must heed my counsel.”

I bite back my retort. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to tell Imogen Coleman to take her counsel and piss right off. But, of course, my father would kill me. My so-called friendship with the girl is probably the only thing keeping him from breathing down my neck every minute of the day to find me a husband.

So instead, I look down my nose at her. “How do you know I even want to marry?” 

She meets my gaze, aghast. “Well, we’ve already established you have no merits to recommend you to the fae royals, and becoming one of their prized artisans is the only viable option for an unmarried woman without her own wealth. You don’t sing, you don’t play the pianoforte, and you have no artistic talent. Besides, the Seelie King of Winter rarely accepts new artisans, and the unseelie king doesn’t even hold auditions. In fact, even if the unseelie king decided to finally grace us lowly townspeople with his presence, I’d hesitate to suggest you get your hopes up with him. Hardly anyone knows a thing about him, aside from his disdain for humans. I don’t even know his…” 

She trails off, her tirade coming to an uncharacteristic pause. I furrow my brow, watching as her eyes glaze over, face blank as if she’s suddenly forgotten what she was saying. Maybe I’ll get lucky and she’ll stop speaking altogether.

Then, just as suddenly as the strange expression came, it disappears with a shake of her head. “No, your destiny lies not with the fae and their elite cities and palaces.” The wistfulness in her tone isn’t lost on me, and I wonder if she’s speaking equally to herself. I’ve heard her lament time and time again that there haven’t been nearly enough fae princes present at any of the other courts’ recent social seasons. Apparently, a royal fae husband equates to the ultimate marital success for human girls in Faerwyvae. 

Imogen sighs. “Like me, your place is here, amongst the humans. Which means you must have a husband.”

I clench my jaw, wanting to scream. How are the people here so…so stagnant? So unprogressive? I never considered my previous homes to be amidst advanced society, but everyone I’ve met in Vernon suggests this place is several years—if not decades—behind the times.

Then again, personal experience has proven just how prevalent rigid social structures can be…and the cruelty of those who enforce them. The rumors. The sneers. The leering taunts— 

“Mr. Aston is a great option,” Imogen says, startling me from my thoughts. “I will hate you forever if you snag him. Although, I am sure I have lost all chance with him regardless.”

As much as I despise engaging in such trivial conversation, her words have piqued my curiosity. “Why is that?”

“We courted for no more than a week last year, and I’m certain neither of us could stand it. He wanted nothing more than to talk and debate, and I could hardly keep up with the dreary subjects he wanted to chat about. You could tempt him, though. It’s clear he’s already smitten with you. Besides, you both like…books.” She says the last word with a flourish of her hand, her nose wrinkled with distaste.

I lift my chin. “A mutual love for books doesn’t mean I can tolerate tedious conversation with an insufferable fool who thinks so highly of his intellect.”

I catch a stifled laugh and find Ember feigning a cough behind us. Imogen, however, has stopped in her tracks, eyes wide as her cheeks burn pink. “You should not speak of Mr. Aston like that,” she mutters furiously. Gathering her composure, she links her arm through mine, and we begin to walk again. “He could be just what you need, you know.”

I frown. “Just what I need? For what?”

She looks up at me, lips twisted into a knowing smirk. “To secure a husband before everyone here finds out.”

This time, I’m the one pulling to an abrupt halt. “Finds out? About what?”

“Your father told my mother all about it, and she told me.” 

A hollow ringing fills my ears, and time seems to slow down and speed up all at once. 

When Imogen next speaks, her feigned whisper sounds more like a shout, and it feels like a punch to the gut. “The scandal in Bretton.”

The breath is stripped from my lungs, and my heart slams against my ribcage as I’m suddenly back on that street I was on just months ago. Familiar faces of women I’d once called my friends stand around me, hurling insults. 

Whore.

He didn’t even care about you.

Hussy.

He didn’t belong to you.

Seductress.

How could you betray the princess like that?

Temptress. 

Did you use witchcraft on him?

I feel a gentle hand on my arm, one that brings me back to the present. It’s Ember who stands at my side, looking up at me with concern. “Are you all right, Miss Bellefleur?” she asks.

With terror, I realize I’m shaking, eyes unfocused. My gaze snaps back to Imogen, who watches me with a triumphant grin. I can’t let her see me like this. I can’t let anyone see me like this. For this is how they can hurt me.

With a deep breath, I force the memories to retreat, let my confident mask settle back over me. Don’t be weak, I tell myself. If you can’t escape their judgments, then be who they already think you are. 

I brush off Ember’s concern and return to walking ahead. I wait until Imogen catches up to me before I speak again. “Oh yes, the scandal, as father calls it. Or as I like to say, a good time.”

Imogen’s mouth falls open on its hinge. “You can’t act like that here. It may have been acceptable to play the harlot in Bretton, but the people of Vernon will not tolerate such behavior. If you get caught up in something like that again, I won’t be able to be your friend.”

“Pity.”

“Have you no shame? No one wants a ruined woman as a wife. If everyone here were to find out about your…colorful past, you’d become a stain on this town and everyone you associate with. It would destroy my reputation.”

I turn my head sharply to the side, letting a hint of rage shine behind my eyes. “Then perhaps it’s best you keep your mouth shut about it.”

Ember masks another laugh behind a fit of contrived coughs, and the rest of our walk passes in glorious silence. 

 

Chapter Four

 

When we reach my townhouse, I can hardly contain my joy in bidding farewell to Imogen. I’m even more relieved when I enter the front hall and the maid informs me my father and sister are still out. That means more time alone for me.

“Delightful,” I say, handing her my hat and coat, dripping sheets of icy water from melted snow. “Has the post arrived yet, Susan?”

“No, miss,” she says, “but I will bring it to you when it does.”

I don’t know why I bother being so hopeful. I doubt there will be anything of interest addressed to me in today’s post. Invitations to tea and dinner, I’m sure, but the correspondences I’m awaiting are better than that. They could hold the key to my freedom.

Books cradled in my arms, I make my way upstairs to the parlor. Exhaustion, both mental and physical, drags at my bones. It takes a lot out of me to leave the house, more so when I have to deal with the likes of pretty much anyone in this town. Luckily, with the house nearly empty, I can let my mask slip, let my shoulders fall. Let all pretense wash away as I enjoy this moment alone.

Inside the parlor, the fire still quietly roars in the hearth, which feels like an inferno compared to the bite in the air outside. I pull a chair and small table closer to the fire and settle in, and Susan brings a tray of scones and tea. I flash her a warm smile and gush my thanks before turning my attention to my new books. I organize them in a stack in order from most-excited-to read to still-very-excited-but-less-than-those-above. The Governess and the Earl, of course, sits at the very top. I shift the order of the bottommost books several times, but once I’m content, I lean back with today’s paper and open it straight to the want ads.

Like I do every day, I scan the columns seeking job postings, which are plentiful, since the newness of this town provides a plethora of employment opportunities. But just like every day before, I’m in a rage by the time I’m halfway through my search. Nearly every job posting with even the slightest prestige has the caveat that the applicant be male. Male. Why the hell for? And those that allow women to apply pay far less or are for jobs I’m not desperate enough to take. Factory worker. Maid. Secretary. Governess. I’d be happy as a secretary, I’m sure, but for that pay? It would take decades to secure the financial independence I need to free myself from my father’s clutches and the need for a husband. And as much as I love reading about the governesses in the Governess in Love series, that career is certainly not for me. 

Instead, I seek out ads with the words accountant, house steward, management, but all those postings are for men. The very jobs I have experience with are the ones I’m excluded from. It makes no sense! Who better to manage accounts and households than the middle daughter who saved her family from destitution?

The thought quickly turns my mood from anger to sorrow, for it makes me think of Mother. With that comes a tender lump rising in my throat.

It’s been five years since her death, and still it pains me daily. The darkness of the days that followed her demise cling to the shadows of my family’s past, as none of us were ever the same again. Father was changed most of all, not the least bit by the fact that she died in a collapse of one of the mines he owned. The incident killed more than just Mother, though, and resulted in several lawsuits—and even strikes at the other mines—over unsafe work conditions. Our finances crashed, and the mining operations fell to ruin. It was as if Mother’s death heralded an end to life as we knew it.

We soon left our home, our country of Isola, and all our happy memories. Seeking to replenish his wealth, Father moved us to the country of Bretton, settling in its bustling capital city. With Father constantly away chasing business and my eldest sister entering society to find a husband, it was left to me to oversee our accounts. Because of me, we survived. Because of me, no one knew we were poor. I managed our accounts so strategically that only a glimpse at our ledgers could have given our secret away. When visitors came to call, they saw our luxurious parlor, not our bare bedrooms. When we went out on the town, they saw us in fine dresses, not the outfits we’d had artfully repurposed or sold. The facade was so convincing, I eventually caught the eye of a viscount—

Just like that, my rage returns. I fold the newspaper closed, tossing it on my lap, and take a hearty sip of tea, wishing it were wine instead. 

Footsteps sound in the hall, startling me and draining my momentary flash of anger. I replace my cup on its saucer and smooth out my skirts as if the motions could brush away my anger too. At the last moment, I stash the newspaper behind me and sit up tall. But when the figure clears the threshold, I’m relieved to see it’s just Nina, my younger sister.

“Gemma, you’re still here? Did you even leave the house today?” she asks, golden cheeks flushed pink after coming in from the cold. She takes a seat in a nearby chair and holds her hands out toward the fire.

“I left once,” I say. “Did Father come home with you?”

“No.”

At that, I fall back into a reclined position and retrieve my newspaper from behind me. Nina may be far better behaved than I am, but she’s one of the few people I can be myself around.

She spots my pile of books and rolls her eyes. “Oh, I see how it is. I can’t persuade you to come out with me, but a need for books can. Remind me to start hiding your books when I’m in want of company.”

“I don’t know why you’d ever be in want of company, Nina,” I say with a smile. “You’re already engaged and have made friends of half the ladies in town.” 

“You’d be engaged too, if you’d get your pretty nose out of a book for once.” Her tone is scolding, but her expression is warm, reminding me so much of Mother. She looks just like her. Short, plump, with round cheeks, black hair, and dark eyes. My eldest sister, Marnie, is nearly identical, but just a few inches taller. No wonder Father has always liked them better than me. I take more after him with my height and build. 

I pour another cup of tea and bring it to my lips. “I don’t want to marry. You know that.”

She bites her lip for a moment, as if she’s fighting what she really wants to say. 

I give her a warning glare. Don’t, it conveys. Do not bring up the viscount. Do not try to tell me, yet again, that love still exists. I’ve seen both its pleasures and its demise, and I want none of it ever again.

Taking the hint, she replaces her smile. “You might still change your mind. If the right person comes along, that is. Just don’t do what you always do.”

“And what is it I always do?”

She gives me a pointed look. “You always expect the worst in people. If you didn’t, you’d notice just how many handsome gentlemen have arrived in town this week.”

“Goody,” I say. Taking up the paper again, I hide behind its sheets, seeing words but reading nothing.