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I haven’t seen Gabriel in twenty years. Not since the fire. We went to boarding school together as children. He was one of my good friends, but we lost touch, as kids do. After the fire, I was in and out of hospitals for years. I didn’t go back to boarding school at all.
The last day I saw him, the dorms were engulfed in flames. He was running away with all the other kids, ushered across the lawn by the teachers, and I was watching them from the window of my room on the top floor.
Across the flat roof that separated the boys’ dorms from the girls’ dorms, there was no movement. My best friend had lived across the little strip of roof, but she’d been whisked away just the day before.
I was stranded and alone in a burning building.
Gulping, I push the memories down. That was another time. Another life.
I’m not that weak little boy anymore. I’m not vulnerable and even if I’m alone, it’s by choice. I’ve recovered from the burns and built a name for myself. For this business of my father’s.
A cushy wedding at a royal palace doesn’t exactly tickle me in all the right places, but I do feel a sick sort of curiosity at seeing Gabriel and his bride.
Mrs. Grey leads me through the corridors. The carpet is soft beneath my shoes, and the whole place is bright with sunlight and twinkling chandeliers. “This way,” Mrs. Grey says. “There’s a cocktail hour happening in the garden.” She gives me a warm smile, but I don’t quite have the energy—or the desire—to return it.
My steps feel heavy as I walk, like my limbs are too long and gangly to move gracefully. I should be happy for Gabriel, but there’s a piece of me missing. Empathy has never been easy for me. I’d much rather be the enemy.
Even now, I hate the stares. The quick flick of the eyes down to my neck, followed by the rearranging of features and the awkward smile. Or the people who pointedly ignore my scars and struggle to hold eye contact for far too long. Just look, I want to scream at them. Stare. Grimace. I already know I’m ugly as sin.
Mostly, I hate that it still bothers me. My scars have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. The burns covering a third of my body shaped me into who I am. Why do I care if someone looks at the skin on my neck with disgust?
…But I do care. Every time I see the wrinkling of a nose, or the pity-filled stare, anger comes over me like a red wave.
“Last time I saw you, you were eleven years old,” Mrs. Grey says. I have a feeling she likes to fill comfortable silences with pointless conversation.
I grunt in response.
She lets out a happy sigh, shaking her head. “You and Gabriel were thick as thieves. So much has happened since then. Gabriel changed, but now, with Lady Jolie, I see the happy little boy inside him again.”
My chest constricts. I know Gabriel went through dark times. I know he came to Westhill to be alone, and I understand the urge to do so. I, too, crave isolation.
But now, he’s magically healed? The touch of a woman changed him?
Please.
I wouldn’t be so foolish as to hope for the same thing. There hasn’t been a woman in my life who has pierced through the thick scar tissue that shelters me from the outside world.
When we walk back outside, my hand lifts to shield my eyes from the sun. I squint, hating the feeling of being exposed out here. Mrs. Grey leads me down a flagstone path and around a low wall. To the left, a huge tent is set up with tables, chairs, waiters, and a fully stocked bar. Gauzy material twists around tent poles, gathered into rosettes every few feet. Flowers bloom over every surface, from the tent to the chairs to the tables. Uniformed staff walk around the guests with silver platters laden with bite-sized appetizers and tall crystal flutes bubbling with champagne.
Mrs. Grey leads me to the edge of the tent, curtsies, and takes her leave.
I should get a drink and try to mingle. I should find someone I recognize amongst the silk gowns and perfectly tailored tuxedos and pretend to be happy to be here. I take a step toward the bar, but my eyes are drawn across the lawn. An aroma floats along the summer breeze, faintly sweet and familiar. It reaches deep into my memories and stirs something in the cold, dark depths of my chest.
Roses.
Thousands of them in full bloom, bursting over every wall and trellis, fanning their petals out and showing their beauty to the world. Westhill is famous for them. The rose garden here is legendary, but I’d…forgotten. It’s not these particular roses that call out to my childhood, though. My feet carry me to the rose garden as my heart starts to thump.
An aisle is set up in the center of the garden, with chairs lined up on either side. More gossamer covers every piece of furniture, with roses woven into garlands that line the aisle. Romantic. Beautiful. Fit for a prince and his princess.
That’s where Gabriel will be married—but something else tugs at me. A memory. A whisper of the past.
It’s the smell that carries me away. The sweet scent of the roses stops me in my tracks, and I remember the rooftop of the boarding school dorms. My room was the only one with a window that overlooked the flat roof connecting the boys’ and girls’ dorms. Across the narrow, flat strip, a single other window faced mine.
Penelope Stone’s room.
The little girl with the sunshine smile and hair like spun gold.
The first time I saw her, she was climbing out of her dorm room window onto the roof, hauling a potted plant after her. I leaned on the windowsill, fascinated. Her cheeks had grown red and her hair fell out of its bun. Those wiry little arms strained with effort, but she managed to drag the miniature shrub up onto the roof, wiping her brow and letting out a sigh when she was done.
