Page 1 of A Taste for the Peculiar

ONE

Avirin

“How could you be so careless?” Lady Ellison yanks the carriage curtain closed so she can speak plainly. “A fresh start to the season, and you jeopardize everything to become — this.”

She can’t even say it. She gestures toward her daughter — dark brown hair arranged atop her head, her body plumper than even the most sought-after debutante. Avirin looks the same as she always does, but they both know the curse that lingers beneath her pale skin, the word that thrums in Avirin’s mind with every waking hour.

Succubus.

Avirin digs her nails into her palms. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t even know how —”

“We all know how these monstrosities come to be!” her mother hisses. “Trollops. Adventuresses with skirts too light to keep down.”

Avirin’s face heats. “I’ve never —”

“You probably caught it from one of those undesirables at the theater.” Her mother flicks out her fan. “Who was it? One of those banshees? I’ve told you time and again to stay away from them.”

“Mother.” Avirin tries to ignore the sweat prickling on the back of her neck. Surely her mother has not noticed Avirin lingering by the stage door, watching the actresses leaning out in various stages of undress. Avirin’s stares means nothing, of course. It is a simple curiosity, nothing more. Nothing censurable. Nothing untoward.

The coach jerks to a halt. Avirin fumbles to steady herself, but her mother is already slipping into the genteel facade Avirin has never been able to master. Lady Ellison rests her hands in her lap. “This will be your final season.” Her face is a mask of civility, but her words are grit through her teeth. “You have no time left. We should have never put off your debut for all your bluestocking nonsense. You have always been a peculiar girl, notoriously picksome, but this…” Her mother shakes her head. “The moment this disgrace is exposed, we will lose everything. Your prospects will vanish. Our family will be humiliated. We will have no choice but to send you away to try and salvage some semblance of our reputation.”

“Send me where?”

Her mother settles her hands primly in her lap, as if the answer is obvious. “You’ve been struck with this…ailment due to some moral deficiency. What you need is discipline. A firm hand to keep you on the proper path. There is an assortment of private houses that specialize in such long-term treatment.”

Avirin bites the inside of her cheek. A madhouse? Where they torture those poor people? She aches to prove that she is powerless to this condition, to swear that she has no control over it, but it would not matter.

Her mother will never believe her. No one will.

Lady Ellison reaches for Avirin’s hand, and Avirin fights the urge to pull away. “Of course, that isn’t my first choice, dear,” her mother coos. “Even with the most prestigious houses, our family name would not be left unscathed. It will be far better for everyone if no one discovers what you are.” She squeezes Avirin’s hand too tightly. “You will find a husband. You will give him an heir. By then, it will be too late for him to cast you aside completely.”

The coach door swings open, and her mother exits.

Avirin’s body is filled with lead. She sinks back in her seat, staring at the ceiling to muster up the will to move. For a brief moment, she wishes to talk to her father. It’s a foolish thought; he has never contradicted her mother. He has never come to Avirin’s aid. He hardly makes any appearance at all, but in Avirin’s childish heart, she still yearns for him to ride in like a shining knight and protect her with his shield.

But that is a fantasy.

Perhaps her mother is right. Perhaps this affliction is retribution for her sinful fascinations, her reprehensible dreams, her corrupt desires. Perhaps there is a thread of fate woven through every twisted thought Avirin has allowed into her mind.

“Miss Ellison?” the footman, Mr. Brandiron, asks.

Avirin startles and murmurs an apology, gathering her azure blue dress before she takes his hand. Stepping out of the carriage always feels like being sucked out with the tide, so Avirin holds her breath and turns to the man beside her. “How is your shoemaking coming along, Mr. Brandiron?” He is an elderly dragon with graying red scales, and Avirin has always preferred conversing with him far more than any member of the ton.

He ducks his head. “Please, Miss Ellison, I must insist you call me Fagan.”

“Are you still enjoying the process?” she presses. “Have you chosen a color?”

He smiles, though he keeps his gaze averted. “As much as I enjoy our conversations, Miss Ellison, your mother has instructed me not to partake in them any longer.”

Avirin exhales. “Of course. I understand. Good evening, Mr. Brandiron.” Then she forces herself to wade into the crowd.

Noises accost her from all sides, blurring with the mix of bright colors and heavy perfumes. She spends the evening putting her social observations to work, nodding in the proper places and speaking just the right amount. At first, no one gives her any odd glances. But as the hours drag on, exhaustion works into the crevices of her being. Her poise is slipping, reflected in the knit brows and stiff shoulders of her companions. She’s leaving pauses in the wrong places. She’s talking too quickly. She’s saying strange things. After another failed conversation, Avirin excuses herself and rubs at her aching jaw.

“Oh, Avirin!” Idessa Sargent waves her over, platinum hair glinting in the light. “Do join us!”

The two of them were never close as girls, but Miss Sargent does look pleased to see Avirin. And though she needs a break, she secures her cordial expression back into place and approaches the group.

Miss Sargent’s frosty eyes flick over Avirin’s dress. “That’s quite a color on you.”