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“Who ever heard of a carrot cake for a wedding?” said one of the cooks. “I’m telling you, Ms. Maureen won’t have it.”
“It’ll have white icing.”
“You’re going to end up fired.”
“Miss Delilah enjoys carrot cake.”
I smiled. This was at least an argument that felt normal, though I had to wonder what was wrong with carrot cake for a wedding. Did werewolves have a tradition about the cake I didn’t know about?
“There,” Brock announced as he set Janice’s chair at the bottom of the stairs. He was panting and a fine sheen of sweat peppered his brow, but he looked none the worse for wear.
“Thank you, Mr. Norton.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said with a wry smirk. “I’ve come to fetch you. Delilah has arranged for us to use her mother’s study for our…”
He trailed off, clearly uncertain what to call it.
“Session,” I provided.
“Right,” he said, that smirk turning into a real smile. “Let’s go get this ridiculousness over with.”
I glanced to Janice, but Meredith was already in command of the handles and was steering the woman away. There was a clutching in my gut as I watched them distance from us, but this was Meredith and hadn’t Derrick said I could trust her?
Janice would be fine. And I had agreed to help Delilah. With a deep breath, I gestured for Brock to lead the way. “Yes, let’s go see what Miss Delilah needs.”
The Leslie’s study was a vast, polished room with shelves and shelves of books lining the walls. A massive desk commanded the western side of the room, with a single brass light fixture positioned near the center. The books on the shelves looked almost new, their spines gleaming with gold or silver embossing. After delivering me, Brock went off in search of Delilah, clearly exasperated that the woman had moved. Because I wanted this over as much as Brock, I promised to remain until he returned with his bride.
I drifted closer to one shelf, curious about what titles might be lingering on Maureen Leslie’s shelf. Near as I could tell, Montgomery Leslie did not leave his third story spaces, keeping the rest of the manor as Maureen’s domain. Apart from that first dinner, I had not seen Montgomery and Maureen in the same room, which begged so many questions it was hard for me to contain them.
What was wrong with the man? How and why did Maureen keep his failing mental health secret?
He seemed mostly sound of mind at dinner, if distant and unsociable. I had been so tired from travel and overwhelmed by the party that details were fuzzy, but I couldn’t remember being introduced. In fact, I only had a vague impression of his face in my memory.
I walked slowly across the room, turning so that I could peruse the shelves as I went. It seemed a lonesome room. Only one desk, the one chair, one settee for reading. How often did Maureen come here and lock herself away from the rest of the world? There were some light scuffs across the wooden floor where the chair had frequently been scooted, and my heart did an involuntary squeeze.
I did not want to think of Maureen as lonely. It made her softer, made her someone I could relate to. Resentment welled and I scowled at the little marks on the floor, grateful for once that my magic was cut off. If I could not access my magic, then I also did not have to empathize.
The first book I spied was A Tale of Two Cities.
Curious. I hadn’t thought of Maureen as a fiction lover. I wondered what she thought of the book. Was she displeased by Mr. Dickens’ portrayal of what he obviously believed the perfect female? Lucie Manette’s simpering attitude had always bothered me. Quiet and demure was more and more the human male’s perception of good breeding, and there were times it seemed the Bright agreed.
Maureen was anything but quiet and demure. She was tenacious, a force to be reckoned with, bold and certain in her business dealings. I could not imagine her liking Lucie’s character at all.
The door opened and Delilah stepped in, followed by Brock and a flurry of servants. The servants bustled through the room, laying down a cloth across the desk and then a tea tray with fine porcelain settings. Within seconds, three chairs were unfolded in the center of the room, huddled close enough together that there was no question this was meant to be where we sat. The servants took their leave, closing the door behind them, and I took a steadying breath.
“Good morning,” Delilah said.
She was dressed in fine ivory muslin accented by pink ribbons, the picture of sunshine and spring days, and she moved with graceful purpose to the tea set. Because this was not truly to be a counseling session, but a chance for her to speak earnestly with her groom, I chose to follow her lead.
“Dells,” Brock said with no small amount of exasperation in his voice, “What are you doing? I thought everything was agreed on.”
I folded my hands.
Interesting that he already had a pet name for Delilah. Nobody else had called her Dells in my hearing. Did they have a closer relationship than I imagined?
“Oh, Maureen and your father certainly agreed to everything,” Delilah said, passing me a delicate cup and saucer.
I took them with a murmured thanks and then, because it would do no one any good if servants peeked in and we weren’t at least attempting to look like we were in a session, I sat down. I had chosen a lavender-bordered day dress to wear today, which was more white than purple and likely did not fit the persona of a professional very well. But I wasn’t trying to be professional here and, to be frank, I hadn’t done my own packing. Derrick’s torchstone was in my skirt pocket, hidden well in the folds of my dress, and I felt its comforting presence bounce against my thigh as I sat.
