Authors: Alyxandra Harvey
Languish
Languish
“Try again, Violet.”
I had heard these words so often in the past weeks that I was now speaking them to myself. And I was fairly certain that if I tried any harder I'd burst my corset strings. The clothes of well-to-do ladies were not constructed for comfort and convenience. Not that I'd expected otherwise; after all, most girls my age didn't have to worry about their best dresses holding up to the rigors of ghost hunting. But burst corset strings or not, it was still no reason not to try.
At least I was better equipped wearing just a set of Colin's cast-off trousers and shirt, which I'd nicked from him when he was thirteen years old. At eighteen, he now had no hope of fitting into them again. His shoulders alone had appeared to double in size, and his arms were roped with lean muscles. I'd felt the strength of them, could still feel the warmth tingling in my fingers if I thought about it. He'd carried me from the pond to Lord Jasper's manor house just last month after an altercation with an unpleasant spirit.
That was back when I'd seen so many ghosts that the idea of
not
seeing them had become laughable. They'd been everywhere, pressed against my bedroom window, whirling between
couples at Lord Jasper's summer ball, even in my mother's town house in London before she'd left to become Lord Marshall's mistress. But now that I was actively
trying
to see them, I could only catch glimpses. I'd thought Rowena's ghostly attempt to contact me had been vexing. This was so much worse. I wanted to make Lord Jasper proud.
Which explained why I was currently roaming around in a cemetery at dusk on a perfectly lovely summer evening, alone and dressed as a boy. Tabitha, Rowena's very much alive twin sister, would have palpitations if she saw me now. And she'd be downright disdainful if she knew how much more comfortable I was here in the graveyard than in a fine gown, whirling a waltz in some stranger's arms, or sitting at the supper table trying desperately to remember which fork to use.
Being a country graveyard, it was much smaller than Highgate in London. It didn't have the soaring avenues of mausoleums and marble columns, only moss and moonlight. The gravestones tilted to the side like loose teeth. The grass was long, tangled with wild foxglove and clover, and enclosed with a black iron fence. It might not be extravagant, but it had one thing I needed: rumors of a restless ghost called the Lonely Lord. I'd heard whispers of doomed lovers and the silhouette of a man who sometimes paced along the iron fence. Couples came to him for luck in love, though I couldn't think why with that kind of nickname.
I hoped he was feeling chatty.
The late summer breeze cooled as the sun sank completely behind the line of hills in the west. I clutched my coat closer
to me. This one was a more recent acquisition from the chest of Colin's belongings tucked by his pallet in the kitchen of the gardener's cottage. It still smelled like him, like green leaves and apples.
Best not get distracted.
I squinted into the gathering shadows. “Mr. Rochester?” I missed him most of all. He'd trotted at my heels for weeks, my very own ghost dog, until Rowena had taken over my body to avenge herself on her murderous uncle. Lord Jasper maintained I only needed rest to regain my full psychical capabilities. I wandered between the rows of headstones, alert for mist or a shiver on the back of my neck.
Nothing.
No eerie breeze. No sound of a wolf in the distance, even though there were no wolves in England and hadn't been for hundreds of years.
I'd forgotten how contrary the dead could be.
Even Rowena, tragic and desperate to protect her sister, had been contrary. It was as if the moment a person died and lingered as a spirit, they became infuriating. But maddening or not, now that I couldn't see to the other side of the veil between worlds, I found I ached with the loss of it. It twitched, like a phantom limb. I'd seen enough destitute soldiers and beggars in the stews of London to know exactly what that looked like. Now I knew how it must feel. Bandaged wound or beggar's cup notwithstanding, a part of me was missing.
Apparently, I was just as contrary as any ghost.
Thoroughly disgruntled, I jumped up and down as hard as
I could. “Will,”
stomp
, “you,”
stomp
, “wake,”
stomp, stomp, stomp
, “up!”
I paced the long grass, aware of the bones and buried bodies under my borrowed boots. They stayed silent and cold, no matter how I pleaded for their stories.
And then a frigid hand closed over my ankle and yanked hard, as if I were a bell to summon servants in Jasper's fine house.
Startled, I toppled.
Right onto my face.
I probably deserved it. In hindsight, it was rather rude to hop up and down in a temper over someone's eternal resting place. Certainly, the vicar would have been insulted.
Still, a simple “not receiving” would have sufficed.
And I knew now why the famous lord was lonely. He had appalling manners.
“I wondered where that coat got to.”
I'd know that voice anywhere. There was nothing ethereal or ghostly about it; it was earth and sunlight and freshly cut grass.
Colin.
I glanced at him through the tangles of my hair. “You might help me up.”
He grinned, taking my hand and pulling me easily to my feet. “What on earth are you doing, Violet?” he asked as I over-compensated and collided with his chest.
“Practicing,” I replied, rubbing my nose where it had smashed against his shirt pocket. In romantic novels, heroines never smashed their noses against men's chests. Pain made my
eyes water.
“Practicing falling?” Colin grinned. “I'd say you've got the trick of it, princess.”
I wrinkled my sore nose at him. “If I'm a princess, then you're meant to be charming.”
“Fair enough,” he said, slipping his arm over my shoulder as we crossed through the cemetery. He skirted a clump of daisies to avoid crushing them under his boots. It was those small kindnesses under his dry, self-deprecating smirks that made me love him even more. It seemed strange that just last month we'd been bickering and arguing and setting up elaborate schemes to convince people my mother could speak to the dead, just as we had since we were children.
Now it was all different. It was delicious, hot and sweet as chocolate cream in the morning. The chocolate cream a housemaid brought to my room in a silver pot. I was living a life of borrowed luxuries, while Colin was still sleeping by the fire in the gardener's cramped cottage.
“Here,” I said, pulling a wrapped bundle from the pocket of my pants. “It's pineapple cake and the last blackberry scone from tea.”
He stopped walking. “Violet, you have to stop stealing food for me.”
“We've always stolen food for each other,” I pointed out. We'd have been hollow bones and bellies without our particular talent for picking pockets. “I was just always better at it.”
“I know what this is about,” he said, seriously. His black hair fell over his eyes, and he pushed it back impatiently. There
were grass stains on his cuff. “I'm not suffering. I like working outside, and I've never minded a hard bed.”
I squirmed. “It's just not fair, is all,” I muttered. “I have hair ribbons and soap carved into ridiculous roses and cherubs, and you have a dusty cottage floor.”
“Violet,” he said, turning me around so that I had to look into his eyes. His hands were warm on my shoulders, even through the heavy fabric of my coat. The tin rose brooch he'd given me was pinned inside the lapel. “I want you to have soft pillows, and fresh pineapple, and pretty dresses. You deserve them.”
“So do you!”
“I don't think your dresses would look half as good on me as my old trousers look on you,” he remarked huskily, his Irish accent thickening. We were close enough that I could see the coarse weave of his collar, the way his dark hair curled over his ears.
I couldn't help but think of how easy it would be to lean forward and kiss him. Before I could, he rubbed his thumb over the frown lines between my eyes. “What else has got you in a temper? Your cheeks are red, and they're only red like that when you've been nurturing a black mood.”
Actually, I didn't feel cross at all. I felt hot all over. Even the thought of his kisses was dangerous, like a candle left by a bed curtain. He must mean from earlier, when he found me sprawled among the graves. “The spirits aren't cooperating,” I admitted.
“Still nothing?”
I shook my head. “They're vexingly silent.” Except for that hand around my ankle of course. I glanced behind, but there was no ghost waiting helpfully by the spot where I'd fallen. Typical.
“Tell you what, love. If I die horribly in some gardening accident, I promise to haunt you most loudly.”
I shivered. “Don't say things like that.”
His smile was crooked and gentle. “Have you gone superstitious on me?” he teased. “You never believed in that rot before.”
“That was before I was plagued by the dead,” I pointed out drily.
“Don't worry about me. I can outrun the reaper himself.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Big words for a man who can't outrun
me
.”
He narrowed his eyes in mock affront. “You tripped me, if I recall.”
I sniffed primly. “I'm sure I did no such thing.” I absolutely did. Right into a jam cart, in point of fact. “I am just faster.”
“Care to wager on that?”
“Certainly,” I replied, grinning. I was confident I could beat him without resorting to foul play, since I wasn't wearing a corset or several pounds of lace flounces this time. “What do I get if I win?”
“A kiss.”
I fought a smile. “And what do
you
get if you win?”
“
You
kiss
me.
” He put out his hand, ready to shake as the gentlemen did over horse races and card wagers. I slipped my
hand into his. We shook once.
And then he tugged me back a few steps, before breaking into a run, leaving me behind. I raced after him, laughing so hard a stitch formed in my side. He waited for me at the cemetery gate, leaning nonchalantly against the black iron railing, one ankle crossed over the other.
“Pay up, my girl.” He smirked.
“You cheated.” I gasped, sweat gathering under my hair. “So actually,
I
won.”
“I suppose I'd better kiss you then, hadn't I?”
He approached slowly, closing the distance between us. My laughter died in my throat, replaced by something else; something equally joyful, and effervescent in my chest. I might have said it felt like champagne bubbles, except that champagne made my mother cruel and there was none of that in this feeling. I was full of butterflies and hummingbirds.
Colin's mouth tasted mine and suddenly I was a banquet, both feasting and feasted. Our breaths collided, our hands and bodies; everything else faded away to nothing. We could have been in India, Marrakech, Egypt, and neither of us would have noticed. The kiss deepened, and his hands roamed under my coat, cradling me tightly against him. My fingers trailed over the muscles in his arms, and he dragged his mouth down my throat. My breath caught in my chest, like fireflies in a jar.
“No corset,” he said hoarsely, his fingertips trailing down my spine. His hand clenched in my shirt, and he stepped back so abruptly he hit the fence.
I looked at him, startled, lips swollen and tingling. “Colin.”
He shook his head, running his hand jerkily through his hair. “I might not be the gentleman you deserve, Violet, but I'll damn well treat you like the lady you are.”
I burst out laughing. I couldn't help it. “Colin, I'm the illegitimate daughter of an earl who doesn't care if I starve in the streets of Whitechapel. Which I can navigate better than any lady
or
gentleman, I might add. So stop being such a goose.”