“I don’t know.” Hal closed his eyes. “If I could be selfish? Right now, all I want is this.”

Wren tried to ignore the painful squeeze of longing in her chest. She buried her nose in the underside of his jaw so she wouldn’t have to see his face when she said, “Then can I stay with you tonight? Please. I don’t want to be alone.”

This time, he didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

“You understand you’ve made a serious commitment, yes?” She wound her arms around his neck. “I might not let you go.”

“A terrible fate, indeed, to be your prisoner.”

When he kissed her again, she couldn’t help smiling against his mouth. This feeling—too close to belonging, to happiness—was dangerous. It could heal her, or it could break her. With so much at risk, she couldn’t be sure which it was.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

No one could ever accuse Alistair Lowry of lacking a sense of humor.

On the dressing table was a mask with a long, hooked beak carved from whitewood. It looked like it had been imported straight from last century. Unlike the masks healers wore in the plague outbreak, however, the beak was delicate and tapered, leaving the bottom half of her face exposed. Suppressing a shudder, she replaced it on the table. In her opinion, the mask ruined the beauty of the dress Hannah was currently lacing her into.

Although she was smirking now, Hannah still wouldn’t make eye contact. Early this morning, a knock on the door had startled Wren and Hal awake. Before she had managed a plaintive, “Wait!,” Hannah had already barged in.

“Good morning! I didn’t find you in your room, so I thought you’d be…” She’d trailed off when she caught a glimpse of Hal, hair mussed, trying to disappear beneath the rumpled covers. Her face flushed. “Oh. Come find me when you’re ready.”

Wren still wanted to melt into the floor with embarrassment, but she was yanked from the memory as Hannah pulled the bodice laces taut.

“Goddess above,” she muttered. She took shallow breaths as her ribs acclimated to the pressure of the corset boning. No one had taken her measurements for the gown, and Lowry’s tailor had overestimated how narrow she could make herself.

“You look lovely.” Hannah stepped back to admire her sadistic handiwork, hands planted on her hips. “And stiff!”

“What else could I aspire to?”

As was customary for the winter social season, the gown was black and flowed neatly to the floor with a train like an oil slick. The sleeves, however, were an absurd, impractical nightmare. They swelled at the shoulders, then tapered in and poured off her elbows in a tumble of chiffon and lace. If she stretched out her arms, she looked like a well-groomed bat.