Chapter 6

The morning of her departure was gray and bitter.

She sat on the floor of the nursery, combing Emily's hair. Emily had her dark curls, but Kenney's weak chin. She prayed Emily would grow out of it.

"Where are you going, Mama?" Emily asked, twisting around to look at her.

"I have to go on a trip for a while, sweetling," she said, smoothing a curl around her finger. "To ensure we can always buy you dolls. And the chocolate you like."

"Take me with you," Emily demanded.

Her heart cracked. "I can't. Not this time."

The door banged open. Lady Lloyd marched in. She began rifling through Imogene's open trunk.

"Is this all?" she scoffed, holding up a silk stocking. "You're going to the Royal Lodge, not a nunnery. You need to look expensive. Otherwise, they'll think we're paupers."

"I am going to beg for mercy," she said coolly. "Humility is the best costume for a beggar."

Lady Lloyd huffed, dropping the stocking. Her eyes landed on a bottle of French perfume on Imogene's vanity. Before Imogene could stop her, Lady Lloyd slipped it into her pocket.

"Payment for watching the brat," Lady Lloyd muttered, and waddled out.

She stared at the empty space on the vanity. Thief.

That evening, the tension in the house was suffocating. Kenney hovered outside her bedroom door. She could hear his breathing. He wanted to come in. He wanted to claim her one last time before he handed her over, a dog marking its territory.

She had anticipated this. She needed him to. A child conceived at the Lodge would always be questioned. But a child conceived on the eve of her departure... that could be his. It had to be his.

She unlocked her door and opened it a crack. Kenney was pacing in the hall, looking like a caged animal.

"Kenney?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

He stopped, startled. "Imogene. I thought you were asleep."

"I can't sleep," she said, pulling her robe tighter. She let a single tear trace a path down her cheek. "I'm so frightened. Of what the King might do... to me. To you."

The sight of her tears, the feigned vulnerability, worked like a key in a lock. His face softened with a mixture of pity and possessiveness.

"There, there, my dear," he said, stepping into the room. "It will be alright."

"Hold me," she pleaded, reaching for him. "Just for tonight. Before... before I go. I need to remember what it feels like to be your wife."

She pressed herself against him, her face buried in his chest. It took every ounce of her will not to recoil from his touch, from the scent of his ambition and his betrayal. She thought of the fire. She thought of Emily's cold skin. She turned the revulsion into fuel.

He led her to the bed. It was a calculated, cold performance on her part, a sacrifice on the altar of her revenge. He saw a frightened, dutiful wife seeking comfort. He had no idea he was nothing more than a pawn, providing the alibi she would need in nine months' time.

She let out a breath she had been holding for an hour. She walked to the bed and looked at Emily, who was sleeping soundly in her own room.

She went to the corner where Emily's toys were piled. She picked up Emily's favorite teddy bear. It had a seam that was coming loose in the back.

She pulled a folded letter from her pocket. It contained everything she knew about Kenney's minor embezzlements-the ones he had already committed, not the big ones yet to come. It wasn't enough to hang him, but it was enough to ruin him.

She stuffed the letter inside the bear and stitched it shut.

"Keep this safe," she whispered to the bear.

She didn't sleep. She stood by the window, watching the stars.

She thought about Alaric. In her past life, she had been terrified of him. She had been a weeping mess. This time, she knew him. She knew he wasn't a monster. He was a man haunted by a ghost.

He didn't want a whore. He wanted a connection. He wanted Adella back.

She would give him Adella. But she would give him an Adella with teeth.

Dawn broke like a bruise on the horizon.

A carriage pulled up to the back entrance. It was black, lacquered, and bore no crest. The carriage of a mistress.

Kenney was waiting by the door. He wouldn't look at the coachman. He wouldn't look at her.

"Hurry up," he muttered. "Don't keep them waiting."

She wore a dark gray cloak with the hood pulled up. She looked like a widow.

She knelt down and hugged Emily. Emily smelled of milk and sleep. Emily started to cry, sensing the finality of the moment.

"Let go, Emily!" Kenney snapped. He grabbed Emily's arm and yanked her away.

"Don't touch her!" she hissed, turning on him.

Kenney recoiled, shocked by her tone.

She kissed Emily's forehead one last time, then stood up. She walked out the door and climbed into the black carriage.

The door slammed shut.

She watched through the window as the carriage pulled away. Kenney was already turning back into the house, dusting his hands as if he had just taken out the trash.

She didn't cry. The tears were gone.

She leaned back against the plush velvet seat.

"Goodbye, Imogene," she said to the empty air.

The woman who arrived at the Lodge would be someone else entirely.