Passion for Seven: Solstice

SEVEN

SOLSTICE

Luce's hands were scalded and splotchy and tender to the bone.

Since she'd arrived at the Constances' estate in Helston three days before, she'd done lit le more than wash an endless pile of dishes. She worked from sunrise to sunset, scrubbing plates and bowls and gravy boats and whole armies of silverware, until, at the end of the day, her new boss, Miss McGovern, laid out supper for the kitchen sta : a sad plat er of cold meat, dry hunks of cheese, and a few hard rol s. Each night, after dinner, Luce would fal into a dreamless, timeless sleep on the at ic cot she shared with Henriet a, her fel ow kitchen maid, a bucktoothed, straw-haired, bosomy girl who'd come to Helston from Penzance.

The sheer amount of work was astonishing.

How could one household dirty enough dishes to keep two girls working twelve hours straight? But the bins of food-caked plates kept arriving, and Miss McGovern kept her beady eyes xed on Luce's washbasin. By Wednesday, everyone at the estate was buzzing about the solstice party that evening, but to Luce, it only meant more dishes. She stared down at the tin tub of scuzzy water, ful of loathing.

"This is not what I had in mind," she mut ered to Bil , who was hovering, always, on the rim of the cupboard next to her washtub. She stil wasn't used to being the only one in the kitchen who could see him. It made her nervous every time he hovered over other members of the staf , making dirty jokes that only Luce could hear and no one—besides Bil —ever laughed at.

"You children of the mil ennium have absolutely no work ethic," he said. "Keep your voice down, by the way."

Luce unclenched her jaw. "If scrubbing this disgusting soup tureen had anything to do with understanding my past, my work ethic would make your head spin. But this is pointless." She waved a cast iron skil et in Bil 's face. Its handle was slick with pork grease. "Not to mention nauseating."

Luce knew her frustration didn't have anything to do with the dishes. She probably sounded like a brat. But she'd barely been above ground since she'd started working here. She hadn't seen Helston Daniel once since that rst glimpse in the garden, and she had no idea where her past self was. She was lonely and listless and depressed in a way she hadn't been since those awful early days at Sword & Cross, before she'd had Daniel, before she'd had anyone she could truly count on.

She'd abandoned Daniel, Miles and Shelby, Arriane and Gabbe, Cal ie, and her parents—al for what? To be a scul ery maid? No, to unravel this curse, something she didn't even know whether she was capable of doing. So Bil thought she was being whiny. She couldn't help it. She was inches away from a breakdown.

"I hate this job. I hate this place. I hate this stupid solstice party and this stupid pheasant souf lé—"

"Lucinda wil be at the party tonight," Bil said suddenly. His voice was infuriatingly calm. "She happens to adore the Constances' pheasant sou é." He it ed up to sit cross-legged on the countertop, his head twisting a creepy 360 degrees around his neck to make sure the two of them were alone.

"Lucinda wil be there?" Luce dropped the skil et and her scrub brush into the sudsy tub. "I'm going to talk to her. I'm get ing out of this kitchen, and I'm going to talk to her."

Bil nodded, as if this had been the plan al along. "Just remember your position. If a future version of yourself had popped up at some boarding school party of yours and told you—"

"I would have wanted to know," Luce said. "Whatever it was, I would have insisted on knowing everything. I would have died to know."

"Mmm-hmm. Wel ." Bil shrugged. "Lucinda won't. I can guarantee you that."

"That's impossible." Luce shook her head. "She's … me."

"Nope. She's a version of you who has been reared by completely di erent parents in a very di erent world. You share a soul, but she's nothing like you. You'l see." He gave her a cryptic grin. "Just proceed with caution." Bil 's eyes shot toward the door at the front of the large kitchen, which swung open abruptly. "Look lively, Luce!"

He plunked his feet into the washtub and let out a raspy, contented sigh just as Miss McGovern entered, pul ing Henriet a by the elbow. The head maid was listing the courses for the evening meal.

"After the stewed prunes…," she droned.

On the other side of the kitchen, Luce whispered to Bil . "We're not finished with this conversation."

His stony feet splashed suds onto her apron. "May I advise you to stop talking to your invisible friends while you're working? People are going to think you're crazy."

"I'm beginning to wonder about that myself." Luce sighed and stood straight, knowing that was al she was going to get out of Bil , at least until the others had left.

"I'l expect you and Myrtle to be in tip-top shape this evening," Miss McGovern said loudly to Henriet a, sending a quick glare back at Luce.

Myrtle. The name Bil had made up on her let ers of reference.

"Yes, miss," Luce said flatly.

"Yes, miss!" There was no sarcasm in Henriet a's reply. Luce liked Henriet a wel enough, if she overlooked how badly the girl needed a bath.

Once Miss McGovern had bustled out of the kitchen and the two girls were alone, Henriet a hopped up on the table next to Luce, swinging her black boots to and fro. She had no idea that Bil was sit ing right beside her, mimicking her movements.

"Fancy a plum?" Henriet a asked, pul ing two ruby-colored spheres from her apron pocket and holding one out to Luce. What Luce liked most about the girl was that she never did a drop of work unless the boss was in the room. They each took a bite, grinning as the sweet juice trickled from the sides of their mouths.

"Thought I heard you talking to someone else in here before," Henriet a said. She raised an eyebrow. "Have you got yourself a fel ow, Myrtle? Oh, please don't say it's Harry from the stables! He's a rot er, he is."

Just then, the kitchen door swung open again, making both girls jump, drop their fruit, and pretend to scrub the nearest dish. Just then, the kitchen door swung open again, making both girls jump, drop their fruit, and pretend to scrub the nearest dish. Luce was expecting Miss McGovern, but she froze when she saw two girls in beautiful matching white silk dressing gowns, squealing with laughter as they tore through the filthy kitchen.

One of them was Arriane.

The other—it took Luce a moment to place her—was Annabel e. The hot-pink-headed girl Luce had met for just a moment at Parents' Day, al the way back at Sword & Cross. She'd introduced herself as Arriane's sister. Some sister.

Henriet a kept her eyes down, as if this game of tag through the kitchen were a normal occurrence, as if she might get in trouble if she even pretended to see the two girls—who certainly didn't see either Luce or Henriet a. It was like the servants blended in with the lthy pots and pans.

Or else Arriane and Annabel e were just laughing too hard. As they squeezed past the pastry-making table, Arriane grabbed a stful of flour from the marble slab and tossed it in Annabel e's face.

For half a second, Annabel e looked furious; then she started laughing even harder, grabbing a fistful herself and casting it at Arriane. They were gasping for air by the time they barreled through the back door, out to the smal garden, which led to the big garden, where the sun actual y shone and where Daniel might be and where Luce was dying to fol ow.

Luce couldn't have pinned down what she was feeling if she'd tried—shock or embarrassment, wonder or frustration?

Al of it must have shown on her face, because Henriet a eyed her knowingly and leaned in to whisper, "That lot arrived last night. Someone's cousins from London, in town for the party." She walked over to the pastry table. "They nearly wrecked the strawberry pie with their antics. Oh, it must be lovely, being rich. Maybe in our next lives, hey, Myrtle?"

"Ha." It was al Luce could manage.

"I'm o to set the table, sadly," Henriet a said, cradling a stack of china under her eshy pink arm. "Why not have a handful of our ready to toss, just in case those girls come back this way?" She winked at Luce and pushed the door open with her broad behind, then disappeared into the hal way.

Someone else appeared in her place: a boy, also in a servant's out t, his face hidden behind a giant box of groceries. He set them down on the table across the kitchen from Luce.

She started at the sight of his face. At least, having just seen Arriane, she was a lit le more prepared.

"Roland!"

He twitched when he looked up, then col ected himself. As he walked toward her, it was her clothes Roland couldn't stop staring at. He pointed at her apron. "Why are you dressed like that?"

Luce tugged at the tie on her apron, pul ing it of . "I'm not who you think I am."

He stopped in front of her and stared, turning his head rst slightly to the left, then to the right. "Wel , you're the spit ing image of another girl I know. Since when do the Biscoes go slumming in the scul ery?"

"The Biscoes?"

Roland raised an eyebrow at her, amused. "Oh, I get it. You're playing at being someone else. What are you cal ing yourself?"

"Myrtle," Luce said miserably.

"And you are not the Lucinda Biscoe to whom I served that quince tart on the terrace two days ago?"

"No." Luce didn't know what to say, how to convince him. She turned to Bil for help, but he had disappeared even from her view. Of course. Roland, fal en angel that he was, would have been able to see Bil .

"What would Miss Biscoe's father say if he saw his daughter down here, up to her elbows in grease?" Roland smiled. "It's a ne prank to pul on him."

"Roland, it is not a—"

"What are you hiding from up there, anyhow?" Roland jerked his head toward the garden. A tinny rumbling in the pantry at Luce's feet revealed where Bil had gone. He seemed to be sending her some kind of signal, only she had no idea what it was. Bil probably wanted her to keep her mouth shut, but what was he going to do, come out and stop her?

A sheen of sweat was visible on Roland's brow. "Are we alone, Lucinda?"

"Absolutely."

He cocked his head at her and waited. "I don't feel that we are."

The only other presence in the room was Bil . How could Roland sense him when Arriane had not?

"Look, I'm real y not the girl you think I am," Luce said again. "I am a Lucinda, but I—I'm here from the future—it's hard to explain, actual y." She took a deep breath. "I was born in Thunderbolt, Georgia … in 1992."

"Oh." Roland swal owed. "Wel , wel ." He closed his eyes and started speaking very slowly: "And the stars in the sky fel to the earth, like figs blown of a tree in a gale …"

The words were cryptic, but Roland recited them soulful y, almost like he was quoting a favorite line from an old blues song. The kind of song she'd heard him sing at a karaoke party back at Sword & Cross. In that moment, he seemed like the Roland she knew back home, as if he'd slipped out of this Victorian character for a lit le while.

Only, there was something else about his words. Luce recognized them from somewhere. "What is that? What does that mean?" she asked. The cupboard rat led again. More loudly this time.

"Nothing." Roland's eyes opened and he was back to his Victorian self. His hands were tough and cal used and his biceps were larger than she was used to seeing them. His clothes were soaked with sweat against his dark skin. He looked tired. A heavy sadness fel over Luce.

"You're a servant here?" she asked. "The others—Arriane—they get to run around and … But you have to work, don't you? Just because you're—"

"Black?" Roland said, holding her gaze until she looked away, uncomfortable. "Don't worry about me, Lucinda. I've su ered worse than mortal fol y. Besides, I'l have my day."

"It gets bet er," she said, feeling that any reassurance she gave him would be trite and insubstantial, wondering if what she said was real y true. "People can be awful."

"Wel . We can't worry about them too much, can we?" Roland smiled. "What brought you back here, anyway, Lucinda? Does Daniel know?

Does Cam?"

"Cam's here, too?" Luce shouldn't have been surprised, but she was.

"If my timing's right, he's probably just rol ed into town."

Luce couldn't worry about that now. "Daniel doesn't know, not yet," she admit ed. "But I need to nd him, and Lucinda, too. I have to know—"

"Look," Roland said, backing away from Luce, his hands raised, almost as if she were radioactive. "You didn't see me here today. We didn't have this talk. But you can't just go up to Daniel—"

"I know," she said. "He'l freak out."

" 'Freak out?' " Roland tried out the strange-sounding phrase, almost making Luce laugh. "If you mean he might fal in love with this you"—he pointed at her—"then yes. It's real y quite dangerous. You're a tourist here."

"Fine, then I'm a tourist. But I can at least talk to them."

"No, you can't. You don't inhabit this life."

"I don't want to inhabit anything. I just want to know why—"

"Your being here is dangerous—to you, to them, to everything. Do you understand?"

Luce didn't understand. How could she be dangerous? "I don't want to stay here, I just want to know why this keeps happening between me and Daniel—I mean, between this Lucinda and Daniel."

"That's precisely what I mean." Roland dragged his hand down his face, gave her a hard look. "Hear me: You can observe them from a distance. You can—I don't know—look through the windows. So long as you know nothing here is yours to take."

"But why can't I just talk to them?"

He went to the door and closed and bolted it. When he turned back, his face was serious. "Listen, it is possible that you might do something that changes your past, something that ripples down through time and rewrites it so that you—future Lucinda—wil be changed."

"So I'l be careful—"

"There is no careful. You are a bul in the china shop of love. You'l have no way of knowing what you've broken or how precious it may be. Any change you enact is not going to be obvious. There wil be no great sign reading IF YOU VEER RIGHT, YOU SHALL BE A PRINCESSS, VERSUS IF YOU VEER LEFT, YOU'LL REMAIN A SCULLERY MAID FOREVER."

"Come on, Roland, don't you think I have slightly loftier goals than ending up a princess?" Luce said sharply.

"I could venture a guess that there is a curse you want to put an end to?"

Luce blinked at him, feeling stupid.

"Right, then, best of luck!" Roland laughed brightly. "But even if you succeed, you won't know it, my dear. The very moment you change your past? That event wil be as it has always been. And everything that comes after it wil be as it has always been. Time tidies up after itself. And you're part of it, so you wil not know the dif erence."

"I'd have to know," she said, hoping that saying it aloud would make it true. "Surely I'd have some sense—"

Roland shook his head. "No. But most certainly, before you could do any good, you would distort the future by making the Daniel of this era fal in love with you instead of that pretentious twit Lucinda Biscoe."

"I need to meet her. I need to see why they love each other—"

Roland shook his head again. "It would be even worse to get involved with your past self, Lucinda. Daniel at least knows the dangers and can mind himself so as not to drastical y alter time. But Lucinda Biscoe? She doesn't know anything."

"None of us ever do," Luce said around a sudden lump in her throat.

"This Lucinda, she doesn't have a lot of time left. Let her spend it with Daniel. Let her be happy. If you overstep into her world and anything changes for her, it could change for you, too. And that could be most unfortunate."

Roland sounded like a nicer, less sarcastic version of Bil . Luce didn't want to hear any more about al the things she couldn't do, shouldn't do. If she could just talk to her past self—

"What if Lucinda could have more time?" she asked. "What if—"

"It's impossible. If anything, you'l just hasten her end. You're not going to change anything by having a chat with Lucinda. You're just going to make a mess of your past lives along with your current one."

"My current life is not a mess. And I can fix things. I have to."

"I suppose that remains to be seen. Lucinda Biscoe's life is over, but your ending has yet to be writ en." Roland dusted o his hands on his trouser legs. "Maybe there is some change you can work into your life, into the grand story of you and Daniel. But you wil not do that here."

As Luce felt her lips stif en into a pout, Roland's face softened.

"Look," he said. "At least I'm glad you're here."

"You are?"

"No one else is going to tel you this, but we're al rooting for you. I don't know what brought you here or how the journey was even possible. But I have to think it's a good sign." He studied her until she felt ridiculous. "You're coming into yourself, aren't you?"

"I don't know," Luce said. "I think so. I'm just trying to understand."

"Good."

Voices in the hal way made Roland suddenly pul away from Luce, toward the door. "I'l see you tonight," he said, unbolting the door and quietly slipping out.

As soon as Roland was gone, the cupboard door swung open, banging the back of her leg. Bil popped out, gasping for air loudly as if he'd been holding his breath the whole time.

"I could wring your neck right now!" he said, his chest heaving.

"I don't know why you're al out of breath. It's not like you even breathe."

"It's for e ect! Al the trouble I go through to camou age you here and you go and out yourself to the rst guy who walks through the door."

Luce rol ed her eyes. "Roland's not going to make a big deal out of seeing me here. He's cool."

"Oh, he's so cool," Bil said. "He's so smart. If he's so great, why didn't he tel you what I know about not keeping one's distance from one's past? About get ing"—he paused dramatical y, widening his stone eyes—"inside?"

Now she leaned down toward him. "What are you talking about?"

He crossed his arms over his chest and wagged his stone tongue. "I'm not tel ing."

"Bil !" Luce pleaded.

"Not yet, anyway. First let's see how you do tonight."

Near dusk, Luce caught her rst break in Helston. Right before supper, Miss McGovern announced to the entire kitchen that the front-ofhouse sta needed a few extra helping hands for the party. Luce and Henriet a, the two youngest scul ery maids and the two most desperate to see the party up close, were the first to thrust up their hands to volunteer.

"Fine, ne." Miss McGovern jot ed down the names of both girls, her eyes lingering on Henriet a's oily mop of hair. "On the condition that you bathe. Both of you. You stink of onions."

"Yes, miss," both girls chimed, though as soon as their boss had left the room, Henriet a turned to Luce. "Take a bath before this party?

And risk get ing me fingers al pruny? The miss is mad!"

Luce laughed but was secretly ecstatic as she l ed the round tin tub behind the cel ar. She could only carry enough boiling water to get the bath lukewarm, but stil she luxuriated in the suds—and the idea that this night, nal y, she would get to see Lucinda. Would she get to see Daniel, too? She donned a clean servant's dress of Henriet a's for the party. At eight o'clock that evening, the rst guests began arriving through the wicket gate at the north entrance of the estate.

Watching from the window in the front hal way as the caravans of lamplit carriages pul ed into the circular drive, Luce shivered. The foyer was warm with activity. Around her the other servants buzzed, but Luce stood stil . She could feel it: a trembling in her chest that told her Daniel was nearby.

The house looked beautiful. Luce had been given one very brief tour by Miss McGovern the morning she started, but now, under the glow of so many chandeliers, she almost didn't recognize the place. It was as if she'd stepped into a Merchant-Ivory lm. Tal pots of violet lilies lined the entryway, and the velvet-upholstered furniture had been pushed back against the oral wal papered wal s to make room for the guests.

They came through the front door in twos and threes, guests as old as white-haired Mrs. Constance and as young as Luce herself. Brighteyed, and wrapped in white summer cloaks, the women curtseyed to the men in smart suits and waistcoats. Black-coated waiters whisked through the large open foyer, of ering twinkling crystal goblets of champagne.

Luce found Henriet a near the doors to the main bal room, which looked like a ower bed in bloom: Extravagant, brightly colored gowns of every color, in organza, tul e, and silk, with grosgrain sashes, l ed the room. The younger ladies carried bright nosegays of owers, making the whole house smel like summer.

Henriet a's task was to col ect the ladies' shawls and reticules as they entered. Luce had been told to distribute dance cards—smal , expensive-looking booklets, with the Constances' jeweled family crest sewn into the front cover and the orchestra's set list writ en inside.

"Where are al the men?" Luce whispered to Henriet a.

Henriet a snorted. "That's my girl! In the smoking room, of course." She jerked her head left, where a hal way led into the shadows.

"Where they'l be smart to stay until the meal is served, if you ask me. Who wants to hear al that jabbering on about some war al the way in Crimea? Not these ladies. Not I. Not you, Myrtle." Then Henriet a's thin eyebrows lifted and she pointed toward the French windows.

"Oof, I spoke too soon. Seems one of 'em has escaped."

Luce turned. A single man was standing in the room ful of women. His back was to them, showing nothing but a slick mane of jet-black hair and a long tailed jacket. He was talking to a blond woman in a soft rose-colored bal gown. Her diamond chandelier earrings sparkled when she turned her head—and locked eyes with Luce.

Gabbe.

The beautiful angel blinked a few times, as if trying to decide whether Luce was an apparition. Then she tilted her head ever so slightly at the man she was standing with, as if trying to send him a signal. Before he'd even turned al the way around, Luce recognized the clean, sharp profile.

Cam.

Luce gasped, dropping al the dance card booklets. She bent down and clumsily started scooping them up o the oor. Then she thrust them into Henriet a's hands and ducked out of the room.

"Myrtle!" Henriet a said.

"I'l be right back," Luce whispered, sprinting up the long, curved stairway before Henriet a could even reply. Miss McGovern would send Luce packing as soon as she learned that Luce had abandoned her post—and the expensive dance cards—in the bal room. But that was the least of Luce's problems. She was not prepared to deal with Gabbe, not when she needed to focus on nding Lucinda.

And she never wanted to be around Cam. In her own lifetime or any other one. She inched, remembering the way he'd aimed that arrow straight at what he'd thought was her the night the Outcast tried to carry her reflection away into the sky. If only Daniel were here …

But he wasn't. Al Luce could do was hope that he'd be waiting for her—and not too angry—when she gured out what she was doing and came home to the present.

At the top of the stairs, Luce darted inside the rst room she came to. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it to catch her breath.

She was alone in a vast parlor. It was a marvelous room with a plush ivory-upholstered love seat and a pair of leather chairs set around a polished harpsichord. Deep-red curtains hugged the three large windows along the western wal . A fire crackled in the hearth. Beside Luce was a wal of bookshelves, row after row of thick, leather-bound volumes, stretching from the oor to the ceiling, so high there was even one of those ladders that could be wheeled across the shelves.

An easel stood in the corner, and something about it beckoned to Luce. She'd never set foot upstairs in the Constance estate, and yet: One step onto the thick Persian carpet jogged some part of her memory and told her that she might have seen al of this before. Daniel. Luce recal ed the conversation he'd had with Margaret in the garden. They'd been talking about his painting. He was making his living as an artist. The easel in the corner—it must have been where he worked.

She moved toward it. She had to see what he'd been painting.

Just before she reached it, a trio of high voices made her jump.

They were right outside the door.

She froze, watching the door handle pivot as someone turned it from the outside. She had no choice but to slip behind the thick red-velvet curtain and hide.

There was a rustling of ta eta, the slamming of a door, and one gasp. Fol owed by a round of giggles. Luce cupped a hand over her mouth and leaned out slightly, just enough to peek around the curtain.

Helston Lucinda stood ten feet away. She was dressed in a fantastic white gown with a soft silk-crepe bodice and an exposed corset back. Helston Lucinda stood ten feet away. She was dressed in a fantastic white gown with a soft silk-crepe bodice and an exposed corset back. Her dark hair was pinned high on her head in an array of shiny, intricately placed curls. Her diamond necklace shone against her pale skin, giving her such a regal air it nearly took Luce's breath away.

Her past self was the most elegant creature Luce had ever seen.

"You're al aglow tonight, Lucinda," a soft voice said.

"Did Thomas cal on you again?" another teased.

And the other two girls—Luce recognized one as Margaret, the elder Constance daughter, the one who'd walked with Daniel in the garden. The other, a fresher replica of Margaret, must have been the younger sister. She looked about Lucinda's age. She teased her like a good friend.

And she was right, too—Lucinda was glowing. It had to be because of Daniel.

Lucinda opped on the ivory love seat and sighed in a way Luce would never sigh, a melodramatic sigh that begged for at ention. Luce knew instantly that Bil was right: She and her past self were absolutely nothing alike.

"Thomas?" Lucinda wrinkled her smal nose. "Thomas's father is a common logger—"

"Not so!" the younger daughter cried. "He's a very uncommon logger! He's rich."

"Stil , Amelia," Lucinda said, spreading her skirt around her narrow ankles. "He's practical y working-class."

Margaret perched on the edge of the love seat. "You didn't think so poorly of him last week when he brought you that bonnet from London."

"Wel , things change. And I do love a sweet bonnet." Lucinda frowned. "But bonnets aside, I shal tel my father not to permit him to cal on me again."

As soon as she'd nished speaking, Lucinda's frown eased into a dreamy smile and she began to hum. The other girls watched, incredulous, as she sang softly to herself, stroking the lace of her shawl and gazing out the window, only inches away from Luce's hiding place.

"What's got en into her?" Amelia whispered loudly to her sister.

Margaret snorted. "Who is more like it."

Lucinda stood up and walked to the window, causing Luce to retreat behind the curtain. Luce's skin felt ushed, and she could hear the soft hum of Lucinda Biscoe's voice just inches away. Then footsteps as Lucinda turned away from the window and her strange song abruptly broke of .

Luce dared another peek from behind the curtain. Lucinda had gone to the easel, where she stood, transfixed.

"What's this?" Lucinda held up the canvas to show her friends. Luce couldn't see it very clearly, but it looked ordinary enough. Just some kind of flower.

"That is Mr. Grigori's work," Margaret said. "His sketches showed so much promise when he rst arrived, but I'm afraid something's come over him. It's been three whole days now of nothing but peonies." She gave a strained shrug. "Odd. Artists are so queer."

"Oh, but he's handsome, Lucinda." Amelia took Lucinda by the hand. "We must introduce you to Mr. Grigori tonight. He's got such lovely blond hair, and his eyes … Oh, his eyes could make you melt!"

"If Lucinda is too good for Thomas Kennington and al of his money, I doubt very much that a simple painter wil measure up." Margaret spoke so sharply that it was clear to Luce that she must have had feelings for Daniel herself.

"I'd like very much to meet him," Lucinda said, drifting back into her soft hum.

Luce held her breath. So Lucinda hadn't even met him yet? How was that possible when she was so clearly in love?

"Let's go, then," Amelia said, tugging on Lucinda's hand. "We're missing half the party gossiping up here."

Luce had to do something. But from what Bil and Roland had said, it was impossible to save her past life. Too dangerous to even try. Even if she managed it somehow, the cycle of Lucindas who lived after this one might be altered. Luce herself might be altered. Or worse. Eliminated.

But maybe there was a way for Luce to at least warn Lucinda. So that she didn't walk into this relationship already blinded by love. So that she didn't die a pawn in an age-old punishment without even a speck of understanding. The girls were almost out the door when Luce got the courage to step from behind the curtain.

"Lucinda!"

Her past self whipped around; her eyes narrowed when they fel on Luce's servant's dress. "Have you been spying on us?"

No spark of recognition registered in her eyes. It was odd that Roland had mistaken Luce for Lucinda in the kitchen but Lucinda herself appeared to see no resemblance between them. What did Roland see that this girl couldn't? Luce took a deep breath and forced herself to go through with her flimsy plan. "N-not spying, no," she stammered. "I need to speak with you."

Lucinda chortled and glanced at her two friends. "I beg your pardon?"

"Aren't you the one handing out the dance cards?" Margaret asked Luce. "Mother won't be very happy to hear that you're neglecting your duties. What is your name?"

"Lucinda." Luce drew nearer and lowered her voice. "It's about the artist. Mr. Grigori."

Lucinda locked eyes with Luce, and something ickered between them. Lucinda seemed unable to pul away. "You go on without me," she said to her friends. "I'l be down in just a moment."

The two girls exchanged confused glances, but it was clear that Lucinda was the leader of the group. Her friends glided out the door without another word.

Inside the parlor, Luce closed the door.

"What is so important?" Lucinda asked, then gave herself away by smiling. "Did he ask about me?"

"Don't get involved with him," Luce said quickly. "If you meet him tonight, you're going to think he's very handsome. You're going to want to fal in love with him. Don't." Luce felt horrible speaking about Daniel in such harsh terms, but it was the only way to save the life of her past self.

Lucinda Biscoe huf ed and turned to leave.

"I knew a girl from, um—Derbyshire," Luce went on, "who told al sorts of stories of his reputation. He's hurt a lot of other girls before. He's—he's destroyed them."

A shocked sound escaped Lucinda's pink lips. "How dare you address a lady like this! Just who do you think you are? Whether I fancy this artist or not is no concern of yours." She pointed a finger at Luce. "Are you in love with him yourself, you selfish lit le wench?"

"No!" Luce jerked back as if she'd been slapped.

Bil had warned her that Lucinda was very di erent, but this ugly side of Lucinda couldn't be al there was to her. Otherwise, why would Daniel love her? Otherwise, how could she be a part of Luce's soul?

Daniel love her? Otherwise, how could she be a part of Luce's soul?

Something deeper had to connect them.

But Lucinda was bent over the harpsichord, scrawling a note on a piece of paper. She straightened, folded it in two, and shoved it into Luce's hands.

"I won't report your impudence to Mrs. Constance," she said, eyeing Luce haughtily, "if you deliver this note to Mr. Grigori. Don't miss your chance to save your employment." A second later she was nothing but a white silhouet e gliding down the hal way, down the stairs, back to the party.

Luce tore open the note.

Dear Mr. Grigori,

Since we happened upon each other in the dressmaker's the other day, I cannot get you out of my mind. Wil you meet me in the gazebo this evening at nine o'clock? I'l be waiting.

Yours eternaly,

Lucinda Biscoe

Luce ripped the let er into shreds and tossed them into the parlor re. If she never gave Daniel the note, Lucinda would be alone in the gazebo. Luce could go out there and wait for her and try to warn her again.

She raced into the hal and made a sharp turn toward the servants' stairs down to the kitchen. She ran past the cooks and the pastry makers and Henriet a.

"You got both of us in trouble, Myrtle!" the girl cal ed out to Luce, but Luce was already out the door. The evening air was cool and dry against her face as she ran. It was nearly nine o'clock, but the sun was stil set ing over the grove of trees on the western side of the property. She tore down the pink-hued path, past the over owing garden and the heady, sweet scent of the roses, past the hedge maze.

Her eyes fel on the place where she'd rst tumbled out of the Announcer into this life. Her feet pounded down the path toward the empty gazebo. She had stopped just short of it when someone caught her by the arm.

She turned around.

And ended up nose to nose with Daniel.

A light wind blew his blond hair across his forehead. In his formal black suit with the gold watch chain and a smal white peony pinned to his lapel, Daniel was even more gorgeous than she remembered. His skin was clear and bril iant in the glow of the set ing sun. His lips held the faintest smile. His eyes burned violet at the sight of her.

A soft sigh escaped her. She ached to lean a few short inches closer to press her lips on his. To wrap her arms around him and feel the place on his broad shoulders where his wings unfurled. She wanted to forget what she had come here to do and just hold him, just let herself be held. There were no words for how much she had missed him.

No. This visit was about Lucinda.

Daniel, her Daniel, was far away right now. It was hard to imagine what he'd be doing or thinking right now. It was even harder to imagine their reunion at the end of al of this. But wasn't that what her quest was about? Finding out enough about her past so she could real y be with Daniel in the present?

"You're not supposed to be here," she said to Helston Daniel. He couldn't have known that Helston Lucinda wanted to meet him here. But here he was. It was as if nothing could get in the way of their meeting—they were drawn toward each other, no mat er what. Daniel's laugh was precisely the same laugh Luce was used to, the one she'd heard for the rst time at Sword & Cross, when Daniel kissed her; the laugh she loved. But this Daniel did not real y know her. He didn't know who she was, where she was coming from, or what she was trying to do.

"You're not supposed to be here, either." He smiled. "First we're supposed to have a dance inside, and later, after we've got en to know one another, I'm supposed to take you for a moonlit strol . But the sun hasn't even set yet. Which means there's stil a good deal of dancing to be done." He extended his hand. "My name is Daniel Grigori."

He hadn't even noticed that she was dressed in a maid's uniform instead of a bal gown, that she didn't act at al like a proper British girl. He'd only just laid eyes on her, but like Lucinda, Daniel was already blinded by love. Seeing al of this from a new angle put a strange clarity on their relationship. It was wonderful, but it was tragical y shortsighted. Was it even Lucinda whom Daniel loved and vice versa, or was it just a cycle they couldn't break free of?

"It isn't me," Luce told him sadly.

He took her hands. She melted a lit le.

"Of course it's you," he said. "It's always you."

"No," Luce said. "It isn't fair to her, you're not being fair. And besides, Daniel, she's mean."

"Who are you talking about?" He looked like he couldn't decide whether to take her seriously or laugh. From the corner of her eye, Luce saw a figure in white walking toward them from the back of the house. Lucinda.

Coming to meet Daniel. She was early. Her note said nine o'clock—at least it had said nine o'clock before Luce had tossed its fragments into the fire.

Luce's heart began to pound. She could not be caught here when Lucinda arrived. And yet, she couldn't leave Daniel so soon.

"Why do you love her?" Luce's words came out in a rush. "What makes you fal in love with her, Daniel?"

Daniel laid his hand on her shoulder—it felt wonderful. "Slow down," he said. "We've only just met, but I can promise you there isn't anyone I love except—"

"You there! Servant girl!" Lucinda had spot ed them, and from the tone of her voice, she wasn't happy about it. She began to run toward the gazebo, cursing at her dress, at the muddiness of the grass, at Luce. "What have you done with my let er, girl?"

"Th-that girl, the one coming this way," Luce stammered, "is me, in a sense. I'm her. You love us, and I need to understand—"

Daniel turned to watch Lucinda, the one he had loved—would love in this era. He could see her face clearly now. He could see that there were two of them.

When he turned back to Luce, his hand on her shoulder began to tremble. "It's you, the other one. What have you done? How did you do this?"

"You! Girl!" Lucinda had registered Daniel's hand on Luce's shoulder. Her whole face puckered up. "I knew it!" she screeched, running

"You! Girl!" Lucinda had registered Daniel's hand on Luce's shoulder. Her whole face puckered up. "I knew it!" she screeched, running even faster. "Get away from him, you trol op!"

Luce could feel panic washing over her. She had no choice now but to run. But rst: She touched the side of Daniel's face. "Is it love? Or is it just the curse that brings us together?"

"It's love," he gasped. "Don't you know that?"

She broke free of his grasp and ed, running fast and furiously across the lawn, back through the grove of silver birch trees, back to the overgrown grasses where she'd rst arrived. Her feet became tangled and she tripped, landing at on her face. Everything hurt. And she was mad. Fuming mad. At Lucinda for being so nasty. At Daniel for the way he just fel in love without thinking. At her own powerlessness to do anything that made a bit of di erence. Lucinda would stil die—Luce's having been here didn't mat er at al . Beating her sts on the ground, she let out a groan of frustration.

"There, there." A tiny stone hand pat ed her back.

Luce flicked it away. "Leave me alone, Bil ."

"Hey, it was a valiant ef ort. You real y got out there in the trenches this time. But"—Bil shrugged—"now it's over."

Luce sat up and glared at him. His smug expression made her want to march right back there and tel Lucinda who she real y was—tel her what things were like not so far down the road.

"No." Luce stood up. "It's not over."

Bil yanked her back down. He was shockingly strong for such a lit le creature. "Oh, it's over. Come on, get in the Announcer."

Luce turned where Bil was pointing. She hadn't even noticed the thick black portal oating right in front of her. Its musty smel made her sick.

"No."

"Yes," Bil said.

"You're the one who told me to slow down in the first place."

"Look, let me give you the Cli sNotes: You're a bitch in this life and Daniel doesn't care. Shocker! He courts you for a few weeks, there's some exchanging of flowers. A big kiss and then kaboom. Okay? Not much more to see."

"You don't understand."

"What? I don't understand that Victorians are as stu y as an at ic and as boring as watching wal paper peel? Come on, if you're going to zigzag through your past, make it count. Let's hit some highlights."

Luce didn't budge. "Is there a way to make you disappear?"

"Do I have to stuf you in this Announcer like a cat in a suitcase? Let's move!"

"I need to see that he loves me, not just some idea of me because of some curse that he's bound to. I need to feel like there's something stronger keeping us together. Something real."

Bil took a seat next to Luce on the grass. Then he seemed to think bet er of it and actual y crawled onto her lap. At rst, she wanted to swat him, and the flies buzzing around his head, but when he looked up at her, his eyes appeared sincere.

"Honey, Daniel loving the real you is the last thing you should be worried about. You're freaking soul mates. You two coined the phrase. You don't have to stick around here to see that. It's in every life."

"What?"

"You want to see true love?"

She nodded.

"Come on." He tugged her up. The Announcer hovered in front of them and began to morph into a new shape, until it almost resembled the aps of a tent. Bil ew into the air, hooked his nger into an invisible latch, and tugged. The Announcer rearranged itself, lowering itself like a drawbridge until al Luce could see was a tunnel of darkness.

Luce glanced back toward Daniel and Lucinda, but she couldn't see them—only outlines of them, blurs of color pressing together. Bil made a sweeping motion with his free hand into the bel y of the Announcer. "Step right in."

And so she did.