Page 2 of The Duchess Curse

Nothing. That’s what stood in in the middle of Finsbury Square. An absence, a cesura where once had been…

Guinevere’s life.

She grasped the handle of her parasol so tightly something inside it creaked. Shouldn’t have. Pure cherrywood had been carved into twining, curving vines—a strong wood and coated in potion to make it stronger. Yet she gripped it so tightly, something must become dust—the handle or her hand. That’s what her potion shop now was. Dust so small she couldn’t even see it. At least the morning after the fire there had been piles of smoldering ash to mourn over. Now, eight months later…

Nothing.

Like her life. She’d been foolish to attempt to build something outside of her destiny. The curse would always destroy what it did not want. And because she’d taken a flat so close to the shop’s old location, she must walk by the reminder of her hubris every time she stepped into the world.

Some tasks should not require humiliation. Or grief.

“You done, Lady G?” Her bodyguard shifted behind her, and behind him, the busy morning of Finsbury Square clip-clopped and whistled and argued around them.

“Yes, Ned. Let us be on our way.” The Queen of England waited for no woman, no matter how notorious.

Guinevere left the gap where her potion shop had once been the way she would have had walls and doors remained, skirting empty spaces where there had once been large, well-worn tables cluttered with glass and gold bowls and plants of every variety. She ducked where she’d used to duck to avoid hanging vines and large palm fronds. Her body still remembered what no longer existed, even eight months later.

She stepped out onto the street and into the busy traffic of strangers, Ned close behind.

Should have been Bran behind her.

No. She wasn’t thinking about Bran.

“Slow down, Lady G.”

She couldn’t. “Speed up, Ned. We can’t be late.”

The tip of her parasol clipped into the walkway with every step she took, and she tilted her face to the sky. A fine day, blue and fluffy about the edges.

“I wonder what the queen wants.”

“Seems like she coulda told ya,” Ned grumbled. “Given ya a hint.” Ned was several inches taller than her and made wide by muscle stacked upon muscle. His short-cropped hair was almost white, and a thin scar slashed below his right eye. When he was out of sorts, which was often these days, that eye thinned, crinkled at the corner, pulling up the right side of his mouth.

“I suppose the mystery of Her Majesty’s summons adds a note of intrigue.” Into what had become a decidedly tedious life. Good Gaia, she was bored without her shop. She could experiment only so much in the tiny rooms she’d rented since the fire.

“Lady G…” Ned was closer now, almost touching her back. Bran’s hand would have been on her, guiding her, reassuring her.

She wasn’t thinking about Bran.

“Yes?”

“There’s a fellow’s been following us. A few paces back and to the left. Don’t look!”

Of course she wouldn’t look. She slipped her hand into her reticule. Three sheathed blades its only contents. Two for throwing, one for up close, just like he’d taught her.

She was not thinking of Bran.

Then she couldn’t think of anything because a shadow slashed out from an alley and grabbed her round the waist, jerking her into the narrow, sour-smelling space between two buildings. She dropped her parasol but held tight to the knife. Her foot dragged through something that squelched, and she sighed. Her new boots ruined.

With her dagger in her hand and holding the handle tightly, she flicked the sheath away as her attacker yanked her against his large body, a meaty hand covering her mouth. His nails were long and uncut, and one nicked her cheek. She’d have to put a sage-and-basil concoction on it to avoid infection.

“Don’t think about screamin’,” her captor hissed near her ear.

Screaming wasted energy. She flipped the dagger in her hand so the blade pointed backward, and she aimed for the man’s middle. The blade had been tempered in a master alchemist’s forge, and it sliced through layers of wool and linen like a fish through water. Then it sliced through skin and flesh.

The man yowled—amateur—and Guinevere yanked the knife back out.

“Release me,” she said, “and I’ll let you live.”