pinching Jordan’s cheeks so fast Jordan had no chance to block her.
“Ouch! What—”
“A real blush is far better than any rouge the Old World might manufacture.”
“Then get me to blush, not bruise, ” Jordan suggested, pulling on her gloves and sliding on a few bracelets.
Frowning, Catrina yanked two bracelets off. “You mustn’t look garish.”
“Why must you change me,” Jordan snapped before slapping a hand across her own mouth. “I apologize. That did not come out as I intended.” She lowered her eyes. “It is merely … I am happy the way things are. I am content as one might be being imperfect and understanding I may never love Rowen—well—not in the way most want. I don’t want anything to change. I am comfortable.”
“Fine, fine. It is your party. If you want to be comfortable and wear too many bracelets to be seemly, be my guest. If you want to blush, perhaps Rowen will recite a limerick…”
Jordan clicked her tongue at her friend as they squeezed out the door together, skirts shifting awkwardly in too narrow a space. “Rowen would do no such thing—”
“Ha! You’re blushing even now, you little liar. Here. Take your shawl.”
Jordan settled the sheer shawl around her shoulders. It did nothing to hide her bosom.
“Stop frowning,” Catrina demanded.
Down the hall they went, pausing at the top of the stairs to observe the crowd milling about in the hall and foyer below.
The walls were painted the rich sunset hue of Spanish Red and trimmed with bone-colored chair rails. Wainscoting lined the lower third of the foyer, so bright against the deep red it nearly glowed, and hiding every seam between ceiling and wall hung meticulously carved wooden molding the creamy color of whalebone ivory so perfect no scrimshander had dared yet carve his art into it.
It made for a powerful scene, filled with powerful people.
Jordan sighed. “You’re right, of course. Rowen is always good for at least one questionable joke or song.”
Catrina adjusted her skirts, and, scanning the crowd, announced to Jordan, “And there he is now. Speak of the devil.”
Rowen stood spotlighted by the wall sconces just inside the foyer, the glow of their renewed stormcells stroking the angles of his jaw and turning his normally golden hair into something otherworldly.
Jordan’s breath caught and silently she cursed her too-tight stays for the lack of air.
“Come now. We must make a grand entrance,” Catrina urged. She took Jordan’s hand and led her a few feet farther down the hall, to the item that first set the Astraea estate apart from all others on the Hill: the elevator.
When Jordan’s grandfather’s occasional limp had become pronounced one especially cold spring, he had hired a displaced craftsman with ties to Russian Empress Catherine and her remarkable shop of royal wonders. The eldest Astraea had the inventor re-create the lift originally designed for St. Petersburg’s Winter Palace. That lift carried him to his chambers on the house’s upper floor when his knees no longer managed the stunning marble stairs. That lift was the same glass and crystal-lined elevator, now refitted with brass and bronze and powered either by the ingenious screw mechanism invented for the frigid palace or by stormpower, that hung suspended like a giant diamond and carried his granddaughter and her closest friend to the guests gathered below.
The lift’s door slid open and the crowd clapped as Jordan and Catrina stepped out.
Rowen bowed with a dramatic sweep of his arm and crossed the broad hall, his hand raised, awaiting hers.
But her father was the first to greet her, slipping between Rowen and herself and grasping her waist to swing her out of the young man’s path. Lord Morgan Astraea pulled her near, setting his large, warm hands on either side of her face and saying, “Do nothing rash, daughter. Make no irreversible decisions on this eve.” He looked long and hard at Rowen before returning his
“Ouch! What—”
“A real blush is far better than any rouge the Old World might manufacture.”
“Then get me to blush, not bruise, ” Jordan suggested, pulling on her gloves and sliding on a few bracelets.
Frowning, Catrina yanked two bracelets off. “You mustn’t look garish.”
“Why must you change me,” Jordan snapped before slapping a hand across her own mouth. “I apologize. That did not come out as I intended.” She lowered her eyes. “It is merely … I am happy the way things are. I am content as one might be being imperfect and understanding I may never love Rowen—well—not in the way most want. I don’t want anything to change. I am comfortable.”
“Fine, fine. It is your party. If you want to be comfortable and wear too many bracelets to be seemly, be my guest. If you want to blush, perhaps Rowen will recite a limerick…”
Jordan clicked her tongue at her friend as they squeezed out the door together, skirts shifting awkwardly in too narrow a space. “Rowen would do no such thing—”
“Ha! You’re blushing even now, you little liar. Here. Take your shawl.”
Jordan settled the sheer shawl around her shoulders. It did nothing to hide her bosom.
“Stop frowning,” Catrina demanded.
Down the hall they went, pausing at the top of the stairs to observe the crowd milling about in the hall and foyer below.
The walls were painted the rich sunset hue of Spanish Red and trimmed with bone-colored chair rails. Wainscoting lined the lower third of the foyer, so bright against the deep red it nearly glowed, and hiding every seam between ceiling and wall hung meticulously carved wooden molding the creamy color of whalebone ivory so perfect no scrimshander had dared yet carve his art into it.
It made for a powerful scene, filled with powerful people.
Jordan sighed. “You’re right, of course. Rowen is always good for at least one questionable joke or song.”
Catrina adjusted her skirts, and, scanning the crowd, announced to Jordan, “And there he is now. Speak of the devil.”
Rowen stood spotlighted by the wall sconces just inside the foyer, the glow of their renewed stormcells stroking the angles of his jaw and turning his normally golden hair into something otherworldly.
Jordan’s breath caught and silently she cursed her too-tight stays for the lack of air.
“Come now. We must make a grand entrance,” Catrina urged. She took Jordan’s hand and led her a few feet farther down the hall, to the item that first set the Astraea estate apart from all others on the Hill: the elevator.
When Jordan’s grandfather’s occasional limp had become pronounced one especially cold spring, he had hired a displaced craftsman with ties to Russian Empress Catherine and her remarkable shop of royal wonders. The eldest Astraea had the inventor re-create the lift originally designed for St. Petersburg’s Winter Palace. That lift carried him to his chambers on the house’s upper floor when his knees no longer managed the stunning marble stairs. That lift was the same glass and crystal-lined elevator, now refitted with brass and bronze and powered either by the ingenious screw mechanism invented for the frigid palace or by stormpower, that hung suspended like a giant diamond and carried his granddaughter and her closest friend to the guests gathered below.
The lift’s door slid open and the crowd clapped as Jordan and Catrina stepped out.
Rowen bowed with a dramatic sweep of his arm and crossed the broad hall, his hand raised, awaiting hers.
But her father was the first to greet her, slipping between Rowen and herself and grasping her waist to swing her out of the young man’s path. Lord Morgan Astraea pulled her near, setting his large, warm hands on either side of her face and saying, “Do nothing rash, daughter. Make no irreversible decisions on this eve.” He looked long and hard at Rowen before returning his
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