Chapter 6: Gray-Green Eyes Reflected In The Envelope
The room had once been meant for receiving guests, but someone had cleared its small table for the envelope. A single lamp burned beside it, turning the yellowed paper the color of old bone. I sat on the edge of a narrow settee with Poppy pressed against my side, her stained apron damp where it had touched my uniform. Her red ribbon had come loose. One end hung beside her cheek.
Evander stood over the table, the envelope between his hands.
He had removed his jacket, but the white shirt beneath it was still open at the throat. Water from my hair had darkened the floor near my shoes. He noticed the spreading drops once, then returned his attention to the paper. His gray-green eyes moved over the handwriting without hurry. That made it worse. Anger would have been easier to understand than the careful distance he kept from all of us.
The flap had been opened along one side, not torn across the seal. Evander turned it toward the lamp and studied the fibers. Then he drew out the folded sheet and placed it flat.
The words were visible between us.
I am carrying your child.
He read them twice. The first time, his face showed only concentration. The second time, his mouth tightened.
The handwriting slanted forward, each letter pressed deeply into the paper. The sentence was short, but the line beneath it had been crowded toward the bottom, as though the person writing had begun with more space in mind and then stopped caring about neatness. Evander traced the edge of the sheet without touching the ink. The paper was yellowed, but the fold was pale and clean. The outside had aged differently from the inside.
That was the inconsistency.
I leaned forward. The envelope had a shallow crease beneath the flap, no deeper than a fingernail mark. Evander could not have known about it. I had made it myself before giving the envelope away, pressing my thumbnail into the paper because the flap had refused to lie flat. Beneath the crease was a faint crescent of blue-gray dust.
I pointed to it.
The dust came from the narrow shelf beside the service stairs where I had hidden the envelope before the party. It had rubbed into the crease when I pulled it free. No one would see it unless they knew where the envelope had been kept, and no one knew that except me.
Evander looked at the mark, then at me. Poppy shifted closer, her shoulder against my ribs.
Cambria entered without knocking. Her satin dress caught the lamplight as she crossed the threshold, bright and smooth against the room's dull walls. She stopped when she saw the paper open on the table. Her expression did not change, but her hands closed at her waist.
She treated the inspection itself as an offense. Her chin lifted toward the envelope, then toward Evander, as if the paper were a public accusation against her reputation and his examination were proof that her authority had been challenged. The room seemed to narrow around that silent demand.
Evander did not hand the paper back.
He folded it once along its existing crease and returned it to the envelope. When Cambria reached for it, he moved it out of her reach. He did not tear it, burn it, or hold it up for the servants waiting beyond the door. He sealed nothing. He simply placed it inside his breast pocket.
That choice left the accusation alive.
Poppy watched him, her gray-green eyes fixed on his face. The color was not exact in the dim light, but close enough that I saw him notice it. His gaze stayed on her a moment longer than it had before. He looked from her eyes to mine, then back to the pocket holding the paper.
I had wanted him to understand. I had also feared exactly this: that he would see resemblance before he saw me.
Outside, a bell sounded from the foyer. Footsteps gathered beyond the door. The party had continued while we were gone, and now the household required Evander's presence. The pressure reached us through the walls: urgent movement, a door opening, someone waiting for an answer that could not be postponed.
He turned toward the exit.
May you like
I rose too quickly. The room tilted, and Poppy caught my wet sleeve with both hands. Evander stopped with his fingers on the latch. For one suspended moment, I thought he might stay long enough for me to explain the crease, the dust, and why the envelope had never belonged to Cambria's story.
Then the handle began to turn from the other side.
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