A Fragile Enchantment by Allison Saft

Author:Allison Saft
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

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The sky was downright ominous, with gashes of dark clouds that blotted out the sun. The rain fell in gouts, plastering her hair against her skin. In a matter of minutes, it would soak through both Sinclair’s coat and her dress. Already, her fingers had gone numb and white as bone in the chill. She could not afford a flare-up of her symptoms now of all times.

Past the tree line, the grounds of Woodville Hall grew wild and untamed. Out ahead of her, a field of pale lavender shivered in a sudden gust of wind. Niamh hiked up her skirts and waded in. With every step, the cloying scent of lavender and petrichor wafted up from the earth below. Her shoes sank deeper into the mud as she approached an old wrought-iron gate. The latch was rusted shut and groaned angrily when she tried to shimmy it open. Instead, she threw her weight against it—and promptly regretted it when her hip throbbed in protest.

She’d have to scale it, then.

Niamh drew in a breath and hoisted herself over the top, scrabbling to find footholds in the scrollwork. Her fingers resented being curled to fists. Her swollen joints cried out in protest, and it took nearly all her strength to climb the short distance. The pointed finials jabbed into her guts and tugged a few threads loose in her bodice. By the time she spilled over the other side, great smears of orange marred the front of her gown. She landed in a heap, spattering mud all over herself.

She picked herself off the ground and squinted into the gloom. Once, maybe, there had been a garden here. But now, it was all overgrown and ruined. Purple clover blossomed riotously in the garden beds, and the mint had claimed half the property for itself, the greedy thing. Dandelions pushed determinedly through the cracks in the stepping stones. How gorgeous this place must have been when there was someone around to take care of it. Still, there was something lovely about it all. The dark earth, redolent and alive. All these stubborn, wayward things, thriving in their neglect.

As she stepped carefully through the weeds, tendrils of green snagged at the hem of her dress and curled around her ankles. Another vine wound itself around her wrist almost longingly. They tried to root her in place, but they were slender enough that it required no effort to yank herself free.

Kit clearly did not want her here. She could practically feel his will coursing through the flora, even without the telltale gold running through each leaf and petal’s veins. Her vision swam with exhaustion, and she shivered with cold. But she refused to leave him alone in his suffering.

“Kit!” she called, but the squall of the storm swallowed up her voice.

She passed beneath the shade of gnarled apple trees and through vegetable patches gone to rot. At last, as the trees thinned out, she spotted a figure crumpled on the ground: Kit, wreathed in silver rainwater.

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