Dark Stars Danielle Rollins (pdf ebook reader TXT) 📖

Charles blinked, frown lines appearing between his eyebrows. He looked like he didn’t know for sure what to say. He tried for a smile, then seemed to realize that it wasn’t entirely appropriate and pressed his lips together instead.

“My dear,” he said finally. “It’s our wedding day.”

“This boy will die if you don’t help him.”

“We’re supposed to be married . . .” His eyes lingered on her scar, a rather distressed expression flashing across his face. Clearing his throat, he added, “Everyone’s watching.”

“Please, Charles,” Dorothy said, grabbing his arm. “He needs you.”

There must’ve been something in her voice, some hint of the deep pain that she felt because, after a moment, Charles nodded and said, rather stiffly, “Of course. Lead the way.”

Dorothy took Charles and two of his groomsmen out back, to the flattened clearing where she’d left Ash lying in the dirt. She was still feet away, but, even so, she could see that his skin was paler than it’d been when she’d left him here, and nearly green. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

She stopped walking, her chest seizing. Was it already too late? Was he—

Charles pushed past her and came to kneel beside Ash’s body. He leaned close, checking for a pulse.

“It’s there, just barely,” he said, after a moment, and Dorothy felt some tension inside of her release.

Oh, thank God.

Charles straightened and began rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll need my kit. It’s in my dressing room—”

Dorothy turned to run for it, but a groomsman was already racing across the grass. Instead, she crouched beside Charles’s shoulder.

“What else?” she asked, anxious. “How can I help?”

Charles looked up at her like he’d forgotten she was there. He was in surgeon mode, she could see, his only goal to save the life before him.

“Hold your hand just here,” he said, and took her hand, pressing her palm to the wound below Ash’s ribs. “We have to stop the bleeding.”

They worked for hours. The wedding guests hovered for a while, watching in awe and murmuring to themselves, until Loretta said something about refreshments and space and ushered them back to the church. Dorothy supposed she was placating them with food before breaking the news that they could go home, that there would be no wedding after all. But, truthfully, she didn’t know or care. She only had eyes for Ash.

Dorothy had no idea what Charles was doing, but she was good at following directions. She mopped his brow and fetched him tools from his kit and, all the while, she felt like she was seeing him for the first time. By the time he started stitching Ash up, Dorothy’s legs were numb, and her shoulders were knotted around her ears, but she barely noticed the discomfort. Charles was like a master tailor, each stitch he placed into Ash’s body so tiny and perfectly even that it was practically a work of art.

When he was finished, he sat back on his heels, sweating. “We’ll take him back to the house,” he said, dragging a hand over his brow. “I’ll need to monitor his progress over the next few days, to make sure he stays stable.”

“Thank you,” Dorothy said, breathless. “Charles . . . I can’t . . . thank you.”

Dorothy wasn’t entirely sure how long she spent crouched over Ash’s bedside. Hours? Longer?

She hadn’t slept or eaten since they’d arrived at Avery’s house, and she took little notice of the people who flitted in and out of the room, usually Charles, come to check on Ash’s progress, or one of the housekeepers come to bring food that Dorothy didn’t touch or even look at. None of them interested Dorothy enough to convince her to pull her eyes away from Ash’s face.

Was there a little more color in his skin, perhaps? Had his breathing steadied? Was that a flicker of his eyelashes?

She held her breath, leaning closer.

She barely heard the creak behind her that signaled a door opening, or the light footsteps that trailed across the floor, but she couldn’t help but notice the sudden heaviness that filled the room, like a change in the temperature. Frowning, she looked up.

Her mother stood behind the chair just next to Dorothy’s, fingers wrapped firmly around the back of the seat, her eyes straight ahead. Dorothy felt every muscle in her body tighten.

“Mother,” she said, sitting up straighter. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” Loretta gave a stiff laugh. She sat, straightening her skirts with a flick of her hand. “You have the audacity to ask?”

“I can explain,” Dorothy rushed to say.

“Explain?” Loretta lifted a thin eyebrow, looking amused. “Go on then. Explain.”

She tilted her head, waiting. Dorothy felt her teeth clench together. She’d nearly forgotten how good her mother was at making her feel small, like she was still a naughty child begging forgiveness for clumsily knocking over a water glass or speaking out of turn. It was a talent, really.

You ran gangs and took over cities, Dorothy reminded herself silently. You stole jewels from kings.

You have no reason to fear your mother.

“Mother,” Dorothy said. “I—”

Loretta clucked her tongue, cutting her off. “Perhaps you’d like to start with how you managed to ruin our chances at gaining more wealth and power than you or I have ever seen in our short, difficult lives?” Loretta’s upper lip curled ever so slightly as she leaned forward, picking at one of Dorothy’s white curls.

“Or, maybe, you’d care to explain this. Or . . . this.” She gestured to the scar cutting across Dorothy’s once-beautiful face, her expression crumpling with disappointment, as though Dorothy had just destroyed a precious family heirloom. Which, Dorothy supposed, wasn’t too far from the truth.

Her mouth felt dry. She didn’t know where to begin.

She understood her mother’s rage, certainly. None of their guests had stuck around the chapel for the several hours it had taken Charles to save Ash’s life. After, Charles had suggested that they postpone their nuptials considering the . . . well, “extenuating circumstances” were the words he’d used, and Dorothy hadn’t bothered asking him to elaborate. She’d known