37. Ember

37

EMBER

I walked without direction through Manhattan, unable to stop replaying everything that had just happened. I kept walking, even when thunder cracked overhead and the sky darkened. I didn't stop when it poured rain and people around me either opened umbrellas or scrambled into shops for cover.

Every step took me further from Orion's mom's apartment, but I couldn't escape the look in his eyes when I confessed—like I'd killed something fragile that had been growing between us.

My feet carried me through familiar streets until I found myself standing outside a large, old brownstone mansion. I recognized the address. It was Eleanor Golding's house, and warm yellow light spilled invitingly from the windows.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I was walking up her steps and raising my hand to knock on the elaborate double doors.

What was I doing?

"Miss Hartwell?" Eleanor opened the door, concern spreading across her face. She was pushing eighty years old, liver-spotted and frail, but with sharp intelligence shining through her brown eyes. She was also immaculately dressed in some sort of designer sweater that looked amazingly comfortable. "Good heavens, you're drenched! Come in, come in."

Minutes later, I sat in her study wrapped in a fluffy blanket, holding hot tea while surrounded by her ceramic duck collection. Sir Quackington watched from his perch of honor, along with Duck Norris and the rest of her feathered army. It was my first time seeing the assembled crew in person, and I found I recognized almost all of them from our long conversations.

"Now then," Eleanor said, settling into her armchair. "What brings you to my door looking like a drowned cat?"

"I made a terrible mistake," I whispered. "Several, actually. And I think I've ruined everything."

"With that handsome boss of yours?"

I nearly dropped my tea. "How did you?—"

"Dear, I've been around long enough to recognize a broken heart when I see one." She smiled gently. "Tell me."

So I did. Everything—from Cole's manipulation to my growing feelings for Orion to tonight's devastating confession. Even as I spoke, I couldn't help noticing how her ducks seemed to be judging me less harshly than Catman would have.

"And now Cole's trying to steal Davenport’s business, and he’s only able to do it because of my own careless, stupid mistakes," I finished miserably. "I wish I could just snap my fingers and undo all this damage, even if it still meant Orion hating me. Expecting things between us to get better would be selfish, but I wish I could undo my part in all of this."

Eleanor was quiet for a moment, studying one of her ducks. "You know, Marcellus Davenport and I go way back."

I blinked. "You know Mr. Davenport?"

"Oh yes." Something softened in Eleanor's expression, a hint of nostalgia and perhaps something more crossing her face. "Our families were quite close. We were... well, there was a time when everyone assumed we would end up together. But life had other plans." She stood, walking to her desk with careful steps. "This was us as children." She held up an old, elaborately framed picture of a group of teens.

I noticed she touched Davenport's face in the photo with gentle fingers before setting it down, and there was a wistfulness in her voice when she added, "He used to bring me rubber ducks from his father's factory, you know. Said ceramic ones were too fragile for true love. That's actually what started my collection, though I switched to ceramic ones after... well, after we went our separate ways."

"What happened?" I asked softly.

"Life," Eleanor said simply, but her small smile held decades of untold stories. "His family wanted him to focus on the business, mine had other plans for me. Sometimes the timing just isn't right." She straightened, her usual brisk manner returning. "But that was a lifetime ago."

I considered commenting on their tragic history, but sensed it was an old wound she didn’t want to open further.

I smiled as I studied the picture of her as a teen. "You were beautiful," I said, eyes scanning the picture for a young version of Davenport.

She pointed to a broad-shouldered boy with a strong jaw and his arm around her shoulder. "That's Marcellus. We went to the same boarding school."

Now that she mentioned it, I saw all the children wore the same collared uniform with the same emblem on their chests.

"Anyway," Eleanor said, setting the photo down on her desk. "I'm sure Marcellus would agree to meet with you if I asked it as a favor. And the Marcellus I know would soften if he heard your story. I think it's worth trying, at least."

"I don't know how to even begin to thank?—"

"You could start by using an umbrella next time it's pouring rain," she said with a smile. She walked over to a bucket by the door and pulled out a black umbrella with a gold handle, extending it toward me. "Keep it. It matches Sir Quackington's top hat."

I laughed despite myself, clutching the umbrella. "Thank you, Eleanor."

"Don't thank me yet. You still have work to do." She gave my arm a soft squeeze. "Though between you and me, that Foster boy of yours could still use someone to shake up his perfect little world. Maybe once you've cleared things up with Davenport, he'll see reason and forgive you."

I doubted it, but didn't bother saying so. I didn't feel like I particularly deserved forgiveness. Whether he forgave me or not, I was going to do everything in my power to fix the mess I'd created.

I couldn't undo my mistakes. But maybe I could still make things right.

Starting now.