44

E lizabeth could not stand being cooped up in a carriage for this many hours.

Not because of her exhausted joints, which pained her. Or her aching hip, which hated her. Or even the endless monotony of bumping over rocks and ruts again and again, mile after godforsaken mile.

It was because the carriage was taking her away from Stephen.

Philippa's furtive, commiserative glances made Elizabeth feel like her heretofore unknown emotions and barely constrained hysteria weren't ridiculous at all. That it might, in fact, be understandable, were Elizabeth to leap from the moving carriage and crawl back to Castle Harbrook on her knees if that was what it took.

But Philippa was a romantic. She spent her free time with her nose in some star-crossed lovers saga or another. When Philippa wasn't actively practicing romance with Tommy. Or performing both tasks at the same time, as she was now, with her head on Tommy's shoulder and an open gothic novel on her lap, and her eyes… on Elizabeth, damn it, and not on the pages of romantic melodrama at all.

"Um," said Philippa.

"I'm fine," Elizabeth snapped preemptively.

The only thing worse than being seated across from a pair of snuggling romantics… was sharing the other seat with an even worse romantic. Jacob's sad-puppy brown eyes had been oh-you-poor-thing ing her for the entire journey back to Islington.

Only Tommy wasn't acting like Elizabeth's inner turmoil was visible all over her face like an outbreak of measles. It was worse. Tommy was acting like she believed Elizabeth's bravado and bought her nonchalance at leaving behind the sole non–family member who had ever made Elizabeth feel truly at home.

"Bet you're glad to be rid of that tinker," Tommy said cheerfully.

"Mm," Elizabeth managed noncommittally.

"A full month with a stodgy professor type must have been torture," Tommy continued.

Elizabeth kept her gaze firmly out the window. "Torture."

"Once you're back to your real life, you can resume your search for the warrior of your dreams, just like you've always wanted. Someone who swashbuckles at your side, rather than peers down from a turret like a princess locked in a tower."

"Shut up, Tommy," Elizabeth whispered desperately, then risked a glance her sister's way.

Tommy was gazing at her with an expression of such innocent, absolute blankness that Elizabeth knew then and there her sister had been needling her on purpose.

"I liked Stephen," said Philippa.

"I liked him, too," said Jacob.

Elizabeth loved him. And she'd walked away rather than say so. Chose safety rather than risk and romance.

Because admitting she cared meant giving the universe the power to hurt her. Elizabeth never gave anyone that power, if she could help it. She hurt enough on her own. The rest of her body might fall apart, but her heart was the one thing she could protect.

Even if right now, it felt more like it was breaking.

"Bah," said Tommy, keeping her obnoxiously blank face pointed straight at Elizabeth. "Our sister has sworn for years never to settle for less than a warrior or warrioress. ‘Must love swords' is requirement number one. Requirement number two is a personality characterized as ‘a remorseless killing machine with a love of unnecessary bloodshed.' Then something about hulking muscles—"

"Stephen has surprisingly defined muscles," Elizabeth mumbled.

"Does he? Well, that's hardly enough to tempt Beth the Berserker. What else can a scholar so insipid have to offer?"

"He's methodical," Elizabeth said.

Tommy shuddered. "You hate anything methodical."

"He's a thinker."

"Your least favorite activity," Tommy said with authority. "You always say there's no sense wasting time thinking, when you could be impaling someone with your sword."

Stabbing someone like Tommy.

"He's careful and deliberate," Elizabeth said.

"Two more words that don't describe you."

Elizabeth thought about the joy Stephen took in his machines. "He loves anarchy."

"That one's a good match," Tommy allowed. "The rest of his so-called accomplishments—"

"—seem like they balance you," Philippa said softly.

Elizabeth didn't respond.

"Sounds like a fairy tale to me." Jacob stretched out his feet and crossed them at the ankle. "Stephen settles you down when appropriate, and unleashes you as necessary."

"He's Pandora, and Elizabeth is what's in the box," agreed Philippa.

"Stephen would never keep me in a box," Elizabeth said. "He likes me unrestrained."

It was true, she realized. Stephen had never once tried to change her. If anything, he had gone out of his way to enable her to be the most Elizabeth-est Elizabeth possible. He'd offered her the space to be her true self, whatever that looked like.

Others saw weakness, and pitied her. Or made teeth-grinding comments about how she inspired them to feel better about their own perfect lives.

Elizabeth's life was perfect. She was happy to be a cane-wielding berserker. Stephen never doubted her. She was the one who had doubted him . But she'd been wrong. He did not see her as something that needed to be fixed. He saw her as someone who should be allowed to run wild.

"His fine qualities don't matter," she forced herself to say. "The case is finished."

"Mm-hm," murmured Jacob beside her. "The case certainly is."

Meaning, if she admitted that the most romantic interlude of her life was over, then… She had no one to blame but herself.

"Well," said Tommy. "I'm sure you told Stephen very clearly how you feel about muscular, methodical, anarchic tinkers like him."

Elizabeth swung her gaze back outside the window and blinked rapidly to clear her eyes.

She didn't share her feelings with anyone. She claimed not to have any, save for uncontrollable bloodlust and a soft spot for her favorite hedgehog. Of course, that was before she'd walked away from the handsomest, kindest, cleverest, sweetest, and quirkiest person she had ever known.

What was she supposed to have done, rip off his cravat and say, I love you ? Re-creating Buckingham House out of feathers and grains of sand would be easier. She'd rather fight Napoleon's actual army with a wooden sword at ten percent capacity than make herself vulnerable on purpose. The best shield of all was the Wynchester castle back home.

Wasn't it?

Philippa placed her hand on Elizabeth's knee. "How are you doing?"

"Still fifty percent," Elizabeth responded automatically.

Her voice cracked on the final syllable. No matter how her body waned and waxed, now that she'd left Stephen, Elizabeth would be stuck at fifty percent forever.

One solitary, lonely half of what might have been.