Nicholas: The Lords of Satyr by Elizabeth Amber Read Free Book Online Page B

interaction with the plants couldn’t easily be observed. There were some secrets she must keep safe, even from Emma.
    Under her care, loam enriched. Tendrils sprouted and curled lovingly around her fingers. Weeds shrank away. Foxglove and orange blossoms sprang to life. Wilting snapdragons perked and brightened, their color intensifying as if by magic.
    If only she could work such magic for her sister.
    For she was deeply worried about Emma. Of what she might become—a creature like herself, possessed of an unnatural strangeness that must be hidden.
    In mere months, Emma would reach her thirteenth year. For Jane, the change from girl to woman at thirteen had naturally meant moving from padded stays into the restriction of corsets. But at the same time that society had dictated her body be forced to morph into an hourglass shape, another equally unstoppable metamorphosis had begun within her.
    Though Emma knew nothing of Jane’s bizarre abilities, their mother had. And that knowledge had caused everything to change between them. Her mother had stopped loving her, stopped touching her, and had watched her with new wariness. Jane had soon learned to conceal much of what she was.
    Concealment. The word put her in mind of the lord with the pale blue eyes who had visited her tent at Villa d’Este.
    She arched her back, stretching.
    “Jane!”
    At their aunt Izabel’s summons, the sisters exchanged hunted looks.
    Emma jumped up and pulled at Jane’s arm. “Let’s hide.”
    Jane forced a teasing grin to her lips. “Save yourself. Go finish your reading elsewhere. It’s me she wants.”
    “Jane!” the shrill voice called again, nearer this time.
    Emma mimed a face of comical terror and then grabbed her book and scampered away.
    Jane understood her sister’s feelings completely. With reluctance she stood and removed her apron.
    Her aunt tsked in annoyance when she saw her.
    “Your fascination with this grubby garden is beyond my understanding. Just look at you. Filthy!”
    Izabel smoothed Jane’s hair into place, and Jane let her. She tried to pretend such brusque assistance was offered with familial kindness.
    “Disgraceful color. But there’s naught to be done about it, I suppose,” said Izabel.
    Jane ignored the insult. Her pale blond hair, pointed chin, and fair English skin were very like her mother’s. While Emma had inherited their father’s ash-brown hair and eyes, Jane mirrored nothing of him.
    Izabel dipped her handkerchief into the small garden fountain. When she returned, it was to scrub dirt from Jane’s cheek with dimpled, beringed hands.
    Jane had avoided the touch of others for years, out of necessity. She only permitted it when it was unavoidable or to earn necessary coin in her fortunetelling.
    “What does my appearance matter?” she asked, ducking away. “I have no plans to venture out.”
    Slapping the soiled cloth onto the stone rim of the fountain, Izabel frowned, etching lines around her lips. “We have a guest. Or, rather, you have a guest.”
    “Who?” Jane asked warily.
    “You shall see. It will come as a welcome surprise, I’m sure.”
    With trepidation, Jane followed her aunt into the salotto. There she found her father waiting, along with a signore who was becoming all too familiar to her.
    Both men stood when the ladies passed through the tall white and gold doors.
    “Buon giorno, Signorina Cova,” the visitor told her in greeting. Though his mouth smiled under his dark mustache, his small eyes did not. His checked waistcoat was well fitted and tasteful, his trousers creased. His dark hair was slicked and styled. He was as fastidious and presentable as he was repulsive.
    “Buon giorno, Signore Nesta,” Jane replied.
    Her hand was briefly enfolded in his cold, dry one. He wanted something from her. She felt it. But what? His touch had been too brief for her to meld yet too long for her to bear.
    Her aunt sat a distance away, leaving her the chair closest to their visitor.