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Prologue: Rae’s Discovery

Mayfair, 1814 – 1815

There had always been something different about Rae’s mistress—something that set her apart from all the other young ladies her age. Was it how obsessed she was with reading and writing? Perhaps. Was it how she was plump where they were lithe, buxom where they were dainty? Probably so. 

Was it that she was a witch? Maybe. Maybe that was it. 

Penelope Featherington had always felt different, and it was Rae—then chambermaid before she was promoted to being Penelope's lady's maid—who had noticed her… special skills. In Essex where Rae had resided before seeking employment in London, she had come across a few women from another coven. Her knowledge of them was a secret she'd kept dear, as they didn't trust just anybody with who they truly were. She knew these witches were the women to turn to for potions, salves, brews… and some spells.

Occasional spells. Rae herself had asked for just a little mischief on a thieving land steward. A mole the size of a ha’penny on his cheek, nothing more…

That she could recall just now.

One day, when Penelope was a little younger and frustrated with her mother—Portia’s rudeness was especially reserved for her youngest daughter—she threw herself onto the bed and cried herself to sleep, unaware of all her parchment and quills and books. They flew about her chamber and wreaked havoc by swooping to the ceiling and clinging onto the plaster. 

Shortly after Penelope fell into a deep, fitful slumber, Rae let herself into the room to build a fire and was caught off guard by the scene before her. Books clung to the ceiling, quills trembled against the windowpanes, and Penelope slept soundly while a handkerchief dried her tears of its own accord… just a white piece of fabric moving from cheek to cheek, comforting a girl distressed and clad in a marigold dress. 

Perching on the edge of Penelope's bed, Rae gently woke her up and asked if this had ever happened before, gesturing to the room around her. 

“Tch.” Penelope’s cheeks flushed as she nodded bashfully, before batting the unrelenting handkerchief away from her face. 

“I'm sorry,” Penelope whispered to the piece of embroidered linen climbing sadly into her dresser drawer.

Rae laughed, then cleared her throat, betraying none of the thrill of standing so near a real, magical person. “I want you to think clearly and command your things to their rightful place… before your mother comes in here to this,” Rae whispered while stroking Penelope's copper curls.

Thoroughly shaken by the thought of Portia barging in to find her room in disarray, she sat upright and took a deep breath. Rae watched as Penelope closed her eyes, and slowly, in a queue of quills and papers and tomes, everything floated down toward her table. 

Astonishing, Rae thought in amazement.

The next day, Rae brought her to the modiste, excitement buzzing through her veins. The modiste, as it turned out, was one of thirteen witches belonging to Ordo Lunaris—the “Order of the Moon,” a sisterly coven to the one Rae had known in Essex. Thus began Penelope's training under Genevieve Delacroix’s care—ever supported by the loyal, loving, completely human Rae. 

An entire year later, Penelope had learned new powers and how to control these powers better. She had also learned healing incantations and various recipes for salves and such. On the last Tuesday before the ton left for their country seats, Penelope completed a new order of lovely day dresses in colors Portia approved of—better shades of gold, yellows like mustard, greens tinged with blue, and oranges soft as peaches. After arranging for delivery in a few days' time, Genevieve and Rae shut the windows and drew the curtains closed.

Training under the Order never had a holiday, and so a week before Penelope was bound for Aubrey Hall to summer with the Bridgertons, she had at last committed to heart an important oathbound ritual—one that saved lives from the brink of death.

AUBREY HALL, KENT. 1815.

Eloise Finds Out

“I need to speak with you.”

“Christ, Pen!” Eloise exclaimed from her chair in the Aubrey Hall library. “You gave me a fright.”

Penelope walked timidly toward her, her gaze darting around the room. Eloise paused, and her heart fell to the soles of her feet. 

What had her dearest friend so worried?

“Mama had Cook make these eclairs especially for your arrival today. You’ve seemed out of sorts all afternoon, Pen.”

Finally Penelope sat down in the chair right beside her. “I can't eat right now,” she said. “I think I'm about to cast up my accounts all over Violet’s carpet.”

“Technically, it's Anthony's,” Eloise tried with a grin, failing to lighten the mood. “What's wrong?”

“I need to speak with you, El.”

“All right. I know the house is Anthony’s, but we’re all only pretending he’s behind the design choices.” Eloise nudged Penelope’s ribs, trying to catch her eye with a teasing glance—but her best friend kept her gaze fixed on the floor.

“El, be serious. It's not about your brother's estate.” Penelope adjusted in her seat, her fingers playing with the lace on the cushions. “It's about—”

“Benedict's?” Eloise tried again, lips twitching in good humor. “I can tell you now, he has none.”

“Eloise, I'm—”

“Please, don't tell me you are betrothed!” Eloise whispered in a shout—shouted in a whisper? She wasn't really certain.

“Betrothed?! No! What?! No, El. I'm—”

“A spy for the Queen?”

“No, El! I'mawitch! I'm a witch! I'm. A. Witch!”

The words left her in a rush. 

Eloise stared at her. She waited for the moment Penelope would start to laugh so she could laugh with her, but it didn't come.

“You're not serious,” she said, her heart thumping hard in her chest.

“I am. I am serious, El.” Penelope was looking at her now. She had tears in her eyes, and she was shaking. “Please, don't be angry. You're my dearest friend, El. I just needed you to know.”

“I don't—You can't be—Penelope, I know you slipped and hit your head the other day. Should I task my mother to call a doctor?” Eloise was in a flutter. “A nurse? A mystic healer, if that's what you need? Should I ask Mama to talk to you, maybe? Are you homesick already? Though I doubt that. Portia is—Are you—”

A soft whooshing sound caught Eloise's attention. As she looked toward its direction, an eclair from the spread on a table four feet away flew straight into her mouth. 

And that eclair muffled her scream.

“Be calm, El! Please!”

“Bloody hell, Pen!” Eloise shrieked as soon as she dislodged the eclair from her teeth. “This is absolutely brilliant!”

“Brilliant?” Penelope repeated, her eyes wide in shock. “You're not angry?”

“Of course not!” Eloise stood to face her and braced both her hands on her shoulders. “Don't you see how… magnificent this is?!”

“It is fun.” Penelope smiled, color rising to her cheeks.

“I bet Anthony's house it is! Oh how wonderful, Pen.” Eloise was beaming, and the actual witch beamed right back at her.

“Can I still be your friend?” Penelope asked after a charged moment that passed between them, hearts racing in their excitement.

Eloise threw her hands around her neck in reply. “Of course you can, and you always will be. Half-wit. I adore you! Oh, we'll have so much fun,” she said amid a mass of curls piled atop her witchy head.

“Now,” Eloise sat back beside her, curious and loud and excited. “Tell me everything.” 

And she did. Her wonderful, beautiful, magical best friend.

A Surprise for Benedict

Where are my damn sketchbooks?

Benedict wandered the halls of Aubrey Hall, searching every room for his sketches. It wouldn't do to have Violet discover what he got up to at those soirées the Granvilles hosted. Women and men, nude or half-draped in sheer fabric, immortalized in graphite. Benedict shuddered, praying his mother hadn’t found them first. 

As he neared the sitting room, he noticed the door left open, likely to let the air circulate. Benedict paused, smiling at the sound of giggles within.

Eloise and Penelope had been bosom friends since Eloise was a sweet little girl, and not the demon spawn she was today. Penelope, on the other hand, had always been little and had always been sweet.

Peeking in, with a dastardly plan to scare the ladies witless, he saw them reading their books and taking their tea. Just as he was about to jump into the room, he stopped short upon hearing Eloise's statement—a peculiar one he couldn't understand.

“Pen, it's still stifling in here—do something.”

He scoffed silently. What could Penelope possibly do about that? She couldn’t control the temperature, nor make summer any cooler. Yet, after hearing a whispered blowing sound, Benedict felt it on his skin… a breeze. A nice one, flowing from the windows behind them into the hall where he stood.

Curious.

“That's much better. Thank you, Pen,” she said, and Penelope giggled.

What?

“What else do you need, Madame Eloise?” Penelope teased from her seat, eyes glinting with mischief.

“I'm bored with this book. Hand me one of our secret scandal sheets, please!”

Secret scandal sheets? It couldn't be… could it?

“Get up your arse and get it yourself, El,” Penelope said, and Benedict almost choked in surprise. Maybe she wasn't as sweet as he thought? But Eloise just laughed and begged. 

“Oh, all right. You owe me,” Penelope said, her voice filled with teasing. Then, softly, to no one in particular, “Come.”

Suddenly, right before his eyes, a sheet slipped free from the shelf and drifted toward the two ladies—who now stared back at him in alarm. Benedict's mouth hung open as Henry Granville’s bare arse in charcoal floated right past him, heading straight for the girls and their disarray.

These young ladies have a lot of explaining to do.

Anthony Eavesdrops

The sun had barely broken through the summer mist this early morning, yet Anthony was already crossing the courtyard to the stables. Aubrey Hall was half-asleep—servants walked and worked, cleaned and cooked, while his family slept and dreamed in their bedchambers. This was a sliver of time, a rare one even in Kent, where he could just be—and this was a place where he could be free, a space in this vast world of responsibilities, carved just for him and his horse Aethon.

He hadn't expected company.

But as he approached the stables, he saw that the doors were half-open. A low, lilting voice tinged with a few remnants of sleep drifted to him and he paused.

Penelope stood beside his Aethon, her shawl around her shoulders, her eyes closed and her forehead pressed against the length of the horse's nose. Dust motes floated around her as though drawn to her, and the straw at Aethon's stall seemed to stir, though no wind passed through the door. Morning light had begun to slip through the rafters and touched her skin so delicately, so artfully it almost stole his breath. 

“You missed the country, didn't you, boy?” Penelope whispered, and Aethon gave a light snort as if in reply. A warmth that had nothing to do with the weather seemed to seep into Anthony's bones as she spoke. She laughed and touched Aethon's mane, fingers whispering through the coarse hair. “I know, and I agree—London gives no room to run.”

Anthony stilled, transfixed. Was she having a conversation with a horse? With his horse? How was this even possible?

And from nowhere came a preposterous thought… was Aethon betraying his secrets?

Again, Penelope's voice lifted above his thoughts. “How lovely that Anthony lets you fly.” 

Had his name ever sounded so sweet? He stepped closer, careful not to make a sound, drawn to her like the mist surrounding her, like his horse talking to her.

Because it seemed like Aethon was responding to her—like he was spilling his innermost thoughts to her. 

She laughed again. “He tightens his legs around you and lets his hands go slack on the reins? That doesn't sound very safe, my little one.”

The breath left Anthony's lungs. How? It seemed as if Aethon did indeed plan to betray all his secrets. Nobody else knew that, how he let go, and how they flew through the fields together, trusting his animal to bring them the liberation they both craved. 

Aethon whinnied, almost like a petulant child. And again, Penelope seemed entertained. “All right, all right, you trust him and he trusts you. Never mind what I said about you both acting careless.”

The horse nudged his nose into Penelope's palm, something he'd never done with anyone else but Anthony. It was lovely, sharing this. He hadn't the slightest idea why this scene moved him, only that it did.

He cleared his throat. “How long have you been sharing our secrets, Aethon?”

Penelope startled, spinning around. Her shawl slipped lower, catching at her elbows. Sunlight framed her hair like a halo. “Anthony, I didn't hear you come in.”

“Apparently not.” He smiled. She grinned back, her hands never stopping in stroking Aethon's neck.

“So… what else does he tell you?” Anthony asked, his eyes searching her face for something. Something only she could give him.

Is all of this—any of it—real?

“He says you need rest sometimes.”

“What? He said that?”

Penelope moved closer to Anthony, finally letting go of his horse. “Why, yes. You must know he loves you, as he knows you love him.”

There was a lump in his throat, and he tried very hard to keep steady, but he knew Penelope felt exactly how unsteady he was. “How does he know?”

“He feels it. He feels your worries, your fears, your joy, your love.”

He cleared his throat again, watching as she approached him. “I… I'm glad. He is my friend.”

“And you are his,” Penelope said with a smile. She folded her hand in his, and he felt warmth like he'd never known before. Penelope pulled him slowly out of the stables and called, “We'll be back, little one,” over her shoulder. 

Anthony couldn't help the grin taking over his face as he lifted her hand and secured it in the crook of his elbow. He placed his hand on top of hers, keeping it there just a while longer—as long as she'd like. A warmth just for him. “You call him little one as though he couldn't trample you to pieces.”

“Of course he could. But he wouldn't.”

“No, he wouldn't.”

A moment of quiet passed and a fine breeze lifted the hairs on her face. She was lovely. The air carried the usual scents of the country, along with something sweet. Something… hers?

“You must be curious,” she said as they walked together, taking Anthony out of his thoughts once more.

“I am,” he said, looking down at her, and she just smiled, her eyes fixed ahead.

“Come,” she said, her voice light and amused. “Let us take a walk. We'll visit your father's memorial garden and I will tell you everything when we get there… before Eloise and Benedict wake up and demand my skills for their entertainment.”

He walked with her in silence, until they sat together under the trees. The bench at his father's memorial garden was where he learned how much more there truly was to the little woman who comforted a quiet horse—who comforted a tired man.

Of Spells and Rituals

Benedict knocked while saying that it was him, and the door opened by itself. Obviously.

He walked into Anthony’s study to a scene that would have frightened anybody who had a weaker heart—and who wasn’t privy to Penelope’s secrets. 

Over a week ago and to Benedict’s surprise, Anthony had assigned the very room he dramatically called his sanctuary as Penelope’s dramatic sanctuary as well.

Of course, since he and Eloise knew that their closest family friend—a sister in every way that mattered, bright red hair aside—was a tad more than human, the study had also become their secret hiding place, much to Anthony’s chagrin. Why his elder brother wanted the study to himself when Penelope was in it, Benedict had decided not to dwell on. Yet. Why the two were always whispering to each other and sharing disgustingly secret smiles—at least disgusting on Anthony’s end—he didn’t want to explore at the moment, and frankly, he didn’t care… for now. As long as Anthony behaved himself. Naturally. Otherwise, off to the dueling grounds they’d go!

He looked around him and the occupants had seemed to completely forget he had arrived. Eloise sat reading a book on Botany in the corner, her teacup suspended in midair. It was tilted slightly in such a way that should she want a sip, all she had to do was move her head forward. Lazy arse.

When their scampering to the study to hide began, Benedict was also told by Eloise quite proudly that her teacup was bewitched to refill itself, and that Penelope made sure that the pot was always hot. “No more lukewarm tea for us, thanks to Pen!” she had said, and all Penelope did was laugh. Eloise truly was getting spoiled rotten by the pretty witch.

Well, to be perfectly honest, they all were—the three of them. 

He should not have been surprised to see Anthony and Penelope huddled most inappropriately on a settee, yet he was. Biceps and arms and elbows scandalously touching, knees knocking together. His brother held her by her hand as they scanned text on a book as though Penelope didn't know how to read.

Benedict had confronted his elder brother in private about his—their—inappropriate behavior, and he was assured that he was only fond of Penelope's company, and nothing more. She was a wonder to talk to, and—in Anthony's exact words—was magic even before she wove her hands or twitched her fingers or tapped her nose. He'd also said that if this was what a friendship with Penelope felt like, then he understood wholeheartedly why Eloise guarded her with envy and that he had become selfish of Penelope, too. 

What an idiot man. Was his brother really that stupid when it came to…? Benedict dared not say the four-letter word. It seemed as though his brother was afraid of it. 

Still, Anthony had become different as of late. He smiled more, indulged Penelope in her every trick and magical prank—turning his ink dry, making his quill write words backwards no matter how he maneuvered it, and turning his brandy into water as she poured it into his glass from the decanter. Anthony laughed gleefully every single time. And Penelope was always alert enough to turn the water back into brandy after Anthony's bark of deep, joyful chuckle she saw as her reward.

Eloise said that she had also spoken to Penelope about Anthony. And all Penelope did was blush that charming blush and say that Anthony had become a rather dear friend. Benedict expected Eloise to act jealous, be wary, or keep Penelope away from him, but all she did was smile at her and said that Anthony would be good for her and she for him. Penelope feigned ignorance of her meaning and moved the discussion to merrier subject matters.

Such. Idiots. 

Today, while they read whatever book they were sharing, a quill on Anthony’s desk moved gracefully across a sheet of parchment, taking an occasional dip into the inkwell, as it copied Anthony’s letter of warm congratulations for the successful harvest that had just concluded. Once copied an endless number of times by the poor quill Penelope had enchanted for this purpose, these will be sent to the Bridgerton tenants in Kent, Yorkshire, et cetera, et cetera… Another lazy Bridgerton arse. Yet Benedict couldn’t help but feel a surge of warmth and gladness at the fact that Anthony was being a little lazy. He deserved to feel a little lazy. He deserved to flirt over a book. He deserved to touch knees with a pretty witch. 

He deserved magic.

Benedict cleared his throat. “I fell asleep.”

“Jesus, Benedict!” Eloise yelped.

“Language, Eloise,” Anthony reminded without lifting his eyes from their book.

“He should announce his presence. Be still, my heart—it’s just your imbecile brother,” Eloise groaned, her teacup floating to a nearby windowsill, and Benedict saw that the ever vigilant Penelope was commanding it with her finger to avoid a spill on Anthony’s carpet.

“I did announce my presence, fatwit.”

“Hi, Ben,” Penelope chimed in with a smile. “It’s good you're now awake. Join us! Do you want me to draw a curtain open for your light?”

“No, thank you, Miss Penelope. Your mere presence is all the light I need.” What of it? He was a flirt. And he always would be.

“Ben, I swear to—”

“Only joking, brother. Don’t worry,” Benedict replied and Penelope laughed. “Actually, Pen… sorry, but I need your help.”

“It’s no bother, really. What do you need?” Penelope withdrew her hand from Anthony’s, ending their repulsive manner of scanning texts and engravings, while simultaneously commencing Anthony’s death glare. It was a good thing that Penelope couldn’t see him. It was embarrassing, that look on his face.

“Like I said,” Benedict continued, “before I was rudely interrupted by the demon spawn—” Penelope, with a flick of her hand, was barely able to save his face from Eloise’s hurtling saucer. “I fell asleep, and the pigments I prepared dried up.” He pouted then, knowing Penelope would giggle and Anthony seethe.

“Give it here.”

Benedict handed his palette over with a boyish smile and watched in awe as Penelope waved her hand over it, loosening and reforming the pigments. Once it was set to rights, she handed it back to him. Benedict thanked her and kissed her on the top of her head.

“Remarkable,” Anthony whispered, and Benedict watched as a blush tinted her apple cheeks. 

“Thank you,” she replied. 

Benedict cleared his throat again before the two could resume being nauseating. “So, Pen, what else have you learned from my former paramour Genevieve?”

Anthony shot him a glare again, his hand suspended above a page, waiting to resume his unnecessary touching. Really, he should just act… normal.

“Well, I learned salves, balms, potions, and teas that are most effective in quickly healing common ailments, like the one I gave Anthony for his—“

“That’s a secr—”

“—inner thighs,” Penelope finished lamely. “I’m sorry!” she added with a yelp, and Anthony just smiled at her. How… foul. Benedict wondered about how he was running out of ways to say disgusting.

He sat up before his easel, his bones vibrating with mischief. “Did you… apply it yourself, Pen?”

“That’s nasty!” Eloise said—apparently she was listening even as she read her boring book.

“Of course not!” Anthony groaned, and Penelope, ever the good sport, just snickered. “It was a particularly hard ride with Aethon, if you must know, and my muscles ached. My skin was inflamed.”

“I don’t care, Ant. What else did you learn?” Benedict asked her as he dipped the brush in black paint and drew a line across his canvas. Why was the line orange?

“Penelope!” he barked, laughing.

She giggled and changed it back to black. “I also learned some spells and rituals.”

“What kind?” Eloise asked, her book forgotten.

And so he and his siblings listened with rapt attention, watching Penelope as she animatedly told them about all she had learned over the course of a year under the delectable Genevieve Delacroix's tutelage. She was taught a truth spell, where all she needed was a handheld mirror. She also learned about certain protection rituals against trespassers she had surreptitiously performed on the Featherington and the Bridgerton households—Anthony was immensely touched about that, his eyes all soft and wistful on the young witch, whose cheeks seemed to carry a pinkish glow whenever Anthony spoke to her. Penelope could also weave a charm through her hands, and when placed on a wound or ache, she would be able to ease the pain and heal in an instant—and Benedict had to laugh, seeing the thought cross Anthony's mind about how that charm would have worked better for his inner thighs. 

“But the last one,” Penelope said as she stirred four cups of tea at the same time. Her audience watched, adoring, as her graceful fingers twirled in the air, “that was my most difficult one. It took me ages to master.”

Each took their cup, the tea perfect and made exactly to their liking.

“What was it?” Benedict whispered. The air in the room seemed to change—thicker, heavier with anticipation.

Everything they had done together, everything they had seen from her, was exciting and fun and sometimes hilarious. But this one? Benedict felt it… vital. 

“I can save a life from the very brink of an untimely death. Gen told me I would feel it—in my heart, my bones—if someone is about to leave this earthly plane before their time. And at that moment, I will be able to pull them back to the living, with just a spell, a pulling motion with my bare hands… and an oath. See, the ritual is oathbound. The spell demands a promise of something in return.”

A chill crept up Benedict's spine. He shuddered, and Penelope just smiled at him. It was Eloise who asked, “What does it need?”

“The oath needs a silk or linen fabric to tie the hands together—my hand and the hand of whoever would make the bargain on behalf of the dying.” She paused, her voice softening, almost worshipful. “It goes, A life for a life, or the promise of one. Whisper your pledge and the deed will be done.”

Silence stilled the room. Benedict knew that in a heartbeat, each of them would give up their life for someone they loved. Until Penelope spoke again.

“The oath taker, however, wouldn't die.”

“What?” Eloise asked, confused. “Then, how?”

“The oath taker shall leave the life they know, and live a life of solitude, away from people, from society—away even from those they love. Our sacred ancient wisdom says that ‘the world cannot hold two intertwined lives without the balance breaking. One must step beyond its reach.’”

Now that… that was difficult. Death seemed easy, if in the place of those they loved. But to live apart from family? To live alone? 

Anthony spoke then. “What does ‘or the promise of one’ mean?”

Penelope fidgeted in her seat. “You really wish to know? This was not how I envisioned the four of us would spend the day.”

Quiet laughter spread among them, releasing some of the tension in the room. Something was happening here, and Benedict knew not what it was.

“All right. In lieu of the oath taker's life, our magic requires… the life of their next daughter.”

“What?!” Eloise asked, eyes wide in alarm.

“Yes. Whether firstborn or not, the next daughter in the oath taker’s line born out of matrimony shall be a part of the coven. No harm shall come to her—do not fret. Our ancient magic is kind and fair. No death, no illness, only a binding bargain. The daughter, however, shall be magical—a witch. And when she comes of age, she shall join our coven and train under the order. She'll be trained under… well, me.”

Penelope grinned then and stood, moving to each of them in turn, placing her palm lightly over their chest. Her magical hands eased the fear, the trepidation, the worry… and what she said next might have just firmly cemented their place in each other's lives, perhaps for eternity. 

“I will always—always—do what I can for you and your family,” Penelope said, her gaze floating from one Bridgerton to the next, until they landed firmly on Anthony. “I hope you know that.”

Magic in Their Afternoons

The following days passed in a soft haze of gentle kindness—and even gentler magic. 

Anthony was in awe of how Penelope wove her magic effortlessly through their quiet afternoons, their sleepy mornings. 

In the sitting room, he noticed how the tea seemed to stay warm for longer, how the biscuits never left any difficult crumbs. If he hadn't been watching her closely, he likely would have missed the little flick of her finger, almost as unnoticeable as a pulse at her wrist. 

His mother had sighed in contentment with every sip, and he felt endeared that Penelope had thought to bring Violet comfort at tea time, without her ever knowing exactly what she'd done. A pleasant curl of steam stayed steady on, and the tea was warm from Violet’s first sip to the last. 

“The tea is quite lovely,” Violet said, almost to herself. Anthony spoke not a word, but wondered at how Penelope seemed to spread comfort, like sunlight seeking quiet surfaces to rest upon.

It went on this way for days, just little things done in silent nurturing that made Anthony's heart expand in his chest. He loved his family, everything about them, and seeing someone's gestures—as little as they appeared to the untrained eye—bringing them joy and ease, well… just might make him sigh in contentment if he didn't watch himself.

Hyacinth had come running to him one afternoon, a crown of violets in her hair. 

“Anthony, look!” She'd shrieked, twirling in a purple dress. “Don't I look pretty?”

“Bellissima, my love,” he replied, holding out his arms to embrace her. “What a lovely crown. You look like a fairy.”

Hyacinth giggled. “Penelope helped me make it! We tied them really, really tight together so my crown lasts all day!”

“How wonderful,” he told her with a smile.

And impossible as it seemed, it did stay whole the rest of the day.

Did she know how her quiet magic made joy linger? Did she have the slightest idea how a crown of violets lasting until her bedtime made Hyacinth so happy?

The following morning, Anthony watched from the window as Penelope sat in the garden, playing with Gregory and Hyacinth. On and on the two children ran, Penelope cheering for them. It wasn't until Gregory slipped and fell with his palm digging into the gravel path that Anthony felt alarm. He stood, ready to stride out the door to see to him, but was frozen in place as Gregory ran to Penelope. He fought his tears, and lost most gallantly, while Hyacinth watched worriedly by his side.

From her pocket, Penelope pulled a handkerchief out, dipped it into her glass of water, and carefully cleaned Gregory's palm, saying words of comfort if judging by the look of peace on the boy's face and the slight smile on Hyacinth's. She planted a kiss in Gregory's palm and the boy smiled at her, throwing his arms around her before resuming his chase of his sister. 

No one had noticed—not even Gregory—how the scrape faded into nothing by nightfall. 

Dusk had laid itself across Aubrey Hall. Anthony stood at the window, the sound of music and chatter right behind him as his family gathered for tea after supper. He closed his eyes and for a moment, he let the scene rest within him. The evening felt like the very epitome of safety and warmth.

Penelope had said it once days ago, how their magic was kind. He smiled at the memory, an afternoon of teasing and discoveries shared among the three Bridgertons she had trusted with her secret.

She was right—their magic was kind, because she was kind. And Anthony began to truly believe that only the gentlest of hearts would have been trusted with such a gift. 

Penelope’s Nightly Adventure

Her dreams wove magic—she was sure of it. Her dreams were where she went to harness the power of the coven's mother, the moon. Whether an hour or nine, however long a slumber she'd had at night, she always rose more alive than she'd ever been, filled with the energy of their Mother Moon. Every morning, she felt magic.

She was magic.

In her dreams, Penelope flew through the stars and the skies. She floated past the world as she knew it—wearing a cloak of midnight blue and nothing more—and entered a world that was more. Her skin was always as luminous as the constellations, her body a temple of wonder and energy mankind hadn't the name for, and her hair untamed and beautiful. In her dreams, she'd always come to a particular point outside the earth and stopped. Every night her flight ended, somewhere that felt almost like home, suspended amid the stars, her face lifted to the full moon. Every night she'd be welcomed there, seeing in her mind's eye the Ordo Lunaris sisters of the past and present, and all the witches that came before them. She also saw eccentric women—unique, resplendent, vivid women born ahead of their time. The very women whom men of centuries past branded witches and evildoers—tried, and burned at the stake, drowned in lakes, or sent to their exile. Here, in the cosmos, they were witches, at last free from the world that tried to destroy them… at last home. They might not have had magic among the living—but they were bursting with it now.

“Sister,” whispered the woman beside her. Her hair was black like ink, her nose straight and pointed, almost aristocratic. Her skin was brown like honey, her eyes darker still. 

“Sister,” she'd said again, and Penelope turned to her and smiled.

“Estrella,” Penelope called her. She knew her even without introductions. That spoke of some of the power this place where they'd converged possessed.

“You’ll be back soon enough,” Estrella said, her eyes worried and searching. “Your family needs you… now.”

That was when her bedchamber door in Aubrey Hall burst open, rousing her none too gently. Eloise strode in, white-faced and crying, Rae disheveled at her heels.

Before Eloise had even spoken, Penelope was already standing, throwing on her cloak. They needed her. He needed her. 

Anthony.

“Show me.”

A Life for A Life

Penelope was in a cotton nightgown and her sisterhood cloak as she strode across the courtyard to the stables. Eloise was weeping, quiet and shaken. Rae carried a small chest with her, filled with Penelope's most important healing potions and brews. 

She stopped when she saw Anthony pacing outside the stables, Aethon and Rapscallion restless near the stable doors.

“What happened?” Penelope asked, reaching a steady hand out for one of his cold, trembling ones.

“It's Benedict,” Anthony whispered, his face grave and drawn, the lines at the sides of his mouth tight. He looked as though he'd aged two decades. “We were riding, like we always did… to talk and laugh. To be the friends we were when we were children, before all this—” he gestured angrily around him. “Before—befo—”

“Hush,” Penelope said as she placed a hand on his chest like she did days ago in his study. How could things have changed so quickly? It was as if they blinked and here they now were, under the pale moonlight, making sense of the dark reality they stood in. How far the moon’s presence seemed now, the place where her sisters greeted her.

She had calmed Anthony just enough for him to speak. 

“Rapscallion stumbled,” Anthony began as he walked them both toward the stables, talking about Benedict's loyal gelding. “The last storm turned a familiar path we'd ridden on more times than I can count into a treacherous one.” Anthony's breath shook. “Ben lost his balance and hold on Rapscallion, and fell into a shallow ravine.”

“Oh no,” Penelope whispered in shock, pressing a free hand to her belly as if to anchor herself.

“It wasn't a very steep fall, I was able to retrieve him almost immediately but he… his head. A jagged rock. There—there was so much blood. I didn't think he'd make it back here alive.”

They stopped inside at Aethon's stall and there he was. Bloodied, battered and bruised. A brother of her heart. He was so still. Unmoving. Was he even breathing?

“Rae, my mirror,” she called, and from the chest she carried, Rae produced a small, handheld mirror. “Please step back,” Penelope said looking at Anthony and then Eloise. “Don't leave. Just—just give me a little room.”

She sat next to Benedict on the ground, the straw rustling and shifting around her legs. Moonlight spilled through the rafters, giving her guidance. Clearing her mind. She shifted, holding the mirror under his nose, just above his upper lip. In her heart, she begged the heavens for the faintest bloom of breath. 

And there it was, a faint fog against the reflective surface. The mirror slipped from her cold yet steady hands as she whispered, “You're still here. So am I, Ben. Let me help you.”

Penelope rubbed her palms together before entwining her fingers. She gave her joined hands a gentle shake, whispering in an ancient language under her breath—Candramāte, māṃ pathena naya.* She then lifted her hands over her head before unclasping them, allowing them to fall gracefully to her sides. The healing charm now woven through her, she gently stroked with her fingertips the large gash at the top of Benedict's head. 

God, he had lost so much blood. 

The wound was beginning to close, and the bleeding had stopped. She waited. And waited. 

Nothing changed. His eyes were still shut.

“What's happened?” Anthony asked, his voice loud in the dead silence of the night. 

“The wound has closed, the bleeding has stopped and now I—” Penelope gasped sharply.

And like a thrashing in her chest, she felt it right then—what she had been both dreading and hoping for as she held Benedict’s heavy head in her hands. 

She felt it… in her heart, her bones. 

No, it wasn't Benedict's time. Not yet.

“Anthony,” she called, and somehow he already knew. Somehow Rae and Eloise did, too.

“Anything,” Anthony said, desperate, broken. “I'll do anything—give anything. I'll promise a life. I can't leave my family—I am not selfless enough to live without them, and they all still need me.

“My father, he was—too soon. Not me too… my siblings, mother. My—Greg my Hy. I…” 

He was grasping at coherence, searching for the right words not knowing he didn't need to. Penelope knew. “But I promise—” he paused, closing his eyes. “I promise… I surrender my future girl to your care.”

Eloise gasped. “Anthony,” she murmured, both in alarm and in gratitude.

“Are you sure?” Penelope wept, feeling the same desperation rushing through her.

“Yes. Save Ben, please. Do what you must.” Anthony held her hand so tightly it hurt. She kissed his knuckles and nodded.

“We must hurry. Rae, my handkerchief. Tie both our hands together with it.” 

Rae did so, using the same embroidered handkerchief that dried her tears the day her secret was first discovered. She secured it around their joined hands and stepped back. Penelope began the ritual.

“A life for a life, or the promise of one. Whisper your pledge and the deed will be done.”

Anthony moved his head closer to their hands—his shaking, hers steady as stone—and in a soft voice he made a vow. A vow that bound his future to the order—his firstborn daughter, a child he was yet to father, would belong to magic.

“My daughter for my Benedict.”

In that instant, a bright light burst through their fingers, warm and blinding. The handkerchief went up in flames, and Anthony staggered backwards, just as Eloise and Rae had done with clutched hands. The light had shaped itself then, changing and shifting in the air, turning into something that resembled a lasso. Penelope swayed her hands above Benedict’s prone form, the shining rope of light wrapping around his chest and back. One end of the lasso darted for Penelope and she caught it with both her hands. A sting, a burning sensation tore through her palms, yet she saw no marks on her skin.

Her eyes narrowed, her hair billowed behind her, and her skin shone like starlight. The room stilled, her voice echoing in the quiet.

“Halt ye who now heads to death’s door. You shall leave this life at the proper time and not before!”

Penelope said the spell in a harsh whisper, demanding and powerful. She pulled at the lasso and they all watched as Benedict shifted, his still unconscious head lolling side to side.

She prayed and prayed and begged. God, please. The thought of Eloise losing her brother was unbearable. The thought of Anthony losing his friend cut even deeper. Desperation flooded her, her mind reeling at a future filled with Anthony's guilt. 

No more smiles, no more teasing, no more reading and touching and—

No, Anthony who gave everything he had for his family did not deserve a life of self-condemnation and regret. 

All at once, the lasso disappeared as swiftly as it manifested, and Benedict was left sitting up, eyes wide open in alarm and breathing heavily. 

Anthony fell forward, choking on a sob as pulled him into his arms, and Eloise dropped to the ground before them and cried. Anthony looked at Penelope over his brother’s shoulder then, his eyes shining with tears as he mouthed his thanks.

Benedict stirred again, blinking. He shook his head in disbelief, possibly confusion. “What,” he said, his voice hoarse. “What the devil happened here?”

Later that night, only a scant few hours before dawn broke, as Penelope tucked her tired body in her comfortable bed, she sighed. She'd felt drained of all energy, yet elated that she had used her magic to save someone she adored. A brother in all ways but blood.

But then… as restless, worried, and exhausted as she was, the last thought she had before she slipped into slumber was Anthony's face—desperate and then grateful and then… something more.

She squeezed her eyes shut. 

The last thing she felt was the imagined warmth of his hand in hers, long after she'd let him go.

She realized then that she would do anything for the Bridgertons. But for Anthony?

She feared she would give even more of her heart, without ever knowing how to stop.

Anthony’s Very Anthony Thoughts

Anthony was unaware of how he got back to his bedchamber. He seemed to move by reflex and instinct in discarding his clothes. Swiftly he was rid of them save his breeches, leaving the rest behind him as he walked to his bed. 

He had just been on his knees on the hard ground in the stables, his arms around Benedict and his face buried in his shoulder, and now here he sat in his breeches at the edge of his bed, his hands still shaking. 

His hand stung where the handkerchief had bound them. Anthony peered at it curiously. There was no mark, no burn, no scar… just the memory of Penelope’s skin under his, the terror still beating in his heart.

Just the memory of that desperate kiss she had placed on the back of his hand as she commanded the situation with the graceful strength he had come to realize was hers and hers alone. 

The house was quiet around him, yet he knew that Benedict would still be bouncing off the walls of his chamber, thankful to have eluded death without even the memory of the fall and the rescue and the ritual. All Benedict had was the story they had told him in hushed voices as they all walked together back to their separate chambers.

He knew Eloise must still be shaking in her bed, must still be afraid, no matter what she’d said to the contrary.

And Penelope…

Penelope.

For a while, he could do no more than breathe. In and out, his breath dragged through him like it weighed a stone. Of course, Benedict had only just been retrieved from the clutches of death. Of course, he remembered the rope of light, the heat and burn over their hands, the fear and awe that shot through him like a bullet… these were the obvious reasons why his hands still shook.

Not the woman with bright red hair and hands of magic who slept not five rooms down the hall… not the knowledge that she had, once again, given him more than he could ever hope for in… In what? Friendship? Companionship? Not—no. Not that. 

Right?

Anthony set his elbows on his knees and pressed the heels of his palms against his closed eyes. 

Her voice.

Low and fierce, demanding and commanding, so strong and fearsome…

He exhaled, sharp.

“What have you done to me?” Anthony said in a desperate whisper. He scrubbed a hand down his face and lay back across the mattress.

He could still hear her, feel her. Now that the horror of almost losing Benedict had subsided, all he thought of was her. The warmth had not left him yet—did she mean for that to happen? When she touched his chest with her palm, did she mean to stay with him through the warmth she’d briefly given him?

And now, his words echoed back to him in his head… “My daughter for my Benedict.”

Could he handle a magical being for a daughter? Could his wife? Would she even understand? What were witches even like? As babies, as little girls, as young ladies… Oh, gods! 

The mere thought of raising a girl was enough to send him to fits of lunacy! And now he was destined for certain to have a magical one? A witch for a daughter?! He groaned, his mind already turning to a future of pranks and mischief beyond he or any of his siblings had ever attempted.

Could he even discipline a daughter like that? Penelope was quite disciplined when she was a girl, wasn’t she? She was the most disciplined witch he knew! Well, she was the only witch he knew but still… he muttered expletives under his breath.

Could he even raise his daughter to be a good person and a good witch? Could he manage a household while helping a young witch thrive?

Would his future wife, whoever she might be, even attempt to understand a little witch for a daughter? Would she be caring and kind? Would she be patient enough to guide her?

He realized then that he could do this perfectly—parent a magical daughter—with the right wife…

Oh.

Oh.

He groaned. Again. There was no point to this at the moment.  And so Anthony turned onto his side and curled his hand, trying to calm his racing thoughts, his unidentifiable feelings…

Just shock, he told himself.

Just gratitude.

Just… relief.

Yes. No more, not tonight. He repeated it—shock, gratitude, relief, shock, gratitude, relief—until his breathing finally slowed and his eyes finally closed. 

Closed though they were, sleep had not found him yet.

But something else had, and it was trying to burst free from his heart. Something he refused to name.

At least, not right now.

Auntie Needs Penelope

Two days after Benedict's brush with death, the four who had all experienced a uniquely traumatic evening together had finally fallen into some semblance of calm. Benedict was still Benedict—funny, flirtatious, brilliant, and handsome if he did say so himself. Eloise was back to being their favorite demon spawn, insufferable as always, yet adorable—a combination only she could ever do with aplomb. 

As for Penelope and Anthony? Something happened that night. It had changed them somehow, and since Benedict hadn't the slightest idea what transpired that night of his almost-departure from his wonderful life—aside from broad brushstrokes of what they deigned to tell him—he didn't know what to make of this change… he didn't know how to name it yet.

But it looked very much like devotion.

The last two days, much to Benedict's delight and utter vexation, Anthony had been fussing over him like a deeply invested governess, asking about his head and his health. Worried, hovering, mothering. And every time, Penelope would just observe out of the corner of her eye, wearing a saccharine smile of amusement.

“How's your head?” Anthony asked again for the second time this morning. 

“Oh, brother mine, how my head pains me!” Benedict replied in dramatics. “Feed me beef tea and fetch me the most succulent grapes!”

“All right,” Eloise interjected. “I do hope you choke on them, however.”

Penelope laughed softly. “If he is well enough to tease, he is well enough indeed. Do not worry over your annoying brother, Anthony. He's fine.”

Anthony looked at her then, his shoulders relaxing in relief. It was as if she had said the right command for him to let go of all the tension that kept him rigid—the stress that was much like a taut string sewn in his body, weaving in between his every vertebra. It was distressing how affected Anthony was by her, and Penelope seemed to have no inkling at all as to how his brother looked to her for comfort, joy, relief…

A knock came at the door, and once Anthony called for them to enter, Rae had slipped into the room, breathing fast as though she'd run.

It turned out, she had.

“Miss,” she called, looking straight at Penelope. “A letter from your Aunt Petunia.”

Penelope frowned as she took the folded paper from Rae's hands. “Thank you, Rae,” she whispered as she carefully lifted the wax seal. She then asked Rae to stay, in case she needed to send a reply straightaway.

Benedict watched as his brother straightened without meaning to. He watched as Anthony's every ounce of attention tuned into Penelope's face, searching for a flicker of any emotion… any at all.

They all looked on in silence as Penelope's eyes moved, as a furrow deepened between her brows, as her face changed. 

“Pen?” Eloise asked. “What is it?”

“She slipped,” Penelope murmured. “She slipped and turned her ankle. Mrs. Carrington, her neighbor, is staying with her at the moment. The doctor they sent for said that Aunt Petunia must keep off it for a few weeks. She insists she's absolutely fine but—” Penelope folded the letter again and made to stand. 

“Her aunt is in Cornwall,” Rae said, as though answering an unspoken question, her eyes flicking from Penelope to Anthony. “She lives alone.”

Ah. There it was. The inevitable frown of worry on Anthony's mouth.

“I must go,” Penelope said simply. “I shall see you all in London at the start of the season. I wouldn't dream of missing Lady Danbury’s ball.” She tried for lightness, yet her smile did not reach her eyes.

“That's five days on the road at least, perhaps six,” Eloise said, trying for a brave facade. “Couldn't you just—”

“I could,” Penelope replied, completing the question in her head. “But she knows nothing of my magic. And her neighbors—can you imagine how they'd take it if her ankle healed in a day? I'll help her, ensure her comfort, speed her healing a little, but not so much to draw attention.”

She then moved to Rae, giving her final instructions and telling her to pack for them both. She asked Rae to find a carriage they could hire from the nearby village, but Anthony wouldn't have it. He said he would send one footman with them and lend them a carriage and a driver. 

Benedict made three observations in that brief exchange.

How swiftly Anthony appeared at Penelope's side when she needed it. How quick he was to provide what he could, as he always did with them all… and how thick these two were, much to Benedict's entertainment and annoyance.

Once Rae left, Penelope turned to the room.

“We leave at first light. Thank you, all.” She looked at Anthony. “This was the most perfect summer I could ever ask for. Benedict's accident aside, of course… perhaps including even that.” She smiled, again trying to be lighter, calmer. 

She briefly placed a hand on Anthony's arm and he seemed to stop breathing. He was instantaneously alert, the dog. Because that's what he was at this point in Benedict's eyes—Penelope's lap dog. If only she knew just how much power she wielded, even without her magic.

“I shall see you at supper,” she said. And Anthony nodded. Once Penelope left the room, it took no more than three seconds for Anthony to follow.

What a loyal mutt, Benedict mused as he popped a biscuit in his mouth.

“Don't,” Benedict told Eloise thickly as she made to stand herself. 

“What? Why not?! Pen may need me, you know!”

Benedict smiled and swallowed. “I'm sure she does. But leave Anthony to it for now. You can visit her in her chambers later, yes?”

Eloise sat back down and looked at him. She gave a sigh and said, “All right.”

Good demon spawn. Everyone was quite obedient today.

Anthony Worries (aka What's New?)

“Penelope,” Anthony called softly, following her into the hall. He couldn't help but feel worried for her, about how fragile she had looked as she stood there before them. 

She spun around, tears falling down her cheeks, and Anthony was beside her at once. 

“Oh, Penelope.”

“It's silly, I'm being silly,” she said, her voice quiet. “My aunt will be all right. I don't know why—why I'm crying.”

How he wanted to embrace her, how he wanted to take her every sorrow away. Instead, he reached out to hold her hand. She smiled at him, her free hand wiping tears from her cheeks.

“I didn't want to worry anybody. I know I—”

“Worry me,” Anthony said in an urgent whisper. 

She looked up at him, eyes shining with tears. “What?”

“Worry me, Penelope. Tell me all that troubles you. Tell me of the burdens that weigh on your heart. I want to know. I need to know. Tell me what aches, what hurts, what keeps you restless. Worry me.”

For a moment, she proved speechless, her mouth dropped open in an adorable little o of surprise. Had he said too much? Perhaps he had. Yet she smiled, nodded, and tears fell anew. He wiped them away for her, and her breath caught.

Penelope cleared her throat with a shy smile, her cheeks a warm pink. “I better—” she began.

“Yes, go. Tonight, we dine together with the rest of the family. Tomorrow, I'll walk you to your carriage.”

“All right. Until tonight, then.” She squeezed his hand and he squeezed gently back.

“And in London, I shall see you again. Perhaps, we may even find time to talk?” 

She paused, gazing at him. “I would like that very much, Anthony.” She looked at him with such joy and understanding, and it was lovely. She was lovely. Penelope squeezed his hand one last time and let go. She went on her way to Rae, to prepare for the journey to Cornwall ahead.

He wanted to make things easier, better for her. He would do what he could. If Anthony gave his footman coin to spend on Penelope's inn rooms and food—and the staff's too, of course—that was his money to do with as he pleased.

Resolved, he walked to his study, his heart beating just a little quicker, just a little louder… and her warmth still lingering in his hand.

MAYFAIR, 1815.

She was late. Very late indeed. But Penelope promised she wouldn't miss the first ball of the season, and so she rushed through her ablutions, donned her new ballgown of a gentler shade of violet, and now here she was—hurtling through London streets in a Featherington carriage, en route to Lady Danbury's ballroom. It was a good thing her Mama was still in Ireland, her sisters still with their husbands in their respective country seats. Three less issues to worry about.

Her Aunt Petunia had healed splendidly, and she had spent the rest of the time just being with her. She’d spent her quiet days reading, writing, and corresponding with the Bridgertons.

But Eloise’s latest letter had given her cause for alarm. 

… Mama has pledged to introduce Anthony to several young ladies at the ball and I need your help, Pen! He's quite decided to marry, and is very certain he already knows which lady he wishes to make his viscountess! It's all very forward and he's rather determined, much to Mama’s delight. 

But he won't tell us who this ‘paragon of beauty and grace and talent’ is. The dimwit!

I cannot help but worry, Pen. What if he marries a bore? What if he marries someone daft who can't or won't read? What if he marries Cressida!?

Bollocks, Pen. He wouldn’t marry Cressida, would he?!

I know you said Anthony is also your friend, much to my dismay, so perhaps you can help him not make a massive mistake. Is there anything you can do with… oh, you know!

I know you told me that I was thinking too much of your closeness, that you are friends and friends and friends, over and over and over again, but Pen… are you sure?! Maybe you could marry him! Wouldn't that be wonderful?!

But if you won't, will you help him not be a total arse?!

Yours in exasperation and worry,

Eloise

Anthony was her friend. He truly was. She adored their friendship, the way they talked, the way they spent time together… She ought to be happy for him—for wanting to find someone with whom to spend the rest of his life. To find someone he would have his children with, raise a family with. 

She should be delighted for him. Instead, a ball of lead settled low in her belly at the thought of losing him to someone else.

Losing him. How hilarious. If Penelope was in a much better mood, she'd laugh. How could she lose him when he was never hers?

They weren't far off from Lady Danbury's now, so the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks must cease from stinging her eyes. 

Gods… was she in love with him?

No. No. I cannot be. I shouldn't be!

Was this why he wished to speak with her? To enlist her powers in finding a suitable wife? Of course he'd thought about this—marriage and family and legacy! He was one and thirty! He was a viscount and needed an heir! He also needed a daughter. And he was destined to have a magical daughter someday.

Was this why he'd repeatedly said in letters that he wanted time to talk to her alone? So she could help him select a wife that would be able to bear him a daughter and be able to handle a witch for a daughter?

Oh, how it hurt to picture Anthony as the perfect father to a little witch. But this was what friends did, no matter how horrid she felt about it all. 

The carriage came to a halt, and for one wild, unprecedented moment, she considered asking the carriage driver to turn around and head back to Featherington House. Instead, she inhaled bravely and squared her shoulders. The door opened and before she even stepped down, a hand grabbed her, already pulling her toward a side entrance.

“You are late!”

“Eloise, please! Be calm. What has happened?!”

Eloise skidded to a halt, sending Penelope barreling into her side. 

“Oomf—”

“I'm sorry, Pen! It's just… it's been ghastly! Mama has been throwing Anthony onto every eligible lady she could think of. He's been kind and respectful, that has never been in question, but Mama is just… just—oh! I cannot even begin to imagine Miss Stowell as a sister in marriage.” Eloise shuddered. 

Penelope attempted a smile. “Let me help.” She grasped Eloise by the hand and held on tightly. “Now. Tell me who was introduced to Anthony. Every single woman.”

Her heart beat erratically as Eloise listed the names, writing them down on her dance cards and providing commentary on how they wouldn't suit her eldest brother. 

Penelope agreed, though she was biased—painfully so. She was in love with the man.

No. No I am not… I must not be.

Finally, Eloise was done scribbling. She handed Penelope her dance cards and sighed in relief.

“Where is Anthony?” 

Eloise scoffed. “I haven't the slightest idea! Cards room, cigar room, retiring room, his own bedchamber? Perhaps he'd left. Mama has been unbearable.” She peered at her curiously. “What'll you do? Will you read their minds?!”

Penelope gave a reluctant laugh. “I cannot read minds, but I can feel… feelings. However, tonight—and you're going to owe me something massive, El! Tonight I shall be… smelling their intentions.”

“Disgusting.”

“Quite. Well, it could be. But if they're kind and their intentions aren't awful, they could smell quite nice. Though, with this list?” She looked down.

“I very much doubt it too, Pen.”

Arm in arm they walked. Penelope deposited Eloise at a nearby refreshments table. She tapped the tip of her nose thrice, snapped her fingers once before her face, and set off to sniff the air around the ladies.

At the very end of it all—after getting various whiffs of their greed, apathy, envy—she was tired, nauseous, and felt a headache coming. Gods, the things she did for the Bridgertons.

The things she did for Anthony. 

At the thought of him, an icy chill in her belly made her physically shudder. She was going to be a good friend. She was going to be completely honest. She was going to help him.

Eloise came to her at once, as soon as she was done. “Well?” She asked, her eyes wide with curiosity. “How were they?”

“Where's your brother? I need to leave. I feel faint.”

“I'm sorry, Pen. Was it truly that awful?” Eloise asked and she nodded. “And I haven't seen Anthony either. Shall I walk you to your carriage? I'll tell Anthony when we get home that we must call on you tomorrow to discover your findings.” Eloise hugged her, fast and tight. “Thank you, Pen. You know I love you.”

“And I you, El. Yes, please help me to my carriage. I need to rest. It's been… trying.”

And heartbreaking. But Eloise needn't know that. 

That evening in her warm bed, comfortable as it felt in a clean, fragrant nightgown, Penelope found no ease. She found no rest. All she could seem to think of was Anthony, and how awful it would be for her once he courted someone and married someone and had the most perfect little witch for a daughter. 

She turned restlessly, screaming a silent scream into her pillow. She refused to cry, however. She was Anthony's friend and though it would break her heart to complete his, she would do what was needed without hesitation.

The perfect wife. The perfect mother. 

Penelope began going through the women tonight. Miss Stowell smelled of misplaced affection—overripe strawberries. It was there, the attraction, but it wasn't for Anthony.

Miss Brown, when Penelope took a quick whiff, reeked of old wood—which by instinct told Penelope that she was only after a title. They were a wealthy family, the Browns, but her father wanted her to marry into the aristocracy. 

As she turned names over and under in her head, a pebble struck her window. And then another. Eloise had said they would call on her in the morning, but it seemed she wanted to see her tonight. Feeling much better, she dug the heels of her palms into her eyes to shake the tiredness away, and walked to the window.

Once opened, she said, “El? What's wrong?”

“Not El, and nothing's wrong,” Anthony replied with the hint of a smile in his voice. “I was waylaid in the cards room and missed you entirely at the ball.”

Her heart started pounding in her chest, color filling her pale cheeks. What was he doing here? She should ask that. Yes. 

She cleared her throat. “What are you doing here, Anthony?”

“Aside from being rather inappropriate, you mean? I want to see you. Could you, perhaps, come down?”

It was dark—she couldn't see him, and he couldn't see her. So she screamed silently again—as she was wont to do—flapping her hands in panic, before replying, “I'll be down in a minute. Find the bench in the garden, the one with the lamp.”

“I will meet you there.”

Why, why, why was he here? Couldn't he have waited until morning to unknowingly tear her heart to pieces? Couldn't he wait until calling hours for her odorous report?!

Swallowing all reservations, she made to leave her room. She threw a shawl on and walked along the hall toward the stairs, her heart in her throat, beating louder with every step.

There was no point in denying it all now… why did she have to love the man? Why this man—the most eligible bachelor in the ton for the past three seasons? This difficult, brooding, funny, kind, sweet man.

Penelope blew out a slow, calming breath.

Soon she arrived at the garden, finding the bench easily by the light of the moon and the faint glow of the lamp. Anthony was pacing in his shirtsleeves, no waistcoat nor cravat nor jacket in sight. 

“Penelope,” he called as soon as he saw her and her breath shuddered to a halt. His hand was extended towards her and she reached for it, suppressing the eagerness she felt to reach him. 

He led her to the bench, letting her sit as he remained standing before him. 

“So,” he began, a shadow of a teasing smile on his lips. “Eloise tells me you have been quite occupied this evening.”

Oh, how she fumed. He was looking for a report! This man. 

“Yes! And it is all your fault, Lord Bridgerton.”

“An honorific? Christ, you are vexed with me, aren't you?”

Penelope huffed, trying hard to rein her frustrated tears in. She held onto her anger to stop herself from crying, from begging him to—what? Marry her instead? Preposterous. She squared her shoulders and looked at Anthony straight in his deep, chocolate eyes. If he wanted a report, he'd get one. She would be honest and would make her suggestions.

“Well for your information, only Miss Malhotra gave me the impression of kindness and good intentions. She carried a scent of warm honey and fresh baked bread, things my instinct told me were of a sweet nature and endless patience. But—”

“But?” he inquired, fully grinning now, entertained by her curt demeanor.

“But… she isn't right for you, I believe,” she explained honestly.

“Ah. On that we agree.”

She was taken aback. She'd expected more of a retort—Malhotra was pretty, a proper height… not six lemons tall like her. She was well-read, soft-hearted, and would make any lord a fine wife. She shook her head and continued. “Fine. Miss Clara Whitcombe is greedy. I gathered only notes of sour milk and cheese and it was revolting.”

“Did they actually smell like that?” he asked, alarmed.

“Of course not!” Penelope gritted her teeth and spoke despite her jealousy. “They were perfumed and bathed and polished for the ball—and to attract your attentions, Lord Most Eligible Bachelor. I only placed a charm on my person to sharpen my senses and to attempt getting whiffs of their intentions towards you or towards marriage in general.”

Anthony stayed silent, with an insufferable smirk on his devastatingly handsome face. In the dim lamplight, in the shimmer of moonlight, she saw that he was a little rugged and unshaven—a hint of shadow covered his jawline and he looked impossibly good. It was getting harder by the second, talking to him about other women. Yet she pressed forward.

“Miss Henrietta Huxon only wants unfettered access to your deep pockets if the scent of copper coins in spoiled wine was anything to go on—”

“Awful.”

“Quite. And Miss Fairleigh only wants to marry into a title—old wood and parchment. If you have no qualms about that, she was quite nice.”

“Are you done?”

“You ungrateful ninny!” Penelope whispered harshly. “I was in pains and nauseous from the awful blend of scents and odors, and that's how you talk to me about the report you clearly came here for?!”

She was ready to flee, ready to cry into her pillows and have her handy handkerchief help her with her heaps of tears. He wasn't really ungrateful, she knew that—she was just… awfully exhausted.

Penelope was resolved to save her dignity this evening. She stood up and said, “Good night, my lord. Perhaps calling hours would be better. I am rather fatigued. I am awfully sorry for my impertinence. Again, I bid you good night.”

She turned, spine stiff with an effort not to crumble. If she didn't leave now, she would shatter completely. She tried to walk away, but his strong hand held her back by her wrist, pulling her close.

“I did not come for a report,” he whispered, and she felt it under her skin. “I came here for you.”

“What?” she gasped, her mind barely hanging on to sanity.

Anthony pulled her closer, her back now pressed to his chest. “I already know who I want to marry. I don't need your guidance in selecting a wife.”

“Oh, jolly good then. What a waste of an evening.” She tried for firmness but failed, her voice escaping her in a soft murmur.

What are you doing to me, she thought, hoping his mind could hear so that she needn't say the words out loud. He chuckled, and it was deep and beautiful and she loved it. She loved him. And he was frustrating her to no end!

“It wasn't a waste, because what you did tonight only confirmed my desires.” His hand was still on her wrist, his fingers gently caressing her skin. 

“So Malhotra then? Or perhaps Fairleigh?”

“Neither,” he replied and he pulled her, turning her to face him. He tilted his head, cocking it to the side, and he watched her. She felt six inches tall in his gaze, in his space, and she enjoyed it—him surrounding her. He looked at her—looked through her—and it was unnerving. Exhilarating.

“Then who?” 

Anthony smiled, his hand reaching up to brush gently across her cheek and she—the harlot, apparently—leaned into his warm touch. “I want you, Penelope.”

“You can't.” She knew she was unreasonable, but she had to know his intentions for certain. “You need not marry me for my power or my protection, Anthony. You and your family will always—”

Anthony sighed, placing a hand over her mouth and she frowned with her eyebrows—because of course he couldn't see her mouth, with it being covered by his rough, masculine hands…

Harlot! 

“You are magic, Penelope. With or without your powers.”

Her eyes widened and his smile broadened. With his free hand, he pulled her even closer by the small of her back. She could feel his warmth, his strength around her. And it was glorious. 

“Penelope, I love you to the point of madness. To the point of miracle.”

He pressed his face against her hair and lifted the hand that was covering her mouth to twirl a lock of her hair between his fingers. 

“Do you want to know what I feel when I breathe you in?” He placed his hand under his nose and inhaled the hair he had twined there. “Devotion. Joy. Gentleness. Intellect. Love.” He inhaled again and smiled. “And possibly a hint of bruised roses, am I correct?”

Penelope laughed and nodded. Tears spilled from her eyes, and these were of utter elation rather than jealousy and exasperation. He loved her. 

He loved her. 

She placed a palm on his chest, but only to feel his steady, racing heartbeat. “And I love you, Anthony,” she said, looking at him with all the passion she could muster. Moonlight shone in his gaze, and she believed it signified a blessing from the source of her power. “I love you so very much that if I weren't magical, I am certain we would still be magic together.”

His shoulders fell in a sigh of relief, and that was when Penelope realized how much this moment meant to him, too. 

“May I kiss you, sweetheart?”

“Please.”

He smiled. His fingers traced her cheeks and she closed her eyes, basking in the warmth of his touch, the warmth of this closeness. He traced her nose from bridge to tip and she laughed. She felt his thumb glide across her lip, her breathing erratic against his skin. And then she felt him draw near. He placed gentle kisses on her lips, soft and slow, and she melted into him. 

Anthony put his arms around her. He nudged her mouth open to receive his kisses and to give hers, too. Slanting over her lips, he loved her with his mouth, and tingles shot up and down her body. She had never felt so complete. 

The world could have fallen all around them and Penelope would never have realized. There was on this. Only him.

It was beautiful. He was beautiful. 

No, she inwardly corrected. They were beautiful together. 

He pulled back and smiled at her, his lips shining and pink, his cheeks adorably flushed. 

“I best get you back inside,” he said, with a tone that sounded a lot like regret. She felt it, too. She wanted more. More. But she knew he was right. Their love needed the light of day, no matter how wonderfully the moon smiled on them tonight. 

Hand in hand they walked to the side of Featherington House, arriving shortly at the door that led to the kitchens. Penelope climbed the two steps, his hand in hers. She spun to face him again, twirling herself once under his arm, before lifting his hand to her lips. 

His breath left him in a rush, surprised by the kiss. He held her by the back of her head, fingers weaving through her soft hair, and kissed her once more—brief and deep and so full of life.

“I shall call on you tomorrow. Flowers, chocolates, Eloise—the perfect courting presents,” he said, and he turned her back around to face the house with a grin of mischief on his face. “Maybe even a Benedict if he's awake.”

Penelope smiled and opened the door when he did something that caught her completely off guard. “Anthony!” she exclaimed as he swatted her backside to usher her through the doorway. What an annoying man! 

He chuckled and bade her farewell. Barely even a few yards away, he turned back and called out softly. “Penelope!”

“What!?” She smiled, barely keeping it together. 

“It will be our future daughter who will be committed to the Order. I cannot believe you will have a hand in paying my end of our bargain.”

Penelope laughed despite herself, finding it all as amusing as he did. “You are right. Best be ready, Lord Bridgerton. She is bound to be a handful… just like you.”