Chapter 119

Lorelei Montague had spent the last five years learning how to stay hidden, much to the satisfaction of her guardian and aunt, Lady Dorothea Langley.

It had never required much effort. In Somerton, there were enough rooms in Dorothea Langley’s home for a person to become almost invisible if she wished it, and Lorelei had become very skilled at choosing the right ones.

Her bedroom was the safest. Behind its closed door, she could hear visitors arrive and depart without ever having to face them.

Every so often, from her perch by the window, she could hear the carriage wheels outside, along with the familiar voices she knew better than her own.

For all her aunt Dorothea liked to pretend that she cared, it was obvious to anyone with eyes that she preferred Lorelei to make herself scarce. For that reason, Lorelei rarely ventured out of her rooms unless it was absolutely necessary, and never when there was a high chance of encountering her aunt.

It was difficult to fault Dorothea for any of it, given Lorelai’s reputation as the disgrace of the Montague family. After her entire life had imploded so spectacularly, Lorelei did what she believed was best.

She had packed her belongings and eased her family’s burdens by leaving. No longer would they have to suffer the consequences of her actions. With her gone, perhaps they might finally have some peace.

As an unmarried eighteen-year-old woman at the time with neither money nor prospects, she had nowhere to go.

As a final act of kindness, her mother had arranged for her to live with distant relatives of theirs, the Langleys.

It had not been an easy thing for Octavia to accept. She had not wanted to let go of her youngest child, but Lorelei was stubborn and had already made up her mind.

It had been five years, and she was yet to see her family since then.

The fault was hers, of course. As it always was.

Lorelei Montague had never done anything right in her entire life. She only ever seemed to hurt the people around her, and Aunt Dorothea reminded her of that fact constantly.

Her mother and Eugenia made the trip to Somerton every other month for the past years to see her. Each time they came, Lorelei locked herself away in her room until they left, refusing to see them.

She did the same whenever Draven came.

He had begun visiting Somerton regularly, usually three or four times a year whenever his duties permitted it, and every visit followed much the same pattern.

Draven would arrive, speak with Lady Dorothea, ask after Lorelei, and eventually ask whether she would come downstairs. Sometimes he sent a servant to tell her he was there. Other times, he went upstairs himself, stubbornly refusing to leave without seeing her first.

Lorelei always listened from her room. Sometimes, she would creep towards her door and press her ear against the cold wood whenever he made the trek upstairs to find her, only to be stopped by her locked bedroom door.

She had known he was there. If she focused hard enough, she could even hear him breathing on the other side.

She knew that if she opened the door, walked downstairs, and threw her arms around her brother, he would embrace her.

She knew all of this, and still she remained upstairs. Because her guilt always won.

It had never been because she did not want to see him. The truth was far more painful.

She wanted to see him so badly, but the shame and guilt always stopped her. After everything she had put him through, after all she had done to their family, it was better that they forgot she existed.

Every time her family came to Somerton, the same thoughts returned, accompanied by that familiar, suffocating sense of self-loathing.

She brought scandal upon the Montague name.

Lady Dorothea made certain she never forgot it. Lorelei was the opposite of everything Dorothea wanted her own daughter to be.

Dorothea’s cruelty was never physical. Her weapon had always been words, and she had a particular talent for knowing exactly how to use them so they would hurt the most.

You brought shame upon your family.

They have suffered because of you.

You should be grateful they haven’t disowned you. God knows you deserve it.

Perhaps it would be better if you stopped seeing them entirely. That way, they aren’t constantly reminded of your failings.

You have already taken enough from them.

After five years of hearing the same words over and over again, they had become so deeply rooted in her mind that she could no longer distinguish Dorothea’s accusations from her own thoughts.

Perhaps Dorothea was right. If Draven came to Somerton and she refused to see him, then at least he could leave without having to look upon the sister who had caused a scandal that wildly disrupted the peace of their household.

It was also the only way Lorelei knew how to survive and appease her conscience.

If staying away kept her family from suffering because of her, then perhaps enduring the loneliness was a small price to pay.

Yet the longer she remained away, the more miserable she became.

The past year was particularly difficult.

There were mornings when she woke with a heavy ache in her chest before she had even opened her eyes. There were evenings when she sat beside the window and wondered what her family might be doing at that very moment.

She missed Westmarch with an intensity that sometimes left her almost breathless. The smallest things could undo her—a familiar scent of polished wood, the sight of her mother’s favorite flowers, the distant sound of a hound barking, or a melody played on a pianoforte that reminded her of evenings spent at home.

She missed her mother’s voice.

She missed her sister’s long-winded rants.

She missed Draven’s dry humor and his infuriating tendency to know whenever she was lying.

She missed being someone’s daughter. She missed being someone’s sister.

More than anything, she missed belonging somewhere.

And yet, whenever the possibility of returning came within reach, fear and guilt closed around her throat until she could scarcely breathe.