The Dalrymple estate lay on the Dorsetshire coast, near the village of Eype. It was a stark coastline, with pale, shingly beaches that stretched as far as the eye could see and crumbling cliffs riddled with fossils and huge, wide skies. Some people found it barren; Georgie thought it beautiful.

Vickery had eight estates and a palatial residence in St. James’s Square, London, but Dorsetshire was where he was happiest. He’d never told her so in words, but she’d seen him stop often enough on the clifftops and gaze out with a faint half-smile on his face to know that he loved it here. He wasn’t wearing that half-smile this afternoon, though, as they rested the horses after their gallop. He looked tired. Tired and worried.

She knew why: his father’s diaries.

Maybe I shouldn’t tell him the truth? Maybe I should lie to him? It would be kinder.

Vickery turned his head and looked at her and something in his eyes—an intensity, an intention—made her breath catch in her throat.

Vickery didn’t say anything, he just looked at her. The sea breeze tugged at Georgie’s hat and blew a strand of hair across her cheek. She heard the distant cry of a seagull, heard the sound of the surf far below, heard the creak of her saddle as the mare shifted her weight. She discovered that she wasn’t breathing. How could she breathe when Vickery looked at her like that? Her heart thudded loudly in her ears. She felt quite lightheaded.

Vickery drew breath as if to speak . . . and then closed his mouth and looked away.

Georgie clutched her reins tightly. “Vic? What is it?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.” He nudged his horse’s flank with a knee, easing the stallion into a walk.

Georgie fell in beside him. It hadn’t been nothing. Whatever Vickery had been about to tell her had been important. Very important. She knew it with the same certainty that she knew he wasn’t the sixth duke’s son.

The horses broke into a trot when they reached the familiar path homeward. Georgie stopped wondering what Vickery hadn’t said and started worrying about the conversation that loomed ahead. Nervousness churned in her belly. How would Vickery react when he saw her mother walk on air? What would he say when he learned the truth about his parentage? Perhaps I should wait another day to tell him? Perhaps I shouldn’t tell him at all?

They cut across Baron Cathcart’s land. Her father’s estate came into view. Georgie glanced at Vickery riding alongside her, reins held lightly, muscles flexing in his thighs as he moved. It would be kinder not to tell him about his parents, wouldn’t it? And then she imagined living the rest of her life with that secret between them and knew that she couldn’t do it.

Vickery deserved to hear the truth. And he deserved to hear it today. Even if her stomach tied itself into a knot at the thought of telling him.

Georgie took hold of her courage. “Will you come inside for a moment, Vic? My parents would like to take a cup of tea with you.”

* * *

Georgie’s parents were waiting in the front drawing room. “Alexander, darling. Have a seat.” Lady Dalrymple patted the sofa alongside her.

Vickery laid his hat and gloves and riding crop to one side and sat.

Georgie took a seat beside her father. Her ribcage was tight with nervousness. Her fingers fumbled slightly as she removed her riding gloves.

A footman entered with a tea tray, set it down, and departed.

Georgie’s mother poured with her usual briskness, but there was tension in her arm. The clink of the teacups in their saucers seemed louder than usual. Her mother’s voice was ever so slightly off pitch.

Georgie had never seen her mother nervous before. It made her own nervousness intensify sharply. She gripped her hands tightly in her lap.

Georgie’s father quietly stood, crossed to the door, locked it, and resumed his seat. Vickery didn’t notice—his attention was focused on his hostess—but Georgie noticed. Her stomach tied itself into an even tighter knot.

Lady Dalrymple took a sip of tea, and a second one, then she put down her cup and said, “Alexander, there is something that Francis, Georgiana, and I wish to speak to you about in confidence.”

“Oh?” Vickery said. The note in his voice—slightly cautious—made Georgie wonder if he’d noticed her mother’s nervousness, too. He looked like a man braced for bad news.

“Do you believe in Faerie godmothers?” Lady Dalrymple asked.

Vickery blinked. “Uh, no. No, I don’t.”

“Or magic?”

Vickery gave an awkward laugh, as if he didn’t know quite how to respond to this question. “No, ma’am.” He raised his teacup to his lips, and sipped.

“Hmm,” Lady Dalrymple said. She stood. “Your attention, please, Alexander.”

She walked across the room. Her first two steps were on the Savonnerie carpet; her next were on air. She climbed steadily, as if ascending an invisible staircase. By the time she’d taken a dozen steps she was six feet above the floor. She marched around the drawing room, her head nearly brushing the ceiling, her stride jaunty.

Georgie, who had seen her mother do this many times, looked at Vickery. He was staring up at Lady Dalrymple, his teacup half raised, his mouth open, his eyes wide.

He didn’t look horrified; he looked stunned. Transfixed. Unblinking and unbreathing.

Lady Dalrymple halted in front of the fireplace, her feet planted on air. She crossed her arms over her bosom and looked down at Vickery. “Still don’t believe in magic, Alexander?”

Vickery put down his teacup blindly. It missed the saucer, fell to the floor, and broke. He didn’t notice. He stared at Lady Dalrymple a moment longer, then turned his head and looked at Lord Dalrymple, mute appeal in his eyes. He didn’t need to speak. His confusion was clear to read on his face. Sir? What’s happening?

“Miranda has a Faerie godmother,” the viscount said. He glanced up at his wife. A slight smile curved his mouth. “Extraordinary, isn’t it?”

Vickery looked back at Lady Dalrymple, floating in front of the mantelpiece. His lips parted as if he wanted to agree, but no words came from his mouth.

Lady Dalrymple descended in a few quick steps. She took her seat on the sofa alongside Vickery and patted his cheek kindly. “Poor boy. I didn’t mean to shock you so. Do you have any questions?”

If Vickery had questions, it appeared that he was unable to articulate them.

Dimples showed briefly in Lady Dalrymple’s cheeks. She picked up her teacup and sipped again. Her eyes were bright with merriment. Her earlier nervousness had evaporated. So had Georgie’s. What she felt most was relief. Vickery looked dumbstruck, not outraged. He wasn’t panic-stricken, wasn’t shouting wild accusations about evil and witchcraft and abominations.

“The women in Miranda’s family have a Faerie godmother,” Lord Dalrymple said. His voice was quiet, but it drew Vickery’s attention. “She visits each girl on her twenty-third birthday and grants her a wish. For some that wish has been a blessing, for others, a curse.”

Vickery’s gaze shifted to Georgie.

“Miranda asked to be able to walk on air. Georgiana . . .” Lord Dalrymple’s arm came around Georgie’s shoulders. “Georgiana chose to be able to find things. People, places, objects.”

Vickery said nothing. His eyes were intent on Georgie’s face.

“That’s how she knew where Hubert was buried.”

“It wasn’t a dream, like I told you,” Georgie said, her voice little more than a whisper. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”

Vickery’s expression didn’t change. After a moment he gave a short nod.

“You asked my daughter a question this morning,” Lord Dalrymple said.

Emotions flickered across Vickery’s face: shock, dismay.

“I’m sorry,” Georgie said. “I know you spoke to me in confidence, but I needed to ask their advice, Vic. It’s important.”

Vickery’s gaze came back to her. He became very still.

Georgie took a deep breath. “Your father was right. You’re not his son.”

Vickery looked at her for a long moment and then turned his head away. He closed his eyes and raised one hand to his face, as if trying to hide his expression from them, but Georgie saw his distress clearly.

“It’s all right,” she said urgently. “Father says you’re still the Duke of Vickery. No one can take that from you.”

“Leonard acknowledged you publicly as his heir,” Lord Dalrymple said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. “You’ve taken your seat in the House of Lords. Legally you’re the Duke of Vickery. No one can challenge that.”

Vickery lowered his hand and looked at them. He was pale, tense. He swallowed, and spoke for the first time since Lady Dalrymple had displayed her gift. “The real duke? Where is he?”

“Dead,” Georgie said. “He drowned in a creek in Kent.”

Vickery closed his eyes again. “Oh, God.”

Georgie looked at her mother. Lady Dalrymple was uncharacteristically grave. She met Georgie’s eyes. She didn’t say I told you not to tell him, but the words rang in Georgie’s ears anyway.

Georgiana turned her attention back to Vickery. “You were born in Cornwall,” she told him. “In a farmhouse by the sea.”

Vickery’s eyes opened. He stared across at her.

“Your parents are both dead. They’re buried in a churchyard.”

Vickery squeezed his eyes shut again. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. Georgie saw tension in his bowed head, tension in his shoulders.

Lady Dalrymple sat alongside him, but she didn’t attempt to reach out and touch him. They could all see, quite clearly, that Vickery didn’t want to be touched.

Georgie felt sick. She gripped her hands tightly in her lap. I made the wrong choice. I should have lied to him. She looked at her father helplessly.

Her father had no Faerie godmother, but he had a way of understanding her thoughts that was close to magic. “When Georgiana came to us this morning and told us what she’d discovered, we advised her not to tell you the truth,” he said. “The dead are dead. The past can’t be altered.” His words hung quietly in the room. “But my daughter didn’t want to lie to you, and after some consideration we decided she was correct.”

Several seconds passed, and then Vickery lifted his head slightly and looked across at the viscount.

“I think you deserve to know the truth, Alexander, even though it’s painful. But if you feel that we chose wrongly, then I apologize.”

After a moment Vickery shook his head. “No. The truth is always best.” He rubbed his face roughly and pushed to his feet, the toe of one boot catching his broken teacup, sending it spinning.

Vickery didn’t notice. He crossed to the tall French windows and stood looking out, his face turned from them.

No one spoke. Her mother made no move to pick up the teacup. They sat quietly, giving Vickery silence, giving him time, giving him space.

Georgie gripped her hands together and watched him anxiously. He looked brittle, taut, tense, and even though he was in the same room as them he seemed impossibly distant, as if he were miles away.

She tried to imagine what he must be feeling right now. Everything he’d grown up believing was suddenly not true. The foundations of his life had crumbled into nothing. His past had been wiped out. Did he feel lost? Alone? Did he feel that he stood in a void, with emptiness all around him, that he had nothing firm to hold onto anymore?

“Vic?” Georgie rose to her feet, but didn’t quite dare to approach him. “Vic, if you’d like to go to Cornwall and see where you were born, I’ll take you there.” She made the offer tentatively. “You don’t have to. Only . . . if you want to?” If it would give him solid ground to stand on again, a chance to start filling his life with truths.

There was a long moment of silence, and then Vickery’s head turned. She tried to read his expression, and failed.

“Yes,” he said. “I would like to go to Cornwall.”

“We can go as soon as you like. Tomorrow, if you wish.” And then she remembered that even though she was an adult, she couldn’t travel alone with a man. “Mother will come with us, won’t you, Mama?” She turned to her mother and beseeched her silently, urgently.

Lady Dalrymple hesitated, and exchanged a glance with her husband, and Georgie suddenly remembered that her mother was due to go to Derbyshire tomorrow.

“I’ll come with you,” Lord Dalrymple said.