With my arm looped through Gideon’s, I soon forgot all about my stained clothes and my injuries.
He led me through the house, pointing out the things he thought I might find interesting: portraits of my ancestors that had exciting stories, landscapes that were painted by artist’s whose names I vaguely recognised; the vases of flowers that had come from Briarthorn’s gardens.
“I don’t look anything like him.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think there’s maybe a similar nose there.” Gideon nudged me, pointing to my ancestor’s severe, hooked nose. My father’s very nose.
I made a noise of offence, turning to find Gideon grinning impishly down at me.
“Rude,” I said, unable to fight back an answering smile.
“Forgive me, sweet Margaux,” Gideon answered with a bright laugh, “You’re much prettier t
