Chapter 22“I can’t help feeling we’re missing something,” Frederick grumbled, as they walked up the Cockerell drive. Lyne, her arm through his, must have heard but gave no sign. The gates opened, and the white-gloved finger of a footman directed them down a lantern-lit path.
The same lit path he’d walked on that night over five years ago. His feet slowed, but Lyne kept going, and he was forced to continue. The leather pants of his costume were like a second skin and rubbed on his thighs and knees, a constraint against every step, unlike the rippling skin and furs of the Beast.
At the far end brooded the house, and nothing had changed. Turrets, evil red lights glinting from the windows, the open front doors like the maw of—
“It’ll be fine.” He’d stopped altogether, and Lyne tugged him on
