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A heavy weight settled in Joan’s chest, as painful as if it were pressed against her heart. This isn’t the first time we’ve met, she wanted to say. We knew each other in another lifetime. But he wouldn’t believe her, she knew. Her throat felt tight: the hurt of Aaron’s disgust combining with the humiliation of the Olivers staring at her.

‘What on earth is this fuss about?’

Joan flinched again at Edmund’s voice. The crowd parted for him, and he strode over to Joan and Aaron.

Joan had forgotten how imposingly tall he was. He’d discarded his own mask, leaving his handsome face bare. His blond hair was paler than Aaron’s. In his youth, he might have been as beautiful as his son, but age and the set of his face had turned those familiar features austere. ‘You had me fetched?’ he said to Aaron. He made it sound dangerous.

‘I found a fugitive on our grounds.’

If Edmund was surprised or impressed by his son’s capture of Joan, he didn’t show it.

‘Look at her eyes,’ Aaron said.

A flicker of interest then. Edmund peered down at Joan. His own eyes were the grey of flint. With his white-blond hair and black suit, he might have stepped out of a monochrome photograph. The moment stretched, and Joan’s breath shallowed in fear. Something very much like this had happened before. Edmund had examined her just like this before he’d ordered her to be killed.

Joan had a flash of her Aaron again, brushing her cheek in the golden light of sunset. He’d been desperate for her to stay away from him. This was the exact scenario he’d feared. He’d known it would be like this.

‘It’s been a long time since I saw one of your kind,’ Edmund said. Joan shivered, and he smiled slightly. He’d enjoyed her fear last time too. He put his mouth to her ear. ‘You know what most delights me?’ he murmured. ‘You don’t even know what you are. None of you do. You all die without knowing.’

Slowly, so that Joan could see it, he pushed back his jacket and slid a shining knife from a sheath.

‘No,’ Joan whispered, and his smile widened. She bit at the inside of her mouth. He wanted her to cry and beg before he killed her. He wanted to see her in pain. It was hard to believe this was Aaron’s father. Aaron was nothing like him.

Edmund lifted the knife, letting the silver blade glint in the moonlight. The hilt was beautiful: shaped like a mermaid with a blue-and-green enamel tail. And Joan was properly shaking now. This was really happening—a continuation of the night in the Gilt Room when Edmund had ordered Lucien to kill her. This was what would have happened if Nick hadn’t been there. And Edmund was right. She didn’t know what she was.

To her horror, it got worse then. Edmund flipped the knife around and offered it hilt-first to Aaron.

No, Joan thought. Not by Aaron’s hand. She couldn’t stop shaking. She turned as best she could to Aaron. If she was going to die, she’d die with him in her eyes, and not Edmund’s cruel face. Aaron had cared about her once, even if he’d never know it in this timeline.

Aaron stared down at the blade in his hand. He was deathly pale. ‘They want her alive.’ It came out so softly that for a second Joan wasn’t sure she’d heard him right.

‘What?’ Edmund sounded impatient.

Joan didn’t dare breathe. Was Aaron pushing back against his father? He’d tried to last time, but when Edmund had ordered him from the room, he’d gone. He’d left Joan to die.

‘The instruction was to bring her to the Court Guards for questioning,’ Aaron said.

‘The instruction has always been to kill abominations on sight.’ Edmund’s gaze was scouring. ‘I wonder sometimes if you’re even my blood. No son of mine would be so weak as to ask Court Guards to do his duty for him.’

Aaron’s eyes darted over Edmund’s shoulder to the watching Olivers. His cheeks flushed. ‘I am your blood,’ he said tightly to Edmund. ‘I have your name. I have your power.’

Edmund surveyed Aaron from his looming height, drawing out the moment until Aaron blinked and looked away. ‘And isn’t it wasted on you,’ he said scathingly. He shook his head when Aaron offered the knife back to him. ‘Keep it. Perhaps you’ll find your spine on the way to the guard house.’

Aaron stood there, the flush still high on his cheeks as the Olivers filtered back to the party. Joan’s breath was still coming fast. She’d been braced for the agony of the knife; she could hardly believe she was still alive.

‘Why did you—’ she started.

Aaron cut her off, his beautiful face cold. ‘You’ll be interrogated and then executed. As it should be.’ He retrieved a small golden disk from his pocket and pointed the thing at Joan’s tattooed wrist. ‘You’re anchored to me,’ he said. To the security men, he ordered, ‘Have someone bring a car around.’

Aaron led her around the corner of the house. As soon as they were out of sight of the party, Joan bolted in the direction of the road.

‘Stop!’ Aaron called after her.

To Joan’s shock, her body jolted to stillness. She jerked her head to Aaron, open-mouthed. He was a full twenty paces behind her; he hadn’t touched her. The security team had melted away as they’d walked, and Joan had thought—hoped—she’d have a chance to run. ‘How did you do that?’ she said.

‘Come back here!’ Aaron said.

Joan’s legs started toward him without her volition. Her heart pounded. ‘How are you doing this?’ It wasn’t the Argent power—she didn’t want to obey. It was more like Aaron had bound her with invisible rope and was moving her around like a marionette.