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“Did you kill her?”

“You wound me. I’m still sick with grief.”

This reeks of Beaulah’s plotting. Shelby Duncan was the first Duncan to be admitted to a House for magic training since the House fell decades ago. If she died on Marionne territory, that would cement Duncan as an enemy and put a target on Darragh Marionne’s back. This was calculated, cold-blooded murder. For power.

I snatch the coin from his throat. “Beaulah gave the order, didn’t she? To get rid of Shelby at Chateau Soleil.”

Felix sucks his teeth.

I open the door. “Leave.”

“My coin.”

“Be grateful you’re leaving with your life.”

His nostrils flare, his cheeks flush. “I heard about your visit to the Trial ceremony. How Jordan Wexton threw his virtue pins. You’re out, brother. Exposed. Go bark up another tree. Try Marionne—I hear you like getting underneath their skirts.” He storms off. I drop his coin in my pocket, my pulse thundering.

A war is brewing.

And we’re the only ones without allies.

* * *

The chair where I spent the night outside Quell’s room is still there. I sit, pondering some kind of solution to this impending chaos. We can’t stoop to Beaulah’s level of violence. I understand Quell wants to make sure Beaulah doesn’t get to the Sphere before we do, but there has to be another way. We can outsmart them somehow. What if there is no other way, I can almost hear Quell say. I rake a hand through my hair, still able to see the Dragunhead’s face when I asked him to go on this mission. He won’t be happy to hear about this development. My gut sloshes as I slip my phone out of my pocket. I see no other option than to update him and get his wisdom. I fire off a message requesting Maei have him call me.

The door to the room opens.

“You’re not leaving this room until it’s time to cloak to the Sphere,” I say, and I feel anger rising inside her. “What’s the latest count of sunspots?”

“Approaching the hundreds. So I’m your prisoner now?”

“You become my prisoner each time you don’t do what I say.”

She slams the door just as the phone buzzes. I stand, too frazzled to sit.

“Sir?”

“I hear there’s trouble in Aronya.”

“Three on the march.”

“Three! By god.”

“Sir, we need to talk about the brothers matriculating from Hartsboro.”

“I’m listening.”

“I have concerns about their loyalties. They’re all over this inn. I believe they’re helping her.”

The line is silent for so long, I clear my throat to ensure he’s still there.

“I…I don’t know what to do.”

“Keep your brothers in line, whatever it takes. That’s what you do!”

“Yes, sir.”

The line goes dead.