Page 61

“No,” he whispers against my neck. “I can’t.”

I look despairingly toward Camille, but before I can speak, Marcus calls from upstairs. His voice is like a sharpened blade. “Alastair, I meant now!”

Alastair steps back from me, but I clutch his arm, refusing to let him leave. Gently, he peels my fingers away. Cupping a hand to my cheek, he straightens his shoulders. “I have to go to him, Lark. It will be worse if I don’t.”

I watch him leave the room, wanting to follow, feeling torn and helpless. Camille starts to pick up the shards of broken glass, stacking the largest pieces onto a clean linen napkin. She catches my gaze, and nods toward Hugo. “Ask him,” she mouths, but I don’t know what to say.

I press my lips together, try to swallow past the anxiety that snares my throat like a strand of kelp. “Hugo, why did the Salt Priests order you to banish Therion?”

He struggles to stand up, clutching the edge of the table for support, his knuckles white. “They didn’t. All they wanted was for me to interrupt your betrothal, so he wouldn’t be wed to anoutsider. But that wasn’t enough.”

My heartbeat rises, and a tremor of hope lances through me. Forcing the desperation from my voice, I ask, “The ritual you used to banish Therion… is there a way to reverse it?”

Slowly, Hugo looks up at me through the veil of his tangled curls. “Why would I want to do that?” His expression shutters, his eyes turned hard as stone. “My sister died for a vision of Therion. Banishment is what he deserved.”

“But he wasn’t the one who killed her. The Salt Priests were.”

“They killed her for a vision of him! In his name they’ve poisoned us, destroyed us, taken our lives, and he barely deigns to answer. Why should Therion be given our fealty?”

I think of the night I went into the tide caves and saw my brothers wreathed in smoke. How perhaps only days before, on the far end of the peninsula, Georgiana Valentine was murdered by the Salt Priests. The spring equinox rising, waves trembling on the cusp of the shore, a girl with the same golden hair as Hugo being held under the water.

“I don’t blame you for wanting it to end,” I tell him. “But punishingTherion for the cruelties of your priests isn’t the way to make that happen.”

“What would you know?” Hugo snaps. He takes a heavy step toward me. “You have sacrificed nothing to be chosen.”

I stand my ground, my arms folded. “I have sacrificedplenty.”

He regards me for a moment. His eyes are glittering, with the dangerous coldness of broken glass. Then, he picks up the bottle of wine from the table and raises it to his lips, drinking deeply. A bead of ruby liquid slides down his chin, dripping along his throat until it marks a stain on his shirt collar.

“I need some fresh air,” he says, as he saunters toward the doorway, the bottle still in his hand. “I’m going outside.”

Camille and I watch, incredulous, as he vanishes into the front hall. Moments later, the door closes with a heavy, final sound. Camille pinches at the bridge of her nose. “I’m tired of this little Salt Priest and his games.”

“Maybe I should speak with him on my own.”

She tightens the ribbon in her hair, smooths down her gauzy skirts. “No. Let me.”

We go out into the front hall. Camille draws me close, presses her lips to my cheek. I feel the smudge of her lip stain left behind. I lay my hand against her nape, stroke the sleek line of her bare neck. We stand for a moment, our faces touching, breathing a shared breath. Then we draw apart.

Camille leaves the house with a whisper of silk. I stand at the foot of the stairs, press my hands to my face, exhale a desperate sigh into my palms. I can still smell the scent of Camille’s strawberry perfume, sweet and sugary, on my skin.

Then I turn and go up to the second floor, in search of Marcus Felimath’s room.

CHAPTER SEVENTEENNow

The closed door of Marcus Felimath’s study is fortresslike as I stand before it, my heart pounding frantically. From within the room, I hear the low notes of voices—Alastair, speaking quietly, then his father’s stern reply. I’m wound tight, so anxious that I’m shaking; the metallic taste of fear is painted over my tongue. I clench my teeth, knock loudly on the door. I open it without waiting to be invited inside.

The study is all severe dark furniture with an enormous leather-topped desk at the center of the room. Alastair sits on a wooden chair drawn up beside it; his sleeves are rolled back, his cuff links set aside. As I come through the door, Marcus steps quickly back from his son. He goes smoothly around to the other side of the desk, the lit cigarette in his hand trailing smoke in his wake.

I look from the burning coal of the cigarette to Alastair’s bared arm, and I can’t breathe. On the table is a salt lantern, the light turned low. It throws silhouettes over the walls; our shadows are pools of ink, dripping in reverse. Marcus glowers at me, his jaw twitching as he grits his teeth. Then, dark-eyed, he turns back to his son.

With his gaze fixed on Alastair, menacing as a drawn blade, Marcus puts out his cigarette in a silver ashtray.

Alastair sits motionless, his head bowed. I go to him quickly. He doesn’t look at his father or at me, but his shoulders tense when I lay my hand on his arm. He’s trembling, tensed with the effort of holding himself still. And I—I am burning hot as that glowing red cigarette coal, a fever of protectiveness.

I am small and soft, nothing but a fierce heart and a borrowed dress, but in this moment I know I would tear out Marcus Felimath’s throat with my own blunt teeth before I let him put his hands on Alastair again.

Marcus grinds his cigarette down so hard that it becomes a crumpled stub. He refuses to look at me. “We’re leaving tomorrow,” he tells Alastair. “I was foolish to trust you here alone. It’s obvious that you and Camille can’t behave without my supervision. I’ll close up Saltswan and you’ll both travel with me until your sister goes back to school.”