Page 53 of Contested Crown
“No.” Howard considered his glass, swirling the liquid around in it. He sat straight in the chair, as though unable to slouch, even though his gaze was lowered, his mouth pulling down, deepening his frown lines. “It would be easier if she had.”
“Then what is it?” Cade asked.
“Summer has always been a strange child. We thought she was touched with some rare magical gift—telepathy or the ability to hear things from a distance. But as she grew older, it became apparent that the truth was far more mundane.” Howard fisted his hand on the table, his face going small and dark. The gray in his hair looked white in the sun streaming in from the skylights. “There is no official diagnosis, which makes everything more difficult. As her magic grew, her symptoms got worse.”
Cade inhaled sharply. “Why is she still your heir?”
“There are certain political implications.” Howard waved his hand. “As long as she remains our heir, there are some benefits.”
Cade glared at him, and Larissa rushed to speak. “Not every house is as fast as House Bartlett to remove their heir. This should make your decision easier, Cade.”
“I’m sorry, I must be missing something.” I tried to ask the question with Cade’s flat tone but knew my feelings seeped into my words. “What benefits could there possibly be by saddling your daughter with the crown when you have her locked away? Are you expecting to live forever so that your house doesn’t have to deal with it? Or are you just expecting that when she’s under more pressure, she’ll somehow cure herself?”
“As I said, with her as our heir, we see some political benefit. And we hope that her husband understands that.” Howard glanced at Cade significantly, and Cade wrapped his hand around his wineglass, taking a long drink.
It fell into place. “Cade would rule, king of House Bartlett and king of House Morrison, his children inheriting both. And that means he would have children. Children with your daughter.” I fought the urge to take a drink myself.
Across the table, Elizabeth looked completely blank, everything in her expression frozen. Larissa was looking at Howard, nothing but sympathy in her gaze.
“And you’re okay with this, with someone forcing your sister to have children she doesn’t want to have?” I asked her.
Elizabeth raised her chin. “Summer is not my sister.”
I blinked. I wasn’t sure if she meant that she disavowed her sister because of her mental state or if she meant literally. Was she a cousin? Or adopted into the Morrison line?
“Okay. I’m just saying that I’ve read enough Charlotte Brontë to know that this is a bad idea.” I looked at Cade, his magic burning on my palm. When his eyes met mine, there was a slight quirk in his eyebrow, the only sign of his amusement. “What? I contain multitudes.”
“You understand nothing—” Howard started.
The room filled with green magic, floating down from the high skylights, each line of tattoo delicately settling in place. When it faded away, Caroline and Summer were back. Both looked considerably more relaxed.
Summer wore a white shift, a thick leather belt cinching it tight at her waist. Her mother had linked their arms together and guided her to the seat saved for her.
We all stared in silence, and I couldn’t resist. The part of me that was an alpha, the part of me that was supposed to care for the weak and sick and wounded members of my pack, asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Thank you for your help.” She smiled at me, her gaze clear, and she was the only person in this house who looked me directly in the eyes with anything other than disdain or mild amusement. “Cade Bartlett, my mother tells me you are considering allying yourself with our house through marriage. I welcome the courtship.”
Cade blinked, then nodded. “I look forward to getting to know you, Summer Morrison.”
ChapterEighteen
The food arrived in a swirl of magic, plates appearing in front of each of us. No one else seemed surprised, and I supposed that someone on the kitchen staff must be used to delivering food up here because I hadn’t seen any evidence of the magical dumbwaiters Cade had in his room.
Dinner was a tense affair. Everyone was on their best behavior, conversation limited to things like the weather and minor local events—a street fair for the closest town, which gave me a reference for where we were. Ashland was an hour south of Los Santos, where most of the suburbs ended. It was a farming town, with enough housing for the migrant population.
The California coast was always different. No matter that the closest city was all farmworkers and about as rural as you could get, the coast was consumed by the rich elite who wanted their own piece of Californian paradise.
Summer kept quiet. Every time she looked up, mouth inhaling as though to speak, her mother placed a hand on top of hers, and her eyes dropped back down to her plate.
When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I interrupted a discussion about monarch butterfly migration to the eucalyptus groves on the property and asked, “Summer, where did you learn to paint?”
“My nanny taught me,” she said immediately. “When I was little. But my style and method has improved since then.”
“I saw some of your work on the stairs. Very impressive.” I glanced at Cade out of the corner of my eye and couldn’t resist. “It belongs in a museum. Of which I’ve been to several.”
Cade scrunched his brows together, face tight. But I could tell he was more amused than annoyed.
“Yes. That would be my dream. I would love to display in a gallery. A museum would be beyond me. Too many people want to see you when you’re that famous.” She pushed a piece of asparagus around the plate, the tines of her fork making a screeching sound against the porcelain.