Page 86 of Fortress of Ambrose (House of Marionne #3)

Seventy

Quell

A bright blue and rust orange flag billows violently at half-mast as we climb the steep steps to the Caelum. With the public notice of Nore Ambrose’s death out to Debs Daily, our plan is in motion.

“Do you think it’ll work?” I ask Jordan.

“That flag will be sweeter than Christmas morning to Ellery Ambrose. He will come.”

Riders on horseback dash across the snow toward the edges of the property. Arrangements for Nore’s funeral and Ellery’s coronation are being set up on the field outside and in the ballroom to take place one after the other.

If the Dragunhead gets inside the gates and their plan doesn’t work, Jordan and I both will be dead within days. I hand him the letter I wrote to the Dragunhead.

“Still working on the wording.”

Jordan reads as we finish the next several hundred steps in silence, my mind whirring about the papers Nore gave me tucked under my arm.

The longer I think about it, the more my stomach twists.

All those aliases. By the time we make it to the top, the estate on the ground is imperceptible.

I feel sick, and it has nothing to do with the elevation. I have to know.

Jordan and I snake our way to the library and find the study room Abby was given to make a cloak to paralyze the Dragunhead. She’s on the other side of the glass door, drowning in threads and fabric. Beside her is a woman I don’t recognize.

“She came,” Jordan says. “It’s Lady Ruby.”

She guides Abby’s hand back and forth with a gold-handled brush, dipping its stiff bristles into an iron pot swarming with misty wisps of the paralyzing magic of the Shadow Cell doors.

The same magic Jordan used to cover the ballroom doors.

Abby paints the magic in careful strokes across the velvety orange cloak before working her magic on the garment to add embellishment detailing, concealing that it’s been tampered with.

“I’ll get the artifact from her and take it to Erla.” Jordan reaches for the door, but I grab his hand.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

I pull the list of names from under my arm and stare at the one that makes me queasy. Thadius Marqet. Jordan watches over my shoulder.

“Do you know a Thadius?”

“I know a few Theodores. But not Thadius unless he goes by another name.”

My heart pounds so hard it blurs the letters on the page.

I see my mother’s face. The letters I found in her chest. Yours, Teddy.

Was it a nickname for Thadius? It could be; it’s close.

My body hums with cold all over, my toushana agitated.

I press back against the wall and close my eyes.

If I’m right, would it even matter? Would it change anything?

Jordan holds his chest. “Quell, you’re worrying me.”

“Jordan, I think—” But the words stick in my throat. I’ve wondered but never gotten clear answers. So I stopped asking so long ago that I’ve forgotten my mother conceived me with anyone at all. Jordan smooths hair out of my face, and I nestle into his hand.

“I think the Dragunhead is also my father.”

He sucks in a breath, but has no words. I take the letter back from him and quickly write a new one. One I suspect the Dragunhead won’t be able to ignore.

Teddy,

I’ll be at the funeral at sunrise to view the body privately.

If you are who I think you are, meet me.

Just us.

—Quell