Page 40

Elio

Echo’s scales shifted from deep purple to an unsettled gray as another of Keane’s portals bled shadow across the library’s evening quiet. My chameleon familiar had been increasingly agitated lately, especially around portal magic that should have been clean.

I kept my usual pose of disinterest, pretending to read while watching Marigold from the corner of my eye. She sat by her usual window, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, utterly absorbed in whatever magical theory nonsense Keane was whispering to her.

She fascinated me. She always had, though I hadn’t wanted to admit it. Not when it was easier to mock her, to push her, to play my role as the charming, untouchable Lightford heir.

But things were different now.

Cyrus had been the first to say it outright—that something was going on between Marigold and Keane.

I’d known before that, of course. I was good at noticing what people tried to hide.

The way Keane looked at her when he thought no one was watching, the way her magic wove with his too easily, too naturally.

It wasn’t just compatibility. It was something deeper.

And that made it dangerous.

Keane emerged from the stacks, his steps too careful, his face a mask of neutrality. Echo’s scales flickered between storm-dark and silver as I watched them—Marigold’s effortless warmth, Keane’s instinctive pull toward it.

My gaze flicked to his wrist, where faint tendrils of corrupted magic curled at the edges of his latest unstable portal. Lord Alstone’s influence was all over it.

And I knew exactly what that meant.

Because I had seen the records in my mother’s study.

The secret compartments in her desk weren’t nearly as clever as she thought they were.

All those years learning sleight of hand, the subtlety of illusions—of course I’d find them eventually.

I’d expected more evidence of her ambition, notes on how she manipulated the other Council families, maybe even leverage over my father.

What I found was worse.

Detailed reports, dating back years. Records of magical interventions, corrections, stabilizations. A long list of names—some I recognized, some I didn’t.

And Keane’s was one of them.

The notes on him weren’t the longest, but they were damning. His uncle had been ‘adjusting’ his magic since he was a child. Long before his portals ever faltered. Long before he was labelled unstable.

The treatments hadn’t been about fixing him.

They had been about making sure he never realized he hadn’t been broken in the first place.

I took only some of the documents, pieces I thought it likely she wouldn’t miss. If my mother ever realized I’d seen them, she’d make my life miserable in ways even I couldn’t predict.

Keane had no idea what had been done to him. And he wouldn’t listen if I told him.

So I watched instead.

Watched as Marigold reached for his hand, offering steady magic where his own wavered. Watched as, for a moment, the corruption receded, his portals stabilizing with a kind of raw purity I hadn’t seen in years.

Then, just as quickly, the darkness clawed its way back in.

Echo’s tail curled tighter around my wrist.

“I know,” I murmured. “It’s getting worse.”

A new voice broke through my thoughts.

“Ah, Mr. Lightford.”

Lord Alstone’s voice slid through the library’s hush, and every muscle in my body tensed. Echo’s scales went ashen white.

I flicked my fingers subtly, weaving a quick illusion around Keane and Marigold. It wouldn’t hold under direct scrutiny, but it didn’t need to. As long as I stayed silent, the spell would convince his mind to overlook them.

I turned my head slightly, just enough to catch the scene through the gaps in the shelves. Lord Alstone’s gaze swept the library, searching. “Have you seen Keane?”

I tilted my head in feigned thought. “Not recently. But you know how he is—always lurking in the shadowy corners.”

His mouth twitched at the word ‘shadowy,’ but he didn’t correct me. He merely nodded. “Remind him about our appointment tomorrow.”

My smile was sharp. “Of course. Always happy to help with family matters.”

He left without another word, but the magic he left behind felt wrong—oily, like a smothered flame.

When I glanced back, Keane was rubbing his temple, his jaw tight. Marigold leaned in, concern in every line of her face, and for a moment, I thought he might tell her. Might confess everything.

But he didn’t.

Because he didn’t know.

And Marigold—Marigold was starting to see things the rest of us had been taught to ignore.

Her magic had already shifted things none of us understood. The trials had proven that. She had proven that.

I let my illusion fade slowly, making sure Lord Alstone was gone before stepping away from my hidden perch between the stacks.

Echo flicked her tail once, her colors still storm-cloud dark.

“I believe we’ve seen enough for one evening,” I murmured, rising to leave.

As I passed, Scout was investigating one of Keane’s portals, the skeletal mouse chittering softly, disturbed. The dead things always did seem more honest than the living.

I would know.

I had spent my life crafting beautiful lies.

But lately, watching Marigold made me wonder what it would be like to simply be real.