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F IRE WAS IN HER BLOOD as Toven finally excused them from the arena. Her feet wobbled under her, and there was a ringing in her ears.

Briony quickly ate the grape Ilana had given her, as if it were a forbidden correspondence that needed to be destroyed. The sweet juice of it slid down her throat as she searched for Phoebe’s eyes again, but she wouldn’t look back at her.

Toven’s fingers wrapped around her elbow as he led them to the small section of the garden overlooking the sea that had allowed portaling in her father’s reign.

Her mind was elsewhere as he sliced open the tip of his finger and cast his hand for a portal.

Her body was squeezed and pressed, and then she was suddenly in the Hearst drawing room.

Breathing heavily, Briony still felt the atmosphere of that arena hanging off her body like a beaded gown. She could still hear the crowd, taste the smoke in the air. And she could feel Toven’s eyes on her, waiting.

She turned away from him, feeling simultaneously exhausted and energized. She tucked Phoebe and Ilana and grapes into a book on the shelf in her mind, and refocused on the questions she could get answers to.

She would begin where she needed the most clarification.

“Sacral Magic,” she said slowly. “Am I correct that it has to do with sex?”

She could hear him swallow from across the room.

“Heartspring magic is meant for love matches,” he began. She nodded, already aware of this. “When heartsprings are properly used … lovemaking strengthens the bond.”

“You heart magicians love your metaphors. Not all romantic relationships include sex.” Briony sighed. “So you’re telling me that when Canning has sex with Jellica, against her will, she strengthens him.” Acid dripped from her words.

“No,” he said. “Sacral Magic is still sacred between willing parties … But …”

She turned her eyes on him for the first time since they’d arrived back. His lips were twisted as if he’d tasted something sour.

“But Canning’s elixir has made things interesting,” she finished for him, remembering Katrina’s explanation.

He nodded.

“What lovely friends you have, Toven,” she muttered. “I’m so glad to know it’s not just rape. It’s rape for magical power.” Her molars ground together. He remained silent. “Who were all of those heartsprings?”

He slipped his hands into his pockets. “Most are from Eversun families who still flew the Eversun banner after Bomard had taken their lands. Some were part of your court on the day of Bomard’s triumph, as you know,” he said. Briony nodded. “Some were found assisting Sammy Meers.”

She blinked at him but soldiered on. “And who are the Barlowes?”

“An Eversun family from near the border who flipped allegiance the moment your brother died. They have been assigned Biltmore Palace.” His voice was clinical.

She swayed on her feet at the mention of Rory.

“And the silver-collared heartsprings are owned by the Barlowes?”

Toven’s eyes flickered over her. “You should sleep.”

“Later. The collars? Gold and silver.”

“Gold collars are for the heartsprings who are privately owned—the ones who were auctioned, I mean.” His eyes dropped to the floor.

“And yes, the ones wearing silver collars are owned by the Barlowes. They can be … borrowed on Friday evenings, but they live at Biltmore. Some of them are also non-magical, to be rented for company.”

Briony remembered the strawberry-blonde and nodded. She crossed her arms in front of her, hating that she was still in this stupid dress.

“The private dinner party. Those were all the successors of the line, minus the women,” she said. Toven lifted his brows in agreement. “So every man at that dinner table owns a heartspring?”

“Canning owns Jellica Reeve, Lorne owns his girl—”

“Octavia,” she snapped. “Her name is Octavia.”

He dipped his head in a nod. “Octavia. And Collin has a heartspring at home, but if you’ll remember, he was quite taken with Cecily in school. He has spent a lot of gold renting her from the Barlowes every Friday.”

“Renting her,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head.

The bile in her throat bubbled again, and whenever she closed her eyes, she saw Cecily’s hands shaking as she opened Collin’s trousers.

A slow chill spread over her shoulders, like an ice cube sliding down her spine. “And Finn? He was named a successor?”

“Cal Gidrey’s daughter defected last month, leaving him without a successor as tenth in line. Finn was of great assistance to Gidrey during the last few months. As a reward, Finn was offered the position as successor to the tenth in line, superseding his own father as fourteenth.”

“What did he do?” Briony asked.

Toven tilted his head at her. “You’ll have to ask him.”

She huffed. “Last I heard, Lorne Vult was still vying for a successor position. Looks like he got one.”

“He is to replace Burkin as Cohle’s successor.”

Briony’s mind spun with all the names and positions of the line. She needed to write herself a list.

“But it hasn’t been made official yet? Is that why Lorne didn’t have a gemstone on his ring?”

He blinked at her, brows lifting slightly. “Yes. Good catch.”

At his impressed look, her chest warmed without her permission. Briony had to focus, even as her thoughts tumbled through tangents.

“What is required to make it official?” she asked.

“An oath to the Seat, signed in blood.”

She paced away from him, longing to take off the heels. “Is that generally the tone of those dinners?” she asked, remembering how Jellica was humiliated and Cecily was forced to her knees.

“Things were maybe a bit heightened with your presence, but generally, yes. Canning brings his elixir around to small gatherings like that.”

She glared at him as the heat and anger unfurled in her chest. The men had acted out more than usual that evening simply because she was there? And in the past, when she was hidden away, did Toven have another woman at his side?

Suddenly her blood felt white-hot again.

“And how did you manage when your heartspring had the pox?”

“Vesper came with me. The pox made you ‘too weak to pull from,’ so it was an easy excuse—”

“No, not magically,” she said. “I assume you still had a girl on your arm.”

His throat clicked, and his eye twitched infinitesimally as he said, “I used a Barlowe Girl. Or I borrowed from someone.”

She wanted to breathe fire.

“‘Borrowed.’ Like a cup of sugar,” she hissed. She watched it land on him, like an arrow finding the center ring.

“It’s late, Rosewood. I’ll send up an elixir—”

“I don’t need an elixir—”

“—and we can talk in the morning.”

“I want to know who you pulled in your lap and groped while I had the pox—”

His eyes flashed. “You want an itemized list? What does it matter!”

“It matters because you’re telling me that my presence alone tonight made it worse for those women. It matters because while I’ve been locked away in Hearst Hall, other women had to suffer through that—that vile display—”

She choked, her throat closing as a single tear betrayed her by rolling down her cheek. She slapped it away, furious with herself.

There was silence for a few moments as he studied her. She glared back, lifting her chin. He watched her carefully.

“Your experiences this evening have been traumatic,” he said simply. “You should sleep and regroup your thoughts.”

Scanning his perfectly impassive features, she wondered if he used mind barriers. His face was like a mask. Was he the one who used the meditation chamber in Hearst Hall? She pressed her lips together. “I have more questions.”

“They can wait.”

“You’ll answer any question I have tomorrow?”

He stared at her blankly and said, “Yes.”

“Eight in the morning,” she demanded.

“Noon.”

“Nine.”

“Rosewood, it is after one. You will be up for another two hours writing a list of things to ask, and you will spend your morning meditating,” he said, his eyes gray and empty. “You need sleep.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, feeling her heart pound with anger at his assumptions, and irritation that those assumptions were correct.

“Is that an order from ‘Master Toven’?” she snarled.

He didn’t react. Some switch had flipped inside of him. He was no longer rile-able.

“It can be, if it needs to be,” he said calmly.

She wanted to scream.

“You better clear your afternoon, Hearst,” she hissed, and stomped toward the staircase.

***

The next day, as the clock ticked toward twelve, Briony was certain Toven was going to avoid her.

But at noon on the dot, there was a knock on her bedroom door. She stood from the chair in front of the window and said, “Come in.”

Toven strolled in, wearing a pale gray sweater. As she prepared to ask questions, she realized that he’d managed to strengthen his mask overnight. He stared at her, a slight tilt to his head, with eyes cool and gray.

That’s just fine. I’ve strengthened mine as well.

“General Tremelo’s presence last night,” she said, jumping in without greeting. “What does that say for Bomard and Daward?”

Toven twisted his ring around his middle finger, and her eye caught on the muscles in his hands, before she remembered to focus.

“Biltmore has hosted several officials from across the sea. I can only say that Mallow is ‘courting’ them, in a way. There are countries who are adamantly against her, fearing that she will try to cross the sea, but she has her ways of keeping them in line.”

Briony turned her head to gaze out her window, thinking, noting these answers down on her mental checklist, stowing them into a tight corner of her library of shelves.

“You touched my tattoo as we crossed the threshold at Biltmore, just as you do here at the hall. Is it the same magic?”

“To my knowledge. The barrier keeps out undesirables and … keeps in the heartsprings.”

She tucked the information away for a future escape plan. Taking a deep breath and centering herself, she prepared to ask the one question she knew she didn’t want to hear the answer to.