I didn’t care if my mother could smell my magic or not. I wanted to play with the air. I dove headfirst into it. Something jerked at my arm. Fear gripped my belly, held fast, twisted me around.
“Go away,” I shouted. “Just leave me alone. Stop watching me.”
Philip burst into tears, confused by my outburst.
“Don’t cry,” I pleaded. “Please don’t cry, baby. I’m not mad. Mommy’s not mad.”
Becca joined in, sobbing along with her brother as her surprise gave way to something else.
Fear.
Past and present hit me in terrifying, bruising waves. I did the only thing I could think of to escape.
I rose into the air and flew away, up the stairs and out onto the top of the tower where I dove, headfirst, into the whispering air.
This time no one tried to stop me from flying.
This time, I didn’t hit the ground.
This time, I used my magic.
This time, I soared.
* * *
—
MATTHEW WAS WAITING on the battlements when I returned from my unscheduled flight. Though it was a bright, sunny day, he had lit a fire and thrown green wood on it to create a plume of smoke, as if he wanted to make sure I could find my way home again. I could see it as I approached, a thick gray feather rising into the blue sky.
Even after my feet touched down on the wooden deck, Matthew didn’t take a step toward me, tension and worry making his body a tight spring. When I came to him, slowly at first and then in a rush, Matthew folded me into arms that had the gentle strength of an angel’s wings.
I sighed against him, my body cleaving to his. Exhausted, emotionally drained, and confused, I let him hold me up for a few moments. Then I drew away and met his eyes.
“My parents didn’t spellbind me once, Matthew,” I told him. “They did it over and over, little by little, month after month. They started small, with tiny leashes and weights to keep me here, to keep me from flying, to keep me from starting fires. By the time Knox came to the house, they had no choice but to tie me up in so many knots I couldn’t escape them.”
“I triggered your memories, trying to buckle Philip into his chair.” Matthew looked devastated.
“That was just the final straw,” I said. “I think it was Marcus’s stories about Philippe, and the hidden hand that guided his every action that broke through the walls I built around those memories.”
In the grass below, the children chattered while they played with Apollo. Soft plonks suggested that Marcus was fishing in the moat. Hushed conversations among the adults provided a quiet, steady background melody. But there were vampires among them—young and old—and I had no wish to be overheard.
“The memories aren’t the worst of it. It’s the fear—not just mine, but my parents’, too. Even though I know it happened long ago, it feels as though it’s still happening now,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I have this terrible sense that something awful is about to happen. It’s as if my anxiety attacks are back, only they’re worse.”
“That’s how memories of trauma surface,” Matthew said, also quiet.
“Trauma?” The word conjured up images of cruelty and violence. “No, Matthew. That’s not it. I loved my parents. They loved me. They were trying to protect me.”
“Of course they meant to help, to protect, to guide,” Matthew said. “But when a child finds out later that her parents have been choosing her life path all along, it’s impossible not to feel betrayed.”
“Like Marcus.” I had never thought of my parents as having anything in common with Philippe de Clermont. They were so different, and yet in this they were so alike.
Matthew nodded.
“This family tradition stops here and now,” I said, voice rough. “I won’t tie up my children. I don’t care if Becca bites every vampire in France, and Philip gathers a squadron of griffins. No more leashes. Baldwin is just going to have to deal with it.”
Matthew’s smile was slow, but wide.
“So you aren’t going to be angry with me when I tell you that I destroyed all of the children’s blood and hair samples without running tests on them?” he asked.
“When?” I asked.
“Just before Christmas,” Matthew replied. “When we were at the Old Lodge. It seemed to me the best present I could give Rebecca and Philip was uncertainty.”
I flung my arms around my husband and held him close. “Thank you,” I whispered in his ear.
For the first time in my life, I was absolutely thrilled not to have all the answers.
* * *
—
LATER THAT DAY, I was watching the children sleeping on the rug in the library. Since I’d returned from my unscheduled flight, they had been clingy and wanted to stay close to me. I wanted to be near them, too.
I watched the threads that surrounded them shimmer and flicker with each deep breath they took. The twins had spent months in the womb together, and even now there were threads that seemed to bind them. I wondered if it was always this way with twins and whether anything would be strong enough to snap their close bonds, or if they would simply loosen and stretch with the passing of time.
Becca flung her arm over her head. An iridescent strand of silver dripped off her elbow. I followed it as it snaked over the sides of her cradle, coiled around the leg, and proceeded across the floor to—
My big toe.
I wiggled my foot, and Becca’s arm jerked slightly, then relaxed again.
A cold stare settled on me. Feeling guilty that Matthew had discovered me interfering with our daughter’s autonomy, I turned.
But it was Fernando who was watching me, not my husband. I got up and left the room, leaving the door open a crack so that I could keep my eye on the twins.
“Fernando,” I said, drawing him away from the door. “Is there something you need? Is Jack all right?”
“Everyone else is fine,” Fernando said. “Are you? I know how much you admire Philippe.”
A green shade flitted down the corridor. Even dead, my father-in-law couldn’t leave matters alone.
“I knew that Philippe was watching me in the past, and that he kept watching me until the day he died,” I said. “Nothing Marcus said was a surprise, exactly. I just hadn’t drawn the connection between what he did and what my parents did.”
“Believing you are being manipulated and having proof of it are very different things,” Fernando said.
“I wouldn’t say ‘manipulated,’ exactly.” Like “trauma,” “manipulation” sounded so negative and malicious.
“To give him credit, Philippe was uncommonly good at it,” Fernando continued. “When I first met him, I thought he must be part witch to be able to predict the actions that others would take with such accuracy. Now I know that he was just an expert judge of a creature’s ethics—not just their moral sense, but the habits of thought and body that inform every action.”
Even now, though Philippe was a ghost, I could feel his eyes upon me. I glanced across the landing.
There he stood, clothed in the dark robes of a medieval prince, his arms crossed before him and a slight smile on his face.
Watching.
“I know he’s there. I can feel him, too.” Fernando jerked his head toward the corner. “Ysabeau might drive his spirit away with her need, but not I. I would have liked Philippe’s acceptance, of course, but I have never needed anything from him.”
Hugh was always Philippe’s favorite, you see,” Fernando continued. “That never changed—not even after Hugh mated with a man with skin too dark to pass as white, a man who could not be useful to the family except as a servant or a slave. I could never sit down at the table next to Hugh, or join him in the corridors of power where Philippe was so at home.”
Whatever hurt Philippe had caused Fernando had been tempered with bitterness over the course of many centuries, and his voice remained steady and even because of it.
“Do you know why Hugh was so special to his father?” Fernando asked.