“And Whitby? Had he no future, in service to the Coven or otherwise?” Klio’s fingers traced the shape of the brass lamp.
“A creature of his nature could only hold you back,” Stuart said with a disapproving frown. “I’ve had you watched for months now, and while it was clear you needed no one other than yourself to thrive in your work, you chose attachment to one lesser than yourself. I pitted the djinn against you to show you that.”
“I see.”
“And to be perfectly frank”— Stuart smiled, pleased with himself — “it was to indulge my own curiosity. No one has attempted to entrap a djinn in centuries. The magic required to complete the task seemed simple enough, but I didn’t know if it would be possible, particularly on one like your Whitby, who was only part djinn.”
“But you succeeded.” Klio set the lamp beside her on the sofa. “I must confess that your experiment puzzles me. Did you not imply that I would accept this contract because I abhor slavery?”
“I do remember raising that point,” Stuart replied, with a faint crinkling of his brow.
“Yet you chained Whitby with your spell.” Klio tamped down the welling grief that tried to climb from her belly into her throat. “You took his freedom and made his body and his magic subservient.”
“Yes,” Stuart said, still smiling. “You could interpret my actions in that way, but I’d advise you to think of the djinn’s role in this little play of ours as the sacrificial hero. His death elevated you to the station you deserve. While you may grieve the loss of your companion, he was a djinn, and you must know that in the natural order, djinn were meant to serve.”
“I understand.” Klio stood. “You only meant to help me. To show me how I’d misjudged my place, and Whitby’s place.”
She began to pull off her gloves, and Stuart drew in a sharp breath.
“I can kill you before you blink again,” he snapped.
Klio laughed. “I know that, Hamilton. But you wanted to see what I have hidden. That’s all I’m doing. Showing you.”
Stuart relaxed a bit, but his eyes were still sharp, his posture wary.
Klio let her gloves drop to the ground.
“Oh, my.” Stuart forgot his reservation and leaned down, gazing at the twining serpents on Klio’s arms. “Marvelous.”
“Thank you,” Klio said. “They are the primary manifestation of my ancestry, and my weapon of choice.”
“A fine, fine weapon, Klio.” Stuart dared to lift her hand to his lips. “They are almost as beautiful as you are. Almost.”
“You flatter me, Hamilton,” Klio demurred. “Do you know that my ancestors had more than the serpents in their arsenal?”
Stuart tilted his head, regarding her curiously. He still held her hand in his. “I know the history of the gorgons, my dear girl. But it’s been well documented that the other traits of your kind were bred out generations ago. The only lingering evidence of your heritage being the serpentine shape and color of your eyes.”
“Of course you must be right.” Klio gripped his fingers tight and smiled. “Since you understand the true nature of all creatures so very well.”
She lifted her veil.
History and fantasy have long been twin passions of mine. Having earned a PhD in early modern history, I’ve spent many hours poring over crackling papers and aged maps in search of hidden narratives within the historical record. Writing historical fantasy presents a particular treat of taking the known and infusing it with magic and mystery. “High Stakes” let me delve into the world of one of my favorite, and much-maligned, creatures of myth while also examining the volatile culture of America on the brink of civil war.
EVERY AUTUMN, AFTER THE LEAVES have faded from emerald to gold, my grandmother throws the most magnificent ball in Washington. No expense is spared — for Grandmama says that this is the Van Persies’ way — and she opens our coffers to purchase crates of champagne, platters of baked oysters, and bouquets of hothouse flowers so delicate that they wither come morning.
It’s quite the lavish spectacle.
And I’m afraid it’s all a terrible waste.
For over a year, our nation has been torn asunder between North and South, but will a war stop Grandmama from hosting her favorite fete? Certainly not. Because this year she has made very special plans.
“Elizabeth, dear,” she has been saying for weeks, “now that your schooling is finished, you must turn your thoughts to marriage. No, no, don’t shake your head at me. I’ve invited the city’s most eligible bachelors to that ball, and I’ll see to it that there’ll be a wedding by Easter.”
“But Grandmama —” I’ve said every time, hoping that she’d put such thoughts out of her mind and that she’d call me Lizzie for once.