Masquerade

“Has there ever been a White Vote?”


“Yes.” Lawrence sunk so low into the chair that only the smoke from his cigar was visible. “Once, in Plymouth.”

“What happened?”

“I lost.” Lawrence shrugged. “They banished Cordelia and me from the Conclave. Since then, we have held no power on the council. We bowed to their rule, and later on, around the time of the Gilded Age, we decided we had to separate.”

“Why?” Schuyler asked.

“Cordelia told you we suspected that a high-ranking member of the Conclave was harboring the Silver Blood. I thought it would be safer for her if I disappeared for a while, so I could continue our investigation without The Committee knowing about it. We thought it was clever of us. But alas, it meant that I was not here when Allegra succumbed to her heartsickness. Or when you were born. And my work so far has been fruitless. I am no closer to confirming my suspicions than I was before.”

“But what happened—why did they let you go free? I thought you were exiled.”

Lawrence chuckled. “So did they. They had forgotten I went into exile voluntarily. I don’t think any of them ever expected me to come back. They didn’t really have much of a choice. I havn’t broken any rules of the Code. There was no reason to prohibit my return. Still, because I have been gone for so long they demanded that I testify.”

“Testify to what?”

“Oh, to promise not to question the Coven’s leadership as I had once done. You know, call for another White Vote. They even reinstated my position on the Conclave, as long as I promised not to bring up the Silver Blood menace again. According to Charles, the Croatan threat has been contained, if it ever existed at all.”

“Just because no one’s died in the last three months,” Schuyler said.

“Yes. They are blind as usual. The Silver Bloods are back. It was just as Cordelia and I had warned, so many years ago.”

“But everything else is all right, then,” Schuyler said happily, not caring about the Croatan threat for the moment. “You’re back, and they can’t do anything about it.”

He studied the fireplace sorrowfully. “Not quite. I have some bad news.”

Schuyler’s smile faded.

“Charles has informed me he is making plans to adopt you.”

“What? Why?” Charles Force—adopt her? What gave him the right? What kind of sick joke was this?

“Unfortunate as it is, he is, nonetheless, your uncle. When Allegra, his sister, revoked their bond and refused to take him as her partner in this cycle, he turned his back on the Van Alen family. Actually, he did everything he could to destroy this family. To destroy your mother. He could never forgive her for marrying your father and giving birth to you. He hardened his heart against her. He even changed his name.”

Schuyler thought of the many times she had found Charles Force kneeling by her mother’s bedside. He had been her mother’s constant visitor, and she had overheard him begging Allegra for her forgiveness.

“Hence, he is your last living blood relative, aside from me, of course. But there is no record of my existence in this cycle—in fact, according to the papers, I’m legally dead. I died in 1872. Thank goodness for Swiss banks. Our accounts are merely numerical codes, otherwise I would not have been able to touch them. Charles has decided that I am not fit to raise you. He wants to raise you himself.”

Her uncle. Cordelia had intimated as much, and yet Schuyler had refused to acknowledge this fact of her twisted family tree. “But they can’t . . . I mean, he’s not . . . I don’t even know him.”

“Do not worry, I won’t let that happen. Allegra would want nothing more than to keep you away from him,” Lawrence said.

“Why does he hate you so much?” Schuyler asked, a glimmer of tears in her bright blue eyes. Lawrence had finally returned, and again the forces—or make that, the Forces—were conspiring to take him away from her. Schuyler thought of what adoption might be like: having to live with Mimi and Jack, her cousins. Mimi would love that, she was sure. . . . And Jack, what would he think?

“‘They will be divided, father against son, son against father,’” Lawrence said, quoting from Scripture. “Alas, I have always been a disappointment to my son.”





New York Herald


Archives

SEPTEMBER 30, 1872

DISAPPEARANCE STILL A MYSTERY



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Maggie Stanford has given no sign in two years.

Father dead of grief, mother demented.



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