“Aunt Pete grew them somehow in a greenhouse behind her home.” He let the wine roll down his throat. The delicious light taste refreshed him, whispering of swamp and home.
Brennan, Lady Augustine, blueblood society, all of it, he could handle. They were just people. But he had no idea how to protect Charlotte from herself. He couldn’t lose her. He tensed at the thought, his muscles locked, as if he were fighting for his life. Fear gripped him. He was so rarely afraid, and here he sat, terrified.
Suggesting that she sit this one out would only have the opposite effect. She would just fight harder.
He went over the plan in his head. They would lay a two-part trap for Brennan, and he would take care of the first half of the plan. With luck, Brennan would take his bait, and Charlotte’s involvement might not even be necessary. If he failed to entice Brennan, the plan didn’t call for her to use much of her power, only for the use of her name and position. She would be in minimal danger.
If they succeeded by some crazy stroke of luck, he would do everything in his power to make her happy.
“You really didn’t try to kill yourself?” Kaldar asked.
Damn it. “Killing yourself requires desperation. I wasn’t desperate. You know why I drank? I drank because I was angry. I swore to love her and defend her. I gave her a house, I provided for her, and I treated her well. Even if she didn’t love me, it should’ve been enough. Had she left me for a man, I would understand. I would be angry, but I wouldn’t want to keep her with me against her will if she chose another man. She left me because her life wasn’t nice enough. That’s how low I ranked, somewhere down below the ‘nice house’ and ‘no mud in the yard.’ I drank because I was pissed off and didn’t want to do something stupid.”
“Don’t hold back. Tell me how you really feel.”
“I deserved better than a fucking note!”
“Maybe she was afraid she couldn’t leave with you there,” Kaldar said.
“What the hell does that mean?” Richard spread his arms. “Are you implying I’d hurt her?”
“No, I’m implying that Marissa was never much for confrontations. Although I don’t know, you’re a scary bastard when you get going.” Kaldar winked at him.
Richard pointed at him.
“Oh gods, the finger of doom. Deliver me!”
He would not pummel his brother. It wouldn’t be right. Richard forced himself to sit down in the chair. “Are you quite finished?”
“Yes. Well, no, I could go on, but I’ll spare you.” Kaldar poured more wine. “It will work out. It always does.”
Richard raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
*
SOPHIE pulled a cloth from the pocket of her tunic and carefully cleaned the blade. She and Charlotte strolled down the path into the woods, the wolf-dog trotting in front of them like some monster from a child’s fairy tale.
“Do you have to do this every time you take your sword out?” Charlotte asked.
“If I draw blood,” the girl answered quietly. “And the orange juice is acidic. It will corrode the blade.”
“Why not make a stainless-steel sword?”
“Stainless steel doesn’t bend. A sword must be flexible, or it will break.”
Much like people. “Did Richard talk you into becoming my bodyguard?”
“I asked him. He said that the opportunity exists, but the final decision is yours, and he had ‘neither the capability nor the inclination to compel you to do anything against your will.’ He’s very formal sometimes.”
He would say something like that, wouldn’t he? “The people we’re up against will not hesitate to kill you even though you’re a child.”
“I won’t hesitate either,” Sophie said with quiet determination. “And I’m faster and better skilled.”
“You’re still a child.”
Sophie took a step. Her hand blurred again: strike, strike, strike—was it three? Four?—and she sheathed her sword.
The woods stood silent. Nothing moved.
Sophie sighed, reached out, and pushed a four-inch-wide sapling with her finger. The tree slid aside, breaking into four pieces as it fell.
“It’s not as dramatic when it doesn’t fall by itself,” Sophie said. “I’m faster than Richard. It takes him a third of a second longer to stretch his flash onto the blade. Do you know what that means?”
“No.” Somehow she knew the answer wouldn’t be good.
“It means I can kill him,” Sophie said.
Dawn Mother. She chose her words carefully. “Do you want to kill Richard?”
Sophie shook her head. “When Spider fused my mother, William killed her. He is my brother-in-law, and it was a mercy killing. My father died with her. He’s alive, technically. He eats and breathes and talks. But he is . . . absent. He tries to take care of the family because it’s his duty, but if the rest of us disappeared tomorrow, he would walk off the nearest cliff.” Sophie turned to her. “It’s not fair. I didn’t die. I’m still here, but he doesn’t care.”
She’d said it so flatly, her aspect so neutral. She was barely fifteen years old and already she was masking her pain. Charlotte fought an urge to reach out and hug her. It probably wouldn’t be welcomed.
“He must care. A parent doesn’t just abandon a child.”
“My father did. He loved my mother so much, and now she is gone, and the world stopped for him. He stopped training me. He stopped talking to me after dinner. He stopped talking to everyone unless it’s absolutely necessary, so I suppose I shouldn’t expect special treatment just because I’m his daughter.”
So much damage. A low pain squeezed Charlotte’s chest. It felt like her heart had turned over.
“Richard is the only father I have now. He takes care of me. But I’m faster, and he would hesitate to cut me down. He loves me very much. So I know I can kill him.”
“That’s a cold thing to say.”
Sophie glanced at her, surprised. “You think so?”
“Yes.”