This was her favorite place. Her safest place. And she had invited a dangerous enemy straight into it.
“You said it belongs to a witch.” He stalked slowly toward her, his gaze pinning her in place.
“It belonged to my grandmother, yes.”
Gideon halted.
Did you think it would be that easy?
She frowned, staring at him. He wasn’t very good at this game.
Sudden footsteps made them turn toward the doorway, where Lizbeth stood. On the tray gripped in her hands sat two cups and a decanter of red wine. “Your refreshments, Miss Winters.”
Rune nodded her thanks.
Lizbeth, who’d played her part in this charade dozens of times, brought the tray to the low table in front of the love seat. “A telegram arrived for you earlier. I’ll leave it with your drinks.”
A telegram? It must have been from someone important, otherwise Lizbeth would have waited until tomorrow.
“Oh, and …” She paused at the door. “Verity was looking for you.”
“You can tell her where I am. And that I’ll return to the party soon.”
Rune waited for Lizbeth to leave before sinking into the plush cushions of the love seat. Lifting the decanter, she poured wine into both cups. The one she’d enchanted earlier buzzed beneath her fingertips. As Gideon sat down next to her, she held it out to him.
He shook his head. “No, thank you.”
Rune’s outstretched hand remained between them, holding out the wine. “Oh, you simply must try some.” She forced a smile. “It’s from my vintage collection. This bottle came all the way from the Umbrian mountains on the Continent. Lizbeth uncorked it for us. Here.” She pressed it toward him.
Gideon still didn’t take it. “I don’t drink.”
What? Cold sweat beaded down her back.
Why hadn’t Alex ever mentioned this important fact?
She swallowed, the cup hovering between them. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure.”
Rune’s mind went strangely blank. This had always been the way: pick a suitor, lure him away from the party, then ply him with truth-telling wine. Sometimes she got the information she needed, sometimes she didn’t, but it was never because they refused her.
“Please,” said Gideon, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. “Don’t abstain on my account.”
Oh, I won’t. A sip would relax her and help her reassess before forging a fresh path. Setting down the enchanted cup, she reached for the other.
“Something wrong with that one?”
Rune froze like a rabbit in a snare.
“Wh-what?”
“The wine you offered me. After I refused it, you set it down and took the other.”
Shoot.
“D-did I?”
Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.
He stretched his arm across the back of the sofa, his hand gripping the smooth mahogany frame behind Rune. “You wouldn’t be trying to drug me, would you?” His mouth quirked, as if he were flirting. But his eyes were dark, and the look in them dangerous.
He knows.
What had Alex told her earlier this evening? That if she tried a spell in Gideon’s presence, he would smell the magic on her.
Rune tried not to panic. Every witch’s magic smelled different. Rune was only capable of minor spells and illusions—weak castings—making her magic’s scent hard to detect. In fact, the only person who’d ever recognized the scent of Rune’s magic was Verity. A few months after the revolution, Rune had cast her very first illusion before attending a ball. Verity—who didn’t know Rune then—should have reported her the moment she smelled the magic. Instead, she took Rune aside and told her to be more careful.
They’d been friends ever since.
Even if Gideon suspects me, he has no proof.
She put her cup down and lifted the enchanted one. Cupping the bottom of it with two hands—hiding the spellmark drawn there—she locked eyes with him, pressed the cup to her lips, and took a long swallow.
“If it’s drugged,” she said, coming up for air, “you’ll know in a few minutes.”
Releasing his grip on the polished wood, he bent his elbow and leaned his temple against his fist. “Looking forward to it.”
As the alcohol flooded her, warming her down to her legs, something rushed along with it.
Magic.
Like unruly ivy pushing at the windows of a house, forcing open the locks and letting itself in, she could feel Truth Teller breaking down her defenses, loosening her inhibitions, allowing someone to reach in and easily pluck what was inside.
Rune clung to the cup, wondering what the hell she was going to do.
It’s your spell. Work around it.
She had no idea if it was possible. She’d never tested Truth Teller on herself.
But the enchantment wouldn’t force its victim to offer the truth unprompted; if Gideon wanted to get something out of her, he needed to ask a question. And Gideon didn’t know Rune had enchanted the cup, never mind enchanted it with a spell for telling the truth. So, theoretically, he had no reason to interrogate her.
This will be fine. Stay calm.
Hard to do when she felt like a cornered animal.
Gideon sat inches from Rune, making it easy to see how much bigger and stronger than her he was. She couldn’t help but notice the warmth rolling off him. With it came a heady scent, not only of gunpowder, but something stronger, like freshly cut cedar. It was so pleasant, she wanted to lean into it.
Alarmed by the instinct, she immediately leaned away instead. Trying to appear unbothered by everything spinning out of her control, she reached for the folded telegram Lizbeth left on the tray and started to unfold it.
“Is there a reason you abstain?” If she could keep him talking, it might prevent him from asking her questions.
“I don’t like not being in control of myself.”
“But isn’t that half the fun?” she asked, glancing at him.
He looked away, but not before his eyes darkened. “I might have agreed with you once.”
Rune lowered the telegram, curious. “Oh?”
“There was a time when I needed it to survive. Along with other, stronger substances.” His lip curled. “Or that’s what I told myself.”
Stronger substances? Rune wondered what those might be. Years ago, when the Sister Queens ruled, laudanum had been popular among Nan and her friends. Is that what he means?
“Alex could tell you all about it, I’m sure.”
Frustrated that she couldn’t enchant the truth out of him, she asked, “What if I want you to tell me about it?”
When he looked at her, his eyes were full of shadows.
He didn’t answer her question. Instead, he nodded to her telegram. “A love poem from one of your admirers?”
“Uh, no.” Rune glanced down, starting to read, and immediately frowned. “It’s …”
MISS RUNE WINTERS
WINTERSEA HOUSE
THE MINISTRY OF PUBLIC SAFETY IS DELIGHTED TO NAME YOU GUEST OF HONOR AT NEXT WEEK’S LUMINARIES DINNER. PLEASE PREPARE A SPEECH EXTOLLING THE NOBLE VIRTUES OF THE REPUBLIC. SEE YOU THURSDAY NEXT.
AILA WOODS
PUBLIC SAFETY MINISTER
Rune felt her legs go numb.
The Luminaries Dinner was a monthly tribute to heroes of the revolution, intended to bolster loyalty to the regime. Rune had planned to skip it this time because the last one had been so hard to stomach.
As she read the telegram again, her heart sank.
If she declined to be their guest of honor, the Tribunal would see it as disloyalty.
She had to accept.
Not only did she have no time to prepare a speech, but the Luminaries Dinner always required the worst kind of pretending. She would have to act proud of what she’d done. Have to feign ambivalence about the violent loss of the person she loved most. Her speech would cheer on the Republic while calling for more purgings, and denounce the evil of witches in their midst.
She would spit on Nan’s memory yet again.
In the beginning, pretending had been easier. Rune could push down her anger and grief. But the more fealty she swore to the New Republic, the more witches she failed to save, the harder it became.
If there weren’t a hundred other reasons to despise Gideon Sharpe, this would be sufficient: he didn’t have to hide who he was. He didn’t have to pretend to hate the things he truly loved.