If she didn’t loathe him so much, she might envy him.
Rune fell back into the cushions. “Wasn’t Lola Parsons supposed to be the guest of honor this month?”
Gideon’s brow furrowed as he glanced from her to the telegram. “The Guard took Lola into custody last week.” He gently took the paper from her, scanning its contents. “One of her servants reported a casting signature in her cellar. She denies it, but we believe she was harboring a witch.”
Oh.
“They’re asking you to be the guest of honor instead?”
Rune nodded, a little numbly.
His brow furrowed further. “And that’s a bad thing?”
Rune could feel the answer—the real one—surge up her throat.
Yes. I can’t stand it any longer. If I have to toast the villains who murdered my grandmother one more time, I’m going to set them all on fire.
Her answer—the absolute truth of the situation—swelled on her tongue, pushing at the roof of her mouth. She could feel it slipping past her teeth …
No no no no no.
Panicking, Rune tried to think of any other reason this invite should upset her. If she could push out a smaller truth before the more dangerous one escaped, she might subvert the spell.
“I don’t have a dress to wear!”
Gideon drew back, startled by the outburst.
Rune clamped her mouth shut to prevent the real reason from escaping. But it subsided—for now, at least.
He raised one dark brow. “Is that all?”
Curse him.
The surge began again—because no; it was not all. Truth Teller was drawing the words from her depths, like water from a well.
I hate this horrible Republic. I would burn it to the ground if I could. But if I don’t play along, girls like me will continue to die.
This time when the words threatened to burst out of her, Rune squeezed her hands into fists as she held them back, trying to think of something—anything—else to say instead. Something less damning, but still true.
“There’s no time to have a dress made! My seamstress is booked until next month, but the dinner is next week.”
Rune threw him a pitiful look that wasn’t entirely false. She’d gone hot all over and her heart beat painfully fast.
“Hmm. That is unfortunate.”
But the spell wasn’t finished with her. It snaked up her throat, threatening to choke her.
Tell him, it prodded. Tell him the rest.
“And …” The words itched. She tried to swallow them but couldn’t. “They’ll want me to talk about Nan.”
She had his full attention now.
He was staring at her, his gaze piercing. “And you don’t want to.”
She shook her head no, eyes burning with the tears that were building. She was terrified of blurting out the rest. Rune reached for her throat, prepared to squeeze if something worse tried to escape.
As a hot tear slipped down her cheek, Gideon visibly softened. “I’m sorry. It must have been hard to be raised by a witch.”
It wasn’t a question, so Rune didn’t have to answer. Her chest still rose and fell with her rapid breaths.
He glanced over her shoulder. She followed his gaze. Between the translucent cerulean canopies of her bed, which were drawn back and tied to each of the four posts, an enormous portrait hung on the wall.
Kestrel Winters took up most of the picture’s frame. She wore a black velvet dress with lace trim, and she’d pinned her curls back, allowing the artist to catch every ridge and crease of her solemn face. She was close to sixty in this rendering, and her beauty often reminded Rune of a mighty oak.
It was the child on Nan’s lap, however, that drew the viewer’s eye. She wore a crisp lace dress with pale blue ribbons—but that was where her elegance ended. Her cheeks were bright red from running, and her strawberry blonde hair, which had been painstaking combed not long before this sitting, was a messy tangle.
A grass stain spoiled the knee of one white stocking, and though Rune had been told to sit still, the artist couldn’t paint over her fidgety energy. Her eyes were bright and full of mischief, as if she badly wanted to laugh, but held it in, for propriety’s sake.
It was Rune’s favorite painting. She always felt like it was trying to tell her a secret.
Keeping a portrait of a witch you’d betrayed wasn’t illegal, but it might rouse Gideon’s suspicions. “I almost got rid of it after they purged her,” she said softly. “But I didn’t want to forget that evil lurks where we least expect it. So I kept it, to remind me.”
Gideon could interpret this to mean the evil of witches like Nan. But for Rune, the evil was in her own actions, in what she had done to the person she loved most.
“You were very cute,” he said, studying the child in the painting.
Rune glanced sharply up at him. The wine hadn’t worked, but perhaps her tears had?
Is that your weakness? she wondered. Girls who cry?
Either way, she hadn’t lost this game yet. She needed to retake control before the spell forced an even deadlier truth from her.
“I was cute?” she teased. “Am I not anymore?”
She couldn’t coerce the truth out of him with wine. But there were other ways to get information. Methods she’d used on plenty of unsuspecting young men.
The thought of using those same tricks on Gideon snarled her stomach in knots, but she’d run out of options. If she wanted to save Seraphine, she needed to find out where the Blood Guard was keeping her. Wherever that was, Gideon had likely put Seraphine there himself.
He turned the full force of his attention on her, and she shivered beneath the weight of it.
“Cute? No.” His eyes gleamed in the candlelight, taking her in. “No, I wouldn’t say that.”
She ran her fingers lightly down the edge of his lapel. “How would you describe me, then?”
Gideon stayed silent, watching her fingers.
Rune hated this part of the game. The flirtatious touching—which inevitably led to kissing—was always the last, most desperate step in obtaining information.
But it was a necessary evil. And Rune would do whatever was necessary to save more girls from sharing her grandmother’s fate. A fate Rune had delivered her to.
Gideon still hadn’t given her an answer.
“Well?” She pressed her hands to his chest, preparing to run them over his shoulders. “Surely, you—”
He reached for her wrist, stopping her. Rune looked up to find his attention fixed on the hand he’d captured.
Without speaking, his fingertips gently grazed her palm. Her heart climbed into her throat as he traced her fingers slowly, slowly, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d done it thousands of times before.
She swallowed, her skin sparking where he touched her.
Gideon leaned in, brushing his rough cheek against hers.
“Rune …” His breath was warm against her throat. “Do you want to go back?”
“Back?” she murmured.
“To the party.” His fingers traced down her neck and across her collarbone. “Your guests will wonder where we are.”
He was giving her an escape if she wanted it. Like a gentleman.
The thought startled her.
She shook her head. “Let them wonder. Unless …”
Rune pulled back a little, peering into his face. She saw now that his eyes weren’t black, but a deep, dark brown. “Do you want to go back?”
He gave her an incredulous look. “And do what? Make conversation with Bart Wentholt?” He scowled. “I have more stimulating conversations with my horse.”
It was so unexpected—Gideon Sharpe, making a joke—that a laugh burst out of Rune.
He let go of her hand, falling quiet. When her giggling subsided, she looked over to find a thoughtful expression on his face.
“Your laugh is like a fuse,” he said. “It lights you up.”
Rune’s heart thudded. No one had ever told her that before.
He doesn’t mean it.
Gideon Sharpe was a cold, heartless murderer. Not a softhearted suitor. He played the same game she did, and was more skilled at it than she’d thought.
Fear nipped at her.