She’d remained faithful to Charlin, but only begrudgingly served her wifely duties. Instead, all her love and energy went to Sabine. Sabine was the apple of her eye until Isabeau unexpectedly fell on a horseback ride, hit her head on a rock, and died tragically.
Then, something no one could have expected happened: The book and the charm, which Isabeau kept in an unassuming chest, transformed. So did her body. Her honey-colored hair turned almost white blond, her nose straightened, her eyes changed their shape.
It turns out that Isabeau was godkissed with the ability to cloak objects’ appearances, including her own. The book wasn’t a copy of the Book of the Immortals, but her personal journal written in Volkish. The pewter charm was actually a solid-gold coin inlaid with priceless glittering gemstones—a rare calling coin of the Volkish throne.
Lord Charlin paid a godkissed seer to translate the Volkish journal, then had the man killed to keep its secrets contained. The entries revealed that Isabeau’s abuser was, in fact, none other than King Rachillon, who had just risen to power. He’d enslaved Isabeau as a concubine, but when they discovered she was pregnant with his first child—whom a godkissed seer foretold would be female and godkissed—she escaped by making her way to the coast and bribing her way on a ship to an Astagnonian port, then disguised herself.
Lord Charlin ends the letter with a clumsy blackmail attempt:
This game has just begun, Lord Rian. The public will turn on you if it emerges that you wed a Volkish princess. I possess the evidence—Isabeau’s journal and the calling coin of King Rachillon. If you want to keep Sabine’s secret, you’ll pay dearly.
Lord Charlin Darrow
King Rachillon might be abducting Astagnonian godkissed who can help him locate the fae’s ten resting sites, but that isn’t why he’s searching for Sabine.
It’s because she’s his daughter.
Has he been looking for her since Isabeau fled twenty-two years ago? What changed now; what new information did he discover? Since the raider in Blackwater only had the rough description of a godkissed girl around Sabine’s age and basic appearance, I don’t think the raiders—or even King Rachillon—know her actual name or location. They’re just searching for any godkissed girls with those parameters to take back to Volkany, to see if she’s the right one.
I’ll make damn sure it stays that way.
I ball up Lord Charlin’s letter and toss it into the fire, steadily watching the flames destroy the claim of Sabine’s parentage.
Next, I’ll have to find out how much Maks knows, then kill him before he can reveal anything, though I can’t make his death too fast, or it might seem suspicious.
Then, I’ll have to silence Lord Charlin himself. He might suffer a fatal accident. Or, at the least, I’ll cut out his tongue. One thing is certain—no one, least of all Sabine—can find out that her bloodline curses her as a daughter to Astagnon’s greatest enemy.
Chapter 33
Sabine
As Midtane—my wedding date—tiptoes closer, I find myself thinking often about my mother and father. They were such an unlikely match; all of Bremcote gossiped about the strange pairing. What did my mother see in Charlin Darrow? Was it about his money and title? She never struck me as the social-climbing sort. Though she was born a peasant, she possessed a natural aristocratic bearing, whereas my father, despite being an actual member of the nobility, had lowly manners and even baser appetites.
They never talked to me about their wedding. In fact, my mother refused to discuss anything about her past. I don’t know if my mother selected the wedding feast menu, or smiled as her wedding gown was fitted, or chose the flowers to decorate the church nave. Maybe, like me, she was a forced bride.
I’ll probably never know the truth behind their marriage, but one thing is for sure: I don’t intend to be shackled to a villain for the rest of my life by a golden ring, as she was.
Get out. Out now.
The mysterious, angry voice continues to haunt me. I hear it at the least expected times, like getting out of the bath, or cutting roses in the garden, or visiting Myst. Sometimes, I hear it as I’m falling asleep, and I feel like it’s my own voice urging me to escape from Sorsha Hall before I end up another broken wife. With Wolf as my bodyguard, I never had a chance to investigate the voice, but for the past few days, a different guard’s been posted at my door.
OUT NOW.
The voice is relentless.
Once night falls, I press my eye to the keyhole and spy on my new jailor. He must be in his late fifties, but age hasn’t dulled his sharp eyes. He’s an unpleasant, old brute who likes to bark commands at me like I’m a dog instead of the future Lady of Sorsha Hall. But as keen as he is, he isn’t godkissed with heightened senses like Basten. And I can use that.
Little friend? I call in my mind.
The forest mouse scampers out from under the bed. Rising to his hind legs, his little whiskers twitch.
Here!
Are you ready to do what we talked about? I ask.
He eagerly darts across the room to the servant’s door, where he’s small enough to slip under the crack. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, biting anxiously as the minutes pass.
Ten minutes later, the mouse returns, tugging a brass key between his jaw. I drop to hands and knees, scooping him up in triumph. His little heart beats fast from the exertion.
You did it! You’re a hero!
He proudly grooms his tail. I set him on my shoulder and reward him with a stroke on his head, then pick up the key that he stole from Brigit.
Something feels off as I unlock the servants’ door. A part of me still expects Basten to smell the mouse or hear the key turning, and storm in with his glaring midnight eyes. Dammit, a part of me even wants that. I haven’t dared to ask where he’s been the past few days, because I don’t want anyone thinking I care about him. Rian is so shrewd that I’m worried he already suspects something.
Where is Basten? The last time I spoke to him was with tears in my eyes, when I yelled at him to get out of my room after we made love. I’ve thought about that night a million times since then. Hating that I still love him. Knowing the sex was a mistake but not regretting it. Wanting to see him—to know he’s okay.
It doesn’t matter. Basten is nothing if not a survivor. Wherever he is, he’s doubtlessly fine, probably not pining away for me at all. This is my chance to investigate the voice’s source, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to miss it because I’m too wrapped up in thoughts about an asshole huntsman.
With the mouse on my shoulder, I make my way down the narrow passage, praying no servants are working this late.
GET OUT.
There it is again. I drift to a stop, concentrating. I try to extend my thoughts throughout the myriad castle levels as I ask: Who are you?
The only answer I get is a wall of anger crashing over me. It’s strong enough to steal my breath, and I grip the wood paneling to steady myself. Sweat breaks out on my brow.