“No.” He couldn’t. He’d seen the scars on Sydney’s arms and he knew those were the least of it. He didn’t know how to look her in the eye and tell her that Shara was his aunt.
“Then you can hardly blame her for clinging to some of her own. As I said, you still have a choice. You may not much like it, but it’s there. The worst that will happen to you if you forfeit and it’s found to be for a reason outside of the immediate terms of the challenge is that your magic will be stripped. And as unfortunate as that might be, I would think that a life without magic is still preferable to death. Or killing someone you have feelings for.”
“I’d feel better about making my choice—even if it’s a bad one—if I knew what Sydney was doing,” Ian said. “Laurent said the challenge was Sydney’s idea. She has to have a plan, right?”
“The challenge was Sydney’s idea?” Tea sloshed over the rim of Verenice’s cup.
“She even insisted on delivering it in person.”
Before she had left Shadows, Verenice had learned the identity of the House that had given her up. She had never used her House name, taking her own instead. But she was certain that Sydney would have learned the same thing. Certain, too, now, of what she had only suspected before—that this challenge was at the direction of Shadows, that Shara had set Sydney against Prospero for a reason. That Sydney would not be allowed to forfeit or to show any mercy. And that she wanted Miranda to know who she was before it happened.
“Verenice? She has a plan, right?” Ian repeated.
“Yes,” she said, her voice shaking, “yes, she does. Ian, forfeit the challenge. Even if it means Miranda enforces the letter of the contract and strips your magic. Sydney will kill you if you don’t.”
“That’s not very comforting,” he said, and pushed a grin across his face, a feeble attempt to lighten the atmosphere in the room.
“It isn’t meant to be.”
“Well, I should go,” he said. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks, Verenice.”
She closed the door behind him, “Goodbye.”
? ? ?
Sydney stood on her balcony, watching as the sun set.
Darkness fell early this time of year—such a change from the blue-purple evenings that seemed to stretch on forever that she’d seen when she’d first left Shadows. It was quiet—or as quiet as the city got, anyway—the horns of taxis and the hum of the subway white noise in the background of her life.
Magic twisted like vines through her. She could see it, sparking, beneath her skin.
She had gotten used to it now, the sharp greenness of the magic, the way it would roar through her if left unchecked. It would be enough, and more than enough, to get through the challenge tomorrow. She didn’t allow herself to think of any moments past that. There would be consequences, but then, there always were.
Ian had tried and tried again to talk to her. She had text after unanswered text on her phone. But talking to him wouldn’t change anything, so she hadn’t. Shadows had given her a task, and she would see it done.
She did not want to kill Ian. She would kill him if she had to.
There were more things at stake than simply what she wanted.
The ragged ends of her shadow wept at her feet.
For now she was here: outside, in her own space, above the city, under the stars. She could get through tomorrow. And whatever came after.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Harper passed the candle over the page: PROSPERO, MIRANDA. IN THE MATTER OF PROSPERO, GREY. This was it—the disinheritance. If she hadn’t been so exhausted from spending twelve hours a day every day for the past two weeks in the archives, she would have broken out into a dance. Madison had gotten a spell to use to help sort the files, but it had been clumsy—the candle would burn blue if the file related to House Prospero, and red for anything else. Which was great, except there were a lot of files for House Prospero—it was one of the oldest Houses. And the candle didn’t distinguish between a hundred-year-old disagreement over disappearing carriage horses and files that actually involved Miranda. It had been a long and headache-filled two weeks. Still, she paused to grin and punch the air in victory.
Grey had, apparently, been disinherited for “improper appropriation of magic (attempted).” Harper’s mouth twisted. That wasn’t a phrase she had seen in the archives, and she had seen plenty of weirdness since she had started reading through them—“inappropriate reappearance” was her favorite so far. But this just sounded like someone making something up so they could pretend to be official.
The first pages of the file detailed the legal consequences of his disinheritance. House Prospero, in itself and in its members, would no longer recognize him; he was no longer heir to any of Miranda’s goods or property, real or otherwise.
And then what he’d actually done became clear.
It was not a police file—there were no photographs of his victim, and for that Harper was desperately grateful. But there was a description. Language so cold and detached that she read it twice to make sure she hadn’t missed something.
Grey Prospero was disinherited for trying to murder his girlfriend for her magic.
Not Rose. Another woman. Grace Valentine.
Not Rose. But in circumstances so similar, it could have been.
Harper wasn’t sure if it was better, or not, to know that some other woman had been hurt that way. Like Rose had been, like she’d heard other women had been. All the little details that matched up so well that she kept seeing the image she had tried every day for two years to banish from her mind. The image of a man, his face in shadows, bent over her friend’s body, cutting into her hands. Grace’s hands had been cut, carved into, but she had stopped Grey, had escaped, before he had finished.
A sob burst out of Harper, echoing off the walls of the archives.
Harper pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, holding the tears in. Sucked in a breath. “This is what you came here to do, remember? This will help Rose.” Her voice was shaky and thin, but she felt better for saying it.
She kept reading. Nothing ever said what happened to the woman involved, to Grace, after the disinheritance had been finalized. Harper wondered if it would be possible to find her—to talk to her.
She read a few key paragraphs of the disinheritance papers out loud then, testing the binding. No magic rose up to choke off her words in her throat, and nothing happened when she tucked the file into her messenger bag to take back downstairs.
She went to Madison’s office and closed the door behind her as she walked in. “I found the file. And there’s something I need to tell you,” she said.
? ? ?
Sydney’s phone rang. A text alert popped up simultaneously. From Madison: Answer. Emergency.
Sydney answered. “I’m on my way to fight a mortal challenge against Ian, so I hope this really is an emergency.”
“Trust me, Sydney, this is something you’ll want to know. The blue fox eats pies for moon day breakfast.”
“Madison. Are you drunk?”