Page 3 of Bloodgrove

His ascent had seemed inevitable.

But his comet had burned out and crashed onto the hard ground of reality.

A ballroom for the queen’s cousin could have become the cornerstone of his career. But how could he, only twenty-six, have borne the weight of those expectations? Even now, he could see the construction site at night, hear the echo of impatient voices asking how much longer it would take—and feel the desperation with which he had reached for the knife and called upon his magic.

That it had been his lover who betrayed him still hurt.

A year later, the headline from A Lady’s Guide sounded like nothing but mockery. Where he had once had a little toe, where the leather of his shoe now sagged empty, a dull ache pulsed.

Outside, the Capitol glided past.

Perhaps it was for the best that he was going to infamous Bloodgrove—the last refuge for people as corrupted as he was.

He should never have answered magic’s call, but how was anyone meant to resist its siren song? Even now, he thought he could taste salt on his tongue. Goosebumps crawled over his arms. His lover had suddenly been standing before him with the queen’s cousin, the guards’ rifles trained on Will.

To avoid a scandal and the charges that would follow, he fled the city.

Magic had been outlawed more than a century ago, though even then, hardly anyone had practiced it. By now, Will understood why—something degenerate clung to it, something that had stained his soul.

With another resigned sigh, he took out his notebook. But before he could escape into his drawings again, he unfolded the letter once more and returned the remainder of the train ticket to where he had found it.

The handwriting was elegant and sweeping, faintly playful in the loops and curves of the Fs and Ss, written almost carelessly across the heavy paper without the aid of guiding lines.

It is time for your light to illuminate Bloodgrove and usher in a new age. My house has been in my family’s keeping for centuries, and now that I am head of it, I wish my vision to shape these ancient walls as well. Tear down what has gathered dust. Cast aside what holds no value in a new world. You have free rein.

With sincere esteem,

Duchess Elodie Ormonde

Chapter 2

Toward evening, the last village gave way to endless waves of green hills stretching all the way to the mountains in the north. Towers of clouds replaced skyscrapers, and birds darted through the wind.

The growling of Will’s stomach pulled him away from his designs, which had grown increasingly detailed. His next step would be to mark his plans with corresponding numbers. Two of his suitcases were filled with sample books, fabric portfolios, and material swatches—a treasure from which he would never part.

The dining car was coupled just ahead of First Class, almost at the end of the train, and framed by broad, stained-glass windows. At once, the already dim train darkened further, bathed in a play of red, purple, and orange.

Will secretly hoped to encounter the mysterious passenger, though he expected to be alone apart from the ghostly train crew. Yet he was startled to find an unfamiliar figure seated at one of the tables.

It was not the man who had boarded in the Capitol, but an older woman with a stern expression, a small mouth, and a broad, upturned nose. She was likely in her late seventies; her dark skin lay in deep folds, but her pale eyes fixed sharply upon him the moment he slid open the door.

Swaying with the train, he stopped and glanced between her and the rows of empty tables with their heavy, upholstered chairs. How rude would it be to sit alone at an unoccupied table? The train rattled through a curve, and the woman’s red wine sloshed dangerously in its glass.

“Mr. Frank, do sit with me,” she said, smiling thinly.

Will raised an eyebrow, but it was difficult to refuse a stranger who knew his name. Good manners compelled him to accept with a grateful nod.

“Thank you, Mrs.…?” He forced the smile all the way into his eyes.

The chair was heavy and scraped across the carpet. When he sat, the springs in the seat sank deeply beneath him, making him appear small behind the table despite his height.

“Lady Wilkinson.”

A widow, Will gathered from her clothing. Her bony frame was draped in black fabric, constricted by a corset trimmed with lace that climbed across her décolletage and up to her collar. Leather gloves began where her sleeves ended.

Like the train’s interior, she was dressed in an outdated fashion. Neither men nor women in the Capitol wore lace anymore; their silhouettes were clean and structured. Will had a taste for the dramatic and enjoyed playing with the contrast of his fair hair and pale skin. As was often the case, today he wore a loose white shirt beneath a pale-blue jacket with long tails. Mother-of-pearl buttons and a light, silken cravat completed the ensemble, modeled after the work of the leading fashion houses.

“I didn’t see you board,” Will said as a pale waiter brought him a glass of wine.