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“Thank you.” I opened my purse to give her a tip.

She held up her hand. “No, girl. The money was just to make it real. Now run. You need all the time you can get.”

A shiver ran down my spine. “Okay. Thank you again.”

I took Tristan's hand, and we hurried out of the chapel.

Chapter Thirteen

Six stories of pale stone rose at the center of the Conclave's estate, with wings that came forward to border the curving drive. But that wasn't all. Several smaller buildings, including a carriage house, flanked the main one. Gardens wove through it all, but most of the beds were covered with tarps.

“The Conclave is made up of six Curses,” Tristan said as he parked before the left wing. “Two from each Curse class. They work to keep us hidden, settle disputes, and punish those who break our laws.”

“This is a big place for only six people.”

“Each Conclave member has their own house on the estate. They also have a staff of witches and revenants who live and work here. The main building is used for meetings and is home to our library as well as a collection of Curse artifacts. There is also a prison on the property.”

“They keep prisoners here?”

“It's usually empty.” A buzzing came, and he paused to check his phone. “Curses rarely break our laws.” He turned the phone to show me a picture. “Is this the man who was watching You?”

“Yes!”

“I asked Haversham to send me a picture of Osric. It's confirmed then. It was him.” He slipped his phone back into his pocket. “I called the Conclave while we were at the museum. So, they know we're coming. Still, they aren't happy about me bringing you. If they're gruff with you, don't be intimidated. Speak freely.”

“It takes a lot to intimidate me.”

“I've realized that.” He grinned and leaned over to kiss my cheek before he got out of the car and came around to open my door.

We went up to the main building holding hands. Cars were parked before some of the other buildings, but no one wandered the grounds. The front door was unlocked and opened without a sound. A round table, its top inlaid with a design of flowers, stood under a chandelier in the foyer. Doors lead off to either side, and a grand, split-level staircase swept down to the floor before us. The scent of cookies wafted into the room as the door on the left opened. A woman, her blonde hair up in a bun, stepped into the foyer and bowed to Tristan.

“Heartbreak, they await you in the Conclave Chamber,” the woman said. “This way.”

She led us up the staircase, veering to the right at the split, and down a series of corridors until we came to one with only one door at the end. Across the top of the door were three stylized symbols—a nautilus shell, a book, and a crown similar to a Roman laurel wreath but with thorns. The woman opened the door and waved us into a octagonal chamber paneled in dark wood. Tristan and I stepped forward as she shut the door behind us.

Six people waited inside the room, seated at a half-circle table on a dais. The table roughly matched the line of the three walls that made up the far end of the room, with two people seated before each length of wall. Behind each pair was a banner with a symbol on it, the same symbols from the door. To the right was a banner with the book, in the center was the crown, and to the left was the nautilus shell.

Tristan bowed to the Conclave. “Thank you for agreeing to see us.”

At the last seat on the left, before the shell banner, sat an Indian woman, her long dark hair in a braid. “Your story is concerning, Tristan.” She looked at me. “And you are Ms. Destiny Takeda, Conservator with the Smithsonian, twenty-seven years old. No criminal record. You have a degree in Art Restoration with a minor in Art History.”

“Uh, yes, that's correct,” I said.

“I am Tanvi Sarkar, the Curse of Procrastination.”

“I never would have guessed. You certainly didn't waste any time in investigating me.”

Her lips twitched. “We had to know who Tristan was bringing among us.”

To the right of her, a broad-shouldered man in a rumpled jacket lifted a coffee mug in a sloppy salute. “Bartholomew Brook, Curse of the Hangover. You can call me Bart.”

On the right, sitting before the book banner, an aristocratic man in an impeccable suit inclined his head with old-world formality. “I'm Edmund Wright, Curse of the Hope Diamond.” A small blue stone glinted at his cuff link.

The man next to Edmund rose from his chair with theatrical flair, his dark curls falling loose around his expressive face. “Alistair Graves, at your service, Miss.” He swept into a bow. “Strasbourg, 1518. You may have heard of the dancing?”

He looked so hopeful I would have agreed even if I hadn't heard about the dancing mania in France when hundreds of people danced for weeks without rest, some of them dancing to death. I smiled politely. “Yes, of course.”

He beamed at me. “That's me, I'm the Curse of the Dancing Plague. Rather young compared to some.” He inclined his head to Tristan.