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“Do you come to plague me with your ridiculous predictions or have you a reason for disturbing my peace?” Asher asked.
Simon took a shaky breath, subdued and sulky now that he’d been slapped down. “I came to find out if you were the cause of my mother’s death. She wasn’t a part of this hellish bargain.”
Asher spun away to a high-backed chair set near the room’s only window. Carved. Quilted in velvet. A fitting piece for a future ruler. He would need to obtain two more just like it. Though, perhaps those could be simpler. Smaller. He was the eldest, after all. The strongest.
Crossing his legs, he picked at the plate of food set out for him. Bit deep into the flesh of a ripe plum. Out of season, but magic had its uses.
His tongue flicked out, caught the last bit of juice sliding down his chin. “A bit late and a bit false to play the loving son, don’t you think?”
“I deserve an answer,” Simon grumbled.
Asher’s eyes snapped to the man’s face. Froze him with a stare. “What you deserve is death.” He relaxed a fraction.
“For your failures as well as your disrespect. But much as I would have enjoyed swinging the scythe, it was not I who ended her life.” He drank deep from the claret. “I’ve not been able to penetrate Daggerfell’s defenses since your skirmish. More blame I lay at your door.”
“If you’d given me access to the skills I needed…” The wineglass smashed against the far wall, followed by the plate. “You had ample power to complete the task.”
Simon flinched at the display of temper, but held his ground. A simpleton, just as Asher had thought. “I was promised,” he insisted.
“I was promised Bligh’s head on a platter. We have both been disappointed.” His glance flicked down to his hand. A fresh wineglass appeared. “Be grateful I overlook it. Once my brothers are released, fey and Mortal alike will kneel before me. Or die.”
“You’ve not got the reliquary yet.”
“Soon.” He gave a barely perceptible shrug. “Bligh has only one chance. And he knows it. If, as you suspect, he’s become fond of this woman, he will refuse to use her. He will allow his affection to overrule his sense.”
He felt the man’s growing dissatisfaction. Dismissed it. Simon Bligh was a tool. He’d offered himself willingly, and he would be grateful for what he was given. He knew what happened to those who openly challenged him. Had burned the carcasses himself.
“You doubt me?” he asked.
Simon pursed his lips. “Conor’s as cold as stone and about as emotional. He’ll do whatever it takes to succeed. To defeat you.”
Asher sniffed, wearied with this conversation. “For all his powers, he is human. He will fall.”
Ellery flipped through a fashion magazine she’d found buried beneath a stack of weightier volumes on one of the salon tables. Cousin Molly had subscribed to these types of publications, and Ellery had always laughed at the flimsy silks and transparent muslins, the dainty kid slippers and Chinese parasols, picturing herself in one of those outfits sauntering down Bond Street with a gallant on each arm and another behind carrying her packages.
She looked around her now. Blond, blue-eyed Jamys sat, noodling
at the keys of the pianoforte. Quicksilver Ruan dealt and re-dealt a deck of cards, and Conor, whose dark perfection made him seem even more menacing—if that was possible—brooded in a corner by himself.
She had the gallants. And every one better than her wildest imaginings. She only needed the right gown to go with them.
If Molly could see her now.
Across from her, Morgan leaned back and closed her eyes. “I don’t think I can take much more of this. I hate just sitting and waiting. Everyone’s on edge. And Aunt Glynnis’s death has only made everything ten times worse.”
Ellery put down her magazine. “Did she hate Conor so much that she could let Simon in? When she knew what he was? What he’d done?”
Morgan’s face hardened. “She always blamed Con for Uncle Talan and Richard’s disappearance. It didn’t matter that Con was barely more than a boy himself when it happened. And when Simon left, she blamed Con for that, too. I don’t know how, but in her twisted mind, it all made perfect sense.” She dropped her gaze back to her book. Ellery thought their conversation was over, but suddenly Morgan looked up. “Blood’s blood. You don’t turn on your own. And you don’t break ranks.” Her gaze and voice were fierce. “Simon destroyed that when he turned Ysbel over to Asher.” She threw down her book. “If I ever find him, no bonds of family will stay my hand.”
What could Ellery say to that? Compared to Simon’s treachery, Molly’s paltry insults seemed ridiculous.
She flipped through a few more pages, but now her mind was far from the light summer fashions. From beneath lowered lashes, she observed the group. Conor sat in a window embrasure, his arms wrapped around one bent leg, his eyes trained on the park beyond. She wished she were bold enough to approach him. Ask what held him there by himself.
Ruan downed his drink. Dealt out his cards. “Conor,” he called. “Piquet? If we can talk the others into playing we can try for a rubber of whist.”
“Not right now.” Conor’s gaze swept the room, paused for a heartbeat on Ellery before moving on. Long enough to make her stomach flip and a knot rise in her throat. Long enough to make her wish the floor would swallow her whole.
She went hot with shame at the way one glance made her stupid for him. Was this normal? Or was this trick of her body’s an inherited weakness? Had her mother felt this same stomach punch of emotions and sensations that turned Ellery inside out and hungry for more? And was that hunger what drove her mother from camp to camp—bed to bed?
