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There’s real anger in his voice now, and a scorn in his expression that I can’t bear to see from someone who was looking at me so sweetly a few hours ago.
“You sold your soul, Sadie. And he’s not forgotten.”
Though I’m still shaky, I force myself to my feet. “I didn’t sell my soul, Connor, I sold my body and my magic. I’ve never paid up, and I only made the promise to save Bren. Just like I’m putting everything on the line for my brother now. So don’t you dare look at me like I’m some sort of traitor, some sort of whore. Everything I’ve ever done has been for my family.”
Connor stands, too. “And what about screwing me? Was that for the family? How could you possibly put me in that position?”
“What position is it you find so distasteful? On your hands and knees behind me, or on your back with me astride you?”
I’m not helping the situation. But there’s something in his expression that makes me want to be anything but rational and constructive.
“You let me sleep with you, let me care about you, without telling me who you were. At best, you were messing with my heart and my head. At worst, you could have got me fired. Tortured. Killed. Whether at the hands of your over-protective father—who happens to be both my boss and the king of this town—or at the hands of Gabriel Thornber, who’s an utter psychopath, unspeakably powerful, and seemingly convinced that you’re his property.”
“You’re completely over-reacting. Dad would never hurt someone for caring about me. And I’ve no idea what Gabriel would or wouldn’t do, but I’m not responsible for him.”
Connor laughs, and it’s one of the worst sounds I’ve ever heard. “You knowyour daddy, but you know nothing aboutPhilip Sadler. Sleeping with his lawyer on duty was pushing the boundaries, but something he could let go. Neither sleeping with his daughter nor letting the enemy get to her are remotely forgivable.”
I reach out to touch his arm, but he jerks out of my reach. “I’m sorry not to have told you. And to have started something while I was forced to lie. But don’t worry. Dad will listen to me. You’ll be fine.”
He shakes his head. “I’m sure you’ve got the boss as thoroughly wrapped around your little finger as I was. I probablywillbe fine. It doesn’t make up for lying to me, for using me, for walking me into danger.”
“I’m sorry.” What else can I say?
“You can find another bodyguard. If you even need one—your magic’s probably stronger than anyone’s. And you can damn well find another toy to play with. But you’re deluded if you think you can manipulate Thornber like you’ve manipulated me and live to tell the tale.”
With that, he storms out of the room, seemingly too angry to even use magic.
I spend the rest of the day in bed. It’s hard to tell whether my exhaustion is due to the physical after-effect of magical burnout, unhappiness about Connor—I can’t believe I’ve blown things with him—or worry about Gabriel. Maybe it’s all three.
As though they can sense my mood—which, thanks to Chrissie, they probably can—the family leave me well alone, other than popping in with occasional coffees and biscuits.
The next morning, I force myself to get up and put a brave face on things. A quick glance in the full-length mirror that dominates the hallway outside my room shows that I’m paler than ever and my hair’s regaining some of its natural frizz. I can’t summon the energy to tackle either issue. Or to do anything about the fact that my irises are still tinged with red.
Mum’s the only one around, and she’s busy in the kitchen, starting the preparation for the immutable tradition of Sunday lunch. As soon as I walk in to join her, there’s a knock at the door. I glance at Mum, and when she nods, I go to open it.
I smile when I see who’s waiting outside. “John! Good to see you. It’s been years.” It’s nice not to have to pretend to be someone I’m not.
“Lovely to see you, too, miss. Just dropping off the weekly offering.”
He hands me a wicker basket, which I take with thanks. “Do you want to come in? Get a cup of tea? Or something stronger?”
“I’ll be on my way, miss. Give your mother my regards.”
He dashes away as though he’s scared one of us will turn him into a frog if he lingers too long. I’d almost forgotten about the weekly offerings. It’s strange, the things you do and don’t remember after a long time away.
Every Sunday morning, John Rose, a local chicken farmer, brings us a bird for a Sunday roast. Likewise, every Friday, Peter Mound, a local pig farmer, brings us sausages and bacon for a Saturday morning fry-up. In return, once each season, the family blesses their farms and their animals. There are no lien marks here, and no money changes hands. It’s a much more old-fashioned approach, and the tradition goes back through goodness knows how many generations of Mounds, Roses, and Sadlers. All of the farms beneath the Dome get a good harvest, aside from those rare instances where my family has seen fit to curse one of them. But those that are given our special attention produce meat that tastes like nothing else on earth. Especially when it’s then cooked by my mum.
“I’ve got a chicken for you,” I call through.
“Bring it in, then help me chop some vegetables. I’m making the batter for the puddings.”
Mum makes Sunday lunch by hand, rather than with the aid of spells. It’s a point of pride. But something of her natural magic always seems to infuse proceedings. Her Yorkshire puddings rise so high they seem to defy the laws of physics. Her chickens are tender inside with perfectly crisp skin.
I busy myself chopping carrots and peeling potatoes. It’s surprisingly restful. I’ve grown far too reliant on ready meals and takeaways in London. Mum says nothing about the events of last night or the trial.
At some point, Liam, Shane, and Dad return from the football. Mannith won, thank goodness, which means they’re all in a cheerful mood.
Chrissie, Ray, and the little twins appear soon afterwards, and my sister helps with the final preparations. My family’s generally pretty equal opportunities, but there’s something about Sunday lunch that really brings out the gender roles.
