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“No,” I whispered.
“You look familiar.”
I looked like my mother. Maybe he remembered her.
One of the assassins stepped forward. “Sir?”
The Grandmaster raised his hand to halt him. “Not yet.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I was in a fire last night. Breathed in too much smoke.”
His eyes glinted. “You were there? At the Sofiensaal?”
“I was.”
He glanced at the assassins. “Leave us.”
“Yes, sir.”
The assassins left without a word, closing the door behind them. The Grandmaster stepped forward, his gaze traveling down the length of my body. I was breathing too fast, the rhythm ragged with fear.
“Who are you?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
“I’m…I’m no one,” I stammered.
“Don’t lie to me. You were there with him, weren’t you? The Prince of the Undying? He tried to protect you.”
My heart thundered in my chest. He knew.
What was the point of lying?
“Yes, I was there with Wendel.”
The Grandmaster’s eyes narrowed. “You may prove valuable.”
Valuable? My stomach clenched. I had walked right into his trap. Would he capture me? Torture me?
“Please sit,” he said, surprising me.
I chose a chair by the window. The Grandmaster dropped onto the couch. His stance gave me the impression of a tiger who had returned from a successful hunt, and was now feeling indulgent toward his prey.
He had, after all, caught Wendel.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked.
“Thorsten Magnusson. The Grandmaster of the Order of the Asphodel. And…”
“And?”
I swallowed hard, my mouth dry.And you’re my father.
But the words died in my throat. Instead, I tried another angle of attack. I shook my head and clutched the locket at my neck.
“I have this,” I said.
“Have what?”
“This…this photograph of you.”
