The package of red brocade silk lay on my parents’ bed, a shock of color across a crisply white duvet. It was tied with a braided and tasseled ivory silk cord, and it was close enough to touch.
My mother had taken the sword out of the armory again. Probably because of the fairies’ interruption, and just in case she needed to protect the House. She wasn’t wearing it tonight; the rest of the guards would be protecting the House, and I was part of the Dumas contingent. And she had diplomatic responsibilities.
Magic throbbed in my chest, pulsing like a foreign heartbeat.
I moved into the bedroom, untied the cord, and unwrapped the fabric, revealing the gleaming red scabbard.
Visually, it looked exactly like what it was—a sheathed katana. There was nothing especially unusual about the lacquer or the cord around the handle, and I knew the blade would look well crafted and lethally sharp.
It was the magic that mattered, the power bound to the sword, and the trace of it that had bound itself inside me.
I was here, alone with it. If there would be a reckoning, this was the time. So I squeezed my hands into fists, closed my eyes, and relaxed the mental barriers I’d erected against the magic’s cries.
They called to each other. Not because they wanted to be bound together inside me or inside the sword, but because they wanted to be free so they could spread their anger around the city.
“Not going to happen,” I gritted out.
Its reaction was instant and painful. The monster lashed out, fury flashing across my skin like fire, hot enough to singe.
I stumbled backward, reaching out to the wall behind me to steady myself, green silk pooling around me, my heartbeat racing as magic tried to fight back. I swallowed hard and bore down, then stood up again. “You aren’t in charge,” I said, and took a step forward.
Anger spread again, and I breathed through pursed lips to deal with it, but tears still sprang to my eyes.
“You don’t own me,” I said, taking another step forward and staring down at the inert metal. “And you never will. So do us both a favor and give up the fight.”
I’d come to say my piece, and I’d said it. It took the rest of my strength to wrap the scabbard in silk again, to knot the cords, to straighten the blanket beneath the package. That seemed important somehow, that the blanket was straight.
I stepped back, the tightness in my chest easing up as I put distance between myself and the sword. But I could feel the pulse beneath my ribs, the refusal to give up.
I’d won this battle. But the war would continue, and we’d all see who won.
• • •
In the bathroom attached to my bedroom, I pressed a damp cloth against my neck until my heart had slowed and my eyes faded to green again. Until I felt like Elisa.
Then I tossed the towel into the laundry and walked out of the room, giving the apartment one last look before I closed the door. The monster hadn’t bothered me as a child, not until I’d been old enough—or it had been old enough—to reach for my attention. That wasn’t true anymore.
I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to do when my service for Maison Dumas was complete. I’d thought about it, and had nearly nine months to keep thinking about it. But one thing seemed certain.
I couldn’t live in Cadogan House.
Not while the magic lived here, too.
• • •
My father’s office was as elegant as the rest of his House. It held the carefully curated souvenirs of his life amid the pretty furniture: a desk, a conversation area with armchairs, and a long conference table where he could hash out issues with his staff.
He sat at his desk, frowning at something on the sleek glass screen perched there. He wore a black tuxedo, perfectly fitted, his hair tied back at his nape.
“Burning the midnight oil?”
He smiled but kept his gaze on the screen. “Just finishing up a project,” he said, then swiped a finger against the glass and looked up at me. “And don’t you look lovely?”
He rose, came over, and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “My smart and kind and beautiful girl.”
He liked to say that, had been saying it for years, and had always put “beautiful” last. Whether it was true or not, he’d tell me it was the least important of the three. “You are smart,” he’d say. “You should be kind. And if you are, you’ll always be beautiful.”
“Thank you. The House looks great. Luc did a very nice job getting things ready.”