“Yes, I do, but that has nothing to do with the Jewel you wear. I think you’re special because you’re my daughter and I love you. I imagine every father feels that way about a daughter. I know your uncle Lucivar feels that way about Titian. But being special, regardless of the reason, doesn’t give you the right to misbehave or ignore your schoolwork—or convince a witch who is younger than you to do something that you know is wrong.”
٭I did a wrong thing?٭ Morghann asked, alarmed.
Daemon ignored the Sceltie and focused on the girl. “I’m disappointed in you, Jaenelle Saetien. You let Morghann believe it was all right to take a nutcake for you. You tried to cheat by letting someone else take something that you wanted—and take the blame if caught.”
٭Blame?٭ Morghann whined. ٭There is blame?٭
“Is that what you want your little Sister to learn from you? That it’s all right to cheat, to take without permission? As long as your hands don’t get dirty, it’s not your fault and you’ll stand back and let someone else take the blame—and the punishment?” The headache, which he’d managed to ignore while he was at Manny’s cottage, surged into sickening pain. He had to leave while he could still ride the Winds.
“It was just a stupid nutcake!” Jaenelle Saetien protested.
“Today it was a nutcake,” he snapped. “What will you ask Morghann to steal tomorrow?”
٭Steal? Scelties do not steal.٭ Morghann stared at Jaenelle Saetien and growled.
“Come on,” Daemon said. “I have an appointment, and you need to get home.”
He started walking, aware that his girl hadn’t moved, was in the throes of some mood that was dangerous for both of them right now.
“If that Lady in the Mist had wanted a second nutcake, I bet you would have given it to her,” Jaenelle Saetien said, her voice rising in a whiny challenge.
Rage whispered through him, savagely cold, burning him right to the marrow. He turned and walked back to his daughter—and whatever she saw in his face had her taking two steps back.
“If you ever again try to use the Lady as a hammer against me, there will be consequences—and they will hurt. She is my Queen, and no one uses her as a weapon. Especially you. Are we clear about that, Lady SaDiablo?”
“Papa . . .”
“Are. We. Clear?”
“Y-yes.”
He walked away. Had to walk away.
“Papa!” Jaenelle Saetien wailed as she ran to catch up to him. “I’m sorry, Papa.”
The tears were probably real, but the headache was a storm pounding his temples and consuming his control, so all he could do was hand her a handkerchief and keep moving until he got her to the Hall and could place her in Surreal’s care before he . . .
٭Surreal,٭ he called on a Gray psychic thread. ٭Surreal, you’re needed.٭
He knew she was at the Hall. He always knew where she and Jaenelle Saetien were, not only because he was so attuned to their psychic scents, but because Surreal was the only individual in the surrounding area who wore the Gray, and Jaenelle Saetien’s Jewel was unmistakable.
٭Sadi?٭ Surreal sounded wary. ٭Where are you?٭
٭We’ll be at the Hall in a few minutes.٭ He broke the link between them before she picked up on the pain. He wasn’t the only one who was attuned to his partner, and he didn’t want her asking questions that might give her cause to worry before he could provide reassuring answers—or at least some kind of answer.
Assuming she still felt enough for him beyond sex to worry.
Surreal wasn’t in the great hall when he walked in, but Beale was there. The Red-Jeweled Warlord who served as the Hall’s butler looked attentive, as if merely there to follow an order, but Daemon sensed the tight Red shield around the man. Red couldn’t survive a strike from the Black, but Beale being prepared for a strike told him his flash of cold anger hadn’t been as contained as he’d thought.
He wasn’t so steeped in pain that he couldn’t appreciate that Beale’s response to him was the same as Mikal’s had been to Jaenelle Saetien—and for much the same reason—but it made him wonder why Surreal wasn’t there, armed and waiting for him. Unless she thought, for whatever reason, that she, and not Jaenelle Saetien, was the reason for the anger?
“Look after Jaenelle Saetien until Lady Surreal is available,” Daemon told Beale. “And please convey my apologies to Mrs. Beale for not giving her more notice, but I have a meeting that won’t wait and I will not be back in time for dinner.”
Beale allowed himself a tiny frown of concern. “A meeting, Prince? Lord Holt didn’t mention anything on your calendar this evening.”
“It wasn’t on my calendar, but it can’t be delayed.” Daemon backed away from his butler, from his daughter, from the wife who hadn’t made an appearance yet. “I will be back tonight.”
“I’ll convey the message to Lady Surreal.”
٭Convey one other thing to my wife,٭ he said on a Red spear thread, and gave Beale instructions that, even if not understood, would be followed by everyone who worked at the Hall.
As Daemon walked to the stone landing web in front of the house, he noticed Morghann trotting in the direction of the stables.
٭Morghann,٭ he called as gently as he could.
٭I did a wrong thing,٭ the Sceltie whined. ٭There is blame.٭
٭Jaenelle Saetien did a wrong thing. You made a small mistake. We can talk about the correct thing to do when I get back.٭
She didn’t reply, just kept trotting toward the stables.
He’d been too harsh. Being a few months away from her Birthright Ceremony, Morghann was still considered a puppy, which meant she depended on what humans told her was correct behavior, and Jaenelle Saetien telling her to do a “wrong thing” had shaken the Sceltie’s confidence—at least for a little while. Morghann would forgive the girl—Scelties were forgiving of human mistakes, as he had reason to know—but she wouldn’t forget. And she might never fully trust again. He wouldn’t know how deep that break in trust went until he tried to fix it.
But right now something else needed to be fixed.
Tersa returned to the cottage next to Manny’s, where she and the Mikal boy lived. The Mikal boy had stayed with Manny to do his schoolwork and help with some of the chores he did around both cottages. No one would wonder about her for a while.
For long enough.
She climbed the attic stairs, then fumbled with the keys she kept on a chain she usually left in a drawer in her dresser. But today she had tucked the chain in a pocket, had felt she’d needed to have the keys handy. She unlocked the door, entered the attic, then locked the door behind her.
Tangled webs were the webs of dreams and visions that were used by Black Widows to see what couldn’t be seen in other ways.
Using the second key, she opened the trunk where she stored the tools of the Hourglass Coven—wooden frames and spools of spider silk of various weights, among other less benign tools.
Selecting a frame, Tersa brought it and the box of spools to her worktable. Then she sat on a stool, chose one of the spools of spider silk, and thought about the reason she needed to weave this tangled web.
Her boy was not well. He knew it, but not the cause or how to fix it. Felt the pain that was the body’s way of revealing what heart and mind tried to hide. The source of the pain. That was what she needed to find. Not just for him. Not just for him, but for . . .
Her hands stopped moving as she anchored the last strand of the web. Then she took that mental step to the side—a dangerous step for a witch whose power had been broken long ago and whose mind had shattered when she made the choice to regain some of that power. She needed to take that step to help the boy. Her boy. Daemon. Now she opened herself to the dreams and visions—and when she saw what the pain was trying to reveal, she huffed out a sigh of annoyance.