“But it won’t cover the full cost.”
“Prince Sadi agreed to continue his father’s arrangement for such adventures and will cover the rest of the cost of the repairs.” Beale offered Lucivar a tiny smile.
Lucivar hesitated. “My brother is doing all right?”
Now Beale hesitated, reluctant to discuss the man who ruled Dhemlan and so much more, but Lucivar and Beale had an agreement when it came to Daemon Sadi. “He is heartsore, and he misses his daughter. That is to be expected. However, seeing the young Ladies who were saved from the coven of malice’s intentions is a daily reminder of why he made the choices he made. I think that helps him. Being here certainly helps them.” Another hesitation. “If I may make an observation, the Hall as it is now, with so many young people, feels more like it did when the Prince’s Lady lived here. I think those were happy years for him.”
Lucivar nodded. “The happiest.” He blew out a breath. “But we have a problem here. Daemon has gone to the Keep for help in fixing it. Until then, this is what the senior staff needs to know.”
FIVE
A few days of discreet inquiries provided no answers. There wasn’t a girl at the sanctuary named Wilhelmina Benedict. There was no Benedict family in the village. Jillian had the vaguest recollection of hearing the name but couldn’t remember where.
That left Saetien with two other choices for information. Her father’s letters held warmth but were written with almost painful care. Daemon Sadi didn’t mention any of the youngsters who were currently in residence at SaDiablo Hall, including her cousins Titian and Daemonar. He wrote about Mikal, who was his legal ward. He wrote about the gardens and bits and pieces of gossip about the people in Halaway, the village adjoining the family seat. But he didn’t say much about himself beyond what books he was currently reading. She didn’t know if that was because something was wrong and he wasn’t going to tell her or if he believed she wouldn’t care.
Of course, her letters to him were just as carefully written, because anything that sounded like whining was met with a chilly response, and some days it was hard not to feel sorry for herself and blame everyone else for her Birthright Jewel being stripped down to Purple Dusk instead of being in the range of power that had been in Twilight’s Dawn, and for her being banned from Amdarh and Askavi for two years, and for her ending up living here.
And she wanted to blame Witch most of all, for condemning her to nightly visits to Briarwood during which she had to walk through the place and listen to the screaming and crying and pleading, and see things that shouldn’t be seen by anyone, even in the worst nightmares.
She saw the pattern. She wasn’t stupid. She noticed on the days when she was petulant or bitchy about having to do chores around the sanctuary beyond keeping her room tidy, when she complained about the quarterly allowance her father gave her being a portion of what it used to be, when she pushed at Jillian because the Eyrien woman was part of the family that didn’t want her anymore, that she saw more of Briarwood, saw things too awful to bear. And somewhere there would be words painted in blood on a walclass="underline" You dream about this. We lived this.
A harsh reminder that usually had Shelby nudging her awake because she was crying in her sleep.
No, she couldn’t ask her father about someone who might not even exist, since Teresa was the one who gave her the name and then had no recollection of who it was or what the name meant. That left her with one other choice.
Saetien waited until Surreal SaDiablo arrived for her weekly appointment with the sanctuary’s administrator and instructors. Before Surreal completed her business and left for her next appointment, Saetien sent a request to see the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan’s second-in-command.
Her mother but no longer a mother. Saetien had obliterated that bond between them with deliberate, well-aimed words. She could say now that she hadn’t meant what she’d said, but that was like someone saying, The knife slipped; I didn’t mean to kill my friend, just hurt her a little. She’d killed something inside Surreal, something that may have been vulnerable all along, and they both lived with the scars and the consequences.
She met Surreal outside, having hurried because it had taken her longer than she’d expected to get Shelby to agree that he shouldn’t come with her.
“Problem?” Surreal asked, her voice suggesting she would be helpful but impersonal.
“I need help finding someone,” Saetien said.
“You could write to the historian/librarian at the Keep and request information. Geoffrey would know if anyone does,” Surreal replied.
“I’m not sure the person is real.” She called in the paper with the drawing and name and handed it to Surreal.
Surreal stared at it for a long time. “Where did you get this?”
“Teresa drew it for me. It’s sort of a portrait of who I was and who I am now.” Saetien shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “She says this person tastes of sadness and truth and can tell me some things I need to know.”
“I don’t know if she can,” Surreal said quietly. “Not anymore. And I don’t know that you really want to find out about her.”
“Why?” Something in Surreal’s reluctance made Saetien uneasy. “Who is Wilhelmina Benedict?”
Surreal sighed. “She was Jaenelle Angelline’s sister.”
SIX
As soon as Witch and Karla entered the sitting room across from the Queen’s suite, Daemon glided around them and shut the door—and stood between them and a way out of the room. At least he blocked an easy exit for Karla. Witch’s body was a shadow made out of power and Craft, so she could disappear anytime she pleased. But when dealing with him, she usually observed whatever rules would have applied if she still had a physical body.
Piss and vinegar, Lucivar had said. Well, he was primed to deliver.
He held out the cuff link and engaged the auditory spell in the Red chip beneath the ruby.
Grumbles and deep mutters before those voices roared out with language foul enough to make Lucivar blush when he’d heard it.
Karla looked taken aback before she frowned at the cuff link. “That’s Eyrien, isn’t it?”
Witch, wide-eyed and mouth open in shock, finally said, “Mother Night, it certainly is.”
Karla had picked up enough Eyrien over the years to be able to converse in that language, but Witch was fluent and probably knew all the words that had been said.
“Lucivar and I think this is somehow connected to the two of you, so you are going to help me fix this,” Daemon said. He shook the cuff link at them. Voices muttered and grumbled.
They all stared at the cuff link, waiting.
“Why would this have anything to do with us?” Witch asked.
“Because Lucivar identified those voices as belonging to Andulvar and Prothvar Yaslana, so this was done before they became a whisper in the Darkness. I’m sure Saetan created the original bit of Craft as some kind of lesson for the coven, but something happened and this spell is still working. It was placed in a window, probably in response to the tests you made on window glass.”
“Tests?” Witch said warily.
“ ‘Intruder! Intruder! I’m hit! I’m hit! I’m hit!’ ” Daemon raised an eyebrow. “Remember that?”
“Hell’s fire,” Karla muttered. “How would you know about that?”
“Saetan kept notes about your more memorable adventures.” No need to tell them—yet—that there was a whole filing cabinet filled with those notes.