“You can blame me all you want”—Viola holds her head high—“but I didn’t kill her.”
“I wish it had been you they killed,” her so-called mother spews. Scar’s tail lashes against Viola’s arm, but she holds her in place. Raiku moves instead.
That’s all I can take, and I don’t want Raiku or Scar to slip and murder a nonmagi. I cross the room, my shoulder nudging Olivia’s mom as I weave my fingers with Viola’s, pulling her away from that vile woman. “Let’s go home.”
Rodric, there is only so much pull I have within the Grand House concerning Sylas. Viv Rowan is asking for a reelection following the mismanagement of the Gorhail murders.
UNOFFICIAL LETTER FROM MAXIMUS PALTRO, GRAND MASTER OF POISON, DOTS, TO OVERSEER PALTRO, HEAD OF THE HOUSE OF POISON, GORHAIL, DECEMBER 1939
thirty-five | viola
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1939
A part of me always knew my mother wasn’t my mother, but the horrors she put me through don’t sting any less. I am an Aspieri and a Mortemagi, daughter of a legend, granddaughter of another legend, and yet I know so little of the great magic I supposedly possess. In short, I am a waste of magic.
This morning we came back with enough time for me to drop Olivia’s fairy-tale book on the study desk in Founder’s Room and change into House of Death clothes before rushing to Delaney’s class on ghost communication. I couldn’t answer a single one of her questions, because I kept wondering whether Scar was all right—it felt cruel locking her up in Sylas’s safe, but we didn’t have a choice.
Now Lyria and I huddle around the low table in their living room, three empty cups of tea and two empty plates pushed to the side. Beau leans back on the sofa behind Lyria, raising the report he’s reading above his face.
“If you think we are accomplished…” Lyria does this thing she always does when she’s excited—her eyes widen, her lips break into a grin as if she’s about to let you in on the biggest secret, and her legs can barelystay still. She grabs on to Beau’s shirt and physically pulls him into our conversation.
His stack of paper drops onto his face, and he slides down next to his sister. “The Deathbringer was a Magus Principalis at sixteen, a Firstline chief at eighteen. She and Scar were the perfect pairing; she even has admirers among poachers. To this day, no one comes close to her.”
Lyria has told me so many stories about the Deathbringer—my mother. After Delaney’s class, she snuck me out to Fang’s Nest to show me her portraits. In them, I saw a younger version of the woman from my dreams. I’ve been trying to find comfort in the fact that I knew her, even for a short time. That for me, she gave up everything—her highly decorated career, her future, and her life. Did she ask Nan to hide me because I was in danger? Because I know in my heart that the woman I’ve been dreaming about since I was a child would never let me go.
My eyes sting again, my vision hazy. I press my hands to my face to seize the tears. How do I stop crying over a life that was robbed from me? Nan could’ve told me stories of my mother. Instead, she let me believe I was hated because of a fatal flaw that made me different from Olivia. And she lied to me. I trusted her, and she lied.
“There’s talk of Rhodes being dismissed,” Beau says, bringing me back to the conversation. “With all the propaganda fromThe Daily Mage, mages are demanding to go home. Meanwhile, purists are fueling protests against Parrish for inaction about the Gorhail murders.”
We all know it’s because she’s from a crossmage family, the ghost says. It’s her first time speaking since the mausoleum last night. For a second, I wondered if she had forsaken me for being a crossmage.
With last night’s events and now having to worry about Scar, I had briefly forgotten about the stolen relics and the potential return of Grimm.
“We now know that Olivia tookThe Founder’s Book of Relicsback to Gorhail the last time I saw her, but they didn’t send it back with her belongings,” I remind them. Sylas and I told them the moment we joined them in the car this morning, but by the time we started spinning theories, Gorhail was in front of us.
Lyria scrunches her nose. “We can assume that the person who killed her probably took the book. Did she say why she needed it?”
“Promotional exams.” I sigh, wishing I’d asked more questions.
Beau drums his fingers on the table, his head lost in thought. After amoment of silence, he brings up what Sylas and I told them about Grimm. “Would the poachers need the book of relics to release Grimm from his cuff?”
Lyria and I exchange a worried glance. “I believe so,” she says, but I quickly add, “None of it explains the dead lines and the stolen heirlooms.” The more we talk about it, the more I wonder if the two are even connected. Maybe Olivia’s taking the book was a mere coincidence, and Gor-hail returned it to their library.
“Is Sylas still sleeping, Beau?” Lyria asks. “We could use him right now.”
Three hours ago, Sylas walked in with a torn shirt and two new bruises. One below the right corner of his lips and a second one next to his left eye. He didn’t say a word, didn’t even look at us, and headed straight to Beau’s room to sleep.
“I think so. Paltro came to see him when you were both at dinner, but he didn’t answer.” Beau glances toward his room door, then back at me. “Oh… I won’t be in tonight; I may have found us a reader to take to Victor’s mother in the morning, but they’ll need some convincing.”
“Beau, is it who I think it is?” Lyria exclaims, but he ignores her, and he’s already halfway to the front door, jacket in hand.
“Anyway, Sy told you to move into his room, Vi. He’s only here for a couple more days, until he goes back to Riverview.”
I sigh. Because of my cuff, Sylas refuses to let me out of his sight. If not his, Beau’s; and if not Beau’s, Lyria’s. And now that I have Scar, they all keep saying that I can’t be away from her for more than a few hours. So I have unofficially moved into their rooms.
“Wait, I’ll walk with you until the infirmary,” Lyria calls out, rushing after her brother. “I still don’t understand why you’re set on torturing that poor woman. She went mad when her husband died,” she says as they put on their boots by the door.
“That’s the thing, sis.” Beau taps her on the head. “One doesn’t simply go mad when one’s husband dies.”