“She’s different,” I plead, slowly realizing that Paltro is just as much a purist as those he condemns. Just because he isn’t prejudiced against Arkani crossmages doesn’t mean he doesn’t share purist ideologies. “She sacrificed her own life to bring Beau back.”
“Would she have done so had she known the cost?” Paltro taunts. I look away, hating the seed of doubt he’s sowing in my mind.
Beau’s stare bores into my eyes for a few seconds, and I realize I’m an idiot for even doubting that she would. Without looking away from me, Beau answers, “She would.”
Paltro sighs, shaking his head. “Not even Parrish would be able tosway DOTS’s decision when it comes to an Aspieri-Mortemagi cross-mage, not even if she’s the Deathbringer’s daughter.” He walks back to the Poisoned Stairwell. “Rhodes can take her to Gorhail’s magic sealer. It’s for the best.”
“Do not tell Rhodes.” Viola isn’t just any Mortemagi. She is the daughter of a Draterran legend. Above all, she ismyMortemagi, and I will fight so she can tell her story.
“Son.” Paltro holds my eyes for a moment, one hand on the stairwell door. “Young love is ephemeral. Your House is permanent.”
It was fine when I had to “bond” with a Mortemagi to keep my aspier, but now it’s my House over the Mortemagitheyshoved onto me. “Uncle, please…”
But Paltro leaves my plea hanging and pulls the door closed behind him. I release a painful breath. My only way to Viola is gone, and my heart feels like it’s caving in. I don’t know how I’m supposed to just… wait and have faith in a system that routinely fails us.
“She’s one of us, Sy,” my sister says, drawing my attention as she grabs her coat from the entryway. “Aspieri or not, she’s been one of us for a while now, and we fight for our own. I’ll go to the House of Death, under the guise of looking for my clearance pass.”
“And I”—Beau joins her by the door, glancing at the clock—“will sneak out through the woods to see if I can convince Grayson to read Victor’s mom.”
I don’t say anything, my tongue still paralyzed by worry. The last time we decided to take things into our own hands, Beau died. He lifts his head and immediately narrows his eyes. “Sy… look behind you. I didn’t hear… I think… Paltro left the door unlocked.”
I whirl around without thinking twice and reach for the handle. It clicks, and the door opens. I linger for a few seconds, caught between Paltro’s bitter words and the fact that he did leave the door unlocked. Even in his hostility, he’s still bound by loyalty.
“Go,” my siblings yell at the same time. My feet propel me into the dark.
And for the first time in my life, I pray to the God of Death.
Founder Ysenia Faro’s Cuff was buried in the vault below my statue in the courtyard of the House of Poison, the sole access granted to my chosen bloodline, given that my blood sealed Grimm in. As we agreed, amend the books and declare that the five of us sealed Rafael in the cuff. We cannot risk anyone releasing him. This tragedy is further proof that Mortemagi need to be driven out of existence. How long until another Rafael emerges?
LETTER FROM SILEAS RONIN TO THE FOUNDERS, 1511
thirty-nine | viola
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 9, 1939
The Poisoned Stairwell crawls with ghosts when we climb down from the tower, but none of them bother me because of Ysenia. I cannot hear them, but they announce their presence with frosty caresses and biting goose bumps. She leads me back to the House of Death, reassuring me several times that Mara is gone. I pull the hidden door open, stepping into the empty hallway. As I push it closed, Overseer Delaney greets me with a murderous glare.
“Miss Corvi.”
The weight of my name hovers over my head like a boulder, threatening to crush me. I press my back against the tapestry, counting my breaths. Overseer Delaney’s glare pins me with dread—she just watched me walk out of the Poisoned Stairwell. I’ve not only violated lockdown but also probably curfew. But I must tell her about Mara coming back, about Rafael Grimm, and about how he’s trying to resurrect himself.
“To your room,” she orders, and I scurry forward, my nerves swallowing all I wanted to say.
The key shakes as I try to fit it into the lock. Delaney’s huff of impatience over my shoulder isn’t helping. When I fail a second time, she snatches the key from my hand, opens the door, and shoves me inside. The dresser catches my stumble, and she walks in behind me, eyes scanning every corner.
I understand that rules are important for Delaney, but using brute force simply because I broke them seems excessive. Even for her.
“Your grandmother used to be dean of this fine institution,” she begins. Oh no. Here comes the speech of disappointment, about how I do not live up to her reputation, about how I am a waste of magic. “She is remembered as one of the greatest deans that Gorhail has ever seen. Do you know why?”
“No.” I shake my head, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. I never knew Nan as a dean. To me, she was a grandmother, like any other. We would bake, we would plant flowers, and she would read me stories at bedtime. She made my life in Albion bearable, and her lying to me about who I am doesn’t change that she loved me.
Overseer Delaney retrieves a rolled issue ofThe Daily Magefrom under her coat. The edges are torn, the pages yellow. Her long, wrinkly fingers unfold it to a picture of Nan. Her black hair is pulled into a tight bun, her round silver glasses sit lightly on her rounded nose, and her thin lips are drawn into a line. I don’t know this version of Nan. Mine has loosely braided gray hair, the kindest eyes, and creases around her lips from smiling too much. The headline gives me pause:
“Gorhail Matriarch Thwarts a Second Catastrophe”
The date on the paper is 1919, twenty years ago.
Delaney’s sneer drops into a mockery. “Saint Corvi. She saved the world.” She folds the paper in four and places it on the dresser. Something about her demeanor makes me step back.