“Uncle.” I adjust the collar of my shirt. “Today is her sister’s funeral. One would think she’d attend, no?”
Paltro’s glare lowers to my empty wrist, where Raiku usually sits. I change the subject. “I was on my way to your office to pick up Dad’s field reports and the Deathbringer reports that Lyria requested.”
“I’ll have them sent to your rooms.” He sighs, then leaves without a word. I stand alone, like a traitor to my kin. I tell myself that I am doing this for Beau and for the greater conspiracy at play. The Mortemagi is my only ticket to the catacombs. I had no other choice.
But the truth remains, I lied to Paltro for Viola.
Olivia’s funeral starts with a downpour that folds our large black umbrellas. We reach Albion’s cemetery soaked, like the hundred-something other people sitting in the rain on unnaturally green grass. Most of the seats are taken, so Lyria and I stand to the side under the shelter of a willow tree. I insisted we attend in case the killer is also in attendance, although now that we’re here, I doubt the murderer would risk discovery with so many readers around.
I scan the area, realize I am looking for Viola, stop looking, and then start again until I find her.
She sits in the front row next to a woman who looks like an older version of Olivia… and Lorne. Only two days ago, he was pretending not to know Olivia. Now look at him, cozying up to her family.
He wraps a hand around Viola’s shoulders, and both Railesza and Raiku awaken with a hiss, eyes drilling into him. Ihatethis bond. Railesza, I understand, but Raiku… since when did he take a liking to her?
As soon as we find out what Victor wants—and hopefully he’ll clue us in on Beau—I have to keep my distance. Viola might be clever, but no amount of cleverness will save her if puppeteers are involved. If they so easily clawed out Beau’s and Victor’s lives, she doesn’t stand a chance.
While I may have wished for her death before to break this wretched bond, my sister’s words now play in my mind—We honor our parents through our choices.They wouldn’t want me knowingly risking an innocent person’s life. Viola can read about her sister’s murderer inThe Daily Magewhen we catch them.
“Breathe, brother.” Lyria purses her lips. “Breathe.”
I breathe out a curse. I don’t know whether it’s directed at Lorne or at Lyria.
Viola shrugs his hand off. Her face is a mask; she bites her cheeks and looks down. Ihatethat she’s looking down. Her black-rimmed, round sunglasses are covered in droplets, yet she doesn’t wipe them off. Her neatly tied low ponytail drips with rainwater, and her mouth is pulled in a frown.
A quick scan of the attendees brings me pause—Sierra, Fable, the three overseers, Rhodes, a lot of mages from Gorhail, and over a hundred people I don’t recognize sit in silence. Not a single dry eye is in the audience. Olivia was so… loved, and they’ve all come to bid her farewell despite her lies.
The officiant says words I can barely hear, and the woman next to Viola—her mother—sobs violently. She gets up without sparing a glance to her daughter and walks to the half-open wooden coffin. She places something that looks like a necklace in the casket, then lays white tulips and lowers her head. Her lips move in what must be a prayer to the Gods to light Olivia’s way to the Orga—the segregation of mage and nonmagi in the afterlife will never make sense to me. They’re all dead anyway, so what difference does it make? The woman’s shoulders shake as she walks back to her chair. As she sits down, not acknowledging Viola for a second time, it does something to me. What kind of mother ignores her child while burying another?
Viola gets up next. Her mid-length dress clings to her skin—it’s soaked and she’s not wearing a coat. Albion’s warmer than Gorhail, but the occasional wind picks up, dragging the chill across the lake. How is she not freezing to death? Her steps falter the closer she gets to her sister’s casket. Why isn’t someone there with her? Her shoulders rise and fall, and her hand reaches for Olivia.
For a breath, she tenses. It happens in the crack of a second; her body goes rigid. It’s almost like she’s here but not here. I blink, and she’s gently pulling her hand away, but I notice the slight shiver, the unsteady gait as she walks back to her seat. The lines of her face harden, and she looks straight ahead, not acknowledging the dozens of people who pay their respects after her. Rain continues to pour, and she remains still, unmoving, like something within her died when she said her final goodbye to her sister. Viola looks like a painting in the middle of chaos, frozen in time.
Lorne finally drags his lanky frame to the casket. His long black coat,soaked with rain, seems to weigh him down, slowing his steps. When he reaches Olivia, he lifts his hand, presumably to fix her hair. I glance at Viola, and her fist clenches. Then, Lorne does something no one else did: he leans in. He places a kiss on Olivia’s forehead, then grabs her hand, slides a ring on one of her fingers, and wails. I’ve known Lorne for two years, and the man has never once lost his composure. He is so out of himself that the officiant has to walk him back to his seat. Did Olivia really leave after finding out about his affair with Fable? Does he blame himself for her death? Next to him, Viola’s knuckles are white.
The officiant says a few words, and everyone stands. Olivia’s coffin, an ornate wooden affair engraved with flowers and vines, lowers into the ground under a myriad of tears. Everyone is crying, even coldhearted Delaney. Everyone, except Viola.
Soon after, people trickle away, offering more empty words of comfort to Viola and her mother. In truth, they’ll move on by tomorrow.
Lyria and I stand in the same place for half an hour, long after the other people are gone, long after Viola’s mother gave her a single nod before walking away, long after Lorne tried to hug her twice, and she shoved his hands away.
Now, she kneels in the rain, her back to me, the hem of her dress drowned in mud, her hands clenching the stems of white roses at her sides. All I can think about is that I hope the stems don’t have thorns.
“Sy.” Lyria taps me on the arm.
“Go ahead.” I’m already walking toward Viola, cursing the bond that was forced upon me.
Dear Mr. Carver, please find enclosed the money for your illusionist services. Arrangements have been made for the next twenty years with potential for renewal. A breach in agreement will result in immediate cessation of payment.
ANONYMOUS LETTER TO VICTOR CARVER, JANUARY 1926
seventeen | viola
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1939
Let’s go.”
Archyr’s low voice is barely audible against the crashing rain. I don’t answer. Where would I even go after the words that trickled out of my dead sister’s mouth? The very words I didn’t let her finish when I saw her body at the lake.