“You left them hanging over the end of the bed.”
Ilsa peered through the gap in the screen. So she had. Cassia ducked her head purposefully, and Ilsa wondered if it was humour she was hiding.
“Where did you go?”
“I needed some air was all.”
There was a long breath of silence. Cassia reached the final button at the neck of the dress and dropped her hands. “Did you pass through the gallery?” she asked.
Ilsa turned around. “Did I see the portrait of my parents, you mean?” Her parents who had tried to protect her; who would be angry for her if they knew of the lie that had changed the course of her life.
The sadness in Cassia’s eyes compounded, and a conflict played out behind them. “I’m so sorry, Ilsa, but your parents—”
“They’re dead? I know.” Cassia opened her mouth. Closed it again. Ilsa thought it over a moment, but still wasn’t sure why she chose the lie she told next. “I asked that Captain Fowler. He told me ’bout the factions and the Principles and all that. ’Bout how my mother and father was killed.”
“I see,” said Cassia, nodding absently.
Ilsa rounded the screen and made for the mirror to avoid any further questions. She was already lucky to have said something Cassia could believe. And she was lucky to have kept her tears in check in front of her.
“You’re so much like your family.” Ilsa stopped fussing with her hair as Cassia appeared in the glass behind her. “Your eyes…”
It was hard to drag her gaze from the beauty of the other girl’s face to look at her own. Ilsa didn’t think very often of her face. Appearance meant little when she could change it as she pleased. But now, as she looked in the mirror, she saw the woman in the portrait, dressed in a fine dress, standing in a beautiful bedchamber.
You belong here.
Doubt and dismay swelled in her chest, and she turned away.
“Have I got any relations here?” she asked, not daring to hope.
She must have caught Cassia in her own reverie, for she startled. If it was possible to upset the girl further, Ilsa had managed it; her eyes were glassy.
“You do,” she said shakily, and let Ilsa reach the point of madness before she finished: “Hester is a cousin. Your second cousin, I think.”
A cousin. The woman who had searched for her was her cousin – her family. There were names and faces, lives and deaths, all too big for Ilsa’s paradigm. Her feet followed Cassia from the bedchamber and down the corridor, but her mind was in several other places; the orphanage, the portrait gallery, the room they were headed.
They reached a set of double doors, and Ilsa’s nerves rivalled the first time she had stepped on stage. As Cassia knocked and waited for a reply that never came, Ilsa resisted bursting into the room, just to have it done with. Eventually Cassia took the handles and swung the doors open to reveal a long sitting room. Pre-dawn light was filtering softly through the high windows. It mingled with the lamplight to illuminate the feminine, pastel accents of the furniture and wallpaper – but the scent of stale smoke and rotting flowers spoiled the impression.
Across the room, a woman sat facing the window. She didn’t rise, or even turn to acknowledge their presence; she just stared out into the gardens.
“Hester?” Cassia closed the doors behind them, and Ilsa followed her deeper into the room. “Ilsa has arrived.” When Hester didn’t react, she added lamely: “Here she is.”
Hester spoke, her voice clear and commanding. “Fliss, move me nearer the couch.”
As a tall, willowy woman with eyeglasses hurried from an adjoining room, Ilsa rounded the console between them, unable to resist the urge to get closer. Hester’s wicker armchair had wheels. Fliss took the handles of the chair, pivoted Hester to face the room, and brought her closer.
And just like that, Ilsa was face to face with her family.
Hester regarded her with a bored, sardonic expression. She was not decrepitly aged, as Ilsa had foolishly imagined when she saw the wheelchair; thirty, perhaps. The resemblance she bore to Ilsa and her mother was less pronounced, but her eyes were the same distinctive shade. Her hair was caramel blonde – a shade darker than Ilsa’s but identical in texture – her chin was pointed, and she had a high, broad forehead above narrow brows. She held a cigarette in a silver holder, and she took a long drag as she studied the new arrival.
“Ilsa, this is Hester Ravenswood, a cousin of yours and the Warden Alpha of Camden Town,” said Cassia.
Ilsa wondered if a curtsey was proper, given the unfamiliar title. She did not perform one.
Hester cracked a smile, though it wasn’t entirely friendly. “My lieutenants are always sure to remind me of the warden part. Thank you, Cassia.”
“I was only…”
“You’re Lyander’s double, to be sure,” she went on, heedless of Cassia’s small sigh as she trailed off. Her voice had a ringing clarity that was equal parts compelling and intimidating. “Why don’t you sit?”
Unsure if this was a request, Ilsa took a seat on the couch. Fliss was shooed; Cassia remained standing by Ilsa’s shoulder.
There was a long silence while Hester watched her unblinkingly and enjoyed her cigarette. Ilsa met her stare, resisting the urge to seek direction from Cassia, who stood just beyond her sights.
“I din’t know I had any family,” said Ilsa eventually.
“Not a lot of it,” replied Hester. “It’s a shame you couldn’t have come in December.”
“I din’t know none of this existed in December,” she shot back, indignant again. “Why? What happened in December?”
Humour coloured Hester’s features. Her gaze reached beyond the couch, to Cassia, and she
