Richard pointed at him.
“Oh gods, the finger of doom. Deliver me!”
He would not pummel his brother. It wouldn’t be right. Richard forced himself to sit down in the chair. “Are you quite finished?”
“Yes. Well, no, I could go on, but I’ll spare you.” Kaldar poured more wine. “It will work out. It always does.”
Richard raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
SOPHIE pulled a cloth from the pocket of her tunic and carefully cleaned the blade. She and Charlotte strolled down the path into the woods, the wolf-dog trotting in front of them like some monster from a child’s fairy tale.
“Do you have to do this every time you take your sword out?” Charlotte asked.
“If I draw blood,” the girl answered quietly. “And the orange juice is acidic. It will corrode the blade.”
“Why not make a stainless-steel sword?”
“Stainless steel doesn’t bend. A sword must be flexible, or it will break.”
Much like people. “Did Richard talk you into becoming my bodyguard?”
“I asked him. He said that the opportunity exists, but the final decision is yours, and he had ‘neither the capability nor the inclination to compel you to do anything against your will.’ He’s very formal sometimes.”
“I won’t hesitate either,” Sophie said with quiet determination. “And I’m faster and better skilled.”
“You’re still a child.”
Sophie took a step. Her hand blurred again: strike, strike, strike—was it three? Four?—and she sheathed her sword.
The woods stood silent. Nothing moved.
Sophie sighed, reached out, and pushed a four-inch-wide sapling with her finger. The tree slid aside, breaking into four pieces as it fell.
“It’s not as dramatic when it doesn’t fall by itself,” Sophie said. “I’m faster than Richard. It takes him a third of a second longer to stretch his flash onto the blade. Do you know what that means?”
“No.” Somehow she knew the answer wouldn’t be good.
“It means I can kill him,” Sophie said.
Sophie shook her head. “When Spider fused my mother, William killed her. He is my brother-in-law, and it was a mercy killing. My father died with her. He’s alive, technically. He eats and breathes and talks. But he is . . . absent. He tries to take care of the family because it’s his duty, but if the rest of us disappeared tomorrow, he would walk off the nearest cliff.” Sophie turned to her. “It’s not fair. I didn’t die. I’m still here, but he doesn’t care.”
She’d said it so flatly, her aspect so neutral. She was barely fifteen years old and already she was masking her pain. Charlotte fought an urge to reach out and hug her. It probably wouldn’t be welcomed.
“He must care. A parent doesn’t just abandon a child.”
“My father did. He loved my mother so much, and now she is gone, and the world stopped for him. He stopped training me. He stopped talking to me after dinner. He stopped talking to everyone unless it’s absolutely necessary, so I suppose I shouldn’t expect special treatment just because I’m his daughter.”
So much damage. A low pain squeezed Charlotte’s chest. It felt like her heart had turned over.
“Richard is the only father I have now. He takes care of me. But I’m faster, and he would hesitate to cut me down. He loves me very much. So I know I can kill him.”
“That’s a cold thing to say.”
Sophie glanced at her, surprised. “You think so?”
“Yes.”
“It’s just a fact.” She shrugged. “I can’t help it.”
Anything Charlotte said to that would sound like a criticism. The coldness was likely a barrier Sophie had built, and the fact that it was there meant fragility. Charlotte stayed silent. Perhaps later, if they had a chance to forge more trust, she could return to it.
“You’re planning to expose Brennan at the Grand Thane’s wedding,” Sophie said.
“How do you know this?”
Sophie raised her head. Light filtering through the trees dappled her face. “Hawk.”
Charlotte looked up as well. A bird of prey soared above the treetops, circling around them.
“It’s dead,” Sophie said. “George is guiding it. He is very powerful.”
The realization washed over Charlotte in a cold gush of embarrassment. “Is George spying on Richard and me?”
“Always,” Sophie said. “All those perfect manners are a sham. He spies on everyone and everything. Declan hasn’t been able to conduct a single business meeting in the past year without George’s knowing all the details. He does let go when you make love. He is a prude.”
“‘Prude’ is a coarse word. He has a sense of tact,” Charlotte corrected before she caught herself.
“A sense of tact,” Sophie repeated, tasting the words. “Thank you. The other one is somewhere around here, too.”
“The other one?”
Sophie surveyed the woods. “I can smell you, Jack!”
“No, you can’t,” a distant voice answered.
The dog barked and shot through the bushes to the side.
“I told you.” Sophie smiled. “Spider will attend the wedding of Grand Thane. He’s a peer of the Dukedom of Louisiana. His rank demands it.”
“You can’t kill Spider,” Charlotte told her.
“I just want to see him. He took my mother and my father away from me.” Sophie’s dark eyes looked bottomless. “I want to see his face. I want to brand it in my head.” She tapped her skull. “So I’ll never forget it. Because we will meet again, and when we do, I want to be absolutely certain that I kill the right man.”
She was frightening.
“Please let me do this, Lady de Ney. Please.” Her words were a fierce, savage whisper. Sophie dropped on one knee. “You have lost someone. You know how it feels. I’m running in circles, like a mouse on a wheel. I just want a way to get off. Please.”
Charlotte’s memory conjured the nightmare of her house burning. She had felt so helpless standing there, on that lawn, watching Éléonore’s remains smolder as the ash rained on Tulip’s hair. She chose to do something about it because she possessed the means to do it. When Spider tore this child’s parents from her, she must’ve felt helpless, too. She banished Sophie, gave up the person she was, and became Lark, who cut trees into pieces faster than the eye could follow.
She and Richard, they were exactly alike. Ice over fire, a cool exterior hiding uncontrollable passion and emotion beneath. If Charlotte shut Sophie out now, she would be inflicting another wound. The very fury that fueled the child’s transformation might tear her apart.
Charlotte sighed. “How proficient are you in etiquette?”
Sophie stood up. “I took lessons.”
“Same instructor as Rose?”
“How did you know?”
Charlotte reached over and brushed a twig off Sophie’s tunic. “The gown you wore when I saw you the first time. It’s a decade too old for you. We have a lot of work to do, my dear. If you really want to come with me, you must be flawless.”
SOPHIE drank from a tiny cup, holding it with effortless grace. Charlotte sat across from her. In the three days she had spent with her, Sophie had soaked up information like a sponge. She was a natural mimic in the best possible sense of the word—she imitated not only the action but the air, the atmosphere Charlotte projected, and
