At the library, Lunara pressed her back to the wall and craned her neck to better see through the partially open door.
Her father passed in and out of view, still fully dressed in his Council robes. “It’s gone too far, Almaura. He’s worse than the others, by a long way.”
“I agree, but what can we do about it?” Her mother’s voice reached across the distance, soothing even in distress. “We’ve said it a hundred times, but the others will never hold a vote so close to the Occurrence.”
“Two years to find another is plenty.”
“Stellan—”
“We can count on Cordelia to back us.”
“Even if she convinced half of the Council, it wouldn’t be enough. Unanimous or nothing, that’s the rule. For our own sake!”
Lunara shuffled closer and spotted her mother upon a settee, head in her hands.
The black waves of Almaura’s hair were mussed, her shoulders caved in and skin wan. Such despair, written right there on her body. Lunara had missed her mother’s frustration, a sort of dark surrender. Had she known, even then, what was coming?
“That can’t be the end of it!” Her father shouted. “We can fight the rules, make them hear us.”
“Two of us cannotmake themdo anything. They wish to shield him, so they will.”
“I know, but?—”
“They’ll wait, as ever, until it can no longer be denied by anyone. Do you think his mate will agree based on hearsay? And from whom? Some street urchin in the Lower Block who swears he saw a ghost do it?”
“Someone died today, Almaura.”
The way her mother’s eyes closed… She’d known. Maybe not the particulars, but enough. Lunara wanted to scream at Stellan to listen. To be a worse person than he truly was, and save himself. Save all of them.
Her mother abruptly stood. “I am aware. But there’s no proof it was him. Nor was there proof for any of the others.”
“He said her throat was ripped out by a phantom. Who else could it be!”
Lunara’s gasp flew out of her, unchecked, and her parents’ heads snapped up.
For the first time, Lunara wished she’d stopped that sound. What else would they have said? Which of their deepest thoughts would they have voiced? What difference might it have made?
“You may as well come in,” her father said with a sigh. “Unless you prefer creeping around in the dark?”
Lunara pinched her lips between her teeth as she pushed into the room, looking anywhere but at them. “ThisisNachthelliae. Aren’t we all creeping around in the dark?” Her joke pulled a rueful smile from both of them. “Besides, I wasn’t. I was getting a snack and thought I heard voices.”
Her mother snorted. “You’re a wretched liar, Lunara. Stick to the things you’re good at.”
Lunara’s answering look was sheepish as her father wrapped strong arms around her. “I’m sorry you heard that,” he said.
“Someone was murdered?” she asked, pulling away.
“Stellan, I don’t?—”
“She deserves to know, Almaura. She should understand what she’s getting into when she endures her trial next week.”
A spike of excitement thrummed. Only days until she’d exhibit her power, publicly claim her name, and join the Elder Tier. Maybe even the Council, like her parents.
Ignorant, optimistic fool. Lunara remembered that moment of exhilaration all too well—felt it again now, straight to her bones—and she wanted to shake her useless, youthful self to knock some modicum of sense into her.
“What does my trial have to do with it?”
Her father plopped onto the settee and patted the space beside him. She sat as her mother perched on the arm, her parents lacing their fingers—as always when they were near one another.
