‘Papa.’ I haven’t called him that since I was small. ‘What happened here? Where’s Mama?’
‘It was a bomb.’ His head rolls slightly to one side and I see the gleam of his eyes. ‘She left. She had to… the light.’ He gestures to the now-covered window. ‘Mistral took her to the fortified rooms, along with the other guests. She didn’t want to leave me, I told her to go.’
‘A bomb?’ I whisper. ‘H-how is that possible?’ Inside I’m melting with relief that my mother is okay. But my father… I sob, wiping my face with the back of my hand.
He pats my leg. ‘You did well,’ he says. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘But you’re all burned, and…’ I sob again, unable to control myself. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ashamed.
‘It’s all right,’ he says, his voice gentle. ‘Now, I need to get out of here.’
‘Uh, of course.’ I nod, sniffing. ‘Can I… can you stand up? How badly are you hurt?’
My father grimaces, shifting his weight. ‘Is Bertrand near?’
‘Yes.’ Of course. He can come in now. ‘Bertrand!’
Bertrand arrives, knocking down the remains of the shattered doors. His hand comes to his mouth when he sees us. I want to cry again at his reaction. I stand up, my bare feet sticking to the floor. I don’t want to know what’s on them. My dress is ruined, smeared with dust and soot and blood. ‘Um, Bertrand.’ I swallow my tears. ‘Father needs help. I can’t lift him.’
Bertrand comes to lift my father in his arms. ‘I’ll take him to the sitting room, my lady.’
My father reaches for me, squeezing my hand. ‘Find your mother,’ he says.
I nod. There are no words. I leave the ballroom, heading towards the fortified rooms. Made of thick stone, half sunk into the ground and sealed against the light, they are the heart of the house. Built many centuries ago, they’ve since been strengthened with steel, floodlights installed on the outside controlled from the inside, with cameras on all sides. I press the intercom buzzer.
‘Emelia!’ My mother’s voice sounds tinny, her usually smooth tones rough. She’s sobbing, hoarse gasps coming through the speaker.
‘Mother, he’s all right, it’s all right. I’ve sealed the ballroom.’
I hear my mother sigh. ‘Aleks.’ Then another voice comes over the intercom, deep and masculine.
‘How do you know the threat is contained?’
‘Who is this?’ I frown, knowing the cameras can see me. But, seriously?
‘It’s Mistral, dear one. I don’t think your mother should come out until it’s safe.’
‘I’m out here.’ I don’t add ‘asshole’, but I want to. ‘And so’s Father. We’re fine. Bertrand is here. Mama, I need you.’
That last bit slips out. I’m shaking, cold in my ruined gown. I just want to hug her and know she’s safe. Stupid Mistral isn’t in charge here. Who the hell does he think he is?
With a hiss of steel, the great metal door opens. My mother is first out, shaking Mistral’s hand off her arm. What the hell? Was he seriously trying to hold her back? When she sees me her face crumples and all at once she’s curved around me, hugging me, kissing my hair. I hug her back, equilibrium returning to my world. Air rushes around us, but all I know is her. Thank darkness she’s safe.
‘Your lovely dress,’ she mumbles. ‘It’s ruined.’ I realise she’s as shaken as I am. It’s damp where her face is buried in my shoulder and I know she’s crying. Mistral is standing nearby, his handsome head tilted, a look of sympathy on his face, though there’s also a tightness, a slight frown. Blood is all over his crisp white shirt, fading red blotches on his golden skin.
‘Mama,’ I whisper. Childlike, again. ‘Father, he’ll want to see you.’
‘Of course.’ My mother sighs and releases me. Her silk dress is singed along the edges, red patches of burned skin on her pale neck and shoulders. Blood streaks her cheeks and she rubs at it, red flaking under her fingertips. There’s more blood on my shoulder, to go with the mess on my gown. I almost want to laugh. What a pair we make. Other than Mistral and two guards, everyone else has gone – I suppose they’ve returned to their chambers.
‘Come on.’ I hold out my hand but to my annoyance Mistral takes her arm and they whoosh down the hallway, faster than I can go. I run along behind, the guards keeping pace with me easily.
When we reach the sitting room my mother is hugging my father, who is half-lying on the sofa. ‘Oh, Aleksandr,’ I hear her say. He’s smiling, his eyes closed as he wraps his arms around her. Bertrand is standing nearby, hands clasped behind him, as are my parents’ personal guards. Mistral is sprawled in one of the armchairs. He seems relaxed, but there’s still something tense about him, something I can’t quite put my finger on.
‘What happened?’ I ask. Two words, encompassing so much. The long night catches up with me and I collapse into a soft armchair, hugging a cushion close. ‘Papa said it was a bomb.’ I still can’t believe this.
My mother turns to me. ‘It was one of the blood dancers?—’
‘The one at the drinks table?’
