My pulse stutters. What?
"I don't disagree."
That's Father's voice. But it can't be. Because that tone—gentle, almost tender—is one I've never heard directed at me. Not in twenty-five years.
"But it's for her protection. She hates me for keeping her here, but the less she knows, the safer she'll be. The safer we'll all be." A pause. The clink of ice in a glass. "Merlin isn't dead. Not like we thought. That exhibit was a shot across our bow. We have to assume Paul de Gaulle is either working for Merlin or carrying on his work. And I'm not convinced she's not sympathetic to his cause."
My lungs forget how to work.
"For now, we proceed as if she's compromised." Father's voice hardens again. "She remains in the dark."
I stumble back from the door, hand pressed over my mouth to stifle any sound. My shoulder hits the opposite wall, and I brace myself there, legs shaking.
Merlin. Paul. Sentinel. The words swirl in my head like debris in a hurricane, refusing to form a coherent picture.
My entire life has been a lie. Not just controlled—weaponized. Twisted into something I don't recognize.
And Prescott... his talk of caring, of wishing he could tell me. It doesn't match the man who threatened me over breakfast, who discussed my body like a commodity.
But Father. That gentle tone when he spoke about protecting me. Was that real? Can any of this be real?
I press my palms against my eyes, willing the spinning to stop.
Paul confided in me. Showed me his paintings. Told me about Merlin—or did he? Did he actually tell me anything, or did I fill in the blanks with what I wanted to believe?
Our relationship began with a lie. He knew who I was before we met. The chalet. The paintings. All of it was carefully orchestrated.
But the way he touched me. Looked at me. Painted me.
Was any of it real?
I don't know. Don't know who to trust. Father? Paul? Merlin?
Maybe none of them.
Maybe I'm just a pawn in a game where all the players are liars.
I make my way back to my room on autopilot, feet carrying me through familiar halls that suddenly feel foreign. Threatening. How many of these walls hide secrets? How many of these paintings are forgeries, stolen, covers for God knows what?
In my room, I try to work. Spread papers across my desk—authentication reports, provenance research, correspondencewith galleries. The familiar documents should ground me, but the words blur together, meaningless.
I sketch. Attempt to lose myself in the familiar scratch of charcoal on paper, but my hand won't cooperate. The lines come out jagged, wrong.
Hours pass. The sunlight shifts across the floor, turns golden, then amber. My body feels disconnected from my mind, going through motions while my thoughts chase themselves in circles.
Sentinel. Fifth. Malfor. Merlin. Paul.
The pieces won't fit together.
A soft knock at the door makes me jump, charcoal skittering across the page, leaving a dark slash.
"Miss Faulks?" Marcus's gruff voice, muffled through wood. "Your father requests your presence in his study."
I close my eyes. Take a breath that doesn't quite fill my lungs. "I'll be right there."
The walk down the hallway feels endless. Marcus's bulk moves ahead of me—not quite escort, not quite guard. Something in between. The paintings on the walls seem to watch me pass, their subjects' eyes following my movement.
Accusing.
