I whirled my head sideways to see Ferne twisting around in my direction. The ends of black lace tied over her eyes danced with the swift movement. But terrified screams swelled, smothering her command as a flood of frightened children washed out from the Servants’ Entrance.
I tore across the courtyard like a raging wind, my bare feet flying over sun-warmed cobbles. Sage’s neck stretched long beside me, his legs propelling him in a bounding gallop. Leaping up the short flight of steps and across the porch, I barreled through the main entrance. And then I was inside.
The chandelier hanging from the foyer’s high recess crackled, sparked, and fizzled out. Every light followed, plunging the space into gloom. I dodged the mess strewn across the dark stone floor. The skewered artwork, overturned tables, shattered heirlooms, all blurred past as I ran toward the booming voices and clashing metal echoing down a side hallway.
The brunnie’s destruction worked to my advantage. I had a specific goal, one I’d planned ever since discovering an intriguing detail about the cute critter in Dustin’s book. I should’ve set it in motion the moment chaos erupted in the training pit.
But what had I done instead with the precious time?
I’d engaged in a hate-fest of oral sex with Graysen.
A storm of lust had been brewing between us for some time, a tempest trembling toward its breaking point. I had two choices—give in to my craving or fight it.
Yet, I knew I shouldn’t have engaged with Graysen. Our sexual encounter had diverted my mission, and if I’d kept my wits about me, I should’ve taken my punishment and walked away as soon as it was done. But no, apparently I wanted to get off.
And he was the only one available.
I couldn’t actually say I didn’t like it.
I did. A lot.
Sage and I darted into the library, relieved to find it untouched by the brunnie. A faint woody scent drifted from the low fire in the hearth as I sprinted past rows of tables and towering shelves, veering into a dim corner thick with the lovely smell of parchment.
I dropped to a crouch, shoving aside old tomes and reaching into the dark recess behind the bottom shelf. My fingers brushed rough canvas, and I dragged out the black messenger bag I’d hidden there last evening while Graysen had been down in the garage.
Flipping open the bag, I fished out the cloth, careful not to prick my fingers with the porcupine quills. Sage sat on his haunches, his tail swishing across stone. I arched an eyebrow. “Ready?”
He rose to his paws and huffed eagerly.
Carefully drawing the cloth over Sage’s long back, I adjusted it and tied the loose strings around his barreled chest, then did the same with the ones at his legs. I’d made a bloodthirsty brunnie disguise for him, and we’d been practicing in the library for days. I’d stolen bits from Graysen’s craft box, hacked up one of his shirts, gathered quills from the forest, and glued and stitched everything together until it resembled the feral creature sketched in Dustin’s book.
Despite any ally in my sister’s spy, there was only one person I could rely on to extract me from this Crowther mess—me.
I pulled the half-hood over Sage’s head. The porcupine quills, padded with gray cotton and thin strips of t-shirt, flopped forward to half-conceal his face and flatten his large ears. If he moved fast enough, he’d pass for a brunnie. And with all the pandemonium tearing through the Keep, there would hopefully be fewer guards outside the barracks. All I needed my wraith-wolf to do was lure them away long enough for me to slip inside and find the armory.
I ruffled the fur under his chin. “Okay, you ready?” Narrowing my gaze, I splayed my fingers wide and swept my hands dramatically through the air. “Think brunnie. Feel it. Breathe it. Be it.”
He arched his throat and let out a strange high-pitched yowl that sounded nothing like a wraith-wolf. The movement jostled his headgear a little, and I ducked back to avoid being pricked by the sharp quills.
I flipped a hand over, and the rough pad of his paw met my palm as we shook on it. Rising, I quickly tied my loose hair into a knot at the nape of my neck and whipped a black shawl over my head like a hood to hide myself further. Scooping up the messenger bag, I slung it across a shoulder and whispered, “Let’s go.”
Urgency fueled my blood and pumped my heart faster.
We slunk like bandits from the library. The lighting flickered in stuttering bursts, bulbs crackling weakly before dying again. My black dress blended with the dark stone walls, letting me melt into the shadows now that the Keep’s electricity was failing. From above came crashing footsteps, metal scraping stone, and the brothers’ voices barking orders.
There were only two known entrances to the barracks. I was sure there were secret ones, but I hadn’t discovered them. The exterior entrance was impossible with all the chaos in the courtyard, so I cut through a series of reading nooks and open rooms stuffed with the Crowthers’ absurd hoard of antiquities. I was begrudgingly impressed. Archaeologists would lose their minds in here.
Sage and I bolted through an arched doorway and down a long runner, entering the Crowthers’ gallery with its pale green walls and crown molding. My gaze skimmed the friezes, oil paintings, and full-scale marble sculptures of their ancestors. So many Crowthers. Hundreds of them, all watching me.
And the current family was here too. An oil painting in an ornate gold frame hung above an arched threshold. Varen’s imperious figure towered over his wife, Ferne, as a pudgy babe, tucked into her mother’s arms.
Varen and Tabitha stood among their sons, all young and gangly with a variety of wild haircuts—Graysen’s unruly mop, Kenton’s mullet, Caidan’s fauxhawk, Jett’s long black waves. And apart from Tabitha, with her breezy smile and ivory dress, they all wore black suits and somber expressions. But their violet eyes—a set of green, another of black—were smiling. They looked like a family, and there was such a sense of normality in their painted image that it made my pace slow down even further. It wasn’t what I expected.
And neither was the lone painting I saw of Tabitha Crowther.
All the muscles in my shoulders tensed to see her up there all by herself as if she were a queen. A servant who had risen to Matriarch to rule over their House. Something that had never happened before in our world.
Straight white teeth gleamed behind full rosy lips, and a dimple flashed in a cheek. Tabitha stood on the graceful stone steps of the Keep in a casual summer dress stained with grass. Dirt dusted her fingers, and a wicker basket overflowing with white roses with irregular clusters of petals hung off the crook of her arm. Soft locks of golden hair had escaped the loose ponytail draping over her shoulder, and fine tendrils curled around her golden cheekbones.
