Chapter Forty-seven
I remain quiet in the darkroom. Curtains drawn, hushed voices, a four-poster bed occupied by a shriveled fae: the Head of Illusion. At his side, Kassandra kneels, hands clasping the withered, spotted ones of her father. Their conversation stutters in fits and starts.
“Papa,” she urges. “Do you understand what has happened? Dominik has slaughtered a dozen fae and halflings.”
“Guards,” the Head of Illusion says.
“Yes, and Lord Tomas, his wife, and her unborn child. Our advisor is gone.”
“Mostly guards.”
I wince as Kassandra gapes at him. “We need…help. I need help. What should I do?”
Dry lips smack together. “Speak to your brother.”
“He will not listen.”
“Then stop him,” he says. “If he needs to be stopped, then stop him.”
The air in the room plummets, my mistress shifting, blinking.
“I…tried.”
Then, Iros Morella, the Lynx of the Lowlands, lifts a large head upon a withered throat. He looks his daughter in the eyes with a sudden clarity that takes my breath.
“The title of head of House belongs to the strongest fae.” Hisvoice comes out deep and loud. “If you are too weak to stop him, then you must accept your role as its Heart.”
—
Kassandra and Imarch down the marble corridor for the Illusion fae. The hall is empty of halfling guards, scarce of servants. I open and close my mouth, unsure of what to say.
“What is it?” she sighs.
“Nothing, mistress—”
“Stop calling me that. Please.”
Please.
Spare them.
The images flicker through my mind, the blood still drying into the lines on my palms.
“We must contact outside help,” I say. “Lord Eli—”
“No,” she cuts in. “Illusion cannot look weak, not at a time like this.”
“Illusion is weak.”
“You think I don’t know that?” she seethes, wheeling to face me, teeth bared. “The advisor is dead, the head dying, and the heir murderous—”
“Then you must—”
“You heard my father. I tried—and I was not strong enough.”
“Dominik is half a century older. He has spent two centuries breaking you with your mother’s encouragement.”
Kassandra flinches. “Stop.”
