"Miss Sinclair, it's not—"
"I won't tell anyone. I am very good at keeping secrets."
They walked along for a few moments.
"My mother, Morgana, is a sorceress. A long time ago, she felt she was wronged, and she has vowed to bring her vengeance upon those who wronged her. I–I—"
"She makes you do bad things, doesn't she?" Cleo whispered. "Why do you not tell her no?"
"I cannot. It's not as easy as making a choice." His voice hardened. "When she wants something, there is very little one can do to stop her. She finds ways to force your hand."
Of that, Cleo could understand a little. "She threatens those who surround you?"
He breathed out a bitter laugh. "Sometimes. When I was twelve, she gave me a gift. It was a Sclavus Collar. She told me to put it on, that it was a great present indeed. So I did."
Cleo sucked in a sharp breath. She'd only once heard of such a thing, a collar that could force incredible pain upon its bearer and turn them to the will of another who wore the matching ring. It made her feel sick. Twelve... Just twelve. A little boy betrayed by his own mother. She didn't even know what to say. "But that is forbidden."
"You do not know my mother. She fears my powers." He echoed that laugh again, a sound full of blood and hate that made her a little uneasy. "She should. If I had one chance, just one, I would cut her down where she stood. What does that make of me? Do you think I am a nice man now?" There was a darkness to his voice that threatened to suck her into prediction. "You would be better off never knowing me."
"Perhaps." Cleo considered her words. She still couldn't seem to reconcile him as a bad person in her mind. She had met bad people before, those who had hurt her, or demanded visions of her. Those who had blood all over their hands. He was nothing like them. And she had the tenuous feeling that he stood on the dark edge of a cliff. One step in the wrong direction, and he would fall into darkness and shadows he could never climb out of. But if he took a step backward, perhaps he could be saved. And if he could be saved, then she would do it, she vowed deep in her heart.
"If you had the choice to do such things, would you do them?"
"No."
"Then you cannot think yourself responsible for your actions," she told him simply. "If there is no choice available to you, then your ills fall on her shoulders, not yours. You mustn't blame yourself for her deeds. You are but a tool in her hands, Bastian. I–I understand how that feels. My father has used a great many of my visions for his own purposes, and I know that some of the things that I have seen, come to pass because of what he has learned from me. But the truth is, I cannot stop myself from predicting such things. It simply overwhelms me, no matter how much I try to withstand them. So I have decided that he makes the choices to take what he learns and twist it to his advantage. Not me. I won't bear his burdens."
"I don't even know why I'm telling you of this." Sebastian sighed. "I've never told a single person what she does to me. You have something that is beyond beauty, Miss Sinclair," he admitted, and there was a little hint of unease in his voice. "I am starting to think that of the two of you, you are far more dangerous than your father."
"Well, now." Again her cheeks heated. "You are starting to get the hang of it. Young ladies quite like it when devilishly handsome young men tell them they're the dangerous ones. May I ask you a question?"
"I'm not certain what would stop you."
"Well, this one's a little... more... confronting than usual."
"Good God. I'm almost afraid."
Cleo laughed, then let it fade. "Stop it. This is serious."
His silence seemed to acquiesce.
Cleo let out a steady breath. Her heart was galloping along in her chest. "Do you want to marry me?"
He was a long time in replying. "No."
Cleo sucked in a sharp breath. "Well, I don't want to marry you either. I've just met you, yet I can already tell that you are rather... grim. You should smile more often." With that she strode ahead of him, reaching into her basket for the small paper bag of breadcrumbs. Three more steps.
Footsteps followed her slowly. He was watching her again, she thought. "I don't have a lot to smile about."
"Neither do I," she replied, throwing a handful of breadcrumbs out in front of her. Ducks came squawking in from left and right, their feathery bodies jostling her skirts. "I'm blind, I'm locked away at this estate like Rapunzel in her tower, I foretell horrible things every day, and sometimes I wake up screaming, because even in my sleep, I cannot escape my predictions." She tilted her head toward him. "I don't have a single thing to smile about some days, but that doesn't stop me. I find things to make myself smile. Like feeding ducks. You cannot remain glum when an entire horde of ducks are dueling to the death at your feet for a tiny morsel of stale bread. Can you hear that?"
The quacking was positively overwhelming.
"Hear what?"
"Their battle cries," she said, her lips softening. "I've even named them. That—" She pointed to her left, "is Sir Eiderdown. He is always particularly strident. I daresay he is assaulting Lord Featherbottom as we speak. It's a little bit Montague and Capulet, you see. They have a history."
"I think you're quite correct." His face was tilted away from her, distorting the words. "That is clearly attempted duckicide.”
