Prologue
Lady Calliope Balfourrubbed her bare arms to ward off the chill, ignoring the sting of pain as she shrank deeper into the corner of the dark, dusty attic. On her lap, curled in a ball of white fur, lay Prince, the snowy greyhound puppy she had found cowering in a flower patch beneath the library window. He was the only warmth she had left, the only thing in this forsaken place that made her feel needed and alive.
She knew all too well what had brought her here—the latest in a string of punishments from her stepmother, Duvessa. This time, her crime had been compassion. Finding Prince and hiding him in her room had stirred an anger in Duvessa so fierce that the heavens nearly shook with her wrath. But not even the sting of the cane had persuaded Calliope to abandon him. She’d endure anything, even her growing hunger and the bruises that throbbed beneath her skin.
She would not give him up.
“I’m sorry, Prince,” she whispered, tucking her face in his soft fur. “This is the only way I can keep you.”
It was a miracle already that Duvessa hadn’t torn the puppy from her arms. But Calliope knew the puppy would be used as a tool to keep her in line, a weakness her stepmother would surely exploit when it suited her. Still, she would fight to keep Prince by her side, whether she was locked in the attic for a week or a month, with nothing but athin blanket and old portraits of her father and his ancestry stacked against the walls.
I shall not give in.
What was the worst they could do to her?
Her gaze fell on the proud face of her father, the late Honorable Viscount of Balfour. What would he say if he knew his brother had abandoned her to Duvessa’s whims? Her uncle, the current viscount, barely acknowledged her existence. Would he care that his niece was being locked away like a prisoner? That she should be learning to dance, cite poetry, or play the piano like other girls her age and not cowering in the shadows?
She stroked Prince’s head.
She had no family in this house. But she did have friends—silent, unseen allies among the servants, who would sneak her extra bread when they could and empty the chamber pot her stepmother had left for her. They always offered the same words of encouragement before leaving: “Just hold on a little longer, Miss Calliope.”
And she would. Duvessa and her daughters had always been darkness to her—draped in black like the night, cold and cruel as winter winds. Even in sunlight, they cast long shadows.
They were the reason she hated the dark. The dark meant punishment. The dark meant pain. The dark always whispered their names.
She gathered Prince more tightly into her embrace.
Hold on a little longer . . .
Her gaze drifted to the small window, its glass covered by wooden planks. How much time had passed? How much longer did she need to hold on? No, it didn’t matter. She could endure as long as she needed to. She could hold on forever.
Calliope smiled against Prince’s soft white coat. She didn’t need to hold on forever—just until her eighteenth birthday.
Four years.
Only four more years. It sounded unbearably long, but still not aslong as forever.
She shut her eyes, allowing her mind to drift to a future she had created in her dreams. She’d escape. She’d make something of herself. And she’d live a quiet, peaceful life in the light.
Her mother once said she had a face like morning light—soft and fair, with eyes too curious for their own good. A constellation of freckles danced across her nose, and her golden hair always tangled when she was nervous.
“A dreamer’s face,” her mother used to say, “but with a fire hidden underneath.”
She clung to those words now.
Some things could only be escaped through imagination, and Calliope did that quite well. In her future, everything glowed bright and smelled fresh. She wouldn’t be ridiculed or beaten anymore. She wouldn’t have to fight for every scrap of food. She wouldn’t be locked in closets. She wouldn’t be cold.
She’d live a peaceful life, away from Duvessa, her vile stepsisters, and the family that didn’t claim her after her father’s death. The family that had never saved her. But most importantly, she would find a loving husband and build a true family—one that resembled a time before her father married that woman and everything fell apart.
The creak of wooden steps startled her out of her daydream, and her arms tightened protectively around Prince. She held her breath as the footsteps grew louder, stopping just outside the attic door. A few beats of silence followed before a snicker came from behind the door.
“Still not ready to give up on that mutt?” Victoria, the oldest of her stepsisters, sneered.
Calliope dug her toes into the floorboards.No. Never.
“Not speaking? How long do you think you can stay in that filthy attic this time, heh?” Morgana, her second stepsister, taunted.
However long it takes.
