“Do you think she’s finally dead?” Morgana’s shrill tone asked, butCalliope still ignored them. Responding only made it worse. They believed themselves above her because their father had been an earl, and Papa merely a viscount. She had long ago given up trying to understand why that mattered—why they must treat her so cruelly.
“Oh,” Victoria scoffed, “the little rat won’t die so easily. Even though it would be better if she were dead, it would cause Mama too much trouble. She will still be of some use in the future.”
Calliope’s brows drew together as she stared at the door. What use? What was the use of living this way? Being treated this way? Was she truly that unlovable?
No, Papa loved you. He did.
Yet those memories felt so far away, almost as if she had dreamed them.
“Oh, right,” Morgana said. “Mama promised that old dodger she would marry this brat to him when she came of age. What’s his name again?”
What old dodger? What marriage?
“Lord Flemming or something,” Victoria answered.
Did they mean Lord Flemmington? The smelly old lord who had been calling on Duvessa in recent weeks and whose stench lingered long after he left? He could have been her grandfather! The mere thought of being shackled to him made her stomach churn. Surely her stepmother wouldn’t do such a thing. Surely her uncle—
“And the viscount agreed.” Victoria snickered.
Calliope’s hands balled into fists. She didn’t know if the girls were lying, but let them try to marry her off to that old man! She would rather join her father in the afterlife than allow that to happen!
The door suddenly opened, and Calliope shielded her eyes as flickering candlelight intruded into the attic and made her squint. Once her eyes adjusted, she lowered her arm to find the unwelcome sight of her two stepsisters in the doorway.
“What a pitiful creature you are,” Morgana said before laughing. “How entertaining to watch you cower.”
Just a little longer . . .
“Yes,” Victoria agreed with a sly smile. “What a pitiful creature. Shall I be merciful today?” A piece of bread was tossed her way, landing at her feet.
Calliope didn’t rise to their taunts. She wouldn’t waste her already-depleted breath on these girls. She’d save it for surviving the darkness. And for Prince. Whatever breath was left, she’d give to him.
“What are you girls doing here?” A chilling voice cut through the air like a knife, cold and commanding. Her stepsisters’ expressions faltered, their smugness vanishing in an instant.
Duvessa.
Calliope’s whole body went stiff.
She held no love for this woman who had married her father exactly one year after her mother passed away. Within the next year, everything had fallen apart. Duvessa became with child, her father passed away shortly after, and a few months later, the viscountess suffered a miscarriage. Calliope didn’t know much about those things, but she understood through the beatings she’d received that she was blamed for it all. The screeching of her stepmother still echoed in her nightmares: “You wretched creature! This is all your fault! If I could have given birth to a son, my position would be secured! You shall stay at my side until I have used all you’re worth! I shall see to it!”
The door of the attic slammed shut again, jarring Calliope out of that horrid memory.
“We merely came to see whether our little sister had reflected on her actions, Mama,” she heard Victoria answer, a sickening sweetness clinging to each syllable.
“Come.” Duvessa’s tone brooked no argument. “Don’t disturb her punishment, lest her insolence rub off on you. You have dance lessons in an hour.”
Calliope listened as they descended the steps, only breathing a sigh of relief when the shallow creaks of the stairs faded into silence oncemore. She reached for the piece of bread, too hard to be enjoyable, breaking off a small piece and feeding it to Prince.
“Keep your strength up, little one,” she whispered. Young pups needed plenty of food to survive, and Calliope could skip a meal or two if she must.
Her gaze turned to her father’s portrait once more.I shall survive too, Papa.
She just needed to bide her time a little longer.
Chapter One
Brighton 1817
Six years later
