“Karoline is right, Marcèllian.”
A distinguished male spoke out. His finely pressed slacks of dark blue and bright red caught the glimmers of the twinight as he nodded in agreement with Madame Karoline.
“Tassarion Celèstian Everthorn, firstborn of Tazzias and Clarèssa, returned to us from the bowels of the Six Hèls. He was the heir apparent, back to reclaim his throne, yet you had us convinced the monstrosity he’d become was enough to strip him of his crown and his life. That he was irredeemable and unfit to rule.” The male elegantly folded his hands, sitting straight. “If we hadn’t banded together to simply have him exiled to Everthorn Manor beyond the Alabaster Wood, your ruthlessness would have gotten the boy, and only rightful heir to the throne, killed.”
The voice of the male finally registered.
If I wasn’t mistaken, it belonged to Sir Tyrique.
Tyrique nodded toward where Jacques floated at the front of the crowd, his hands, bare feet, and wings chained. Tyrique didn’t spare Jacques a pitying glance. He sat straight, ever the dignified noble, not moving a muscle, keeping his arms and legs crossed. He spoke evenly, calmly, but the weight in his tone was enough for me to know he still held influence over these angels. The twitch in Marcèllian’s jaw let me know the swine knew that, too.
So. They hadn’t wanted to get rid of me.
Marcèllian forced their hand.
Hatred for the Beauradèl lord grew.
“We had to rid ourselves of a brilliant jewel, all because of his deformity and disposition. You told us Tassarion was cruel. A traitor. He’d colluded with the Fallen. Became a heinous monstrosity. You told us to judge without mercy.” Tyrique paused, letting his words take up space. The longer he talked,the more I itched to dismember Marcèllian’s head from his shoulders. “Your son has proven his monstrosity. We weren’t allowed to spare the heir of our Roi, so why must we spare yours?”
“The greedy hèlsborn must pay for what he did to sweet little Richard,” another female jumped in.
Marcèllian looked helpless. Pathetic.
“Please, I ask you to extend mercy. You all know Jacques and?—”
“We knew Tassarion, too.”
The voice that spoke was female. I couldn’t place it, but there was a hint of rage there. Of vengeance. Who had just spoken?
“And none of us knew him better thanyou, Marcèllian. He called you Unka, did he not?”
Marcèllian pressed his lips together, falling quiet.
I did call him uncle. The thought was enough to jab me in the chest with fresh pain.
“You’re right, Marcèllian. We know, Jacques,” Esthèl burst out. Minali whipped her head toward her friend, trying to get her to hush. “Greedy. Arrogant. Bourgeois.”
“That’s not true!”
Jacques Beauradèl finally cried out, taking the chance to defend himself against his accusers. There were bags beneath his hazel eyes, and in the light of night I could see his shoulders bent with the weight of judgment. Of despair. I almost cared.
Almost.
“Silence, boy! We do not listen to murderers,” Madame Karoline snapped. “How dare you speak when you haven’t been spoken to?”
“Enough!”
Every head snapped to the side, turning to the female who’d cried out.
The same voice that spoke earlier.
My jaw dropped.
Could it be?
I blinked in shock as I looked at the female from my hidden perch. The Madame was beauty personified, even in her old age. I knew who she was at once, though I’d only seen her twice as a youngling.
Madame Mireline.
