Page 36 of The Witch They Crave

"Leopold Vassard," the center adjudicator says. "You are not on the witness list."

"No, ma'am. I'm here as a representative of House Vassard, with a proposal that may serve both the tribunal and the aggrieved family." He flashes his charming, earnest smile and a lump forms in my throat. "If you'll permit me."

The adjudicators confer. Brief. The center one nods.

"House Vassard recognizes the legitimacy of House Vane's blood claim." Leopold moves toward the front of the room. Every step rehearsed until it looks spontaneous. "We share their grief. Emric Vane was a fellow student—a friend—and his loss diminishes this institution."

A friend. I think of Emric's face at the Revel, the confusion as Leopold opened my file, the way his dark eyes widened before he understood what was happening. My fingernails dig into the wood of my chair.

To Leopold, Emric was no friend.

"House Vassard proposes the following: we will satisfy House Vane's blood claim through direct redress—financial restitution, political concessions, whatever terms House Vane deems appropriate, drawn from Vassard resources. In exchange, Miss Dellaby is released into formal Vassard sponsorship. I assume personal responsibility for her conduct, her training, and her containment. She remains at Devenir. She remains enrolled. The council is relieved of the liability."

The room exhales.

No, no, no…

I can feel it—the collective unclenching, the adjudicators' posture easing a fraction. Balcour's pen already moving. The Vane advocate looks at Emric's parents. His father's jaw works once, twice, but he doesn't object.

The center adjudicator turns to Balcour. "Mr. Balcour, as the subject's institutional handler, does the council have a position on the Vassard proposal?"

Balcour stands. Adjusts his glasses. "The council's position is that Miss Dellaby represents an ongoing liability. House Vassard's willingness to absorb that liability is, in the council's view, a practical resolution." He clicks his pen. "Frankly, the council would welcome any arrangement that transfers the risk."

Transfers the risk. That's what I am. A risk to be transferred.

My chest tightens. My magic presses against the ward-lines and I'm watching the room rearrange itself around a decision I haven't been asked to make yet.

"If I may—" Aamon is on his feet.

I blow out a ragged breath, thankful to hear what Aamon might say.

"Professor." The center adjudicator holds up one hand. Doesn't look at him. "You've given your testimony. You are not an advocate in this proceeding."

"The subject's training is directly relevant to—"

"Sit down, Professor."

Aamon stands for one second longer than compliance requires—long enough to show his protest—and then sits. His jaw is locked. His hands go flat on his thighs. I've never seen him overruled. I've never seen him try to speak and be told no.

Something cold is settling in my stomach. House Vane wants my blood or my servitude. The council wants to wash their hands. Aamon can't speak. And Leopold is the only person in this room offering me a door.

Except I know where his door leads. I've read the rune. I've felt the tracking spell. I know what he did at the Revel. And it doesn't matter, because knowing doesn't give me a third option.

Leopold turns to me.

The warm brown eyes. The long fingers at his sides, relaxed, open. That face offering mercy the way it always offers things—perfectly, convincingly, with the blade tucked just out of sight.

The rune on my door. His blood in the carving. The sealed file, the names read aloud, the way the whole room heard my family die for the second time. Odette's note: it was him. He built this. The explosion, the death, the cellar, the inquest—every piece of it designed. And now he's standing in the ashes offering to rebuild.

Leopold had every second of this planned…

I look at Aamon.

Still. Perfectly still. He's looking at Leopold and I've never seen that expression on him before. He didn't see this coming. Whatever plan he may or may not have had to help me was just shot to hell. Leopold walked right through it.

I look for Kage.

Back wall of the gallery. Standing in the shadow between two columns, arms crossed. He's been here the whole time—positioned where he can see every face and reach the door in three strides. His eyes are locked on Leopold. The look on his face isn't fury. I know his fury. This is colder. The math done, the number bad.