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“Agreed.” It felt like the ugliest thing I’d ever said.

“In that case,” she said, casting one glance at the other women in the room. “Providing you deliver four women to us, including Vivienne Blaire, in time for the solstice retreat, we have an agreement. No renegotiation will be granted. And know that you were granted an exceedingly rare exception, a bargain that will come with consequences if it is betrayed.”

I exhaled under my breath. “And no more little gifts delivered to my door.”

“If your debt is paid, no reminders of it will be necessary.” She rose to her feet. “Now, let’s end this unpleasantness. Damian, stay and have a word with Aurora; she’s been wanting to discuss the retreat arrangements, and you know the logistics better than anyone.” She turned to me with mock warmth. “Marlowe and I are going to take a turn through the garden. We’ve hardly had a moment, the two of us, and I do so want to know the woman who’s captured my son.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. I saw him weigh refusing, then decide it would cost us too much.

“I won’t keep her long,” his mother said, already extending an arm toward the French doors. “There’s something I think she’ll find lovely.”

I stood up with no idea of where I was being led. I only knew that I wouldn’t find it lovely.

Damian caught my hand as I rose. He looked at me, silently telling me to keep my feet on the ground, to breathe. I nodded once.

We walked through a garden that looked like a full-time job for three gardeners. Gravel paths ran between neatly clipped hedges and beds so dense with color they looked quilted.

“He’s told you very little about us, I expect,” she said breezily, walking close enough that I could smell her darkly floral, intoxicating perfume. “He’s protective that way. He thinks if he keeps the worst from you, he’ll keep you safe.” She sighed, as if that was a deeply childish thought.

“He’s told me enough,” I said, involuntarily admiring the near-black leaves of a deep purple hydrangea.

“Has he?”

She paused to inspect a plump bush of Osiria roses. “Then you’re braver than I thought, or he’s spared you more than I’d have guessed.”

She steered us toward a large Victorian greenhouse with an ornate, deep green frame and stunning leaded glass detail.

“I want to show you one of my greatest treasures.”

She opened the glass door to a chorus of birdsong.

Not a greenhouse. An aviary. The realization settled like a blow under my ribs.

Dozens of small bright birds threw themselves between branches and bars, their song so dense it felt like pressure against my ears.

“People think it’s cruel,” she said, watching them fondly, “keeping them like this. But look at them, Marlowe. They’re fed. They’re warm. Nothing can reach them in here. No cats, no hawks, no cold. They want for nothing.” She looked at me. “Do you know they sing more in a cage than they ever do in a tree? It’s true. The safety brings it out in them. I find that very beautiful. And very instructive.”

I didn’t reply. There was a sharp lump in my throat.

A small red bird struck the bars of a cage near my face and dropped back to a branch. I flinched. My heart thumped to the steady bat of bird wings.

“I’m glad he found you,” she said, slowly moving us among the cages. “I do worry about him. He was always our soft one… too much feeling, that boy, and never anywhere useful to put it. He’s wonderful with women, you know. He always has been. It’s a gift he has, making a girl feel chosen. Safe.” She straightened and looked at me. “You feel safe with him. I can see it in you.”

A sick, serpentine feeling coiled through me.

“I do,” I said, my voice less steady than I’d like.

“Of course you do. That’s what he’s for.” She said it so gently it took a moment to arrive. “He did it beautifully the last time, too.”

The birds wouldn’t shut up, intent on being cheerful while I burned.

“The last time?” I said, hating that I’d given her exactly what she wanted.

“Mm.” She stopped by a cage where a tiny little bird sat very still. “I don’t want to upset you, dear. I only think, woman to woman, that you should understand what you’ve allowed yourself to step into. He’s told you her name, surely? He keeps a reminder on his arm. He can’t have hidden her from you entirely.”

“What happened to her?” I asked, with the dread of unwrapping another terrible, dead thing.

“Oh, the unfortunate side effect.” She made a small, sad gesture, distracted by the abundance of birds and greenery.