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He thought back to his first weeks back home after being kidnapped. It had taken nearly a month before he’d been able to relay the story of his imprisonment without being sick, and when he had, his mother’s response when he’d explained what the witch had done to Lucy had been…intense. He’d always known there must be a reason. He just hadn’t found it within himself to ask her about it.

It was easier not knowing. It was easier to deal with memories of Lucy’s suffering under the false assumption that she had been a stranger. For a long time, it was the only way he could cope with all he had witnessed.

Blair twisted Lucy’s ring around his finger, a reflexive movement that wasn’t lost on his mother.

“We had those rings made for you both upon your birth. Yours was lost before your third birthday.” She watched Blair as though expecting a reaction.

“Iris researched the symbol on the way here,” Blair admitted, once again feeling foolish for failing to put the pieces together himself.

“Ah.” His mother reached across the coffee table that separated them to trail her finger over the ruby-red tears. “It’s a sorcerer’s ring. The size fluctuates depending on the wearer. Assuming they’re a Saltonstall, of course.”

Blair frowned. The idea that his parents once hired a witch to tamper with bits of jewelry, given the role their kind later played in the kidnapping and torture of himself and Lucy—his sister, he reminded himself—was a tough pill to swallow.

Not that he was oblivious to his parents’ occasional dealings with witches, but those were usually unavoidable. Once every twenty years or so they hired a nearby coven to erase the memories of the locals who’d had regular contact with them. Whenever that happened, if his parents decided to keep their current jobs, their bosses would conveniently think they were new hires. If he wasn’t much mistaken, the next forgetting spell was due to take place the following year. But the ring was so personal to him, he hated to think that it had been altered by a witch’s hand.

Jocatta stood, teacup and saucer balanced in her hands. “You should play with your nephews. They’ve missed you.”

Blair blinked in confusion. “Are they here?”

A moment later, he registered the patter of racing feet as two delighted young faces appeared around the corner. “Uncle Blair!”

Blair ruffled two sets of curly hair as Tommy and Ennis, his sister Espirit’s five-year-old fraternal twins, leapt onto the couch beside him. He realized with a jolt that twins must run in the family. Thomas stood, tucking his glasses into his shirt pocket. He smiled wistfully down on them for a moment before exiting the room after his wife.

“Did you forget us?” Ennis was peering up at Blair, cheeks flushed from running, his hazel eyes wide and questioning.

“Of course not,” Blair said with a smile, and he felt a pang of remorse for having lost touch with his eldest sister’s family for so long. The twins had grown exponentially in the months since he’d last seen them. Just because he wanted space from this house didn’t mean he had to forgo communication with his extended family, did it?

“Come play,” Tommy insisted, tugging on his hand.

Blair had no choice but to allow himself to be dragged out the back door, which deposited them onto the sandy, rocky shore that overlooked storm-gray waves. Granules of soggy sand slipped inside his boots as he jogged alongside his nephews, their own shoes having been cast aside the moment they’d tumbled out the door.

Blair wished he could banish his worries as easily as his nephews abandoned their sneakers, that he could inhale the salty air and taste freedom in the place of fear.

27

You have a beautiful home,” Iris gushed as she followed Jocatta up the antique staircase. Though she was a bit nervous to be alone with Blair’s mother, Iris hadn’t hesitated when Jocatta had suggested showing her to the room where she’d be staying the night. She understood that Jacotta must not be comfortable with involving her in private family matters, though she would have preferred to remain at Blair’s side.

“Thank you. It’s been much the same for many years.”

Jocatta led Iris down a narrow hallway. The walls were covered in shiny black wallpaper bursting with hundreds of two dimensional candles, so bright and realistic looking that Iris almost expected them to flicker. She slowed as they passed a row of painted portraits in ornate golden frames, but Jocatta’s pace was unrelenting, and Iris had to jog to catch up.

“Just in here, my dear.”

Iris’ mouth fell open in awe, and she hurried to snap it closed. They stood in front of a room that was nothing short of grand, and surprisingly airy considering the age of the home. A queen-sized canopy bed took up the right-hand corner, while butter-white curtains affixed over the back windows fluttered over the heater. A great stone fireplace rested along the left wall, and above their heads, a chandelier made up of thousands of tiny crystals gleamed in the winter sunlight.

“This was my younger daughter Venetia’s room,” said Jocatta mildly. “I’ll have Thomas bring up your bag later.”

Iris twisted her hands. There was something in Jocatta’s authoritative demeanor that made Iris feel much younger than her twenty-seven years. Blair’s mother was also incredibly young looking for a woman with three grown children, her beauty only enhanced by the mole that dotted her left temple and the small scar slashed across her chin. Almost everything about her was imposing, austere. Only her eyes, as pale gray as the winter sky, held a deep, enduring kindness—the same tenderness that lived within Blair—making Iris’ anxiety ease.

“Thank you so much,” said Iris. “This is beautiful.”

Jocatta gave her a tight-lipped smile. “That’s sweet of you. I’ll be just downstairs. Please settle in.”

She disappeared down the hallway, her shoes clacking against the floorboards. Iris couldn’t imagine why she would want to wear shoes in her own home. Perhaps it helped her to feel in control.

Once Jocatta’s footsteps faded, Iris flopped down onto the duvet and stared blankly at the ceiling. Her stomach had twisted itself into knots, and for a moment, she couldn’t put her finger on why. Then she remembered how Jocatta’s eyes had welled up at the mention of Lucy, the single black tear that had trailed down her cheek. Iris thought of the way Blair’s own tears had slashed their way down his already scarred face. His mother’s skin had been completely unmarred, not a single cut on her cheek, nor on her hand when she had wiped the tear away.

Blair’s words from that memorable night came unbidden into her mind: The poison is meant to only hurt humans. She supposed that meant that Jocatta, despite her appearance, had no human DNA at all.