Page 23 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

But when the Colonel excused himself, Loren had read the latest scandals and stumbled upon a page he had not expected titled The Fall of the Caldwells.

At first, he felt a burst of anticipation. Finally—finally—the bastard-born dhemon masquerading as a vampire would be exposed. Everyone would know of the half-breed’s treachery. No one would second-guess Loren again.

The following information, however, curdled his victory, and a slimy, sickening feeling slipped through his gut. Lord Governor Azriel Caldwell was discovered deceased on the highway to Eastwood Province after a dhemon attack, leaving behind his wife, Lady Ariadne Caldwell, widow to a hero.

A hero. The word drove a knife into Loren’s chest, and each praising word after that only twisted the blade a little more. The entire ordeal had the stench of the Princeps all over it. Of course he would drum up an excuse for the half-fae’s sudden absence and his elder daughter’s renewed availability.

Because no one would want her if they knew she had been wed to a dhemon.

Loren ground his teeth, that bitter taste of lies unbearable. He shoved to his feet, crumpling the pamphlet in his fist and throwing it into his cold hearth as he passed. This would not stand. Not while he had any say in the matter.

If the Princeps wanted to play games, Loren would be ready, and he would destroy the very platform from which that self-righteous Caersan leered down at him.

Chapter 6

Keeping up the façade proved more difficult than Emillie anticipated. Each night she awoke, she grew more certain her father would finally ask the fatal question: Where is your sister? And she would have no answer for him beyond the few words she had practiced in her mind again and again in preparation: I do not know.

Yet night after night, Ariadne’s handmaid, Penelope, continued to enter her room with food and tea from the kitchens before claiming she did not wish to emerge. Night after night, Thom, the stablehand, kept their father from the fields to hide Astra’s absence. Night after night, she took note of the staff’s unease whenever the Princeps spoke to Emillie.

It took nearly a week for Emillie’s own overthinking to wear her down. She avoided her father as often as possible and recognized his pattern of suspicion—the leading questions, sharp eyes watching the door for Ariadne to arrive, and tapping his fingers in agitation.

So when she was certain the night she dreaded most had arrived, Emillie did not break her fast in the small den where she knew her father would be waiting for her. Instead, she hurled the measly contents of her stomach into a basin of her washroom.

Emillie had never known such fear until then. Fear of not knowing what her father would do to her—something far more terrible than the time he had struck her sister. Fear for the servants she had convinced into helping, though she was determined to keep their names a secret for as long as possible. Fear for Ariadne, who was about to have the entire army searching for her—again—only this time to drag her back into the prison from which she so desperately needed freedom.

After using the early hours of the evening to collect herself, Emillie finally exited her room wearing a confidence-boosting periwinkle dress. The manor was abuzz with activity as the staff completed the final preparations for her announcement ball. Guests would be arriving at any moment, filling their ballroom with excited chatter. No doubt they hoped for a repeat of the last announcement. They would be disappointed to realize Alek Nightingale would not be dueling any guard for her honor.

If everything went as planned, she would walk away from the night unscathed and with a blessing for her future husband.

Yet, entering the drawing room made her stomach churn again. This was where Ariadne should be standing with her. Where her sister would reassure her that everything would be alright—or convince her to call it all off.

Emillie grasped her own hand and squeezed hard. She closed her eyes against the sudden sting of tears. She missed Ariadne. She feared for her. She grieved the losses her sister had endured too many times over after watching their mother’s murder, then Darien’s, and now facing Azriel’s uncertain future.

Yet when she stopped to think more clearly, Emillie knew the true source of her sorrow: her own slipping freedom. Not only was she about to announce her unavailability to every member of the Society, but she would simultaneously shackle herself to a Caersan man for the rest of her life. It had not been what she imagined. In fact, it was what she dreaded most in the world: a political and loveless marriage.

And the moment her father discovered Ariadne’s disappearance, he would know precisely who had allowed it to happen. She would shoulder that blame and take the brunt of his fury, and in doing so, she would have every one of her meager rights stripped away.

No trips to Laeton to visit with Revelie. No journeys to Udlow for tea with Camilla. Certainly no sneaking off to the Drifter’s Bistro and Inn to find Kyra again.

To see anything beyond the Harlow Estate before her wedding night would be impossible.

“I must admit,” said a dark, oily voice from behind her, “I was concerned I would find you in here with a member of the staff.”

Emillie whipped around, her heart lurching into her throat. Alek Nightingale stood in the doorway beside her stone-faced father. Were she a woman who fancied men, he would have been the image of a perfect gentleman. The ideal fiancé. His long, black hair swept back from his handsome, heart-shaped face, and his hooded obsidian eyes sparkled with mischief. The clothes he wore complemented his pale skin with hues of cool blue and rich russet.

In comparison, her father appeared ever the pristine Princeps. His brown hair, the same shade as her own, curled at the ends around the white cravat at his neck. Those hawk-like golden eyes tracked her for a moment, then flickered around the room.

“Where is your sister?”

Her stomach dropped. There they were. The dreaded words she had prepared for yet still cursed. Ariadne should be there with her. There would have been no reason for her to hide away for such an important event. Even her anger with their father would not have kept her from Emillie’s side.

Yet she was not there. She would not be there. Not tonight. So Emillie swallowed the rise of panic and said in a small voice the words she had practiced, “I do not know.”

Alek remained calm as he cut in, “Perhaps she is down in the ballroom with the guests.”

Were she not terrified, Emillie would have laughed. Though she had been with Camilla and Revelie as Ariadne prepared for her own announcement ball—much to her regret the moment the duel had begun—her sister would never do such a thing. Not only would she avoid large crowds such as those gathered below, but she would want to be with her at this moment. She would want to offer her advice or to make a joke so it would all seem normal.

Like Emillie, her father did not believe Alek’s suggestion, either. His eyes narrowed, and his lips thinned. “I will not have another scandal on my hands at this announcement.”

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