Page 19 of Stroke of Shadows

Harper’s smile was forced. “Let me take another look.”

Reaching for the book, she carefully studied the entire piece again, making sure to go slowly, so Christina couldn’t accuse her of anything. The threads along the spine were the palest blue, almost white, unless held at the right angle beneath the light. A contrast to the near black of the leather. Matching blue foil covered the front, the delicate swirls exactly what was expected. It matched all her research, even down to the floral pattern on the cloth covering and the deckle edging.

But it wasn’t real, she was sure of it. With anything of Fae origin, there was usually an echo of the creator. It was a feeling. A gut instinct. With the book, she felt nothing but the weight of the paper and leather. There were no echoes or remnants of the wild magic expected from an artefact supposedly from Asherah of Far.

Placing the book carefully back down, she stood.

Christina shot to her feet, knocking her cup to the floor with a crash. “Where do you think you’re going? You said you’d offer half a million for it!”

“I’m sorry, but it’s not what was described.” Harper turned to leave, finding her driver holding the door.

With cold, empty eyes, Charles waited. He was relatively small for a man, at only an inch or two taller than Harper. But he held himself with confidence, his presence eating up the space.

“We’re not finished!” Christina’s hand snapped out, nails as sharp as talons as they dug into Harper’s forearm.

Harper made sure her tone remained calm. “Take your hand off me.”

“Not until—” Christina released her grip as Charles took a threatening step forward.

Harper ignored the sore skin, the nail imprints red. “Tell me, do you even know how many Daeizans there are?”

Christina’s face burned, her lips flapping open as she struggled to answer. “I… I should have known you’d waste my bloody time.”

“There are six princes,” Harper continued, “including the lost shadow prince. So the grimoire couldn’t possibly be written by ‘the Daeizan himself.’”

“It’s fine,” Christina sneered. “I already have someone else ready to buy it. You’ll regret this.”

Harper shook her head. “If you actually knew anything about the piece, you’d know that ‘Tales of Magic’ was written by the Laeizania of the Dawn Court, and not a Daeizan.”

“Ma’am?” Charles held the door open once more. “It’s time for your next appointment.”

Harper waved at him to wait, keeping her attention on Christina. “We were interested because you were supposed to be an expert on Fae relics and artefacts. But clearly that isn’t the case, which means you’ve wasted my time.”

Christina looked like she was ready to explode, the chain around her throat disappearing between the folds of her fevered skin.

“Now, if you’d excuse me, I have another appointment.” Without giving Christina another moment, Harper let herself out of the grand townhouse in the heart of Kensington. She politely waited for Charles to open the car door for her, rubbing the nail indents on her arm as she glided onto the cool leather. It wasn’t unusual for him to drive her places, especially when she’d never been allowed to drive herself. But it was the first time in years he’d invited himself inside, a silent babysitter she’d never asked for.

Clearly her uncle was still upset that there’d been no progress with Mr Beckett and the Nivo Pilkinson painting, despite her trying for over eight weeks to come to an agreement. She was sure his mood wouldn’t improve much once she explained the grimoire was a counterfeit, too.

The drive back to the estate was short, the guests already arriving at her uncle’s annual party.

“Thank you, Charles,” she said as he opened her door.

With a nod, he slipped back into the car, leaving her on the steps. A pretentious red carpet had been added, the staff hired specifically for the event waiting to greet the guests. Harper moved past them, ignoring the man with the list who snapped out orders. Everyone was being escorted to the large library, and rather than follow, she moved towards the quiet study. It was a place she usually hid when her uncle wasn’t around, examining his collection of artefacts, relics, and paintings displayed proudly.

Holding out her hand, she brushed her fingers against a gold plate along his bookshelf. The markings in the centre always changed depending on who was in the room, the swirls intricate and beautiful. It had always fascinated her the way Fae items seemed to have a personality of their own, despite being inanimate objects. Not that she would ever admit her fascination.

Her uncle had always collected such things ever since she was a little girl. A man who hated everything Breed, and yet coveted the most non-human items possible. Some he sold on, making a profit, while others he kept for himself. All displayed in his study in one way or another.

Brushing her fingers back across the centre of the plate, a gentle sensation tingled up her arm. It was faint, old, but the magic echo was still there.

“Harper, there you are!” A bark, one that had her snapping her hand back as if she’d been scolded. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

Harper faced her uncle, his tuxedo a crisp dark blue with a black bowtie. The chain hung neatly around his neck, the opulent golden key he usually wore hidden beneath his shirt. Tonight, he had it out on display.

“I’m sorry, the meeting ran over.”

His footsteps cracked against the wood. “The party’s already started, and what have I told you about having your hair down?”

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