Page 148 of A Sin So Pure

“I think so, yes,” I say. “I’m selfish to want her and my revenge too.”

“I think you need to decide what’s most important to you. You’rethisclose. Will you regret it in fifty years if you turn away?”

Silas stands, taking the bottle of liquor with him.

“Hopefully I won’t regret anything in fifty years,” I say. Then I twist, leaning on the coffee table with my forearms. I track Silas as he paces deeper into the room, placing the bottle on the bedside table. “Also, that’s a redundant question. You’d never let me leave here without completing our mission.”

“I’m glad you’re coming to terms with the inevitable,” he laughs through a yawn, reaching up to the sky.

“We may be aligned in this, Silas, but you need to remember—” I stand, so I can level with him, the liquor that’s running through my veins making me bold. “I’m never going to be a pawn for you to move around on a whim.”

“You’re not a pawn,” he scoffs, then drops down onto the bed, his legs dangling off the edge.

“No?” I ask.

“If you were a chess piece, you’d be a queen, Nora.” His hands splay in front of him, summoning shadows and molding them into floating chess pieces that crisscross in an imaginary game. “No rules. Moves wherever she wishes without consequence.”

I roll my eyes because I, more than others, know there arealwaysconsequences.

Everyone knows.

My boot scuffs against the carpet as I shift in place. I got the distraction I needed. My mind has quieted enough that if I head back downstairs now, I know I’ll be able to get at least a wink of sleep. And I’ll need the rest if I’m going to kill my uncle.

A beat passes, the weight of morning pressing down on us. Then, I step towards the door.

“Nora?” Silas calls, stopping me in my tracks.

His tone is weary and laced with loneliness.

“Yes?”

He’s staring up at the canopy of the four-poster bed, fingers laced and thumbs twiddling over his tattooed chest.

“Remember what bad people do to those their enemies love,” he says.

“I could never forget, Silas.”

Silas hums. Then he groans, sitting up in the bed. He squints at the clock on the wall. The hands tick past midnight.

A sad smile softens his features when he tilts his head back at me.

“Happy Solstice, Nora.”

37

IMOGEN

Solstice was always my favorite holiday.

Solstice season warms the heart and the hearth—the fires rage from dawn to dusk and back to dawn, new wood thrown on the eternal flames each hour. My mother wasn’t the most sentimental parent, but she always made sure my brother and I woke up to the smell of cinnamon buns and hot cocoa. We’d run downstairs, racing each other, only to tie, slipping on fallen pine needles from the tree that took up half our living room.

We don’t have a tree here in Casimir, nor the chill of winter, but the distinct pitter patter of rain filters in through the cracked window.

At least we have each other’s company and our presents to look forward to. I also may have bribed a sprite to make us some of the traditional baked goods for this morning…

A swirl of shadow forms across the room and one of the little buggers appears carrying a large tray of the tasty treats and a hot pot of coffee. Its wings flap loudly, and it squeaks at me, announcing its arrival. I scramble from the bed, shushing the thing and pulling the plate from its talons.

“Thank you,” I say. Its wide eyes blink up at me expectantly. “You can go now.”

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