Page 2 of The Exile's Curse

The man who'd ruined her life.

The man who'd maybe saved it. Lucien had come to her after Charl's execution, given her a warning that she was not entirely safe in the wake of Charl's conviction. Suggested she might want to make herself hard to find.

Presumably he'd meant just for a short time.

But she'd been young. Broken by grief and betrayal, and wild with fear that what had befallen her would yet engulf the rest of her family. So she had run, leaving Charl's body barely in the earth and all manner of trouble strewn behind her. Fled to Anglion, where no one from the empire could reach her. Where no one could hurt her again.

No one had come after her.

Least of all Lucien de Roche.

Who, no matter that he was apparently still one of the most handsome men the goddess ever foolishly allowed to walk the earth, could never be anyone but her enemy.

"I believe that is Madame de Montesse to you, Ser de Roche," she said, channeling all the control she'd gained hard fought from her years in exile and all the disdain she felt for him to ice her voice into something smooth and glittering and deadly as a blade. She turned away from him. "Papa, we should go. I find myself quite fatigued from my journey."

Henri's pale blue eyes studied her a moment, then flicked over her head to where she was all too aware that Lucien still stood. "Of course," he said, then offered her an arm to guide her away through the crowd and away from the past she was entirely unwilling to face.

When they were settled in a carriage and some distance from the port, her father said mildly, "You got his title wrong. He's the Marq of Castaigne now."

There was no reproach in his voice, but she wondered why exactly he was telling her. Warning her that Lucien had more power now? That she should at least be polite? Not that the man needed any more power. He was a Truth Seeker, wielder of a rare form of the Arts of Air that let him know, when he chose, if a person was telling the truth. It had seen him rise quickly in the ranks of the Imperial judiciary from the moment he'd left the Academe di Sages.

He hardly needed his father's title to elevate him still further.

Though she had been fond of Emile de Roche, who had been quick to smile and more like Charl than his own serious son. She should ask how he died. But that would only provide an opening for her father to continue talking about Lucien.

"I will remember," she said tightly. "Though I don't imagine our paths will cross often."

Not at all if she had anything to say about it.

Henri studied her a moment, wearing what she had once thought of as his maistre look. The one he wore when he was debating whether to use something as a teaching moment. Seeing it was both delightful—she fancied any expression that crossed his face would be delightful for quite some time simply because it had been so long since she had seen any of them—and a little alarming. She'd forgotten how imposing he could be when he was being Maistre of the Academe and not her father.

Was he about to deliver a lecture?

However, if he had contemplated doing so, he thought better of it. A smile replaced the serious expression, and he reached out and touched her cheek. "It is good to have you home, daughter."

She leaned into the caress a moment, then pulled back, scared she might cry once more. She didn't want to emerge from the carriage red-eyed and tearstained.

"Are we going to the Academe?"

Henri cocked his head. "No, I thought you'd be eager to be home. I've left Madame Simsa in charge for a few days. The Academe can do without me for a time while we all get...reacquainted." He squeezed her hand tighter. "Your mother can't wait to see you. She wanted to come to the docks, but we didn't want to overwhelm you."

Chloe's heart squeezed. When Imogene du Laq—the Duquesse of Saint Pierre now, but also Chloe's best friend—had told her back in Kingswell that her mother was still alive, it had been one of the happiest moments of her life. Ana Matin's health had never been good, and she had only just begun to show signs of recovery from the white-lung fever that had weakened her for several years when Chloe had fled Illvya. She'd always been worried her mother would die and she would never know.

"And she is truly well again?"

Her father squeezed her hand. "She is far better than when you left. She will never be as strong as some, but having you home with us again will only make her stronger still."

She hoped he was right. But there was no way to know for sure, so she just held his hand and watched Lumia passing by through the carriage windows with greedy eyes.

It took a long time to fall asleep. The reunion with her family had left Chloe both joyous and overwhelmed, and she'd passed into that state where she was almost too tired to sleep. Or too afraid, perhaps, half convinced that she'd wake again in Anglion, having dreamed the whole journey home. Having dreamed her father's embrace and the tears her mother had tried and failed to hold back.

But eventually she succumbed to exhaustion, and when she woke, she knew instantly where she was. Her room. In her parents’ house. It wasn't much changed. The colors of the curtains and the bedcovers were different, but the furniture was the same.

The carved redwood bed and the dressing table and armoire were precisely as she remembered, down to the chip in the dressing table where she'd once dropped a teapot and the faint lemon smell of the furniture polish.

When she'd left here to marry Charl, her sister, Yvette, had taken the room. But she, too, was married now and gone from the house.

Whereas Chloe was widowed and had returned after so long away.

---