Page 53 of The Pureblood Daughter
Her stomach flutters at the thought of Theodore telling his family—hisfather—about her. She tries not to let it show on her face as she runs a hand down the front of her dress, trying to reground herself. “You’re a man of science, then?”
The earl pushes a hand through his hair and chuckles. “Perhaps. Though the true science minds wouldn’t dare be caught associating with the likes of me.” He glances over his shoulder before reaching for the tome he pulled from the shelf. “Like I said, I’d always hoped we’d find you.” He holds the book out. “This is for you.”
Nadia takes the book, its weight surprising in her hands. She glances at the crimson armchair beside the window. “May I?”
“Of course.”
She brushes her skirt aside and takes a seat, placing the tome in her lap. The cover is free of dust, maintained meticulously. It opens easily in her hands, and then two faces are staring up at her, eyes so familiar they bring her to tears.
“This is...” She reaches out to trail a finger along the woman in the portrait.
“Your mother, Vera. You look so like her, Miss Magdalena. It’s a wonder we didn’t notice sooner.”
“I spent most of my time at home. A weak constitution... or so I was made to believe.”
She shifts her gaze to the man in the portrait, studies his brow and the curve of his eyes. His nose looks like hers, as does his upper lip. The small similarities paint a picture of kinship, and she wishes she had some memory of him, like that of her mother leaning over her bassinet when she was but a babe.
“I wish I’d known them,” she says softly, reaching to turn the page.
It appears to be a lineage of some sort, with Vera and Kirill toward the bottom. And below them, attached to one thin line, is the nameNadia Magdalena.She traces her father’s line, generation after generation of Magdalenas. But her mother’s lineage is much shorter, stopping halfway up the page.
“What’s this?” Nadia asks, turning the book toward Lord Rosetti. “Vera’s lineage seems... stunted in comparison to Kirill’s.”
Lord Rosetti leans forward to better see the page, then nods. “I put this together from research I conducted on my own—in hopes you’d one day get to see it, as you are now.” His smile is gentle. “Your father’s clan can be traced back many hundreds—if not thousands—of years. Clan Magdalena has a most well-documented history. But your mother’s lineage has proven arduous to unveil.” He shifts upon the desk and points to a blank spot on the page. “After your maternal great-grandparents, your family tree becomes unusually difficult to piece together. The mystery continues to plague me. But with your return, perhaps we’ll discover it together.”
A burst of joy blossoms in Nadia’s chest, and she barely keeps tears from her eyes. “I’d like that very much, Lord Rosetti. A question, if I may?”
“Of course.” The earl waves a hand. “Ask away.”
“Lineage is important in your... culture?”
Lord Rosetti’s eyes crinkle jovially in the corners. “Indeed. Even more so than in modern-day culture. There are not so many pureblood families as there used to be, and many would go to any lengths to protect their pedigree. To most, I’m an earl, but it’s a thin title compared to clan blood.”
“I see,” Nadia whispers. “The maid, Amélie, called me a pureblood, a...”
“Pur sânge,” Lord Rosetti says. “And she’s right. Clan Magdalena was—is—one of only a few true pureblood clans left.” His smile is almost mischievous. “You’ll be a most rousing topic of conversation in the community, I’m certain. Now that news of your survival is out, it’ll spread like wildfire.”
Nadia is not so sure how to feel about that. She’s never been particularly interesting and has spent the majority of her life a wallflower; nerves turn in her belly at the idea of being a widely discussed topic of conversation.
Putting the thought aside, she turns her eyes back to the book.
Clan Magdalenais written at the top in flowing script, and she points to it.
“Clans. They’re just families?”
“You could say that. Our clans are tight-knit communities with bonds formed by blood. Your clan is your blood, your heritage. It carries weight in our culture.”
“And the Magdalena clan... I’m the last?” Nadia looks up, searches Lord Rosetti’s eyes for something she can hold on to, something that will help her better understand this ocean she finds herself adrift in.
The earl nods mournfully. “Your father, Kirill, was the only son. He and Vera were not so long married when you came along, and then...”
“And then my father—Lord Gray, that is—killed them?”
The question feels unreal, like simply speaking it is blasphemous. She’s not yet been able to merge the father she’s known her whole life with this violent hunter he’s supposed to be.
“That’s correct. The guild took no responsibility, of course; they claimed no involvement, said it was an accident. But we know better.”
“Do you? How can you be so sure my father was involved?” She clutches the book, still hoping they’ve all got this wrong somehow, that everything the Rosettis have told her about Robert Gray is wrong.
