Page 59 of A Steeping of Blood
This was an interrogation of a prisoner, and Flick, despite knowing as much, had failed.
“He’s not dead,” Lady Linden said, in a tone that said she should have known.
“No, I was going to say he’s not the boy I fancy,” Flick corrected, but it was too late to fix her mistake.
Lady Linden latched the door closed and set her mask on the chest. “You never were a good liar, dear.”
How did her mother know of this? How did she know that Arthie had died to begin with? No one but Laith and Matteo had been there when it happened—and Laith was dead. Wasn’t he?
Her mother slowly turned back toward her, and Flick swallowed as fear lifted the little hairs off the back of her neck. If she thought her mother had been cold before, she was mistaken. Her eyes were now devoid of life, heartless in a way that made Flick shiver.
“Where are they?” Lady Linden asked. No, she wasn’t Lady Linden anymore. She wasn’t her mother anymore.
This was the Ram.
Flick didn’t know how to respond—insist that they were dead? Say she didn’t know? Lie and say… what?
“I told you—”
The Ram cut her off. “It would be best if you didn’t waste my time, Felicity.”
The twin trails of blood gleamed by the door, threatening her. Flick wouldn’t fall for it.
“Don’t call me Felicity,” Flick said as carefully as she could, struggling to stop seeing the woman in front of her as her mother.
“Oh?” the Ram said. “Is that not your name anymore? Did you forget who gave—”
Not this again. “Even if I had wanted to, I could never forget anything you’ve given me.”
And Flick didn’t know if she wanted to. Arthie had been through trials and struggles of her own, and she was better for it. Her every hardship had made her stronger, smarter, more brilliant in every way.
“You should put your mask back on,” Flick goaded. “Go on, hide yourself from the people whose praise you strive to receive.”
She didn’t know why, exactly, but it filled Flick with immense joy when the Ram’s mouth tightened and she glanced over at the chest to make sure her mask was still there and not somehow in the hands of the girl bound to a chair in front of her.
“I don’t believe you understand the gravity of your situation,” the Ram said. “You’re alone. They don’t know where you are. They can’t swoop in to save you.”
Flick furrowed her brow and looked into the Ram’s eyes. “I wasn’t hoping to be saved. I didn’t realize I needed to be afraid for my life. You”—she added a stutter for good measure—“you’re my mother.”
The Ram stared back for a long, unending moment in which Flick’s heart threatened to leap out of her chest.
“Then you will tell me, your mother, where they are.”
There was no point in trying to pretend her tongue hadn’t slipped anymore. Flick needed to make sure she didn’t do it again. Arthie and Jin were trusting her.
“They’re as angry with me as you are,” Flick lied. “No one tells me anything.”
“And Calibore?” the Ram asked.
Flick blinked at her. “Calibore?”
Her answering sound of exasperation was no different than whenFlick took too long to dress before an outing. “The pistol the Casimir girl carried with her. Where is it?”
Flick narrowed her eyes, taken aback. She assumed she was here just because her mother wanted the ledger, but why the sudden interest in Arthie’s pistol? Did she know it was capable of killing vampires? Of course she did. Penn had died in front of her—in front of all of them, when Laith had squeezed the trigger.
Or did she know it was more than that? Arthie told them Laith had come for the pistol on orders from his king, who was slowly gathering every magic-imbued Arawiyan artifact that had been spread throughout the world. Did the Ram hope to utilize it against the desert kingdom?
“How would I know, Mother?” Flick asked.
