Page 103 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
“Can I—”
“No. She requested to meet privately with Miss Keats.”
“Did you remind her of the purpose and parameters of this meeting? The removal of the tick only?”
Parameters?Bristol wondered. What did he think this sorceress would do to her?
“I did, but we must trust the Lumessa’s judgment in this matter.”
Tyghan’s eyes turned to ice, but Madame Chastain met his gaze, unblinking.
He looked at Bristol, the anger draining from his face, the confidence from moments before vanishing. Something else filled his expression now, something disturbed and serious. Was he worried about the outcome of removing the creature from her back? Or was it something else?
“I’ll be in the throne room,” he said to Madame Chastain. “Have one of the Sisters bring Bristol to me as soon as the meeting is over.”
He shot the witch a stiff glance as he strode toward the door, but stopped first where Bristol sat, and leaned over. His lips lightly brushed hers. “This is not a dalliance,” he whispered, and then he was gone.
CHAPTER 71
Like the palace and university, the conservatory was built over millennia. It began with the humble workshop of the goldsmith Creidhne, a god able to weave thin fibers of gold into fine ropes and jewelry. His workshop eventually grew to include many types of artisans because the Tuatha de revered all aspects of art in their world. Art was a gift of Danu, just like the sacred talismans, to strengthen mind and spirit. The expanding grounds became a place for anyone, who by invitation, mistake, or the will of Danu found themselves in Elphame, to study and practice their art. Even mortals like Leonardo da Vinci.
It was now a sprawling, busy complex with four floors and numerous wings named for goddesses and gods. The top floor, named for Aine, the goddess of light, was accessible only by invitation.
And Bristol was invited.
The sweeping granite staircase that led to this floor was guarded by a white wolf. The beast lay halfway up on the landing, lounging and bored, her belly and throat exposed—unless someone even eyed the first step with any amount of intention.
Bristol had witnessed a student test the drowsy animal during her first tour of the conservatory when he had lifted a foot to the stairs. His boot and the first step never connected. She didn’t actually see the animal leap—it happened so fast—but the tearful young man found himself on his back, pinned to the floor by razor-sharp teeth around his throat.
Even with an invitation, Bristol was wary.
“You’re sure she knows?” Bristol asked, motioning to the wolf.
“Her name is Kayana,” Madame Chastain said. “And yes, she knows.”
The wolf didn’t so much as bare a tooth as they walked up the steps, lying in a patch of morning sun like an old hound dog on a porch warming its bones.
When they entered through the double doors at the top landing, Bristol was surprised to see so many visitors wandering the length of a bright glass-roofed cloister, engaged in brisk conversations or studying sculptures and paintings. To Bristol, it looked like a busy museum on a free admission day. About halfway down the corridor, a group was gathered, and as she and Madame Chastain approached, one of them turned, sensing their arrival.
Bristol suppressed a gasp. “What’sshedoing here?” she whispered.
Madame Chastain was unruffled. “The Lumessa? This is her home. I thought you understood—”
“No one told me who she was, and she doesn’t look ill at all.”
“Appearances can be deceiving.”
Something Bristol already understood too well. She had always thought herself savvy, but there were cons, and there werecons. Between the sheriff, Willow, and now her parents, she was getting a whole new perspective on “appearances.”
The Lumessa held out her hand as the final space between them closed.
Jasmine.Her father’s foster aunt.
The one she all but stole the art from at the Willoughby Inn at their first meeting.
Jasmine took hold of Bristol’s hand, her fingers surprisingly strong. “Bristol,” she said. And then again, slowly, softly, “Bristol.” Like there was a whole history between them, like she was soaking in memories that Bristol didn’t have, like the art didn’t matter but their mutual bond did.
Something inside Bristol swayed, like she was about to open a forbidden door, and all the secrets her father had gone to great lengths to hide would rush out, toothy and deadly. But Jasmine was not a “so-called” aunt. Not a scam or a hit man. She was the real deal, the aunt who had raised her father in Elphame.
