Page 11 of Of Glass and Ashes

Chapter Five

Aika

The rest of my trek home is eventless. I make a small detour to drop the coin purse at the orphanage, leaving it in the usual spot behind a garbage bin, then take the quickest route back to Mother’s.

Her estate is many things, but at least quiet is never one of them. The distant roar of waves crashing against the cliffs and the hollow sound of wind creeping through the trees ensures that much.

I wonder if that’s why Mother chose it when she came to Corentin.

Sticking to the shadows, I wind my way away from the main roads and buildings to a small door in the back gate, close to where I know she’ll be waiting.

Mother doesn’t have to hide on Isla Delphine. There, her chateau towers above the villages full of people who are terrified of the very mention of her.

But at this estate, in Corentin, appearances must be kept up. The court knows her as Lady Delmara, heir to her late husband's fortune. And those are just two of her identities.

It doesn’t matter what name she goes by. Every version of her is as terrifying as it is powerful.

Especially now. SinceLady Delmarahas been in mourning for her “niece” and ward,Madamehas been growing her already impressive foothold in Bondé.

And now, when she’s at her strongest, is when I decide to throw myself into her line of fire.

I press my fingers to my temples, physically warding away the memory of Remy’s troubling line of questions while I make my way through the rickety gate.

I chose this entrance because it’s the fastest path to the mausoleum Mother had built for her fictitious dead husband, my “father.”

The lanterns around the crypt are lit, a sign that she is conducting business. The usual guards are stationed outside, but they are for little more than show — cannon fodder if someone actually decides to attack her.

Mother is her own line of defense.

Nodding to the stoic guards, I go through the small door at the back of the stone building, bypassing the empty tomb and heading straight for a door that looks like it should lead to a closet.

Instead, cramped stairs wind downward, each flight an odd number of steps. It’s a pattern I know by heart, ending at the narrow walkway deep underground that I am intimately familiar with.

No matter how many times I’ve walked this hall, I never feel any less uneasy about it. The salty sea air can’t mask the residue of death and suffering that coats the very walls of this place.

Which is fitting, considering the woman who owns it.

The hallway comes to an end at Mother’s makeshift throne room. Only the faint glow of the eerie purple lanterns lights up the cave-like room, enhancing the darkness rather than illuminating it.

Elegant curtains line the walls, covering the windows that have been carved into the cliff face so she can look out over the sea whenever she wants to. It’s the single feature all of her dwellings have in common.

Well, that and the dungeons.

Tonight, though, the curtains are closed, not allowing so much as a stray beam of moonlight to enter.

I am vaguely surprised to find that Mother is not lounging in her regal chair as usual, but that feeling dissipates when I see what she’s doing instead. She stands near the gilded chair, dangling a full-grown man off the ground with a single hand wrapped tightly around his neck.

She looks like herself today, instead of the constant rotation of eye and hair color that the ladies of the court have become so obsessed with. Maybe that’s what makes her more intimidating, the fact that she doesn’t disguise herself at all when she’s torturing someone.

The man bucks and scratches at her arms, but his fingernails don’t penetrate. I’ve never seen anything successfully scratch her skin, not that many have been stupid enough to try.

“You sent for me, Mother?” I use the title she has insisted upon since we met.

Mother’s long lashes slant downward as she slides her violet gaze over to me. She is the picture of calm, not so much as twitching her eyebrow when the man’s boot connects solidly with her shin.

Eventually, his kicks weaken, and his protests ebb away. Only when he has been still for several minutes does she let his body drop, responding to me.

“Yes, my child.” Her voice is calm, not a shred of inflection to betray what she’s feeling. “There was another fire tonight.”

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