Page 34 of Nineteen Seventy-Six

That’s a terrible thing to even think!

As a father, yes, it’s unthinkable. As your lawyer, it’s all but required.

It wouldn’t matter. If something happened to Nicolas, I’d hurl myself off a bridge.

Perhaps, but then you’d require an heir more urgently.

Colin Sullivan was a stone-cold pragmatic son-of-a-bitch in his imagination.

Fine. Whatever children I have with Lisette—

Will they be born in or out of wedlock?

I—

You divorce Cordelia, you strip away your veneer of legitimacy. Unless you plan to marry Lisette?

No.

Right. Because the only thing worse than being married to a sociopath is being married to the help?

It’s not like that!

Isn’t it?

I have my reasons.

Your reasons are bullshit.

I didn’t know you cursed!

It’s your imagination.

Round and round spun his head. Round and round and round, and every time he felt convicted about a decision, round and round his thoughts took him, until he was left more confused than he’d started.

And what would his sisters say? He didn’t need to come to each of them in his head. They were all some form of leave the bitch, marry for love, and even Augustus would have a pragmatic way of sending the same message.

As he did each and every time, Charles tabled this decision for a later time, hoping eventually these exercises would lead to clarity.

He went to seek out Nicolas for some playtime.

Luther Fontenot sat stoically at the elongated table in the Council chambers, hands folded over the mahogany, suit crisp and recently dry-cleaned, or perhaps purchased, but impeccable and overdone, even for the outlandish traditions of the Deschanel Magi Collective Council. At fifteen, he looked twice the age of the oldest person in the room, and before he said a word even, the mood shifted as everyone watched his serious, focused eyes, so light blue they were nearly gray, travel the room in intense observation.

The only giveaway to his nerves was the jagged rise and fall of his shoulders.

So young. But then, most of them were. Pierce was the only one of the Council into his middle age, and though his sister Eugenia wasn’t far behind, they were still both so young for a role so vitally important to the family’s safety and prosperity. Just because they’d never experienced an emergency in their lifetimes didn’t mean there wouldn’t be, again, as there always was where the Deschanels were concerned. Their youth was a barrier to an earlier time, but would it also be a barrier of the cyclical nature of history, which would again, if not soon, repeat itself? Would their flippant disregard of things like a family curse help or hinder them? Would they be ready?

Looking at the gravity in the gaze and demeanor of the young Luther Fontenot gave her hope.

“Thank you for coming tonight, Luther,” Colleen began.

“Thank you for having me, Colleen.” The only sign of his youth was the light crack of nerves running through his otherwise deep, mature voice.

Colleen, with the help of the Council, walked him through the recitation of his vows, which he was hearing for the first time. He wasn’t only young to be on the Council, fifteen was also young to be a member. But she’d told him what to expect, and undoubtedly, so had his mother, Eugenia.

“This is a sacred vow,” Colleen said, repeating what she’d told him before he took his vows and sealed his spot on the Council. “The most sacred that we can take. All of us have been baptized. We’ve taken the sacraments. These are our duties to God. But God has given us no guidance on who we are. The Bible doesn’t talk about people like us, and so we make our own rules, and we look after ourselves. We have no choice.”

“I understand.”

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