33. FRANCOIS
Aurora is in the doorway. She is not shouting. She is not throwing the glare of her Drakeward ice at me. She is simply… begging.
“Please, Francois,” she whispers. Her voice is raw, and she looks frayed at the edges. “He doesn’t have much time. And he wants to see Tally. Can you please, please just let both of us be with him. Please.”
I do not look up from my page, though the letters have blurred into meaningless ink-spatters.
I can feel her desperation vibrating against my own skin—a frantic, rhythmic heat.
In the cage, the wolf stands. He is a shadow of the man he was in the yard, leaning heavily against the iron uprights, his eyes fixed on me with a hatred so pure it is almost admirable.
An uncivilized side of me wants to fall to my knees and promise her the moon. But that is not Francois de Vaux.
“I am not an unfeeling man, Aurora,” I tell her, my voice smooth. “But to allow the previous boss to wander the halls at his leisure? Not happening.”
“Stop it, Francois!” her voice cracks, and finally, I look up. “Stop it! Whatever game you’re playing, I surrender. You win. Whatever you want.”
She is pale, her short hair a halo in the dim light. There are tears shimmering in her eyes—not the manipulative tears, the type commonly used by Elite girls, but tears of searing grief.
I glance at the wolf. He doesn’t plead. He simply waits.
What do they see when they look at me? A snake. A weapon. A dealer in shadows.
A cold, familiar hollow opens in my chest, a vacuum that no amount of power or money can fill. I think of the long table in the de Vaux French estate, the miles of polished mahogany between my mother and me.
I think of the silence in my father’s house, where every word was a transaction and every touch was a test of strength.
I have never known the driving desire of sitting by a dying friend’s bed just to hold a hand.
I am a Crankshawe. We do not sit with the dying; we wait for them to finish so we can collect the inheritance.
And yet, watching Aurora’s lips tremble, I feel a sickening pull in my marrow. It is not magic. It is a hunger for something I cannot name. I want to be the reason that look of agony disappears. I want her to turn that shimmering, soulful gaze on me and see something other than a monster.
I want to be part of the solution, not the problem.
“Very well,” I murmur. Smoothing the front of my gray twill, I remove the key from my pocket and slide it into the lock.
“Be back by the final claxon.” I stop myself from making further demands.
Aurora darts forward, reaching to catch the wolf’s hand, guiding his lurching weight.
For a second, her fingers brush my arm as she passes. “Thank you.”
It was momentary, a friction-filled flash of gratitude.
“I wish I could do more for the boy,” I murmur, despite myself.
Her eyes widen. “I wish you could too,” she replies, her hand pausing for a beat.
The heat of her touch on my skin lingers long after they have disappeared into the gloom toward the dying boy.
I watch them walk away together to share a grief I will never understand. I am a master of poison, starving for a drop of their simple, wretched love.
Stiffening my shoulders, I sit back down and pick up my book. Baudelaire has brought me comfort before.
I pray he will again.