Chapter 5
Five
Once Emmy had locked her door and dragged a leather chest in front of it, she took stock of her room. An enormous four-poster
bed rested atop a sprawling rug. A stack of books waited beside a velvet armchair. The ensuite bathroom alone was bigger than
her entire flat on Baxter Street. Jack Fontaine was trying to tempt her to stay, but she would not fall for a single luxury.
The bath, unfortunately, was exquisite.
Once she slipped into the steaming water, a groan escaped her lips. As she floated in the claw-foot tub, dark plumes of filth
drifted away from her body, obscuring her shockingly thin legs. When the water lost its warmth, she let the drain slurp it
all down in a satisfying gulp. Another turn of the knob, and clean water rushed over her once again, blissfully hot.
For indoor plumbing, she’d sell her soul to the devil. Or, perhaps, to Jack.
Jack Fontaine. Even his name carried an air of deceitfulness. Jack, like the haughty face card in a French deck. And Fontaine evoked a foreboding feeling she still could not place, no matter how many times she whispered it to herself.
After she’d scrubbed her body of its endless grime, she put on a simple wool dress she’d found hanging in the nearly empty
wardrobe and examined herself in the full-length mirror.
A young woman stared back at her, far too wearied to have lived a mere eighteen years.
Her towel-dried hair was the longest it had ever been, hanging to the top of her thighs.
Its chestnut shade had darkened, too, or perhaps that was in contrast to the shock of white that was her once golden skin.
She was nearly translucent now, save the deep bruise cradling her left eye.
And though she’d never been curvy, the penitentiary had eroded her figure’s softness, leaving her hip bones sharp and narrow, her face gaunt.
Only her irises remained unchanged, their brown still the same.
Coffee with a dash of cream, Papa liked to say. His had been the same shade.
Emmy covered the mirror with her damp towel.
The dress was thick and plain in a comforting way, but it was not hers. Her frocks back home, handsewn and well-worn, were
gone. The miniature portrait of Mama, gone. Everything Emmy owned was gone. Because Papa was gone.
And now she knew the name of the man who’d killed him.
Emmy forced a comb through her damp hair. After she braided it, she slid her cold feet into a pair of soft slippers, moved
her makeshift barricade, and set off in search of Jimmy. If Jack was keeping secrets, Jimmy was her best chance of discovering
them.
Following a savory aroma, she found herself outside an enormous dining room. The long cherrywood table could have seated forty
guests, but Jack, Jimmy, and Caleb sat together on the nearest end, the rest of the chairs hidden beneath dustcovers. There
was a casualness to their postures, a familiarity that revealed many meals shared here.
“Venison again,” Caleb grumbled. “Can’t you shoot anything else, Li?”
Emmy paused in the doorway. Jimmy hunted now?
“You’re welcome to try,” Jimmy quipped, “though we both know how well that’ll go.”
With a pop, Jack uncorked a bottle of wine. “I’m surprised you didn’t shoot each other while I was gone.”
“I am a man of great restraint.” Caleb peeked underneath the silver cloche, revealing a platter of juicy, steaming meat—
Emmy must have made a noise, for the three of them spun to face her, gawking long enough for heat to rise to her cheeks. Sure, she looked like a frail ghost, but there was no need to stare.
“Whenever I see your black eye,” Jimmy grumbled, “I want to hit someone.”
The muscles in Jack’s jaw ticked. “Did Laurel’s water conjury do that?”
“She told you her name?” The guards had never told her anything, let alone their names.
“And Nick was bleeding from his arm before I killed him. Your doing?”
He asked far more questions than he answered. Fiddling with her braid, Emmy shrugged. “I bit him.”
Jack grinned.
“Lovely,” Caleb sighed. “She shares your casual affinity for violence.”
“Says the person who left two bodies floating in the water,” Emmy countered.
“They were from the morgue! And unclaimed for several weeks. But if you’d prefer the Society to notice you’re missing and
come looking—”
“Can we not talk about those corpses?” With a grimace, Jimmy eyed the meat.
Jack motioned to the chair beside Jimmy. “Join us.”
Part of Emmy longed to refuse, simply to deny Jack the impression that he could tell her what to do, but she was far too hungry.
As Jimmy pulled out her chair, Jack filled her crystal wine glass and Caleb dished thick slices of venison onto her porcelain
plate. When no one was looking, Emmy pocketed her steak knife.
“Salute.” Jimmy lifted his glass, unable to meet her eye as he repeated Papa’s favorite toast. The others toasted, too, and as if in
a trance, Emmy followed suit.
How she longed to grab the meat with her hands and shove it into her mouth. Cutting required far too much patience, but she had no choice but to retrieve the knife from her skirt.
“It’s gamey,” Caleb murmured.
It was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted.
Beside her, Jack was devouring his meal with fervor. She hadn’t a clue how long he’d been imprisoned, but he must have survived
on the same revolting gruel as she had.
“I miss the kitchen staff,” Caleb sighed, cutting his venison into tiny pieces. “We haven’t had a proper vegetable in so long,
it’s a miracle I haven’t contracted scurvy.”
“You’ve been squatting in a manor, not lost at sea.” Jack piled more venison on his plate. Without asking, he did the same
to Emmy’s. “Have you kept tabs on the Society?”
“Here and there. I’m too recognizable to get close. But they’re still concerned that their conjury is weakening. Most people
blame the immigrants. Too many people sharing the brume.”
Brume? Weakening magic—because of immigrants? The Society of the Charmed was, apparently, full of elitist bigots.
“Broom?” Jimmy repeated between mouthfuls. “As in a witch’s broomstick?”
Caleb shot him a look. “How many times have I told you? Witch is an insult.”
“Brume, as in a thick fog.” Jack took a long swig of wine. “That’s what conjury feels like: a heavy, invisible mist. When we conjure,
we draw from the brume. It’s our power source. How much we can pull varies from person to person, along with the gifts we
power by using it.”
Emmy tried to appear nonplussed as her mind spun. Papa had spoken of magic as if it were something inside them. But it certainly
felt like a strange fog, and calling to it had always reminded her of having something heavy draped over her.
Despite her efforts to appear disinterested, Jack grinned as if he saw right through her. “Agree to help me, and you’ll have access to every book on conjury my family has amassed.”
Exactly what she’d wanted from a patronage. But now, earning the opportunity to learn about a crucial part of herself seemed
ridiculous. People like her and Papa had just as much of a right to understand their magic as members of the cursed Society.
“Ah, so you’re still undecided. Perhaps it’ll help if you know a little bit more about us.” Jack stabbed yet another slice
of meat. “Caleb here worked for my family.”
“I was the personal attendant of Miss Rose Fontaine,” Caleb announced, his voice tinged with pride, “Jack’s elder and far
superior sister. That’s all you need to know.”
“How helpful, Alton,” Jack said dryly, rolling his sleeves to reveal forearms that were surprisingly muscular, though unnaturally
pale, like hers. “As for me, I was born into the Society because my parents were members. In fact, my ancestors were among
its founders over a century ago. Our main residence is in the city, but I’ve always summered here in Avalon-on-Hudson, where
many Society families maintain estates. We like to take breaks from prying eyes.”
Emmy glanced at the empty seats. “Does your family know we’re here?”
“I can’t be sure.” The ghost of a smile teased Jack’s lips. “Since they’re all dead.”
Surprised, Emmy glanced toward Jimmy for confirmation, but he and Caleb were studying their plates, all humor gone. “Is that
why you’re seeking revenge? Because of your family?”
“Agree to help me, and I’ll tell you.” He took a generous swig of his wine. “Now as to my plan, I’ve already told you that
I have four targets in mind: Chancellor Stratton, Oliver Stratton, Grace Montgomery, and Clara Claremont.”
“The Claremonts’ daughter?” Caleb frowned. “She had nothing to do with the fire.”
A fire? Stabbing her next mouthful, Emmy tucked that tidbit away.
“She assisted Grace Montgomery in framing Miss Vallillo here. And,” Jack added as he poured himself a new glass, “I never
liked her.”
Emmy let her face reveal nothing, which seemed to disappoint him. Good.
“Despite the protection their money and status afford them, all four of our targets possess fatal flaws. The chancellor, for
example, is power hungry, while his son is lazy and greedy. We’ll capitalize on these weaknesses to exact our own personal
form of justice.”
“What sort of justice?” Emmy asked. “Death?”
Jimmy chuckled. “Fontaine isn’t planning to kill anyone.”
Else, she nearly added. “He speaks of justice. And my father’s dead.”
“But San Rocco wouldn’t want you to—”
“I don’t care if they rot in jail or die.” Jack’s voice remained casual, even amused, but his gray eyes had sharpened to something
murderous. “As long as they suffer.”
“You don’t mean that,” Jimmy insisted, and Emmy waited for guilt to gnaw at her. Thou shall not kill. It was quite literally etched in the front of her school. She’d run her finger along the stone every day for a decade. But
her conscience, apparently, had abandoned her.
“In order to set these traps for them, we need to be respected members of the Society of the Charmed,” Jack continued. “Preferably
in the inner circle, trusted by the chancellor himself.”