Chapter 41
Casimir stared at the last entry for a long moment before lifting his eyes to mine.
I held my spine straight, my body tense with uncertainty. I didn’t know how he might react to the truth. How can anyone process this kind of earth-shattering revelation?
He shook his head as though in a daze. Finally, he spoke. “I need a drink.”
I released a shaky laugh and nodded. “I think I need one, too.”
That Eleanor Farrow was not my biological mother was perhaps the least shocking thing we’d gleaned from these journals.
Still, it mattered to me.
Eleanor had fallen in love with the dashing Dr. Malcolm Flynch while working as a research assistant in the History Department at Portland College.
He would have been in his early thirties and at the peak of his popularity.
I imagined Eleanor watching him from a quiet distance, her hazel eyes peering out from behind her cape of sleek brown hair, her fascination with the bombastic professor slowly growing into an obsession.
According to my father’s journals, it was Eleanor who had first noticed his strange absences, the ever-growing pile of essays on his desk.
She’d called him to inquire after his wellbeing—and Malcolm, upon finding himself the sole caregiver to a three-month-old baby, seized upon her sympathies.
She must have been in love with him for many months to agree to marry him and take on the role of motherhood with so little persuasion, but I suspected my father’s motives in marrying her were far murkier.
In Eleanor, he’d secured a caregiver, editor, and housekeeper all in one.
Someone who would attend prestigious academic events and change his daughter’s diapers when he wasn’t in the mood.
The casual manner with which he described Eleanor’s willing sacrifice sent a pang of pity shooting through me, and I had to wonder—had he ever truly loved her? I was not her child, and yet she had accepted me and raised me as her own, albeit begrudgingly.
My father’s journal entries also put his slow decline into greater context.
His heavy drinking, his poor work performance, his strange absences could all be explained as the fallout of his grief.
His heartbreak over losing Katerina was the catalyst that sparked his unraveling.
His reliance on liquor strained his tenuous relationship with my adopted mother, and I surmised that she’d guessed at the truth, that my father still clung to his grief—condemned to love a woman he could not have.
Katerina. I wondered how much Eleanor knew, but the fact that she’d sent me these journals likely meant she knew the whole truth.
“A half-Daemon,” Casimir murmured, scratching his cheek distractedly. “I never knew… I wonder if there are others?” His tone was full of unrestrained wonder. “I suppose your parentage explains your ability to detect glamours and lies. No other mortal can do that, as far as I know.”
I nodded. The journal explained much, and yet I found myself with more questions than I began with.
“And August was the only other person who knew?” he asked.
“Him and my mother, I suppose.” If I were being honest, I wasn’t sure how much Malcolm had shared with her. I swallowed down the lump in my throat before turning to Casimir. “Can I ask you something?”
He gave a curt nod.
“Do you think we might’ve saved him? If I’d told you the truth about my bloodbargain before the ball?” I couldn’t bring myself to mention the favor or the name August aloud.
Casimir’s expression was unreadable. “No,” he sighed. “Devereaux already knew that Sinclair had betrayed him. He never allows disloyalty to go unpunished.”
I nodded, knowing he was right. But knowing the truth didn’t lessen the blow.
Glancing down at my thigh, Casimir smiled sadly. “At least you won’t have to suffer the indignity of having the Darkseer’s name branded on your body for much longer,” he teased. “I’d say you have maybe a few hours at most before it vanishes.”
“Our bargain’s done? It’s over, just like that?”
He nodded. “Marks left by veilbound bargains disappear once they’re fulfilled.”
I stared at him, unsure as to how to feel about the news of our bargain ending.
In truth, I’d grown used to my tattoo’s incessant prickling, to the point that it had become something of a crutch, a reminder that Casimir was nearby.
But now was not the moment to overanalyze my complicated feelings about our bargain.
No, my foremost concern was Gwen, whose memories had been altered by softmagic without her consent.
Gwen, who must be utterly confused and distraught over her girlfriend’s sudden death and my unexplained absence over the past few days.
“I need to go,” I muttered distractedly.
Casimir looked utterly bewildered. “Go?” he repeated.
“Yes. I need to check on Gwen. I’ll be back later.”
“Wait,” he said, reaching out to touch my arm before snatching back his hand, thinking better of it. “I’ll come with you.”
“No,” I snapped. “You’ve done enough.”
His eyes hardened at the harsh accusation, but he shook his head stubbornly.
“You need to be careful, Farrow. Gwen doesn’t know about the Order. She doesn’t remember any of it.” His brows furrowed in consternation. “What exactly do you plan to say to her?”
“I…” I hesitated. What was my plan? I didn’t know what to say to her.
I knew I couldn’t tell her the truth. All I could offer her were words of comfort, useless and empty atonements.
It was this knowledge of my own uselessness that left a foul taste in my mouth, more bitter than all the lies I’d told.
“I just need to be there for her,” I said, swallowing down the lump in my throat. “Gwen didn’t deserve any of this, and it’s my fault she’s suffering.”
A muscle in Casimir’s jaw visibly clenched. “It is in no way your fault,” he ground out. “Neha’s death was…an unfortunate casualty. And despite your recklessness Sunday night, I am very glad Gwen survived unscathed.”
“Unscathed?” I repeated in hot indignation. “Unscathed, is she? After her memories were tampered with and she woke up to read about her girlfriend’s supposed suicide in this morning’s copy of The Gargoyle?” I gave a derisive snort.
Casimir winced. “I only meant—she was not injured in a physical sense, which is more than I can say for some.”
“Perhaps you are the one who ought to be careful with your words,” I retorted.
He bowed his head in concession. “Yes, perhaps you’re right.” His jaw clicked again. “Regardless, I am coming with you. I’ll stand outside while you and Gwen…talk.”
My eyes narrowed. “Don’t trust me not to reveal your secrets?”
“It’s got nothing to do with trust,” he growled, glaring back at me. “I wouldn’t put it past Devereaux to seek you out in order to finish what he started.”
“Why would he do that, when I’m bound to serve as the Order’s emissary?”
At the mention of my bloodbargain, Casimir’s expression darkened, but he didn’t deign to reply. He knew I was right.
We arrived at Ash Hall at midday, my fingers twitching with anxiety over Gwen. What sort of state would I find her in?
The dormitory was dark, and at first, I thought it must be empty. But as my eyes adjusted to the blackness, I made out Gwen’s shape beneath a heavy pile of blankets.
“Gwen,” I whispered as I tread lightly over to her bed. “It’s me.”
Gwen didn’t move.
“Gwen?” I spoke her name softly.
A muffled noise emitted from somewhere under the blankets.
“What?” I asked.
Gwen’s face emerged from beneath the bedding, her hazel eyes puffy and ringed with exhaustion. “I said, where were you?”
I flinched at the accusation in her tone. “I’m so sorry, Gwen. I… just heard what happened. I was… ” I swallowed hard. “I was with Casimir.”
She didn’t respond and instead averted her gaze, glaring into the darkness.
“Can I turn on a light?” I asked tentatively.
“I haven’t seen you since we entered the ball that night,” she said, ignoring my question.
“I—” Shit. How could I explain my long absence? I couldn’t very well tell Gwen that I’d known about August and Neha’s deaths since Sunday evening, or that I’d been too exhausted to function.
“Why aren’t you more upset?”
“Everyone grieves differently,” I evaded, hating myself even as I spoke the words. I didn’t want to shame Gwen for her grief. To stall, I walked over to turn on the desk lamp. “I suppose I’m still processing,” I said. “Maybe I’m still in denial.”
A raw, choked sob tore from Gwen’s throat. “I don’t understand. Why would Neha hurt herself? She wasn’t—She wouldn’t—It makes no sense!” Her voice broke off into incoherent sobs.
Desperation and despair clutched at my heart. I couldn’t stand to see Gwen in so much pain. When she collected herself enough to speak again, it was in a small, painfully childlike voice.
“W-we were happy, Neha and I. We spent the night together on Saturday, and then at the ball, I asked her to be my girlfriend. She said yes.” Gwen’s face crumpled.
“I am so very sorry, Gwen,” was all I could think to say.
“T-their throats were c-cut open. Did you know that?” she asked through ragged sobs. “It wasn’t in the paper, but I overheard some of the Gilded Circle gossiping about it over breakfast. Why would they do that to themselves?” she asked, her voice quavering under her grief.
“I don’t know.” I hesitated, debating how much to reveal with Casimir listening just outside the door. “Maybe… maybe they didn’t do it to themselves.”
Gwen’s sharp intake of breath cut off my rambling. “You think someone did that to them? Who?” she demanded.
I gnawed on the inside of my cheek as I considered how to answer her. I couldn’t let Gwen think Neha and August had been murdered, that their killer was still on the loose. But was allowing her to believe Neha had committed suicide any better?
Before I could reply, Gwen suddenly asked in a small voice, “Do you think she knew?”
I faltered. “Knew what?”
“That I loved her.”
It was such a simple and yet profound statement that for a moment I was rendered speechless.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, and fled from the room before Gwen could protest.
Casimir met my panicked expression in the doorway with a probing glance. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Not here.” I clicked the door shut behind me and dragging Casimir into the stairwell by his shirtsleeve. When we were alone, I turned to him. “Whatever potion Veronika gave her, it wasn’t enough.”
His brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“We can’t let her believe her girlfriend killed herself! It’s inhumane! She’s devastated, Casimir!”
“Well, of course she’s devastated,” he replied. “It’s a tragedy.” He spoke as if the circumstances of Neha’s death were as expected and mundane as bad weather. His lack of urgency only increased my desperation.
“You can make her forget,” I said. “Give her more of that draught—and glamour her, if you need to. Just fix this!”
A shadow of comprehension crossed Casimir’s face and his eyes hardened. “You want me to make her forget that she ever loved Neha?”
“I—” The words were strangled in my throat as I cowered beneath his heated glare.
Casimir was furious. It was evident by the burning in his eyes as he invaded my space, his arms pinning me against the wall. “You want me to remove the memories of someone she loved, without her consent? Is this how you treat your best friend?”
All I wanted was to remove Gwen’s pain. To erase it, as though it had never existed in the first place. In a small, pained voice, I replied, “Wouldn’t it be better if she didn’t remember her at all?”
“You tell me, Farrow,” he growled, his eyes narrowing into slits. “Would you take that option if it were on the table?”
I flinched at the vitriol lacing his voice.
Was he truly offering? Was this his way of giving me an out, as well as Gwen?
I didn’t need to consider my answer. Never.
I would never take that option. Despite the horrors I’d witnessed the night of the blood ritual, despite the emotional tumult I’d endured these past weeks, I wouldn’t want to forget how I felt about Casimir.
On the contrary, I was determined to remember him for as long as my lungs drew breath.
Slowly, I shook my head. “No,” I said, forcing myself to meet his gaze. I pressed my hand against his chest, willing him to give me space to breathe. “Forget I ever mentioned it.”
He snorted, but his expression softened marginally as he took a step back. “Now what?”
I sighed wearily. “Let me sit with Gwen for a while. You don’t have to wait—”
“I don’t mind,” he cut in.
I huffed. “Alright. Afterward…” I paused, assessing his expression. “Would you take me to see them? I think I need to see… for it to be real.”
Though I’d only said it to put off Gwen’s suspicions, it was true that I was probably in denial.
It was the likeliest explanation for my lack of emotion, for the numbness that clung to my bones.
It was as if my world had been split into two timelines: there was before the blood ritual, and after.
The actual events of that night still hovered in my mind like a fog, a haze of blood and terror and nothing concrete.
Perhaps seeing the carnage—the gruesome proof of what Devereaux had done to my friends—would help me reconcile the two realities.
Or perhaps it would break me.