24. Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
Ursula moved like a phantom, slipping through the gardens without a sound. Emmaline watched from the projected image on her speak-easy, heart pounding as her friend weaved through the hedges, sticking to the shadows as if she belonged there. Which, knowing Ursula, she did.
Emmaline’s charm was too delicate for unnecessary magic, so Ursula had to do this the hard way—on foot, no vanishing tricks.
Any additional interference could risk corrupting the illusion they’d worked so hard to craft.
Besides, it was safer this way. Even though Ursula’s magical traces usually dissolved with the first rays of sunlight like all blood magic, they weren’t about to risk leaving anything behind.
The screen in front of Emmaline wobbled in and out, adjusting to the bright midday lighting as Ursula moved toward the statue where Lady Allistair had died.
The looming marble figure looked even more grotesque through the clear projection, its cold, blank eyes watching over the scene of its unintended kill.
“Careful… careful…” Emmaline whispered, barely realizing she was speaking aloud.
She leaned forward, nearly pressing her face into the projection.
Margo had shelled out a lot of gold for these upgraded speakeasies that came with the human-designed video feature.
Emma was initially skeptical about the cost, but watching Ursula sneak across the grounds in real time, it suddenly felt like the smartest purchase they’d ever made.
Given the nature of what they were doing, it was safer for them to keep an eye on each other.
When did my life turn into missions and covert operations? The absurdity of the thought almost made her laugh, but the pressure in her chest wouldn’t allow it.
Ursula crouched beside the statue, scanning the area, the bushes rustling softly in the afternoon breeze.
“To your right,” Emmaline murmured. “About ten paces into the ghostthorn.”
It was the exact place she had cast her spell that night.
Ursula pivoted, stepping between the thorned branches with ease. “Here?” Her voice was barely audible, but Emmaline heard it clearly over the magical transmission.
“Yeah.” Emmaline’s heart hammered.
The charm dangled from Ursula’s elevated hand as she said the activating words. “A Terrible Lord wove this spell.”
The gold diamond pulsed once with a single beat of magic, then it faded.
“It worked.” Emmaline let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Should I be concerned that you’re so relieved and I’m not a pile of skin on the pavement here?”
“I knew it would work.” She swallowed hard. “Now, just two more times. The charm needs to be used on three consecutive days to make it true.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Ursula looked into the projection, pursing her lips. “Thrice said. And it is done. I got it.”
Emmaline’s neck prickled with unease, remembering the strange voice saying those same words after she’d broken the bond with Deyric.
“Great. Time to get out of here.” Ursula turned as she stepped lightly back toward the path, but before she could clear the bushes, something shifted in the air.
It was a distant hum.
Emmaline clenched the edge of her desk as the sound grew louder, the speak-easy’s projection bucked with movement. A glider, sleek and dark, coasted into view like a shadow slipping across the ground.
Ursula dove, disappearing into the tangled undergrowth.
Emmaline barely breathed, eyes locked on the grainy projection, pulse roaring in her ears. Ursula’s feed wobbled, settling just enough to give a narrow view through the brambles as the glider rolled to a stop near the statue.
“Are you okay?” Emmaline whispered.
“Shh.” Ursula crackled through the transmission. “I’m fine. Just some toad of a driver dropping off a glider for the day.”
Toad.
Emmaline's veins turned to ice. Her throat felt tight as she pressed her lips together, forcing her voice to stay even. “What's he look like?”
“I don’t know,” Ursula muttered, shifting for a better look. “Your usual sniveling lackey type—round-faced, sweating like a stuck boar with skin like curdled milk.” She paused, then added with distaste, “Reminds me of a Corrach, honestly.”
Emmaline’s grip on the desk tightened, a hot pulse of magic flickering to life in her palm.
A Corrach was a hunched, pale, rat-like fae that lurked in the underbellies of old courts, always creeping in the shadows of their masters, whispering in ears, clinging to power like leeches.
Her attention locked on the speak-easy’s projection.
The ball of light trembled in her hand, a burning echo of the fury boiling deep in her gut.
“He was there.” The words barely made it past her throat. “When Caelith—”
“Say no more.” Ursula’s voice was flat, final.
And that was all. But Emmaline knew what it meant. Caelith was about to be down a driver.
A slow, satisfied grin curved her lips. “Good.”
Three more days. Emmaline exhaled slowly, steadying her breath. Three more days, and it would be done.
She had spent the rest of the day holed up in her office, keeping her head down, her presence barely more than a shadow.
She hadn’t even left for lunch. The thought of stepping into the servant’s dining hall, making small talk with vendors and artisans bustling through the castle in their frantic preparations for the Solstice Ball—it made her skin feel too tight, like the world was pressing in on her from all sides.
The ache in her body had dulled to something distant, but the phantom grip of unwelcome hands still lingered. She just had to make it home now. Home.
The thought alone loosened something inside her, tension easing ever so slightly at the promise of hot chamomile tea steeped with crushed starpetal and honeythorn.
It was the way her mother used to make it.
After that, she’d sleep. And if the nightmares came again?
There was always the ratgut Cassidy couldn’t stomach, burning away the edges of her thoughts until they blurred into something bearable.
She pushed to her feet, shaking off the dread pressing down on her shoulders.
Tomorrow, she’d call in sick. Isolde would throw a fit, but everything for the Ball was already in place.
The woman would hopefully be too busy preening and terrorizing some poor seamstress or florist to waste time looking for Emmaline.
Moving quickly through the dim corridors, her steps were light and purposeful.
She kept her head down, avoiding eye contact and slipping past open doorways before anyone could glance up and rope her into conversation.
The usual hum of castle life surrounded her—servants rushing about, courtiers murmuring in alcoves—but no one stopped her for once.
No questions. No pointless gossip. Just a straight shot to the door.
Relief coiled through her as her fingers found the final door handle. Almost out. Just a few more seconds and—
“There you are!”
Her teeth clicked together, shoulders bunching before she forced them down. You can do this. The words rang in her skull as she turned.
Caelith strode toward her, moving with that effortless grace he liked to think was charming.
Her stomach clenched.
Just smile. “I’m surprised to see you in the servants’ corridors, my Lord.”
He glanced around, his gaze skimmed over the scuffed stone floors and worn tapestries.
“Yes, well.” He returned his attention to her. “I just needed to see you again.”
Don’t vomit. Don’t vomit. Her smile widened, her voice dropping into something softer, sweeter. Channel Margo.
“Really?” She let her lashes lower just slightly. “I didn’t think I would see you again until Friday.” She paused, tilting her head, eyes flicking up at him as though afraid of the answer. “That is… if you still want me—er, to be your date.”
Caelith reached for her hand, lifting it gallantly and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Of course, petal. I want nothing more.” His fingers lingered, gaze locking onto hers. “Our night was nothing short of transformational.”
Don’t clench your fists. Don’t wipe your hand on your dress. Don’t let him see. Instead, she let out a breathy laugh, pretending it sent a shiver down her spine instead of nausea clawing up her throat.
“Truly, my Lord?” Emmaline let the very real tears threatening to spill shimmer in her eyes. She angled her face just enough to catch the light, letting her lower lip quiver. “I was worried that once the harsh light of day shined… and your mother—I know she doesn’t favor me.”
Caelith tsked under his breath, stepping closer. Reaching up, his knuckles grazed her cheek, catching the stray tear before it could fall. His fingers trailed lower, tracing the curve of her jaw, thumb brushing just over her parted lips.
Don’t recoil. Don’t flinch. She let her breath hitch, let her eyes shut. Let him think she was overwhelmed by his touch rather than resisting the urge to snap her teeth shut around his thumb.
“My mother does not compel me.” His thumb teased at her mouth, the barest pressure against her bottom lip.
She forced herself to hold his gaze, to keep the glossy admiration in her eyes as she whispered, “Truly, my Lord?”
His answering smile dripped satisfaction, his hand sliding down her arm. “Of course, petal.”
Emmaline allowed herself to exhale, lowering her shoulders just enough to make it look like relief rather than the unbearable strain of keeping up the charade.
“I trust you received what you needed to obtain a worthy dress?” he asked, his fingers lingering just above her wrist.
“Oh yes,” she simpered. “My Lord is most generous.”
He preened at that, standing just a little taller.
“Though…” She hesitated, biting her lip, letting uncertainty flicker across her face.
Caelith’s brows lifted. “What is it, my dear?”
“With all the preparations.” She sighed, casting her gaze downward. “I don’t think I’ll have time to make full use of your generosity.” She glanced back up at him through her lashes. “Do you think I could take tomorrow to find something truly worthy of being seen on your arm?”
The way he inhaled, slow and pleased, told her he enjoyed the idea of her toiling over a gown just to impress him.
“Of course.” He leaned closer, his breath brushing against her cheek.
She could feel it building, panic swelling in her chest, tightening around her ribs like a vice. He was too close.
“But the preparations… and your mother.” She barely managed to keep her voice from trembling.
“I will deal with my mother, sweet petal.” His lips hovered just above hers.
Don’t scream. Don’t scream.
Her body betrayed her, muscles coiling tight, every instinct yelling at her to run. But she locked her knees and held her spine straight.
“My Lord. Your glider is ready.”
The voice cut through the suffocating moment like a blade.
Caelith paused, his lips still hovering too close before finally straightening.
“Apologies for the delay. I had to secure a replacement driver. Hoady was… absent,” Deyric continued.
Emmaline’s head snapped up so fast that her vision swam. She took a step back, only now realizing just how close she’d let Caelith get.
“Very well.” Caelith looked up and down the corridor.
Deyric stood rigid, his hands held stiffly behind his back.
His jaw twitched—a minute, barely perceptible movement—but his eyes remained fixed on some invisible point in the distance, unblinking.
Not a glance in their direction. Not at her.
Not at Caelith. But for a fraction of a second, his breath hitched.
Caelith turned back to her, lifting her hand to his lips. But this was no chaste farewell. His mouth lingered, pressing against the delicate skin of her wrist, parting just enough for his tongue to taste her pulse. His lips curved, savoring and claiming.
Emmaline barely contained her shudder, forcing herself to stay still, forcing herself to let it happen.
Her eyes darted to Deyric.
He was stone. Shoulders locked, arms stiff, fingers digging so deep into his own palms that she thought they might bleed. He wouldn’t look at her. Wouldn’t acknowledge her.
She wanted to scream that this wasn’t what it looked like. That she hadn’t chosen this. But she could say nothing. She could do nothing. Not without arousing Caelith’s suspicion.
“Enjoy your day off, petal.” He let her go, turning away.
As he strode past, Deyric’s gaze finally found her. It was cold. Detached. An ocean of emotion—of rage, pain, betrayal—buried so deep their bond might as well have never existed. And then he turned, following Caelith, never sparing her another glance.
The moment they disappeared into another corridor, Emmaline’s knees buckled. She caught herself against the cold stone wall, pressing her forehead against it as laughter bubbled up from her throat—wild, breathless, hysterical.
Tears slipped down her cheeks, hot and unchecked, her shoulders shaking with the crushing fear and the suffocating pretense. The look on Deyric’s face. It was too much to bear.
Her stomach lurched, nausea twisting through her, but she made herself take a breath, then another.
Three more days.
Her laughter turned hollow, rasping out between clenched teeth. Pushing off the wall, she dragged a shaking hand through her hair and staggered forward.
“Fuck the tea.” She wiped her face, shoving the door open with a force that rattled the hinges.
No, she needed something stronger. Tonight, we’re starting with the Firethorn.