Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
The girl was crying again.
Morgana set aside the letter she had been writing and glared at the door separating her sitting room from the room that Louisa was currently attempting to flood.
She'd been trying to ignore it, but the exhausted half-sobs reminded her only a little too well of all the times she'd been locked away in small rooms as a child, after she'd been beaten by her uncle. The only difference was that she'd soon stopped crying.
Tears earned you nothing, and this was hardly comparable.
After all, the girl had an entire bedroom with a nice bed and soft blankets.
Not a small closest tucked under the stairs, or even the box that her uncle liked to put her in for the day.
She wasn't being starved. She wasn't being beaten for not being a boy, or for being another burden, another mouthful to feed when food was scarce.
There could always be bloody worse things to cry about.
Morgana scraped back the chair, stood in a swish of dark aubergine skirts, and rapped sharply on the door. "Cease that noise at once, or you won't get any supper!"
It worked. Silence descended, golden, blessed silence. Thank goodness.
"Threatening children again, are we mother?"
Morgana stifled the leap of her heart. Visits from Sebastian always required a steeling of the nerves, but he'd taken to the habit of sneaking about on cat-quiet feet. Sometimes she wondered if he knew how much his presence unnerved her. "You're late."
He always was.
It was always fifteen minutes, or ten, here and there.
She'd chided him for the small rebellions, but punishing him for each and every infraction would have gained her nothing.
It was something her uncle had taught her.
The more you punished someone, the more they seemed to be able to tolerate it.
By doling out pain in rare increments, the tension built.
You were always waiting for the fist to fall, always on the tip of your toes, watching your tormentor for the slightest hint of movement.
Sometimes she'd just wished her uncle would get it over and done with, and perhaps that had been the worst part.
Her son stood staring through the windows at the park in the Square, the gray afternoon light washing over his features.
There was a beaver hat in his hand, which he toyed with absently, and his coat and trousers were impeccable and richly furnished.
He looked like some devastatingly handsome noble, but that was innate, not something she'd been able to provide with rich clothes, fine boots, and countless hours of tutoring.
Sebastian had his father's air; arrogance lingered in the upright tilt of his chin and the firm press of his lips spoke for little tolerance for others and their foibles.
The only discrepancy in his appearance was the lack of tie and the way his shirt was unbuttoned just enough to show the glinting gold of the collar around his throat.
Sometimes Morgana wondered if he flaunted it like that on purpose, whenever he was within the house she'd rented, as if to say: You might be able to control me with this mother, but I will never forget what you have done to me, or forgive you for it.
"I had something important to attend to," he replied.
No doubt that something important had been perusing the books in the library, or strolling through the gardens behind the house and tending to his precious bloody roses.
"Matters are moving quite swiftly at the moment, Sebastian.
We're beginning to set our act into play.
If you keep me waiting one more time..."
He looked at her, giving her his full chill-inducing attention.
The mercurial color of his eyes were Drake's, but the predatory intensity behind them were not.
Her ex-husband had never been this dangerous.
Drake had been warmth and heat; Sebastian was pure ice.
"You'll what? Send me to my knees with this collar?
" Tapping the hat against his leg, he took a step toward her, his lips curling into a smile that never reached his eyes.
"How long do you think that ring you wear on your finger will protect you?
How long can this collar keep me as your slave? "
It was something she'd thought about almost every day since his twelfth birthday, when his powers began to manifest, a strength of sorcery like the boiling clouds of a thunderstorm on the horizon.
She'd never seen anything like it, though she'd long since known that this son of hers, this son she'd stolen from the Prime, would be dangerous and difficult to control indeed.
The previous Cassandra, Lady Rathbourne, had predicted it after all, with her belly thickening with Drake's bastard.
That day seemed burned into her memory. It had been a tea party, with all of the Order's malicious eyes watching as the two women circled each other around a table laden with small cucumber sandwiches, honey cakes, scones, jam, and clotted cream.
They all knew that Morgana had been on the outs with her husband after the unfortunate poisoning of his nephew and heir.
Begetting Sebastian had been a feat in itself—an explosive argument between them that she'd turned to her advantage—and the precious, precious little weapon growing inside of her had been her insurance policy against the divorce Drake had threatened her with.
If not for Drake's mistress, Lady Rathbourne, and the unfortunate fact that she too was swelling with child, Morgana might have been able to sway him.
It had been a small moment at the tea party, a matter of losing sight of her rival between the astrology games they'd all been playing and the setting up of the readings.
There'd been a bump and a 'pardon mademoiselle' in that syrupy French drawl, and then Lady Rathbourne had smiled at her insincerely, one lace-gloved hand brushing Morgana's middle, her eyes widening in shock as prophecy grabbed hold of her.
"This son shall never be yours," the Order's Cassandra stated in a ringing voice, strangely stripped of her accent, her pupils narrowed to pinpricks and unseeing.
With a gasp, Lady Rathbourne had staggered away as the prophecy released her, felling a servant with a platter of lemon cakes and almost sending the sandwich table to a similar doom. Eyes everywhere had turned, locking on the spectacle, and whispers sprang up, hidden behind lacy fans.
Morgana hadn't been able to stay there. She'd fled instead, one hand on the ruffles used to camouflage her thickened state, the other almost wringing the starch from her handkerchief.
In a quiet corner of the gardens, she'd found refuge, but there was no respite from her thoughts.
He'll never be mine. She could fool herself all she wanted, tell herself that she'd finally found something, someone who would love her no matter what and never betray her, but she'd had her own doubts.
A child had to love its mother, did it not?
But that hope had been shattered by the foul-tasting tang of foretelling that lingered in her own mouth.
Even the baby moved within her restlessly at that moment, a spiteful kick, as if to say that he too agreed.
There was no time to think her way out of it.
The divorce proceedings began a week later.
Not even threatening to abort their son had stayed Drake's hand long enough.
By law, the child would have been his. With the Order signing an Execution warrant for her for the poisoning of Drake's nephew, she wouldn't have even remained alive to see her son grow and have a chance at luring him to her side.
Fleeing Britain was her only hope, and it gave her a vicious pleasure to cross the Channel, knowing that by then Drake would have received her letter with the bloody remnants in the rag she'd sent him.
'Here is your son. Tell your mistress that her foretelling came true: I will never have him, but neither shall you. '
A lie, of course, but imagining the pain Drake had felt had been the only thing to put a smile on her face in those early days. Nobody threw her away. She was tired of men ruining her life with their fists and their broken promises. She was never going to trust another man again.
Not even her son.
"If you ever tried to remove the collar, Sebastian, I think you'd find the pain quite beyond what I have been delivering when you disobey me. I'm told trying to remove it is almost... unendurable."
Only a faint flare of his nostrils betrayed any hint of emotion.
"We shall see. Do you remember that tale you once told me about your uncle?
About how he tried to lock you in that box one too many times?
It was an interesting bedtime story for a boy of seven, and I never forgot it, but like other tales for children, it has an interesting moral to the story.
I wonder when I will reach that moment when pain becomes nothing more than a minor annoyance, and the desire to remove.
.. this" —he touched his throat— "becomes the overwhelming emotion.
I wonder if you will be quite so sanguine then. "
Morgana allowed herself a faint smile, though a trickle of sweat slithered down her spine. "Let this be another lesson then: one always keeps a trump card up their sleeve, Sebastian. If you think the collar is the only way I can control you, then you should think again."
"And how would you do that?" Sorcery began to build within him, the air suddenly growing cooler as he drew energy into him. "I am stronger than you."