Chapter 30
The drawing room door unlocked with a heavy click. Dashiell pushed it open, its slow yawn pulling Nic’s chest taut as the vowsmith halted on the threshold, candelabra held high. “But… this isn’t the right room,” he said. “Is it?”
Standing at his shoulder, Nic took in the space, and something of both thrill and dismay tingled down his spine.
It wasn’t the same room, at least not as they had last seen it with its freshly polished wood and new paint, its shiny charmspun metal and its glittering chandelier.
Now it had the faded old grandeur Nic knew well, all cracking paint and tarnished fittings, its curtains faded and its fireplace blackened.
“Surely some coals falling out of the fireplace couldn’t do this,” Dashiell said.
“No, this is what it used to look like. Before—” With a terrible suspicion creeping upon him, Nic pulled the bundle of tape into the candlelight, sliding fingers along it. There would be one sigil that gave away what it did, Dashiell had said, and halfway along, Nic found it.
“Oh, that is clever. There, look. Itbri. A block, so it doesn’t work unless it’s connected to the other half.”
Using his fingernail, Nic scratched out the sigil.
The room brightened, the chandelier flaring into life above a space once again fully restored—all gleaming wood and plush sofas, shimmering brocade curtains and no hint of decay.
Dashiell spun slowly, jaw dropped. “It’s just an illusion.”
“Just an illusion. That’s what the damn tape is for.” Nic said the words, yet he could hardly believe them, hardly believe the depth of desperation required to undertake such a risky ruse. But how else to make the house look impressive for guests when they had no money to fix it?
“It’s really good.” Dashiell touched the wall. “He didn’t have to build illusory walls or curtains, just… paint illusions onto the ones that existed using law commands. It would have taken ages to get it just right, so it looked like it was really stuck.”
“Three weeks, I should say.” Anger flared. “He didn’t come because Lord Ricard paid him to. He’s here because my father needed him. I got it wrong and he just never corrected me.”
Taking the candle, Nic went back along the hall to the parlour in which they’d dined earlier that night. There the chandelier was still lit, the room gleaming and warm despite the late hour.
It took only minutes to find the tape, tucked into a recess near the chandelier mechanism.
Nic pulled it out like he was spilling the Court’s guts onto the floor.
The chandeliers died and the warmth faded, the light of Dashiell’s candle showing only cracked floorboards and corners of lingering mould.
“Every room?” Dashiell said, but Nic had already gone back out. His skin was aflame now, anger driving him along to the smaller drawing room, the sitting room, the gallery. Each one alight with illusory candles, each one reverting to its faded, rotten grandeur upon a tug of silvery tape.
“Every room,” Nic said, striding toward the negotiation chamber. “Every damn room. Everything a farce like this entire family.”
Like all the other rooms, the negotiation chamber’s chandeliers burned bright.
One hung over the head of the long table, one over the foot, while to the side of the room the two letters patent remained upon their easels.
On the sideboard sat the stack that was the all-but-finished contract, but Nic spared it only a glance as he searched for the door-shaped crack in the wall that would lead into yet another service passage.
With Dashiell holding the candle behind him, Nic hunted for the tape in the dusty space, yanking it from its home with a gleeful crow.
It had stopped mattering why the tape was there, stopped mattering what questions he had sought to solve.
Gripped by fury, Nic dragged the tape out of the passage, preparing to dump it in the middle of the table for all to see.
“Nicholas?”
The voice brought Nic up short as he stepped out of the passage, the bundle of tape in his hands. The duke was approaching slowly down the room toward them, his attention flitting from Nic to Dashiell behind those dark glasses. “What are you doing?”
Too angry even for dread, Nic brandished the tape in his face.
“You asked him to come. Lord Francis. Because as the house of higher standing, we had to host the lock-in, but you couldn’t bear for anyone to see how far we had fallen.
” He gestured about the room, tape rattling in his hand.
“You brought him here to cover the rooms in illusions. You locked the drawing room when I took its tape without realising what it did. You locked the breakfast parlour when it stopped working. And the dining room fire? That was you too, wasn’t it? ”
“What else would you have had me do?” the duke hissed. “This was a chance to put all the talk to rest. No more snide comments about our house being like our fortunes, no more prying questions about why no one is ever invited here—the Serrals could have returned home with only praise.”
Nic sneered. “You say that like it matters what people think. Like their opinions can change the fact that there is no fortune.” He tore the tape in two.
Half the room sparked back into life, fixtures polished and glowing as though cut down the centre by time.
“What is this even for when there’s nothing left?
” Nic raged on. “You demanded a promise that I uphold our name, but what is there to uphold?” He tore the tape again and again, dropping sections of the illusion off-kilter, colours shifting.
“I know there is no estate left. No principal. There is nothing and there hasn’t been for years.
You have kept Mama and me locked up here for a lie! ”
With a final tear, Nic threw the pieces of tape in the air. One corner of the room flickered a lurid shade before darkening into its far more familiar, decayed state.
Like falling snow, the shreds of tape settled gently around them.
“Are you quite done?” the duke said.
“I don’t know. Are you?”
The duke lashed out to slap him, but knowing it was coming Nic stepped back, letting the hand graze past his face. “Always easier to just hit me, isn’t it? Like that will make me a better son.” He lifted his hands in surrender. “I am done.”
The urge to tell the man that he was not only done tearing apart the rooms but done being his son was almost too much, but Nic swallowed it down. “I will bid you good night, sir.”
Nic started for the door, but the duke stepped into his path.
“You think this is easy?” he demanded. “You think I wanted to inherit such a wretched pittance? You think I wanted to sacrifice everything for this house? For our name?” He stepped closer.
Gripped Nic’s chin hard with his long fingers.
“Duty is all there is, Nicholas. Duty is all we are given.” Without letting go, he turned to Dashiell.
“Master sa Vare, if you would kindly ring for Castor.”
Dashiell hesitated, before moving to the bellpull by the fireplace, where only half a fire now burned its illusory flames. “As you wish, sir.”
While the vowsmith did as he was bid, dread started trickling through Nic’s anger. They needed to get away. Needed to save the duchess. Yet Nic remained caught as his father’s shaded eyes bored into his.
“I thought you might prove me wrong, Nicholas,” the man said, his fingers digging harder into Nic’s cheeks.
“I thought you might prove yourself, might allow me to pass on the responsibility safe in the knowledge you would honour the burden as I had done. But no. I was right all along. You are too much your mother’s son. ”
“Or too much my father’s?”
The duke flinched, hand twitching.
“I know,” Nic went on, gripping his father’s wrist and prising the man’s hand from his face. “I know. That’s why you hate that I conjure. Hate that I make automata. Hate even my messy hair. You look at me and see only the wastrel who put the final nails in this family’s coffin.”
“And am I so wrong?”
From the doorway, Castor cleared his throat. “Your Grace?”
“Castor. Have candles brought in, and send for Lord Charborough and Lady Leaf. We are signing the contract.”
“Now, Your Grace?” the old butler hazarded. “At such a late—”
“Yes. Now. Go.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The man scurried out, leaving the dread that had been creeping over Nic to settle like a lump in his gut. This wasn’t how it had been meant to go. They ought to have had time, to have been able to escape before the contract was signed, and now…
The duke pulled out the chair at the head of the table. “The head of the table is yours for the signing, Nicholas. Sit. Such a simple command; perhaps you can do this one thing without disobeying me.”
Nic stared at the chair. Dared not glance Dashiell’s way as their plans collapsed around them.
“Sit!”
At the other end of the room, the door sat open like a cruel invitation to run, but it was too late. Swallowing hard, Nic moved to the table. Took the chair the duke held out for him.
“See? Not so difficult,” the man said, tucking his rage back behind his impassive facade. “Now, Master sa Vare.” He turned to the vowsmith. “I suggest you get everything ready to sign.”
Without awaiting a reply, the duke strode out, taking the air in the room with him.
On the tabletop, Nic’s hands trembled.
“Do you want me to smith your certificate now?” Dashiell asked, voice low. “And end this before he comes back?”
“No. There’s no time to get away, and I told Mama dawn.”
Dashiell appeared beside him, expression troubled. “You’re going to sign it?”
“There’s no other way, but even if I do, the death certificate will still void the contract afterwards, yes?”
“Yes, because Lord Nicholas Monterris will cease to exist.”
“Then we sign the damn thing,” Nic said. “And tomorrow when he thinks it’s all settled, we can make new plans. It might even be better this way. Without worrying about the lock-in, I can get Mama away, then you can smith it once we’re safe.”
They shared a look, fresh plans turning behind Dashiell’s eyes. “You’re right. I don’t like the idea of leaving without you tomorrow, but it may be easier if your father thinks he’s won.” A curt nod, and he squeezed Nic’s shoulder. “All right. We just need to get through this.”
Dashiell moved to the sideboard and began shuffling through the contract’s many pages.
With no other task but to be present, Nic clasped his shaking hands on the table.
Overhead the dark chandelier hung like a collection of dusty old shadows, while the other end of the table emerged into the light of a whole different room.
Time seemed to slow and yet speed all at once, untethered from any sense of normality as Nic sat waiting. At the sideboard, Dashiell went on working through what needed to be done to prepare, while over the mantelpiece a grand clock ticked slowly toward the bottom of the hour.
Both sooner than expected and yet terribly late, footsteps heralded arrivals and Leaf walked in, her hair hastily put up and with Lady Theresa scowling at her side. “Well, if this isn’t a ridic—” The lady gasped, flinching back into the doorway. “What has happened to the room?”
“It’s merely an illusion, Lady Theresa,” Nic said, impressed at how calm his voice sounded. “At least, half of it is.”
Leaf gazed around, the same awe in her face as when they’d first explored the style wing. “Which half?”
Lightly spoken words, yet her eyes fixed on him, intent with a different question. Ending up signing the contract late that night hadn’t been part of the plan, but he couldn’t explain, could only seek to reassure her—and himself—with a smile.
Slowly, Lady Theresa made her way around the strange room, touching the cracked tiles and tarnished metalwork. “It looks very real,” she said. “Some of your work, Lord Monterris?”
“No, Lady Theresa. Not mine.”
Before he could be tempted to explain, Lord Charborough and Lord Ricard arrived, trailing similar questions. Nic flinched as Lord Ricard threw a menacing smile his way before dropping into a chair near the other end of the table, quite at ease.
“They’re illusions, Charles,” Lady Theresa was saying. “My lord, do come and see.”
“I have no interest in anything except getting out of here, my lady,” Lord Ricard said. He pushed Leaf’s designated chair out with his foot. “Here, Leaf, you had best sit so we can get this over with as fast as possible.”
“I am quite willing to do so, Uncle,” she said, moving to the chair. “Though I would like to know what has changed that we are suddenly signing tonight. It is almost eleven.” She threw another questioning look Nic’s way, but he was no more able to answer than before.
Lord Charborough moved to lean on the back of his chair, the gathering Serrals leaving Nic feeling alone and exposed at the opposite end of the table. “Yes, and where’s Val? We can’t exactly get started without him.”
“We’d better hope he doesn’t get murdered then,” Lady Theresa tittered.
It was a poor jest and Lord Charborough turned to berate her, only for his words to stall upon the sound of running steps. They grew louder, approaching along the hallway, the footfalls so heavy they set the chandelier tinkling over Nic’s head.
Lord Charborough unfroze. “What on earth—?”
The door burst open, smashing back upon its hinges as Lord Francis sped in, his eyes wild.
“Nicholas! Move!”
Cries met his arrival. Lady Theresa recoiled in shock, but it was anger that flared first in Nic’s chest. “Lord Francis, you—”
“Move! The chandelier!”
The man’s panic hit Nic like a stone and he looked up. Up to where the chandelier trembled, its chain rattling.
Time slowed, every breath a thousand and yet not enough.
Never enough. As the rattle of the chain became a roar, Nic tried to throw himself out of the way, and all was glass and dust and the great vacuum of nothingness that came before the loudest sound he had ever heard.
It crashed over him in a torrent, and Dashiell screaming his name was the last thing he heard.