The Virtue and the Vixen, Volume 1 (The Book of All Things #11)

Chapter 1

Murderous Harlot

Elloven Hawthorne Quinlanden had many regrets, and nothing illustrated them quite like fleeing for her life in the middle of the night after murdering five men.

Regret was exhausting. It was a slow death, destroying her from the deepest parts of her soul. But she didn’t regret killing those monsters, only that her courage had been too flimsy and too late for an actual escape plan.

Tonight she’d decided there was no more putting off what must be done, though, no more pretending the relief would come to her if she was patient enough. If she endured enough.

She had to make her own salvation.

Elloven always counted the ninety-seven steps to the top of the sylvan watchtower. She’d been doing it for years, since her very first arduous climb. It was a pulpit for lords, and she might be a lady, but that was not the same thing.

Still, her cruel, depraved husband was dead, and while they’d soon be searching for his lowborn enchantress wife, the tower was the last place they’d check.

She’d fantasized about her escape from Arboriana for years.

Plotted its many sordid details, given it breath, life, a name.

She’d have left sooner if she knew how to get to her homeland, to the enigmatic mountain witches of the Seven Sisters of the West, but she couldn’t find it on her own and her mother held the location close to her heart.

There is no benefit that outweighs the danger, she said, as though there could possibly be any greater dangers than the ones Elloven kept landing in, time and time again.

Certainly not as dangerous as the situation she was in tonight.

Elloven hadn’t forgotten there were ninety-seven steps—ninety-eight if she included the phantom gap between the final one and the platform, where there should have been one, and there was no reason not to have one, which bothered her more than it should.

Certain integers along the way were milestones.

At twenty-three, she was no longer in view of the base guards.

When her boots hit the seventy-fourth step, and her cheeks caught the shift in the breeze, she could breathe normally again.

She parceled life’s moments into small victories, because small victories were all she had.

The gathering commotion on the ground drifted up to the perch, as the Quinlandens called it, an homage to their palaces built into the very trees themselves.

It almost sounded like dreamy magic, if she didn’t know their cruelty, the way they used beauty as a weapon to inspire fear.

Kindness was anathema in a house of tyrant sadists.

Not a single day of her brutal marriage had she been allowed to forget it.

Screaming soon followed. She had less time than she’d hoped.

The Quinlanden estate scrambling to make sense of what had happened to their beloved second son was the first real moment of peace she’d known in Whitechurch, but there was no time to enjoy it.

She wondered how Fabrien and his friends had died.

They’d gone to the river that day, and there’d been smoke on the horizon, so fire seemed a likely cause.

She didn’t really know what happened once she gifted a nightmare to someone, and the last thing she wanted was to hurt innocent people, which was why it had taken her years to work up the courage.

Once a nightmare was sent, she had no control over the results, who it touched, where it landed, just as she’d never had control over any of her magic.

All she had were her intentions and a prayer they’d be enough.

Even sending dreams was a precarious business.

Slip one to a budding despot, and he might make good on his desire to subjugate a village.

Deliver one to a woman unhappy with her husband, and she might find the courage and means to dispose of him. Chaos magic was chaos magic.

Regardless of what had happened, Fabrien was dead, but that didn’t mean she was free.

Not yet.

Elloven leaned over the balcony, feeling the east wind rustle through the oaks, relishing her first deep breath all day.

It might be the only one of the day, or her last ever.

She was fully aware of the urgency, but she needed this moment.

When she’d first arrived at the glittering palace of Arboriana, the dark excitement brewing below would have sent her anxiety spiraling.

Seven years of torture had adjusted her threshold for apprehension.

If they caught her, they’d burn her for a witch.

She couldn’t lose sight of that. Couldn’t dare slip back into the fatalistic complacency that had led to this moment.

It didn’t matter that she’d used no altars, had no alchemical tools or skills at her disposal.

They’d drum up whatever evidence they required. Any “trial” held would be farcical.

Clatter at the trapdoor sent her heart into her throat, but it was only Uma, her attendant. The girl was the only person in all of Whitechurch loyal to Elloven, and even that was dubious, but she had always been kind, and for that Elloven loved her.

“My lady! Oh, thank the Guardians I found you! They’re all looking for you, after... did you hear? The news, have you heard?”

Elloven went stock-still. “Did anyone follow you?”

“Follow me? No one pays me mind. Did you hear? What happened?”

“Fabrien. I’ve heard.”

Anyone else would have frowned at her indifference, but not Uma.

No one had better insight into Elloven’s years of misery than the young girl who’d been forced to observe.

“It’s all so terrible... what they’re saying about you, I meant.

I couldn’t bear thinking of you locked up.

Swinging. We have to get you out of here, quick as we can.

” Uma’s matted hair framed her terrified face as she beckoned without leaving the stairwell.

She’d likely put part of the story together, at least suspected Elloven’s involvement, but there was no judgment in her comportment.

Elloven loved her more in that moment than in all the ones before.

“Come, come with me. I know a back way, a gap in the wall, but we must go before more guards arrive.”

“How did you know to find me here? If you knew, then others... are you sure you weren’t followed?

” Elloven had planned to wait for the excitement to level off before slinking down to the henhouse, where she’d hidden a satchel with scattered loose change, an apple, and a chunk of stale bread.

There was a change of clothing as well, which was what she needed most just then, because she couldn’t very well sneak around in a lady’s gown with her red hair free and flowing.

Uma had borrowed the trousers, blouse, and overcoat from her father without asking a single question. She wasn’t asking any now, either.

“I’ve always known, my lady. But I’ve never told a soul you come here. I wouldn’t. I swear.”

“They’ll punish you for helping me, Uma. You are the one who must go.”

“My lady, where are the clothes I got for you?”

“In the henhouse.” Elloven couldn’t tell what was happening below, only that it would be a terrible time to return to the ground without her disguise.

She’d panicked and run without even grabbing a cloak.

“Please, Uma, they’ll torture you. They’ll torture your father, your brother.

They already know you’re fond of me. Don’t make this worse on yourself. ”

Uma’s shrug lacked concern. “Well that’s just too far to walk around looking as you do.

I can... I’ll go get them. That’s what I’ll do, I’ll bring the clothing here.

” She braced between the door and the lip of the platform with a furtive glance behind her.

“But there’s something else you should know. ”

Elloven almost laughed. “What else could there be?”

“Someone has come for you. He says he’s a friend, and he’s waiting on the other side of the wall.

I didn’t... I didn’t trust him at first, but he knew things about your mother, and you’d told me the same things.

He knew about your... um, birthmark. He can get you out of here safely, but we don’t have time to waste and wonder,” the girl said.

She palmed the wooden ground with an impatient grunt. “My lady!”

It took Elloven a few moments to form a response through her confusion. “Who’s come for me?” It was the birthmark comment she kept returning to. The only men who had seen it were dead or many miles away, so this was either a trap or her life was about to get even more complicated.

“He called himself Taven. He didn’t give his family name.”

Elloven spun all the way around with a stammer. “Are you certain that was his name? That’s what he said? Taven? What did he look like?” If someone was posing as Taven, they’d have a hard time doing so convincingly unless they had the same distinct features.

“He’s, ah, quite tall, my lady, and his ears...” Uma said. “And he’s—”

“Right here,” Taven said, pushing up behind Uma. He towered even from halfway up the stairs. His breath out was swollen and dramatic, like he’d reserved it so she’d see the great effort he’d expended on her behalf. “Ellie... my beloved. What a sight you still are.”

Elloven could only frown and stare. Taven. Taven was there. In Whitechurch. Standing on the steps to the perch. It was as impossible as anything else that had happened to her there, but somehow the least plausible. “What are you doing here?”

“I had a clairsight.” He nodded at Uma. “Sorry, Uma, I couldn’t wait on the other side when I saw how many men were already out there looking for her. Go on. If they ask, you tell them you saw your lady elsewhere. Somewhere far from here. Consider it your final act of service.”

“My lady?”

“It’s all right, Uma. Go on, before they realize what you’ve done.” The effort it took to smile was worth it after all the girl had done for her. “Your kindness has meant so much to me. It would break my heart to see you punished for it.”