Chapter 24
CHAPTER
Sabine
“Thank you for offering to accompany me today, Ellie,” Sabine said, adjusting the lavender silk of her dress. The gondola cabin pressed them together, intimate as a confessional. “Since Liora… well.”
Ellie sat primly, hands folded, back impossibly straight, though something in the angle of her shoulder was off, brittle, as if bracing for a blow. “Think nothing of it, my lady.”
Something twisted in Sabine’s chest, sharp as medicinal herbs. Liora had never met a social engagement she’d not wished to attend, until Sabine suggested this one. The only reason Sabine could see for the refusal was that the invitation had come from Virelle.
Her sister was truly letting her new acquaintances—Miss Velindor and Miss Novaris, but the Duchess of Marethine, too—poison her mind.
“The young miss has been having quite the Season, with all the attention,” Ellie said, her tone trying and failing to disguise her discomfort at Liora’s new habits.
Ellie had been there since Liora was small, watched her grow with the same care as Sabine had. If anyone could understand the tangled feelings coiling in Sabine now, it would be Ellie.
“She is fortunate not to have to worry about any complexities beyond her own whims, this Season,” Sabine said. “I wish she would see that, too.”
She shook her head, as if it could dissipate her own bitter thoughts. Instead, she reached for Ellie’s hand. The maid let her, but stiffened slightly under the touch.
“How’s your brother been?” Sabine asked. “Petyr, right? We have not seen him in quite a while. He used to come by the house much more often. Is he still with that family? Who was it, the—”
“No,” Ellie cut her off, then softened. “No, he left a few months ago. He is no longer in Ilvarenne, actually. He found work back in the Heartland.”
“I am sorry to hear.” She shook her head. “Not that he is employed, of course. Simply that you are apart. I know you’ve always been close.”
“We are. But we write to each other every week.”
Sabine could not recall Ellie ever keeping correspondence of her own, but then again, she might’ve done it at night, in her chamber, posted it with her own money. She made a mental note to add what few extra coins she could afford to Ellie’s stipend—weekly mail to the Heartland was not cheap.
As the gondola approached the docks, the Valdris estate rose from the canal in lavender-grey stone and cream trim, decorative ironwork painted in deep forest green.
Ancient olive trees dappled the marble walks, and guests drifted in clusters, silk and laughter and the constant low hum of conversation.
“I’ll find the servants’ quarters once we’re inside, my lady,” Ellie said, and this time there was haste in the way she gathered her reticule. “Simply call for me should you need anything.”
Sabine almost reached out to stop her, but before the thought could fully form, they were swept into the house, into the crush of festivity—the music, the light, the dizzying perfume of white roses and beeswax.
Her mark pulsed, warmth spreading through her chest, dizzying. Lord Vaelros was already here.
For all their modest means, the Valdris had transformed their home into a shrine for celebration. Garlands of roses and trailing ivy wrapped every column, laughter ringing in silver peals above the soft hum of a string quartet.
“Miss Almarien.” Lord Vaelros appeared, as he always did, suddenly and with a kind of practiced grace. His coat was ash grey, polished, making his eyes look like silver in the chandelier light.
“My lord.” She inclined her head in greeting. His fingers brushed hers so subtly it might have been an accident, a brief touch that nevertheless felt like a lifeline in dark waters.
And then, Virelle. She moved with none of her usual composure; her curls were slightly astray, and her eyes darted through the crowd like a hunted thing. Sabine stepped in her path, and Virelle staggered back, eyes wide.
“Sabine!” Virelle startled, nearly stumbling. “I’m so sorry, I did not see you there.” She caught Sabine’s hands in her own, squeezing tight. “I am so pleased you could come.” Her gaze swept to Lord Vaelros, who lingered a few feet behind. “That you both could come.”
“Thank you for the invitation. Your cousin’s match has sparked quite the celebration.”
“Celebration indeed.” Virelle’s smile was too bright. “Marianne has always been radiant, but today… Well, the joy of a successful blood vow does wonders for one’s countenance.”
Sabine frowned. Something was wrong; Virelle’s words came too fast, too clipped. “Virelle, is something of the matter? You seem… off balance.”
Virelle hesitated, then drew Sabine away toward a pocket of shadow. Lord Vaelros followed, silent. As they moved, Sabine caught sight of Ellie on the main staircase, deep in conversation with another lady’s maid. Were the servant quarters upstairs? Unusual, but perhaps not for such a small house.
“In truth, I’m worried for Marianne and her new husband,” Virelle said once they’d found privacy. “It’s been nearly an hour since the guests began arriving, and they have yet to be seen. Marianne would never voluntarily miss her own celebration.”
The warmth in Sabine’s chest evaporated like morning dew touched by harsh sunlight. “Perhaps they simply wished for time alone? A blood vow can be quite taxing.”
“You don’t understand.” Virelle’s voice dropped to an urgent whisper that forced both Sabine and Lord Vaelros to lean closer.
“They bear marks. Marianne had been so proud of it—she spent weeks planning this celebration specifically to display it. There is absolutely no way she would miss a minute of it.”
The words hit Sabine like a slap. Another marked couple. Another recent blood vow. The glittering celebration suddenly felt like mockery. The coincidence felt too pointed, too deliberate to be mere chance. In her mind, the pattern emerged with crystalline clarity.
“Are you certain?” Lord Vaelros asked.
“Absolutely.” Tears welled in Virelle’s eyes. “She showed it to me last week. Right shoulder, a crystal of ice melting into lightning. You couldn’t mistake it.”
Sabine traded a look with Lord Vaelros. The party shimmered around them, but under the laughter, Virelle’s revelation cast the celebration in a different light.
Servants flickered up and down the stairs, faces tight with worry.
Lady Valdris offered excuses, each more strained than the last. A footman passed, tray of wine untouched.
A maid scurried, head down, vanishing into the kitchen.
Sabine counted breaths, watched shadows shift across the marble floor, waited for catastrophe with the terrible certainty of someone who had seen this play out before.
She bent to Virelle’s ear. “Where did your cousin retire to when she came home after the blood vow?”
“Her chamber, upstairs. Her husband went with. They wanted to change before the guests arrived…”
A maid in the Valdris family livery stood frozen at the bottom of the marble steps, her face white as bleached linen, shaking so violently that the silver tray she carried rattled like chattering teeth. Her starched cap sat askew on disheveled hair.
“Help,” she whispered, the word barely audible over the buzz of the room.
Sabine looked to Lord Vaelros. He did not hesitate. Before she could even voice her thoughts, he was moving towards the staircase. She followed.
“Where are you two...” Virelle trailed off behind them.
The silver tray in the maid’s hands crashed to the marble floor with a sound like breaking bells, its contents scattering across the pristine stone in a chaos of crystal and twisted metal.
Her knees buckled, and she would have collapsed entirely if a footman hadn’t lunged forward to catch her before she could fall.
But Sabine and Lord Vaelros had already squeezed past her, up the staircase.
Finding the couple’s chamber was simple—the house was indeed quite small. Lord Vaelros looked over his shoulder at Sabine once, looking perhaps for any sign of hesitation, before opening the door.
The sight that opened before them did not surprise Sabine.
It did not shock her, either, not in the way it might have someone with softer sensibilities.
But it sent a fresh, metallic taste to the back of her tongue.
The room was cold, colder than the rest of the house, as if some draft had found its way through the thick stone walls and settled here.
The air was faintly metallic, scented with something sweet and rotting underneath the perfume of bridal roses.
Marianne and her husband lay atop the coverlet, arranged as if for a portrait.
Her head was angled to catch the morning light, her eyes open but clouded, her mouth parted in a perfect oval of surprise.
Her husband’s arm lay across her waist, gloved knuckles resting against the embroidered bodice of her second gown.
They looked peaceful, if one could ignore the absence of breath, the pallor of their skin, the way their lips had been painted a brilliant, theatrical red.
For Marianne, perhaps it was the effect she’d sought, but for her husband, the rouge seemed grotesque, a jarringly bright slash on a face otherwise drained of all vitality.
Sabine scanned the room. The window was locked from within. No signs of forced entry, no broken glass, no overturned furniture.
She circled the bed, picking her way through a scatter of wedding gifts and discarded silk wrappers.
In the corner, she found a pair of delicate slippers, embroidered with silver thread.
One was upright, the other on its side, as if hastily kicked off.
On the vanity, a half-full glass of pale cordial, still sweating faint beads of condensation.
She reached for it, careful not to disturb the vanity, and brought the rim to her nose.
A sweetness, cloying and faintly floral, but underneath it was something sharp, the echo of bitter almond.
Poison. She had read about it in the archives of her father’s study.
She pressed her lips together, knuckles whitening on the stem of the glass, and scanned the vanity.
Perfume bottles, a scatter of hairpins, a folded handkerchief with a single golden initial.
Nothing out of place, nothing that screamed danger.
But beneath the edge of the mirror, nearly hidden behind a lacquered jewelry box, something glinted.
A tiny vial, no longer than her finger, its contents drained to the last sticky drop.
The stopper was crusted with residue, and as she lifted it, something oily clung to the inside, a shade darker than the cordial itself.
She offered Lord Vaelros the vial. “I believe this is our answer.”
He took it, his touch brushing hers, and for a heartbeat she felt something like static, a prickle of awareness that ran from her palm to the hollow of her throat. The sensation was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the familiar ache of dread.
Lord Vaelros lifted the vial to the light. His expression did not change, but his jaw tightened, gaze lingering on the sticky darkness within. “Poison,” he said, flat and certain.
He set the vial down on the vanity, so gently it made no sound at all. “No sign of struggle. No forced entry. The window is locked.”
“Yet another mundane murder,” she said, spitting the word as if it were a curse. “It’s beginning to feel too precise to be a coincidence, do you not agree?”
Lord Vaelros’s gaze met hers. She saw the calculation there, the cold fire of resolve. “Their methods seem to be aimed at discouraging people from connecting the murders.”
“And is that how you would expect the Children to act?”
Admittedly, Sabine didn’t know much about the Children of the First Flame. But from what she’d learned, she would’ve expected them to kill with a message.
Lord Vaelros didn’t speak for a long moment. “I don’t know anymore.”
She let her gaze drift across the chamber. There was a single glove on the floor, ivory satin, its mate still clinging to Marianne’s right hand. She leaned closer, careful to avoid touching the body. Marianne’s cuticles had turned pale and slightly blueish.
Footsteps rang up the staircase, quick and hurried, followed by urgent voices.
“We should go,” Lord Vaelros said.
They slipped out of the room and into another before they could be seen, but Sabine experienced their retreat as though outside her own body.
The pallor of their skin, the gauntness of their faces, even the quiet stillness of their deaths—all of those things were consistent with the poison.
But how in the wicked threads had Marianne gotten that blue tinge on her fingertips?