Chapter 32
CHAPTER
Sabine
The morning before her blood vow, Sabine sat on a curved stone bench in Lady Delarine’s conservatory, sketching the contradiction of blossoms, the delicate moonflowers unfurling beside morning glories in a rhythm that nature never intended.
Like the Duchess herself, her botanical collection recognized no conventional limitations.
“You truly ought to venture beyond this glorified greenhouse, Bine.” Liora trailed fingers along the speckled leaves of a Gloamreach fern. “The way you sequester yourself, one might believe you are actively dreading the most important day of your life.”
Her sister was not entirely off the mark.
“Well, if you mean to become a permanent botanical fixture, you might warn Lord Vaelros,” Liora teased, a hint of sharpness beneath her playful tone. “Lest the man ends up standing on his own at the altar. What a scandal that would make.”
Sabine’s pencil stilled against paper. It was far more likely that Azrian would leave her at the altar than the other way around—a surprisingly sad thought. And why was everything about scandals and reputations these days, with her sister?
“We missed you at Virelle’s wedding.” It was not entirely the truth. Sabine had missed her sister, but she couldn’t say the same thing of her friends. She wasn’t even sure why she was bringing this up now.
Her sister stiffened. “I still cannot believe you went. The Duchess of Marethine asked me if you were friendly with those paupers, and I had to craft some convenient lie.”
“Don’t speak of them like that.”
“Why not? They’re basically commoners.”
Sabine wanted to shake her sister, remind her absolutely nothing separated them from commoners but a roll of the dice. But she knew Liora wouldn’t listen to such reason, so she attempted a different approach: “Caelen is related to the Marquis of Halcrath.”
“He’s the third son of a brother. That’s hardly worth a mention.”
Sabine set her pencil down, the weight of it suddenly too much. “I see you have mapped the entire world into neat, miserable hierarchies.”
Liora only shrugged. “Isn’t that what the Gilt is? Hierarchies and careful bargains. I don’t see why you pretend otherwise.”
Sabine pressed her thumb against the edge of the sketchbook, as if she could anchor herself with the roughness of paper. “When we were little, you wanted someone to sweep you away and make you feel love so bright it would burn.”
Liora’s laugh was brittle. “And you wanted to be a scholar.” She traced the rim of a ceramic pot, gaze fixed on the powdery blue of a bellflower. “But here we are, Bine. No bright love or scholar in sight.”
Sabine’s jaw ached. She had been clenching it too long, holding back every protest, every plea. “You make it sound as if you’re proud to have abandoned every dream you ever had.”
“No. I’m proud to survive.”
“Surviving doesn’t mean becoming one of them,” Sabine said. “You don’t have to treat people like obstacles.”
“That’s the only way anyone gets ahead. You know it as well as I do. You just pretend it isn’t true because you think you’re better than everyone else.”
Sabine flinched. She reached for her sketchbook but found no comfort in the half-finished lines. “That isn’t it.”
“Isn’t it?” Liora’s tone softened, but there was no kindness in it.
Only exhaustion. “You look at me, and you see someone weak. But I’m not the one hiding in a garden, sketching flowers as if it could save me from some impending doom.
If you didn’t wish to marry Lord Vaelros, you should’ve tried harder to secure an alternative. ”
Sabine stood abruptly, the bench scraping against stone.
How dare Liora make it her fault, when she’d first entertained this courtship purely to secure the Singular title for her sister?
Could she not see how much she’d benefited, once again, from Sabine denying herself her own wishes to secure Liora’s future?
“You used to believe in more. What happened to that girl?”
Liora’s eyes glistened, but she blinked the tears away before they could fall. “She grew up. She realized that fairytales are just stories for children. And that in real life, if you want something, you have to take it.”
Sabine wanted to argue, but the words tangled in her throat. “So that’s it, then? You no longer wish for love?”
“Love is a luxury. I want security. I want to wake up in the morning and know I’ll have a roof over my head, and dresses that fit, and the respect of people who used to laugh at us. If I have to trade a little bit of myself for that, so be it.”
Sabine shook her head, the world slipping from her grasp, everything soft and unstable. The air in the conservatory was thick with the scent of bruised petals, the sweetness almost cloying.
Liora sounded so much like… well, Sabine.
Sabine had accepted at a young age she was not meant for love.
Love was not a necessity, not even a right.
It was something one could earn for others, the way a clever magpie collects glass beads for its nest. Sabine had spent her whole life gathering those beads for Liora, arranging them so her sister could have something bright, something that looked like hope.
And now it was Liora who spat the word love like a curse. The same Liora who had once filled notebooks with swooning poetry and drawn hearts in the condensation on the windowpanes.
Sabine pressed the sketchbook against her ribs, wishing she could force the ache to dissipate through sheer pressure.
What did it matter if Liora no longer believed in love?
Wasn’t that what Sabine had always wanted—to protect her sister from the disappointment, the heartbreak, the danger of wanting too much?
She softened her tone, tried to reach for something gentle. “You still believe in something, at least, don’t you?”
“I believe we’re on our own. And that’s not such a terrible thing, Bine. I no longer wish to wait for a prince charming to sweep in and save me. I can claim my own destiny.”
Sabine nodded, though the movement felt stiff, unnatural. Yes. She understood that. She had built her entire life around it. So why did it sting to hear it spoken aloud?
There was a part of her—a small, stubborn kernel deep inside—that had always wanted to be swept away by the possibility that there could be more than this endless calculation, this weighing of worth and consequence.
But that was never the plan. The plan, the one she’d vowed to uphold, was always Liora: her future, her comfort, her protection.
Sabine had been the shield, the bargaining chip.
What was left of that vow, of the person Sabine had built herself into, if Liora no longer even wanted the thing Sabine had bled herself dry to secure?
Liora watched her. “Tomorrow, you will stand at the altar, you will bleed, and then you’ll be a Vaelros. And that will be the first day of our new lives. Please don’t ruin this for both of us.”
Sabine looked down at the half-finished sketch.
She had drawn a moonflower and a morning glory, their stems knotted in a way that defied nature.
The pencil lines were stark, almost violent.
She wondered, for a moment, if the flowers would choke each other out, if they would wither from trying too hard to coexist.
She thought of Azrian. She tried not to, but the thought pressed in regardless, insistent as a bruise. She never meant to think of him. Yet there he was, a presence at the edge of every thought, an ache she could never quite ignore.
This was ridiculous. She was ridiculous. And yet she couldn’t stop thinking of the way his voice gentled when he spoke her name; the way his eyes lingered on her mouth, as if he wanted to memorize the shape of her; the way he studied her as if she were the only puzzle worth solving.
Her sister had retreated to the far end of the conservatory, her back turned, shoulders tense. Sabine wanted to go to her, to say something that might mend the rift between them. She had always been the one to patch things. But she was tired. She was so tired.
She let herself sink against the bench and cleared her throat. “I’m not going to run, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Liora turned. For a moment, she looked so much like the girl she used to be—all wide eyes and longing and hope. “You mean it?” She crossed the tiled floor in three quick steps, skirts swishing. “You’ll go through with it?”
Sabine nodded. “I will. I gave my word.”
Her sister’s face split into a radiant grin. “Oh, Bine.” Liora threw her arms around Sabine, nearly crushing the sketchbook between them. Sabine stiffened, then let herself be held. The scent of Liora’s perfume was dizzying; heady rose and something tart underneath, like green apples in spring.
She could have said so many things. That she was doing this for Liora’s sake, not her own. That she would have done anything to keep her sister safe. But she said none of it.
“I knew you’d come around. You always do.
” Liora beamed. “I’ll have to tell Lady Blackwell at luncheon—you should have seen her face, Bine, she’s been waiting for you to embarrass me, but now she’ll have to eat her words.
” Liora laughed, high and clear, and for the first time that morning, there was no edge to it. Just relief. Just happiness.
Sabine managed a smile, but it felt thin, fragile as spun sugar. She wondered if Liora would ever realize what she’d cost Sabine, or if she’d even care. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was enough that Liora would get what she wanted.
And in truth… this wasn’t about only Liora anymore. She could not abandon her friends, when the next murder could be one of them. She had to see this through, if only to keep them safe.
She was so lost in these thoughts that the sound of footsteps startled her—a brisk, purposeful tread. The doors at the far end of the conservatory swung open, and a footman appeared, followed by Ellie, her hands folded primly at her waist.