The descent of calm made the back of Maximillion’s neck prickle. His empty office lay in its usual repose. Not unusual, at this time of day, when witches scuttled to the dining hall for lunch.
An edge in the lack of noise lifted his hackles.
He stood.
The tap of approaching feet came from the hallway. Moments later, Wally rapped on the door. At his call, Wally opened it. Though concave and thin-boned and timid in appearance, Wally reminded Max of himself at that age. A sense of pent up ferocity purred beneath the surface.
“Ambassador,” Wally said in a resonant voice. “You have someone requesting to speak with you. I don’t know who he is. He’s from the Central Network, but I couldn’t figure out where. When I saw him, he was speaking with Council Member Maren and asking about you. She gave him directions to your office, so I came in advance to give you a warning.”
“Thank you, Wally.”
“Several scrolls have also arrived that require your attention. Shall I have them ready, just in case?”
Four scrolls popped into sight on his desk. Max glanced at them askance. Rarely did he have to respond to missives since Wally had taken over. The witch had replies down to an art form. Have them ready was code for leave them to deal with if you need a way out of this conversation.
He didn’t pay Wally enough.
Before Max could respond, a body appeared in the doorway. A light-haired man with striking blue eyes, a prominent cleft in a stubborn chin, and hair swept to the side of his head. His barrel chest took up all the space. Wally retreated to the right with a surreptitious nod in Max’s direction.
Indeed, Max didn’t know this witch at all.
Rare enough.
After a quick pause to gain his bearings, the witch stepped forward. “Ambassador Sinclair?”
“That is me.”
The man smiled. A quick thing, without much depth. “My name is Ronald Torkelson. I came without a prior meeting arranged, and for that I apologize. I’m passing through the castle and wondered if I could steal a moment of your time?”
Max hesitated. Definitely unusual. Later, he’d have a conversation with Council Member Maren about boundaries and the importance of his time. Ronald’s relationship with Maren meant Ronald could be politically important in some fashion. He suspected business dealings, based on Ronald’s pristine appearance and expensively tailored clothes.
Curiosity compelled his response.
“You have five minutes.”
Ronald nodded once, reached into a pocket, and pulled out a faceted watch. He spun a dial, pressed it, and set it back into his breast pocket with a grin.
“Five minutes.”
He stepped just inside the doorway, hands folded behind his back. The stance drew his hefty shoulders out. Instinct told Max to be wary, and he staved off the urge to slide into the paths and see what appeared.
“We haven’t had the honor of meeting yet,” Ronald said. “I am a close friend of several Council Members, mostly through business dealings. I am well-known for my extensive real estate holdings throughout Chatham City.”
A bell rang in the back of Max’s head.
Ah.
Indeed.
He hadn’t met the witch, but he’d heard the name. Ronald Torkelson had more than extensive real estate holdings. The man owned almost half of Chatham City, and not the ramshackle half, either. Many merchants rented space from him to sell their wares.
“Yes, I’ve heard of you before.”
Ronald beamed. “Delightful. I’m always happy to hear that. Well, I’ve had some interest in a political career for some time, but haven’t really made any strides forward with it, due to . . .” he cleared his throat. “Well, Greta was an interesting witch, wasn’t she?”
Max said nothing.
Ronald continued, nonplussed over the silence.
“Now that Charles has taken over, I’m hopeful for a far more prosperous reign. As such, I’ve taken to creating and supporting several volunteer agencies that work throughout Chatham City. You may have heard of some of them. Shelters for the Guardians that need a place to get back on their feet. Education initiatives. That sort of thing.”
Ronald paused. His intentional wait, filled with an expectant look, burdened the air.
Max said nothing.
A moment before the aggravating silence would have exploded, Ronald cleared his throat. His shoulders tightened, but he didn’t give up eye contact. Witches like Ronald—so self-assured, driven, and ready to change the world to his own liking—were easily dealt with.
“One of these agencies,” Ronald continued, “is an investigative team that looks into the backgrounds of those holding office in the Network.”
A sliver of ice shot down Max’s back. He held no guilt. Torkelson could investigate whatever he liked in Max’s background, but his heart raced as he thought of Charlie, Isadora, even Faye.
Ronald cut a quick glance. Seeing no change in Max’s expression, he spoke again.
“This team was kept quite busy by Greta, of course. We worked in partnership with the Chatterer from time to time, even with Charles, when it was required. A few times, the elusive Advocate reached out to us for information, which we were happy to share. Before, ahem, we knew more of what lay behind the scenes there.”
Max filed that away later to verify with Charlie. It didn’t sound too far outside the realm of possibility, as Charlie maintained relationships with all kinds of informants. The words that caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand up, however, replayed through his mind.
Before, ahem, we knew more of what lay behind the scenes there.
Now what did that mean?
Max paused, sensing that Ronald would move quickly now. To hurry this along, he glanced at the clock.
Ronald complied.
“My investigative team has come up with some rather interesting information lately. Some clues, I suppose you could call them, about what happened in the Southern Network to support the creation of the Mansfeld Pact.”
A definitive chill entered Torkelson’s voice.
Max forced a bored expression, eyebrow lifted. “Your team has read all the articles that have been and are currently being published about it, you mean?”
“Well, of course.” Torkelson smiled, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “As elusive and vague as they were. We’ve begun to branch out to other sources closer to the action. Regardless, I’m speaking rather to the witch you handfasted. Miss Spence.”
“Mrs. Sinclair.”
“Forgive me, yes. Yes. You are still together.” A hand lifted, pressing to his lips. “You see, we’ve learned that some believe she swayed the outcome of the Mansfeld Pact with her abilities as a reputed Watcher.”
Suspicion rose like a noxious cloud in Max’s gut.
“We feel this is of utmost importance, and we’re working to prove this assertion, as we do for all facts, naturally.” Ronald cleared his throat. “Which brings me here.”
A parchment at Max’s fingertips rolled up, tapped his fingernail, then straightened back down. He cast a quick glance at it.
Wally’s handwriting filled the inside.
Has associations with the League of Free Borders. Might have founded it.
The good gods.
The League of Free Borders was a group of radical, frustrated witches that popped up minutes after the Mansfeld Pact finalized and had been harassing Network officials ever since. They were firmly against the closing of borders and isolationism.
Several members had shown hostilities toward Watchers in the past weeks. Their top three leaders held high positions on the Advocacy watch list. Big Leo had interacted with them personally in his attempts to infiltrate the Central Network and pull Watchers to Carcere.
Suddenly, Torkelson’s comment made sense.
Before, ahem, we knew more of what lay behind the scenes there.
Torkelson helped the Advocacy until he realized the aim. He didn’t want to support Watchers.
Torkelson’s appearance was a veiled threat, not a surprise visit. His ability to navigate to Max’s office, smooth his way into a five minute conversation, and the disrespect of speaking about Isadora as if she didn’t still hold Max’s name.
Rage ignited in his blood like flames.
Max’s stomach twisted as he returned his gaze to Torkelson. “You have one minute, Mr. Torkelson, to get to the point.”
Ronald smiled and gestured to his pocket. “Yes, of course. Time is ticking, indeed. I want only to ask about Mrs. Sinclair and her magical powers.”
“You may not.”
“Well, forgive me, but I may. It’s not your place to stop me from inquiring. I figured I would give you a chance to give me the information, instead of others. Until we have discovered more of the facts, I don’t want to speak with her. Bias, and all that. We work for clean debate and acquittal.”
“To what end?”
“The truth. I firmly believe that the Mansfeld Pact will lead to the downfall of Alkarra. Such extreme isolationism may serve to quell the wars that a poor leadership structure started, but given time—five, ten years maybe—we’ll see a dissolution of our economy, of resources. The lack of free trade will breed greater black markets, criminality. I love my Network, Ambassador, and don’t wish to see it fall apart.”
“My wife has what place in those bleak assumptions?”
Ronald’s blonde eyebrows lifted, as if in surprise. “Why, everything. What if we prove that she does have such great magical power, and she used it to influence a political decision? Imagine if the Central Network allowed her free reign? We suspect she holds great power, a secondary issue that should have been addressed with greater restrictions on her freedom, but that’s a topic for another day. It was Isadora Sinclair that brought a powerful, future-seeing magic into a political equation in order to influence the sequence of events into a position that would better serve her.”
Ronald leaned forward, gaze tapered.
“The question that I will answer, Ambassador, is why? What aim does she have? What motivations does she chase? For it wouldn’t surprise me if we were to see her attempt to find a job in the Network. Using her powers, to weasel her way into a position—perhaps one such as yours?—that would allow her an unparalleled position to influence witches that Alkarra has ever seen.”
An amplification of Max’s burning indignation fanned to relentless zeal. He forced it back with a controlled breath, drew himself to greater height, and strode across the room. Ronald didn’t cower, nor move, but his frown deepened.
The pocket watch cheeped a sound.
“It’s a topic I shall not entertain at all, Mr. Torkelson. Your five minutes are up. If you return to my office with another veiled threat, I will have you placed in the dungeons until it’s clear that you may not bully a Network official.”
“I never—”
“Silence!” Max roared.
Ronald drew in a sharp breath. His features hardened as he slipped back a step, into the hallway.
“You have made your position clear, Ambassador.”
“I certainly hope so. Any further threats against myself or my wife will be met with a force the likes of which will make your head spin. Challenge me, Mr. Torkelson, and you and your businesses shall never recover.”
The door slammed shut in his face.
* * *
Isadora’s hair gleamed in the firelight.
Entranced, Max watched from where he stood on the other side of the master suite, near the door. She sat in front of the fire, a comb in her hand. The teeth sank into her drying locks of hair, pulled down. The velvety strands slipped through like silk, neat and orderly. Once she finished one section of hair, she moved to the next, humming a calmer version of a bawdy tavern song. Probably learned it from the odd friend of hers, Baylee.
Every now and then, she giggled.
A simple white nightgown covered her shoulders, dropped to her elbows. The shift moved restlessly around her knees when she wiggled on the ottoman where she sat, near the fire. The buttery light cast on her features made his throat thick.
He swallowed hard, swamped by thoughts of Ronald Torkelson and Isadora and the muck of such threats. The good gods, but not another witch would touch her while he drew breath.
He advanced into the room, careful to make noise as the door closed behind him. It latched with a firm click. She whirled around, brightened with a smile. His chest clenched as he set aside his jacket and a sheaf of papers he would deal with later.
There would be no escaping this innocent siren.
“Merry meet,” she said.
He approached from behind. She tilted her head back, hair gleaming in waterfalls of dark blonde strands. An impish smile appeared. He couldn’t stop himself from leaning down, pressing his lips to hers. Her smile faded into surprise.
Before he lost himself, he pulled away.
“Let me?”
“S-sure,” she whispered.
He grasped the comb from her hand and sank it into her hair. She pulled her knees to her chest, bit her bottom lip. The comb pulled through her knot-free hair. The soothing motion calmed him, but not as much as the reassurance of touching her.
She was fine.
Ronald Torkelson had no power over her.
All the same, he silently brought a piece of paper and a pencil. With a spell, he commanded the pencil to write.
We need to talk.
It disappeared, on its way to Charlie.
Only then did he notice the books splayed on the floor. Journals. Well, sort of. Leather-bound tomes filled with thick pages. Paintings decorated each one. The books didn’t close all the way. They canted open at strange angles, unable to shut due to the crackling paint.
Most of them revealed still life objects. Fruit. Tables. A chair. The front of Wildrose, an open cellar door. He’d seen them once, as a teenager, but hadn’t been able to figure out which occupant of Wildrose painted them. They were expertly done.
“Treasures from your explorations of Wildrose?”
“Yes.” She chuckled softly. “I found them this afternoon. They’re . . . interesting.”
A pause. He let the hair sift through his fingers as he pulled the comb down her scalp. Fascinating, that anything could be so soft. The smell of rosewater came with each stroke.
“Are you all right, Max?”
“Yes.”
She blinked up at him with a curious gaze. “Will you tell me about your day?” Her breath hitched at the end, as if waiting for something.
A rejection?
A denial?
He’d certainly done so before . . . but that had been before they decided to remain handfasted. When his feelings for her were so dangerous and volatile and powerful. Not that much had changed.
Torkelson flashed through his mind, and he couldn’t help but wonder if one ever really settled into love.
“Yes, I will tell you about my day. Thank you.”
He continued to brush her hair with methodical precision. While he combed, he mentioned a few interesting points. Witches she knew, political situations she vaguely tracked. The more he spoke, the easier the words came.
Then he stopped.
Torkelson had been the last productive moment of his day. The rest dissolved into fits of rage and distress.
“And then a few interruptions came. I was late dealing with the work I didn’t get done because I had a hard time focusing.”
The repetitive motion of comb against scalp seemed to have soothed her. She’d only interrupted his flow to make a witty remark or two.
Eager to turn his thoughts, and not wanting their time to end, he set the comb aside, walked around the ottoman, and settled next to her. Tendrils of warmth from the fire reached out.
Isadora scooted to his side, leaned her cheek on his shoulder.
“Nothing too exciting happened to me today.” Her hand fluttered around them to motion to Wildrose. “I checked on Mam, found these books in the library. They’re . . . fascinating, aren’t they? Such delicate detail work in something that isn’t all that exciting.”
“Vibrant forms of still life art.”
Her arm slid through his. He yearned to hold her, but stopped. Could he slow this progression? Could he promise to let her have the lead in their intimacy when she felt so good?
By sheer willpower, he held back.
“Sanna used to brush my hair,” she murmured, groggy. “We would sit in front of the fire at night and brush each other's hair. She hated it—grew bored after a few minutes—but she knew that I loved it, so she’d brush it until I told her to stop. Well, until she was ten or so. Then she refused.”
He opened his mouth, but wasn’t sure what to say. She turned her face to him, chin on his shoulder.
“Do you have any good memories of your childhood, Max?”
The startling question gave him a moment of pause. “Depends on what you would consider my childhood.”
“When you were little, before you met Charlie.”
The instinct to scoff and say, “Absolutely not,” was a hard one to overcome. He paused, thinking, and finally said, “There was a witch named Abbi. She would shelter me, as best she could, from Antonio’s wrath. She also taught me to read. Most of her teeth were missing, and she smelled like sweat and urine because she couldn’t move around very well, but she was kind to me. The first time I read a letter all by myself, I was . . .”
He faded into the memory for a moment, whisked back to the sultry heat of his Eastern Network home. Abbi, her gummy grin, cackling voice. Imperfect, but perfectly so. She’d been the only reason he survived once Mere died.
“. . . proud, I suppose. That is a good memory.”
Her arm tightened around his. She offered no condolences and allowed a moment of connection to swell.
“Have you seen Abbi lately?”
“She died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She was in pain and . . . well, I don’t know if anything exists after this life, but even oblivion would have been better than living in that wretched swamp.”
He heard the bitterness in his own tone, but didn’t know how to get rid of it. Isadora tilted her head against his shoulder. He watched her from the corner of her eye. Her lashes fluttered closed.
He tangled their fingers together because he had to touch her. Could touch her. She squeezed, a yawn peeping out of her.
“You’re tired,” he whispered.
She nodded, eyes still closed. Unable to resist any longer, Max wrapped his arm around her, pulled her into his lap. She obeyed like a missing piece. Her body curled around him as if she’d always been there.
Max stood, carrying her across the room. The air cooled by degrees as he stepped around the splayed books and toward the bed. She reached for him as he lay her down in the giant four-poster.
Her eyes fluttered open.
“Stay with me, Max?”
He hesitated. Unable to say no to her soulful gaze, and with Ronald bright in his mind, Max lay on the bed next to her. She scooted into his arms, spine to his chest, and snuggled in. He squeezed her tight. Roses filled his head. He’d never forget their dulcet scent.
Not a soul will harm you, he silently promised.
She drifted to sleep, blissfully unaware.
Max stared at the wall and tried not to hold so desperately onto hope.