A gleaming cherry wood bookcase loomed over Isadora.
The closely-stacked shelves were thinly spaced, some of them so close together only one book lay horizontal, or scrolls marched in a single row. Most of the books had sturdy leather bound covers, worn on the bottom with gentle frays and tears. Some were bound with thick parchment or tied with twine.
Below those, drawers.
Isadora peeked into one small drawer, no wider than her fist. Velvet lined the interior. In it, small toys, about the length of her finger. Marching Guardians, were they? They had once been painted. Flecks of a hat existed on one. Bits of a face on the other.
She closed it, flipped through scrolls.
Old weather reports.
A scroll on architectural design for above-ground garden plots.
A cleverly concealed false front of book spines was actually a retractable wall. Inside, a box decorated with gems awaited. She extracted the treasure, ran her fingers over the bumpy top, and down the side. A small latch near the bottom gave way, opening it.
She jumped with a squeal.
A sordid, aged doll lay inside, features twisted in what must have been a smile. Paint had rubbed off the face, revealing old wood beneath. Strings made up the hair. An old dress, painstakingly sewed with the tiniest of stitches, had worn away into holes with time.
She slammed the lid shut, shoved it back in the hiding spot.
Grotesque.
Well, that’s what she got for snooping.
Shoving off the ground, Isadora stepped back. The bookshelf occupied a small portion of a large wall, accented on either side by thin stained-glass windows that bled the growing light of day. Other knick knacks littered each shelf. Some of them shoved in between tomes, others stacked in front.
Half a globe. A carving of a gargoyle like those that perched on the rooftop, only this one gave birth. An old stack of cards—clearly missing half the deck—with pictures of deathly plants and how to administer them for fastest expiration. Dice with strange runes that she didn’t recognize. Isadora unfolded a map of a land that wasn’t Alkarra, written with a language that she’d never seen before. A small cup brimmed full with nails and . . . screws? All of them twisted into strange shapes.
She shook her head, thought of Sanna and what fun she’d have here. She should check on her sister. See if—
A call down the hallway caught her attention.
“Isadora?”
Her stomach jolted. Egads, but she and Max hadn’t truly spoken since their encounter days ago. Shame and horror filled her at the thought. She hadn’t been wrong in her response, of course not. Max had acted rudely and without giving her all the information.
When she recalled her discussion with Charlie, she wondered if perhaps she did ask too much of him, too fast.
He concealed so much of his past that would give her the needed context, though. Or she could just be more patient. On and on spiraled her internal arguments, which led her to distract herself here, in this odd room.
“Isadora?”
She shoved a child’s prayer book back onto the shelf. The wooden thing wasn’t a book at all, but cleverly designed to look like one. Instead, it was a hidden case with an old bottle of ipsum that, when she sniffed, nearly sent her into a fit.
“In here!” she called.
Smacking her hands together to get rid of the dust, she stood up, righted her skirt, and twirled around just as Max peeked his head inside. He studied her, then the room.
“You found the room of curiosities.”
“Is that what this is?”
“That’s what Charlie always called it.”
Isadora glanced at the shelf she’d just combed through. “More like atrocities.”
He snorted, half grimaced. “I’d counter you on that in honor of Wildrose’s reputation, but you’re right. Some of it is horrifying.”
Cordiality had returned, as if that night never happened. They’d need to talk about it, of course, but she’d lean into the formality over silence.
For now.
“Where did all of this come from?” she asked.
Max leaned farther in, gaze lingering on a painting propped against the far bookshelf. A rolling hillside, littered with flowers that, when one looked closer, were actually birds. The grass blades were all triangles, and the cottage home in the very middle a carefully-hidden coffin.
“The witches that roll through here, no doubt. Charlie found many such oddities through the years, and took great delight in hiding them in various places in this room. If you have a keen eye, you’ll find an entire cat skeleton, disassembled, throughout each shelf.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“That,” he muttered, “is generations of Dauphins at work. Curious family, when you dive into their past.”
Isadora’s nose wrinkled. Before she could make further comments, he opened the door wider.
“May I pose a question to you?”
Over a month since they left the Southern Network and he still spoke to her like a . . . friend. The thought occurred to her then that this might just be Max. He carried so much formality in that attractive figure he couldn’t help himself.
She lifted her hands in silent permission.
A moment of indecision crossed his face. Finally, he said, “There’s an opera this evening and Charlie has given us tickets. He requested that both you and I attend. For the Advocacy and other purposes that I will explain later, as we’ll be late if we don’t prepare to go soon.”
“Who are these witches?”
“Business witches, mostly. A pair that I have some reason and motivation to remain . . . acquaintances with.”
“I see.”
“You can say no.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that. Of course I’ll go and support you.”
He blinked, still studying her. Ghosts of questions lingered in the air.
“Can we talk about the other night after the opera?” she asked quietly. “I think we need to better understand each other.”
He opened his mouth again, hesitated, and finally nodded. “Of course. Let’s get this over with first and I will give you all my time. Your attendance is most appreciated. We leave in half an hour. Is that sufficient?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Max hesitated, gaze darting around the strange room. “Make sure you lock the door behind you. Never know what will walk out of it.”
* * *
The Opera House in Ashleigh Covens sprawled like a glittering jewel across the interior of Ashleigh City. Torches led the way down gleaming cobblestone streets, over to the curved building that housed singers and support witches. Crowds streamed closer, gentle chatter abounding in the air.
Max kept Isadora’s arm tucked close. She held her breath as they scurried across the street ahead of a carriage, an elegant red dress with a black lace overlay swishing around her legs.
“The opera house is so . . . bright.”
Max set his jaw and said nothing.
As they approached the front doors, he handed a waiting porter two tickets. Isadora tilted her head back as they passed through soaring doorways, beyond elegant columns sculpted with scrolls. Max carefully led her into a carpeted room lined with candles and the stuffy smell of torch oil.
“We have a box on the third floor.” He guided them to the right. “It’s a shared box given to the Network leadership.”
“A box?”
“A private space that contains several seats and is less . . . busy. Typically, more quiet as well.”
“Oh.” She eyed a passing female with a flaring skirt twice the size of hers, dripping velvet and gems. “Is the opera expensive?”
“Egregiously.”
He swept them toward a wide set of stairs, where candlelight, chandeliers, and cleverly placed mirrors illuminated the open space. Distant strains of a warming orchestra flowed from several doors, set close together, against the far wall. Hints of brocade curtains and soaring space were just visible.
Max steered her up the staircases. A black-clad woman stood in front of the stairs with a serene smile. Few witches made it past her to go higher. She saw Max, smiled, and stepped aside. As Isadora followed him up the stairs, the woman moved back into position.
“Is this area protected?”
“Box patrons only.”
The higher they climbed, the more the gentle ruckus below quieted. For so many witches packed into a small area, there wasn’t a lot of sound. A general hush hummed in the air, waiting for something to happen. More black-clad workers populated spots here and there with serene smiles. The stuffy air carried heady perfumes.
Max stopped at a doorway with a locked handle. He reached into his pocket, extracted a wrought-iron key, and slipped it inside. The door opened, and Isadora caught a gasp.
Mesmerized, she advanced.
A literal box hung off the side of the wall, filled with thick, padded chairs. To her right and left were more boxes—all clinging to the wall—with other milling patrons. The lack of candlelight and torches lent a sense of calm.
She stepped delicately around the empty chairs in their box and to the far end. Several stories below, chairs lined the floor, clustered around the stage. An orchestra pit separated the stage from the crowd. The conductor stood at the top, frowning. Papers whirled around him, settling into a specific order. A violinist played scales, and several voices trilled with laughter.
“It’s so lovely,” she breathed.
Max came up behind her. Instead of his usual distance, his hand pressed into the small of her back. Her stomach fluttered, heart taking off. The glittering candlelight reflected in his dark eyes as he surveyed the scene below.
“How high is this?” she asked.
“The opera house itself is at least five stories.” He gestured to the stage. “We’re on the third floor, which is the dead center. Supposedly, this box is the best. It was gifted to the Network for the year by the owner, a woman named Caroline House. We take turns attending performances. Faye likes it, in particular.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
Max eyed her, then stepped back. Isadora tore her hungry gaze away from the magnificent stage and curtains and energy—she wouldn’t stop watching all evening, she’d wager—and turned around. The door to the box lay open a sliver, admitting light from the hall.
Max cleared his throat, tugged at his collar. “Er, I should let you know that we’re expecting other witches tonight.”
“You mentioned that.”
“One of them is Zander. An interesting witch in his own right. He wants to be a Council Member, but hasn’t yet managed to procure Charlie’s trust. He’s attempting to be my friend to help his cause, I think.”
The thought made Isadora unaccountably sad.
“Does that always happen?”
“What?”
“Witches try to be your friend because of what you can do for them?”
He blinked, frowned, then said, “Well, yes. Of course.”
“Isn’t anyone your friend just because they’re a friend? Aside from Charlie, of course.”
Again he met her with that perplexed expression, as if she were the one missing something. Isadora wrangled back a sigh.
Oh, Max.
He had so much to learn.
With a wave of her hand, she indicated for him to continue. He shifted, clearing his throat. A thousand-pace stare came to his eyes, as if he were far away. In the paths, most likely, to try to see who would come. A habit of his, she’d noticed. He used the paths to anticipate meetings, but mostly social events.
He blinked out of it, pale. His fingers clenched into fists at his side.
“Demmet!”
Before she could ask what his sudden, heavy frown meant, voices sounded at the door. It swung open, admitting a quartet of witches all at the same time. A woman and three males entered.
“Maximillion Sinclair,” boomed one of the males. A rotund man with a portly belly, bright cheeks, and fast smile. “Always so good to see you. Glad you could make it tonight and half an hour before this production starts! Unprecedented. You normally scuttle in as the curtain rises. Where’s the wine?”
“Griffin, good to see you again.”
The two males in front held out arms to Max. He accepted, stiff as ever. Griffin motioned to the slighter, taller, and a droopy through the face man next to him.
“You’ve met Zander before, I believe?”
“Always good to see you again, Zander.”
Max’s fingers curled around Isadora’s waist, pulling her to his side. It felt like standing next to a cold stone wall.
“Zander and Griffin, this is my wife, Isadora.”
“Pleasure!” Zander boomed. “Such a pleasure. Heard lovely things.”
The other couple, male and female, stepped out of the shadows. The woman studied Isadora with a curious mien and a glaze of shock. Max glowered at the male. Ever-so-subtly, he tugged Isadora behind his left shoulder. His hand found hers and squeezed. She took it as a silent command.
A nefarious spark filled the air.
“Ronald,” Max intoned.
The other man, a stocky witch with a full beard, blonde hair, and light eyes, smiled. The cloying nature of it set her teeth on edge. He didn’t look at her.
“Ambassador, so good to see you again so soon. You’ve met my date, I believe, Caterina?”
A cold bath washed through Isadora.
Caterina.
Max’s former lover. The one he would barely regard in thought, and shuddered over whenever he said her name. If his history with Bella embarrassed him, Caterina seemed to terrify him.
Max nodded, but didn’t look at Caterina.
Zander broke in, saving the moment. “Well, Ronald Torkelson! What a pleasant surprise. Didn’t realize you procured the fifth and sixth tickets. The founder of the League of Free Borders is here tonight with us at the opera.” Zander’s too-tight smile lingered at the edges. “Who would have thought such a strange coincidence might occur?”
Max tightened his hold on Isadora. She almost stood behind him now. Griffin cleared his throat and slipped away, calling for a porter from the doorway.
Ronald smiled at Zander, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Always a delight to have a chance to discuss business with the other side, isn’t it? The opera is such a . . .” he drew in a deep breath, swirling a hand in thought, “. . . pleasant experience.”
Zander returned the smile, his own almost feral. Calculation lay somewhere in those dark folds of thought.
Tension tripled through the box.
“The porter is bringing some wine and comestibles,” Griffin said as he returned. “Should only be a few minutes.”
“How is business?” Max asked Zander. His voice was smooth as silk, dropping into the easy tones of enterprise she’d learned to listen for. The Max that presented at home, mostly rough-spoken, quiet, contemplative, was an entirely different version of the man presented in front of other witches.
A fascinating dichotomy.
While Griffin rattled off an explanation about company expansions, and Zander inserted jokes about existing Council Members, the tautness held. Ronald edged his way into the conversation. His obligatory laughter did nothing to soften his features.
Meanwhile, Caterina stared at her.
Doubts swirled in her chest. Should Isadora introduce herself? No. Something in Caterina’s intensity turned her away. Bored with the business discussion and their posturing, Isa extracted herself from Max’s firm grip to regard the crowd below. Seeing she wouldn’t go far, he relaxed.
Patrons swelled in ever-growing numbers near the orchestra pit. More bodies filled the chairs at the bottom. Heat billowed through the room. Why hadn’t she brought a fan? Isadora closed her eyes, listened.
What would Sanna experience here? No sight, just sounds. Smells. Could she sense the cavernous openness? Or the headiness of the velvety dark, the energy lingering in the air? A body appeared on her right side, followed by a melodious voice.
“My name is Caterina.”
A fan snapped open, filled with pearlescent lace and swirling designs that looked like sand dunes blowing in the wind. By the good gods, no wonder he’d hidden Caterina. Her languid voice, beguiling eyes, and folds of shiny hair painted a striking picture. Caterina was loveliness personified. A veritable goddess of beauty.
A cold feeling curled around Isadora’s neck like a claw.
She faced Caterina with a radiant smile.
“Isadora.”
Caterina returned it with a hooded nod, then faced the stage. Air stirred as she lazily moved her fan back and forth. A porter entered the box behind them. The smell of cheese and wine drifted by.
“You are handfasted to Max?”
“Yes.”
Astonishment filled her voice. “Truly?”
Isadora bit back a cold smile. “Yes. We’ve been handfasted for several months now.”
“I’m very surprised.”
“I can see that.”
Caterina blinked long, thick lashes. Were they real? Had she used magic to enhance them? Some of the girls at Miss Sophia’s School for Girls had attempted such a spell. Burned off half their lashes and most of their eyebrows attempting it.
“Max is not the . . . stable relationship type.” Caterina’s gaze flickered to him, then back to Isadora. “I’m beside myself with surprise over this news.”
“He told me about you.”
Isadora blurted it out too quickly. Instead of suave and calm, it felt like an admission of guilt. Caterina’s lips lifted and fell.
“I’m surprised at that as well,” she murmured. “I thought he would try to hide what we had.”
“That’s not Max.”
“No,” she said after a short pause. “I suppose not. Forgive me some curiosity, but I must ask: how did you do it? How did you snag a witch like Max? He is so black and white. All or nothing. Max is the sort of witch who would either marry for business or for love. Nothing else. And he doesn’t believe he’s capable of love.”
Isadora fought her rising sense of competition. Wily girl. Caterina was probing, attempting to find out whether or not their handfasting was a sham. Caterina must wonder if Max handfasted Isadora because she benefited him somehow, or did he actually care? Like a circling predator, Caterina hunted for answers.
Jealousy compelled her, Isadora would guess.
With such revelation came a swelling sense of hopelessness. In fact, Caterina was correct. Maximillion had originally handfasted her out of sheer business and obligation to the Network. At one point, he did claim to want her and care for her. But the words she so longed to hear hadn’t come.
Maybe they never would.
I haven’t, she thought. I haven’t snagged him at all.
Not really.
Because if she had truly snagged him, as Caterina said, then he wouldn’t have hidden Caterina. He would have said I love you.
Wouldn’t he?
Was there more than one way to say the same thing?
Isadora swallowed the rising apprehension, recalling the pain etched in his features evenings ago. The hints of agony and warring dissonance. It didn’t add up. She had something wrong here.
Realizing that Caterina waited for her response, she said, “I didn’t snag him. He came to me.”
The neutral tone was a feat of triumph.
Caterina tilted her head to the side, raking Isadora’s profile. Isadora stared ahead, lost in the layers of brocade sweeping the stage.
“You are Isadora Spence? The Watcher that helped with negotiations in the Southern Network, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Ah. Well, that explains so much!”
Caterina laughed, as if relieved. “Max has always been a work-oriented man. He appreciates deadlines, efficiency, and clockwork. Emotional dealings with witches have never been a forte of his. I assume that your work with Max in the South is what brought you together? Nothing like a united purpose . . .”
Caterina trailed away, scoffing.
Isadora curled her fingertips into her palm when Caterina chuckled, as if laughing over this whole affair and its absurdity. Rage slipped through her. It wasn’t absurd—it was her life. And it was high time someone stood up for Max, believed in Max, fought for Max, trusted Max.
In fact, it was time she did.
“Well, best of luck for however long it lasts,” Caterina said with an airy giggle. “I understand how it feels to be slighted by a man like him. Please let me know if you ever need to talk once the inevitable happens.”
“You sound quite certain about a handfasting you know nothing about,” Isadora said coolly. “Pardon my assumption, but is it jealousy that I hear in your voice?”
Caterina had begun to turn away, but stopped. Her lips parted, eyes widened. Fueled by building ire, Isadora faced her more fully. She set one hand on the banister.
“If you’re trying to figure out whether Max married me out of love or not, let me assure you; he did. Maximillion Sinclair has loved me from the moment we met. He is kind, compassionate, and understanding. He devotes time and attention to me in ways you might never comprehend.
“Do I love him? With all the ferocious love my heart is capable of. If you’re planning on outlasting me and snagging him later, I hope you have a long wait in mind. I will never stop loving him, trusting him, or working my hardest to keep him.”
Caterina pulled in a breath through her nose.
A hand came to Isadora’s waist, warm and heavy. Max pulled her close. “Isa,” he murmured, tension thick in his tone. “I see you met Caterina.”
Caterina straightened, a bland smile fixed on her face.
“Maximillion, a pleasure.”
He ignored her.
Isadora tried to take some air, but it lay in a muggy carpet on the world. A wine glass appeared in Max’s hand. He passed it to her. She sipped, then gulped. The stuff always gave her a roaring headache, but that’s just what she needed right then. A different outlet for the rapidly accumulating astonishment. In fact, she’d just answered her own tenacious question.
How hadn’t she seen it all along?
Max did love her.
The way he unpacked her bags the first morning after she arrived at Wildrose, or made dinner with her at the end of a long day. The book of silly riddles he brought home, the careful tour of Wildrose. The kisses.
By Drago, the kisses.
Which didn’t mention his protective side, his loving side. He made space for her during a busy day and attempted to protect her from unrealized dangers. She’d made him a list that he tackled very seriously.
She wanted to laugh, then cry. Elation bubbled inside. Max loved her! There was no need for a trial period or the words to come from his lips. She felt it all the way in her burning bones.
Maximillion Sinclair, the haughty Ambassador in the Central Network, loved her, Isadora Spence.
Love was enough.
They could do this.
Zander’s booming laugh echoed through the air, startling her. United strains rose from the orchestra in a warning trill. A cascade of quiet rippled through the opera house. Caterina faded back to her date that glowered from the shadows.
Max passed her a glass of water that he conjured.
“Here.”
She gulped half the drink, dizzy from the heat and the realization and the depths of love in her heart.
Did Max hear her refutation of Caterina?
The sweating condensation against her palm, and the clink of ice against the glass, reoriented her. She let out a long breath, sipped again, then pressed her forehead to the cool edge. The sweltering heat of the opera house heightened.
“I’ll explain everything later,” he murmured. “I promise, Isadora. I’m sorry she got to you before I noticed. Whatever she said, don’t let it poison you. Don’t let it send you into anxiety. She’s a viper and—”
She laughed, squeezed his hand. “No, Max. Don’t fear, don’t worry. Quite the contrary.”
His face dropped into a maze of questions as she reached up, touched his cheek. She pressed a kiss to his lips, then pulled away with a broad smile.
“I love you,” she whispered. “And I know that you love me. I’m sorry it took me so long to see it, Max. Burn my list. I am satisfied. I want to be with you forever.”
He blinked.
”What—”
“Later,” she whispered, giggling. Dazed, he reared back, but not far. She motioned him into a chair. He complied, woodenly. Torches along the sides of the chairs extinguished, one at a time, dropping the opera house into a pervasive darkness. The chatter of voices calmed, leaving a tepid silence.
Zander and Griffin sat next to each other on the front row of the box, fingers entwined. They were slightly below the chairs in the back, where Caterina and Ronald stewed in silence. Caterina deftly avoided Isadora’s gaze.
Max pressed a kiss to her temple.
“Later,” he promised.