“The healing was successful?” Daemon asked. Not that he had any doubt it would have been. Besides being Queens and Black Widows, those three witches had been the most powerful and talented Healers of their generation—and were still considered to have no equals.
“Yes. The child recovered completely and suffered no loss of movement or strength in his arms. He had one scar on each arm to show to his friends, but those faded after a year. However, the concern about a window breaking and someone being badly hurt had the coven working on the idea of adding some Craft to window glass so that it would break into pieces with no sharp edges, like glass worn down by sand and the sea.”
“That explains the notation here about a visit to Lady Perzha and the beaches around Little Weeble,” Daemon murmured.
“There’s probably another file about that visit,” Holt muttered. Then he continued. “Once the coven thought they had a working spell, they had to test it. So Jaenelle and Karla purchased a couple of pieces of window glass that they inserted into freestanding frames so that they could do the test in one of the Hall’s outside courtyards.”
“And it worked.”
“Pretty much. The glass broke into small, smooth-edged pieces just the way they wanted it to. But the High Lord pointed out that glass that obligingly broke in a way that wouldn’t cause a would-be thief any harm and also didn’t have the sound of glass shattering was a potential invitation for mischief.” Holt breathed in, breathed out. “So the girls added another bit of Craft for the second test. When the glass broke that time, it started shouting, ‘Intruder! Intruder! I’m hit! I’m hit! I’m hit!’ ”
Daemon reminded himself that breathing wasn’t optional.
“Well, if the warning wasn’t loud enough to be heard, it wouldn’t be any good, would it?” Holt continued. “But the sound in the test window had been punched up with Jaenelle’s Birthright Black and Karla’s Birthright Green, so . . .”
“Everyone in the Hall heard it, didn’t they?”
“In the Hall and in Halaway. Caused quite a commotion, especially because some of the windows in the rooms surrounding that particular courtyard in the Hall must have absorbed some of the spell, so when that booming sound rattled the frames, the affected windows began to yip in higher voices, ‘I’m hit! I’m hit! I’m hit!’ ” Holt blew out a breath. “Since those higher voices sounded like young Scelties, that got all the kindred excited, and they were racing around the Hall looking for the intruders.”
Daemon leaned against one of the other filing cabinets and closed his eyes. Nothing to do with me, he thought. Nothing, nothing, nothing. “And . . . ?”
“After Jaenelle and Karla managed to quiet all the windows and the Scelties, and the High Lord sent his apologies to Lady Sylvia for the unplanned excitement, he firmly suggested that that particular bit of Craft be retired.” Holt offered a weak smile. “A few months later, a Warlord and his brothers, who were builders by trade, showed up at the Hall. They’d heard a story about this bit of Craft and thought it would be a fine addition to a school they were building and offered to buy the proprietary rights to the spell if the Ladies could show them how to do it—without the verbal alarm. So the High Lord negotiated with the Warlords for exclusive rights to the spell for . . . I don’t remember how many years . . . for a modest annual fee.”
Daemon eyed the files in the open drawer, then looked at the other drawers in that cabinet. “That’s what is in those drawers? Reports of unusual Craft the coven performed when they lived at the Hall?” May the Darkness have mercy on me if that’s what I’ll have to deal with.
“Records of one sort or another,” Holt replied. “Beale and I were told that the top drawer held the most . . . memorable.”
As Daemon replaced that file and brushed a finger over others, a red folder appeared, sealed with black wax and labeled with Saetan’s elaborate script. He pinched the top of the folder with his thumb and forefinger—and vanished it before he closed the drawer and locked the cabinet.
“Is there a reason for this story?” Daemon asked, turning to face his secretary.
“No matter what Zoey, Titian, and the rest of those youngsters throw at you, you don’t have to deal with the power Jaenelle and the coven brought to the table when they were the equivalent age and learning Craft,” Holt said. “That should be some comfort.”
Late that night, Daemon called in the red folder with the black wax seal and studied the words written in the Old Tongue.
“For my sons,” he whispered, brushing a finger against the words.
When he pressed his thumb to the wax, the seal broke in a jagged pattern that seemed designed to act like a lock.
Daemon pulled out two dozen sheets of paper. His father’s writing.
He skimmed through the pages, not sure what he was seeing at first. Then he poured a large brandy and sipped it while he read all the pages again—especially the ones that had penciled notations added at the bottom.
One page in particular caught his attention because the completion of the spell it contained was still pending, even after all these years.
Laughing softly, Daemon said, “Oh, you wicked bastard.”
Tucking the papers back into the folder for safekeeping, he swallowed the brandy, vanished the folder—and went hunting for a special window.
TWO
Regretting the impulse to invite Saetien SaDiablo to dinner in order to give the girl a break from some hard truths about the sanctuary where Jillian worked and Saetien resided, Jillian continued to cut up the vegetables for the salad. The beef and mushrooms were heating in their gravy; the egg noodles were almost cooked. When the food was on the table, this whining would end—one way or another.
“So, you’ve been telling the instructors at the sanctuary that the reason you fell in with Delora was because you felt neglected, that you never had enough of your father’s time and attention, that you didn’t learn things like Protocol that would have helped you.” Jillian added a light dressing to the salad and mixed it. When she set the bowl on the table, she looked Saetien in the eyes. “That is so much crap, I’m surprised you’re not choking on it. And just so you know? The instructors don’t believe a word of it.”
She turned away to drain the noodles and put them in a serving dish while Saetien sputtered. She ladled the beef-and-mushroom mixture over the noodles, then set the dish on the table. Bread from the bakery and freshly churned butter from the SaDiablo estate on the other side of the village completed the meal.
“If I’d been a Queen—” Saetien began.
“You would have been thumped so hard for being a bitch, you’d have had to walk backward to see where you were going,” Jillian said sharply. “Tell me this, oh poor, neglected child—and remember I’m part of this family. Who taught you how to ride a horse? Who taught you how to swim? Who taught you the simple country dances so that you could participate at harvest parties in Dhemlan and in Scelt? Who taught you to air walk? Who taught you to read before you went to school and read you bedtime stories? Who taught you—or tried to teach you—basic Craft and Protocol? Who wouldn’t let you fudge the rules and be a brat? Who took you riding when you were in Amdarh, and took you to the theater and to art exhibits? Who was that, hmm?”
Saetien stared at the table, one tear rolling down her cheek.
“Your father. You received more time and attention than most children who come from aristo families, but you probably heard someone whisper that you must have been neglected and that’s why you became Delora’s pet, and you seized on that as the excuse for ignoring what you knew to be right because that puts the blame on someone else and you’re just a victim.”