Page 13 of The Lies We Conjure
“Especially as you approach on the highway,” Infinity adds. “Objectively. As a visitor. There is a certain Blackgate vibe to it.”
At the mention of her name, Lavinia wets her lips, looks her sister right in the eye, and announces, “My understanding is that there’s a ghost in the foyer named Imelda.”
“That’s not even remotely true,” Evander replies, punctuating the irritation in his tone by dipping his spoon decisively into his gazpacho.
I catch Lavinia’s eye. Maybe this version of her likes ribbing Evander as much as I do—as much as Kaysa apparently does. Both sisters have a playfulness that ironically was not present when they were actual children.
“Come to think of it, didn’t we have that maid named Imelda several years back?” I straighten, as if a memory is flooding in. “With the hair and the smile? Always wore perfume like peonies, before she fell down the stairs while carrying a teetering stack of your meticulously folded boxer briefs?”
Evander rolls his eyes and grunts out, “No.”
I rub my jaw. “It’s probably in your own self-interest to forget the woman who died under a pile of your underwear, though pretty inconsiderate, if I do say so myself.”
“Shut up, Auden.”
“I’m just answering our guest’s question,” I insist innocently. Then, I lean in such a way that I collect both Blackgate girls in my purview. “While I’ve never seen a ghost in Hegemony Manor, I must admit that every time I’ve been away and return, the foyer does greet me with a floral scent that is distinctly peony-esque.”
“Iknewit,” Kaysa exclaims, and though he’s trying very hard to have all the personality of a secret service agent, there’s a softness at the corners of Evander’s mouth that tells me he’s actually maybe sort of enjoying this. Kaysa was happy to live in Lavinia’s skunk-reanimating shadow when we knew them ages ago, but now sheseems to be the sister who prefers the spotlight. She taps Evander again with her elbow. “I demand a ghost tour after dinner. I want to meet every single one, starting with Imelda.”
“Are you serious—”
Evander is cut off by the elegant rise of Ursula at the head of the table.
The rest of the party goes silent as well—conversations stop mid-syllable, soup consumption mid-sip.
My pulse spikes because this isn’t the normal rhythm of our annual meeting.
Ursula’s speech happens after dessert.
Is this part of her plan?
It must be.
I know it, Evander knows it, Winter too. If the others suspect something, they don’t show it. Just as with everything Ursula Hegemony does, we follow along. That’s the way it’s always been and the way it always will be until Evander inherits control of the Hegemony family titles and the corresponding influence.
Ursula looms over us with her usual aristocratic benevolence, smile drawn tight, as she addresses every turn of the head, steady gaze, bated breath. Even the ley line beneath our feet seems to halt, its power frozen in proximity to Ursula in High Sorcerer mode.
My heart kicks up a drumbeat in my chest.
“My friends,” Ursula begins, “we have yet to enjoy the main course but I’m afraid we must move swiftly to the business of tonight.”
Someone is staring at me, and I don’t have to check to confirm it to be Evander. While I watch my grandmother from my spot toward the center of the long table, I note a flash of crystal in my periphery. Winter, taking a steadying sip of champagne. At my side, Lavinia is still, as she soaks up the formal opening to the business of the Four Lines.
“I started this evening by calling you my unusual and unbreakable family,” Ursula intones in her clear, unwavering voice. “We are exactly that, even as we are tested. Even as the world grows moreunforgiving to us. It is not the worst we have ever faced across the centuries, it is simply new, and change is always a threat.”
That’s an understatement. It’s been that way since Salem and only worsens with every passing year.
“Change is always a threat,” Ursula repeats. Strange, and throaty, as if she’s buying time, forgetting what to say next.
She starts again. “Change…”
The word dies on her lips.
As if a puppeteer has yanked all the strings, Ursula’s head snaps up as the rest of her sags. Her mouth is a gaping, silent vacuum, wide to the night. The muscles in my legs constrict, I’m ready to spring out of my seat, to run to her, to steady her, to—
She falls.
Slamming first to the solid wood slab of the tabletop, then all the way down to the stone tiles, grass, and the ley line buried deep beneath. The magic thrumming in the earth below us can do so much but it can’t do a damn thing in this one terrible moment.
