Page 19 of The Lies We Conjure
My grandmother is dead. The High Sorcerer of the Four Lines, the woman at the heart of our brand of modern magic in North America, is dead.
Murdered.
That word sticks in the storm roiling through my brain. My vision is glassy with a scene I can’t shake: Ursula’s mottled face, skin taut and thin as a crepe. No spark in her eyes. No breath in her lungs. Her power fled—gone back to the night, the earth, the ley lines spidering beneath.
The great Ursula Hegemony suddenly just a weight in my arms.
I feel as if I might be sick.
We’re in Ursula’s third-floor study, my vision spinning. I grip the ornately carved lip of the desk. Winter is right there beside me, sniffling and shaking in a way she can’t lessen despite the fact her arms are wrapped around her body as tight as they will go. The slamming of the double doors snaps me to my senses. I let go of the desk and straighten, my expression immediately impassive—the picture-perfect Hegemony.
Evander leads the Blackgate girls into the room from the now-sealed entrance. He lights the hearth with a fingertip as he directs the sisters toward the bookshelves, where they take up residence behind the high back of the reading chair Ursula loved more than any jewel in her extensive collection. The sisters gape at the study, blinking at the final trappings of Ursula—the newly wilting plants upon the massive desk, the quilt draped over the back of the chair at their elbows, the towering collection of magical tomes glitteringwith gold-leaf spines—the ghost tour they’d joked about coming to fruition in the worst way possible.
This room is Ursula’s spirit more than any other.
The other High Families are already arranged, spread apart in clusters and facing the desk. The Cerises by the fire. The Starwoods toward the center—Luna settled in one of the two guest chairs. It would be proper for the other elder present to claim the remaining one, but Marsyas Blackgate is not in this room.
Evander sweeps toward the front of the study, charging in to direct us, like he did in the garden.
He’s the oathed Hegemony heir. It’s what he’s supposed to do.
But Evander isn’t the only one with a role.
I clamp a hand on my cousin’s very solid shoulder as he rounds the corner of the desk, swiftly cataloging the cabinets and drawers for where to start searching for Ursula’s final directive. “I know where it is.”
My voice is purposefully low as I produce a small key on a whisper-thin chain from beneath the open button of my lavender shirt.
A muscle in Evander’s jaw twitches as Winter closes the gap between us until we form a tight triangle behind the desk, every eye upon us. “You have a key?”
Every High Family has their own way of marking their chosen heir. In the Hegemony Clan, oathed heirs get keys. Evander has had his on the same type of chain since he was sixteen and Ursula made it official. But what he forgets is that though our parents died, the tradition of familial roles didn’t. There is more to a family than an heir.
“I have a key because I’m the executor of Ursula’s estate.”
His broad back to the High Family members, Evander looks as if I’ve actually landed a punch. Winter’s whole trembling posture stiffens, rigid enough it might shatter.
Our guests don’t comment, though they can surely hear what I said. The exchange of interested glances from all three lines is enough.This is the price for keeping secrets from each other—weakness before those who matter most.
But this secret was kept at Ursula’s request. I had to lock it away.
I pull the chain over my head and insert the key into one of the many drawers within Ursula’s desk. She had no need for hidden compartments or even magical protection—fear and power were enough to keep the three of us out of her things, and no one else, not even the staff, had access to this room.
The tumblers turn easily, the drawer opens without a hitch, and there, without any finery or fanfare, is the single page that is the last will and testament of Ursula Hegemony.
Evander looms over my shoulder, peering down at the contents.
A lone line, written in enchanted ink, glittering upon the page: Ursula’s looping signature.
Beneath it are two thumbprints, stamped in blood. One, long and elegant, the other calloused from too much time spent with a lacrosse stick.
I stare at the mark I made more than six months ago now and my chest tightens. The goal for this meeting is the same as before. As always. Exactly as I reminded my cousins as our guests arrived.
Convey what’s important.
Reaffirm Hegemony power.
Scatter to the winds for another three hundred and sixty-five days.
I hold up the will for High Family inspection. Most everyone accepts it as exactly as expected, though Hector decides to lean in as if his personal scrutiny is necessary.
