Page 5 of The Lies We Conjure
Winter arches an eyebrow, first at our guests, then across the room to me, where I’m propped against one of two Italian marble fireplaces, embers snapping merrily and throwing fire lines across the sheen of my polished dress shoes. She studies me with an expression as tight as the ribboned choker bear-hugging her throat. “Why are the girls here? Now?”
“More like, what do the Blackgates know about tonight’s itinerary that we don’t?” Evander answers, thumb aimlessly rubbing the rim of his glass as the ice clinks. “They wouldn’t just fly in from London after ten years. The Blackgate sisters are kept offshore like illegal funds, everyone knows it.”
Uncharacteristically droll but correct.
The moment their father, Marcos, died, Lavinia and Kaysa Blackgate were shipped to Europe under the cover of night. That left old Marsyas playing matriarch stateside and mastering redirection whenever their mother, Athena, or the girls themselves became the topic of discussion. I’m not even sure if they’ve officially oathed Lavinia as heir. At seventeen, she’s older than Kaysa by a year, but age doesn’t always determine a would-be matriarch or patriarch among the Four Lines. Character matters too, though considering the predilections of the Blackgate family, perhaps having the personality of a snobbish feral cat is more desirable than detestable.
Honestly, despite the fact that the Blackgates and I have never seen eye to eye, I don’t blame them for putting an ocean between themselves and Hegemony Manor for the past decade.
“Illegal is that eye makeup,” Winter mutters—disdain typicallymanifests when she’s jealous. This is exactly how Winter always sizes people up—by tearing them down before extending her hand with a firm smile. She doesn’t bother to be anything other than direct with me. “But seriously, Auden.Spill.”
They expect me to know for good reason.
I’m the one who has been home with Ursula the longest since boarding school let out in June. The one who didn’t spend the first weeks of our summer gallivanting about. The one who is objectively her favorite. I’m also the one who spent my childhood inventing sly and increasingly devilish ways to tempt the claws out of dour Lavinia Blackgate.
“Perhaps they wanted to see what they’ve been missing all these years,” I suggest as dryly as possible, audibly turning a page in my book, though I haven’t been able to comprehend a single written word since catching visible proof that the Blackgate girls are indeed back on the manor grounds.
Evander wheels around, frustration deepening at the fact that I at least appear to still be reading. Nonchalance annoys my older cousin to no end. “What doesshehave planned?”
I don’t answer.
Evander steps away from the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows. I set the book atop the mantel—I can’t have it ruined in the crossfire of his rising anger, fueled by both his annoyance and insistence—and lift my eyes to his. They’re green, stormy, and all his mother’s, just like his warm brown skin. He’s taller by an inch, and heavier by a good twenty pounds of hard-earned muscle. Like his status as oathed heir to every title our grandmother holds, he wields those advantages as overtly and often as possible.
“It’s a reunion with old friends. They’re simply dressing the part for a nice evening.” Evander glares at me and Winter joins him. I hold up my hands. “I know nothing beyond the usual triad for these annual meetings: convey what’s important, reaffirm Hegemony power, scatter to the winds for another three hundred and sixty-five days.”
Winter looks like she might chuck something at me if she hadanything reasonable nearby to throw or otherwise fling my way. “Auden, you’re the worst liar.”
“He is not lying, Winter Elvire.”
We’re too practiced to gasp, but all three of us stiffen at the addition to our party pregame.
There, in the wide, arched entry to the solarium, is our grandmother, our guardian, matriarch of the Hegemony Clan, leader of the Elemental Line, High Sorcerer of the Four Lines, and general no-nonsense woman of a certain pristinely obscured age.
Ursula Hegemony.
She was soundless before—one of her many gifts—but now that she wants us to know she’s here, Ursula enters the stately beauty of the room on steps as sharp as the stab of a knife on the parquet. Her posture is perfect, her expression discerning, her eyes, as usual, miss nothing. She notes the book discarded at my side, Winter’s blush at the admonishment, the remaining scotch sweating it out in Evander’s spooked grip.
“The annual meeting is necessary to our continued success as the leaders of the Four Lines. Tonight is no different.” Evander visibly relaxes—if Ursula had heard his side of the conversation, she’d certainly say so. “That being said, I expect all of you to treat this as what it is from our point of view. It’s not a social hour, it’s acampaign.”
Ursula pauses at that, and I don’t believe it’s a coincidence that her forefinger taps the four inset gems of her High Sorcerer’s ring. A wealth of power is tied to that ring, and she’s tied to that power simply by wearing it. The ring and the title have been ours for nearly five hundred years—the control, the influence, the authority—and like anything of worth, it becomes harder to grip the longer you hold it. Something our grandmother is keen on reminding us. The last of a line has a duty to survive—or go out in a blaze so bright it leaves a mark.
“I want you on your best behavior. You are leaders, not simply hosts.” She frowns. On the unnatural planes of her smooth, unlined face, the movement is slight, but holds enough weight thatmy heart skips a beat. “A fact I see each of you has conveniently forgotten.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, our grandmother turns her laser focus on Winter, her clever cerulean eyes striking on the rich fabric of my cousin’s impeccably tailored gown. It’s an ankle-length column that highlights the lithe strength her upper body has acquired from long hours on the tennis court and in the weight room at Walton-Bridge Prep. Ursula’s tightly held scrutiny sours further. Instantly, the heart shape of Winter’s neckline unfurls, elongates, and crawls up and around the back of her neck, transforming it into something much more modest.
When she’s finished, the emerald hue of her magic evaporating, Ursula announces, “Cleavage is unnecessary and impolite.”
Winter dips her chin in acceptance before fussing to straighten the bow now settled underneath her long, strawberry blond hair and probably at odds with her choice of necklace, now swathed in fabric.
Our grandmother turns her attention to Evander. The barest flicker of a grimace crosses her face.
The final dregs of his scotch burst into flame.
Evander nearly drops the glass but catches himself and it just in time. As the green hint of magic flares, his wits kick in and he smothers the fire with a wide palm atop the rim. With a muttered curse, he rips it away from the tumbler, a ring burned into the skin. He waves it violently in an attempt to sooth the pain, and meets Ursula’s stoic expression with glassy, red-rimmed eyes.
“Sobriety is crucial for the case we are to make for continued Hegemony supremacy. The libations tonight are for ourguests’enjoyment, not yours. You may take a glass as it encourages others to imbibe what is offered, but recreational and excessive liquor consumption is unbecoming and steals from both our family credibility and your own as my oathed heir.”
Evander discards the tumbler without a word.
