Page 26 of Bitter Burn
Under the very satisfying article is a one-page report—from Andrea—detailing a search for any mention of the name Brittany Hill in our treasury. There is none, so Andrea naturally asked Lox to shake some digital trees. As far as anyone can tell, Brittany Hill doesn’t exist, at least online.
And then finally, there’s a quick report about an email that was sent out to the college of cardinals in advance of the conclave. Sent anonymously, it succinctly described the various Ys-related sins of Mortimer Cashel and then offered as much verifiable proof as we have—any proof that doesn’t directly expose myself or a Lyonesse member as the source.
If the cardinals are really going to elect Cashel, then I don’t want them to say they weren’t warned.
That said, my hopes for this particular gambit are limited. Most of the cardinals aren’t reading their own email, and the odds of an anonymous, conspiratorial message getting in front of a cardinal’s eyes are low. Still, it would only take one chatty member of the Sacred College to ignite gossip, and if anything slows down the conclave, it’s worth it. I make a mental note to tell Andrea to hold off on sending our florilegium just yet—the conclave will start any day now, and then nothing will be able to penetrate the hallowed halls of the Sistine Chapel. I’d rather save that card for a later, stronger play.
I flip the folder closed just as my phone lights up. A text from a number I don’t recognize, six words to set my heart pounding.
We’re coming back to you, sir.
Eleven
Tristan
I’m more nervous than I think I’ve ever been, including going to war, including running away from Lyonesse with a furious Mark lashed to a chair. Those were nothing in hindsight, just the unconscious flexure of skill, a blend of panic and courage.
But returning to Mark…
It would be a very stupid person not to be scared right now.
Mark won’t hurt Isolde. I am certain of this much at least. I also think he won’t hurt me, not the kind of hurting that usually inspires fear.
It’s only that the danger isn’t in his violence but in his love. In the crushing, churning star-fusing burn of it.
If he still loves us, that is. And despite his wicked mouth in Rome, I have my doubts. What kind of love can survive this? Us?
There aren’t any guests in the lobby this early, but Ms. Lim is behind the desk, a ring of keys at her waist. Her expression doesn’t change as we approach, but she does step out to greet us.
“Mr. Trevena is expecting you,” she says. “Follow me.”
I glance over as we follow Ms. Lim up the stairs. Isolde doesn’t need the railing, climbing the stairs with that prep school poise of hers, and like everyone I’ve chosen to surround myself with these days, her face betrays nothing at all. She looks like she’s walking into Lyonesse after a morning spent in those expensive stores where they keep almost nothing on the shelves. Like she never left.
I wish I had her mettle. Her certainty.
What is it that Mark said to me? When you’ve been where I’ve been, on those roads, in those pits of hell, you come to know that you can only be certain of yourself.
Perhaps Isolde feels the same. She must. She’s been walking very similar roads to Mark since she was nineteen.
Embarrassment snaps at my belly as I think of the martial arts on the yacht, the cherished knife, the meetings in Belgrade. I hadn’t seen what she was until Samhain—I hadn’t understood that I’d prostrated myself at the feet of yet another killer. I’d thought her a princess, a lonely queen, a kindred spirit, but all along, she’d been kindred to Mark’s spirit, not mine. Her loneliness had been chosen with blood, and her crown was soldered with sin and set with the jewels of heaven…and until Samhain, I’d thought she priced old bowls for a living.
But I love her.
I can do nothing else.
Like the first time I walked through this club, I keep my eyes on Ms. Lim’s heels as they click up the stairs and down the corridor leading to the hall’s first tier of balconies. That time, it had been good manners. This time, it’s to fight the urge to check on Isolde. To stare at her with worry or possessiveness or anything else that might set tongues wagging.
As if that will make a difference. I glance up to see a group of guests descending the staircase from the speakeasy-style bar above, presumably from a late lunch, and I watch as awareness of her festers through the guests like an infection.
Isolde’s wearing a wool dress today—navy—with long sleeves, a high neck, and a skirt that flutters below her calves. Her hair is in a loose braid of pearl and gold, pulled over one shoulder, and her stockinged feet are clad in black heels, tall enough to be stylish, short enough to be appropriate in all but the most particular of churches. She is above all else completely unobjectionable, the Laurence heiress, the unflashily but tastefully clad daughter of a banker, and I know she chose this dress as armor, as a statement.
You cannot make me into the whore of your imagination, the clothes and hair say. Try to accuse me of all the sins you think I’ve committed. Just try.
But it doesn’t make a difference. That only her hands are exposed simply eroticizes them, draws attention to the slender fingers and the now-tainted wedding ring. The dress hugs the tidy lines of her shoulders and pert curves of her chest. The braid—messy and soft and gleaming and tuggable—is patently obscene. If she were naked, she could hardly stir a person more.
The club members seem to agree, because under the glances of disgust or distrust or mockery, there is leering hunger. She’s no longer Mark’s darling pet. She’s clearly unfaithful and therefore valueless to Mark, so why can’t they have a turn with her?
It’s reflexive and stupid of me, but I step between the members and Isolde and block their view. I give them the blank look I’ve learned to wear as Mark’s bodyguard and gesture for Isolde to go on.
