Page 108 of Summer of Sacrifice

No. no. This couldn’t be happening… Couldn’t be real…

Cal’s stricken eyes found hers again. He was jumping off the platform, pushing through the crowd toward her. His father was saying something, but the mud in her ears…

She turned and fled the ballroom, running until she was outside, tears hot on her cheeks.

He found her crying in the garden. Kneeling before her where she sat on a bench surrounded by beautiful flowers, he took her hands in his. “Seleste.”

She didn’t look up from her lap, and he ducked a bit lower, trying to get her attention.

“Seleste,” he said again, a tremor in his voice. It sounded like a plea.

She looked up to meet his eyes, swallowing back a choked sob when she saw the tears in his lashes. “This is just a nightmare, isn’t it?”

Cal dropped her hands and cupped her face in his hands. “Run away with me. Right now.”

“We can’t do that,” she spoke through a fresh wave of tears, sadness warring with the hope emanating from him.

“Of course we can.” His hair swayed with the movement of shaking his head as he dropped his hands, a plan formulating behind his eyes. “We don’t even need to pack anything. I have some coin in the châlet. We can retrieve it and run into the woods. There’s a town not that far from here?—”

Seleste silenced him with a finger to his lips. Their doom was imminent. She was a witch. He was a mortal. All the choices leading to that moment had been selfish of her. Just as her next thought was selfish.

Lady Catherine, though she would be his wife, would never bear his children. Thanks to the Grimoire. To her Order. To the potion Seleste had been forced to brew and serve him.

Instantly, Seleste cursed herself. Neither would she bear his children. Not only had she ripped his heart out by allowing their love to begin at all when their separation was inevitable, but this beautiful, amazing soul would never have children. The Bardot family Earlship of Bellvary would die with him.

“Cal,” she whispered, pulling her finger from his lips, heart constricting with the pain on his face. “There isn’t anything we can do.”

“I’ll leave everything for you.”

“No.” A voice came from the garden entrance. “You won’t.”

Cal stood and faced his mother. “What have you done?” he accused with venom behind his words. “I won’t marry that woman.”

Lady Della strode forward, her heels clicking on the stones. Seleste wondered vaguely how she’d missed her approach, but her mind was so clouded, her cunning off kilter. Serenely, proudly, the countess folded her hands in front of her, looking between her son and Seleste. “What I’ve done, my son, is fix this mess you’ve made.”

“Mess?” Cal spat before a mocking laugh cracked out of him.

“Did you truly think no one would notice the way you look at her?” She sneered derisively at Seleste. “Or that you weren’t alone in the châlet at night? That we would all miss your rumpled appearance after you’d been in her vicinity?” Lady Della sighed. “The help, son. And a woman of colour? You disgrace this family.”

Seleste sat frozen on her bench, save for the trembling in her fingers. No amount of centuries or Orders or war or trauma could prepare even a witch for humiliation and a broken heart. She caught a glimmer of something behind the countess, floating toward her in the night. Litha, cloaked in magic. She fluttered down on Seleste’s shaking hand, trying to soothe her.

“Disgrace?” Cal shouted, startling a few slumbering sparrows from a bush. “For not seeing things the way you do? For not living by your vile, self-centered, and ignorant standards?” Another furious laugh bubbled up out of him and he began to pace, running a hand down the length of his wan face. “I’ve never been this happy in my godsdamned life, Mother. Seleste means everything to me.”

“Cal—”

“No! No. I don’t give a fuck what you want to say to me right now. I will not marry that woman.”

“Your father is dying!” Lady Della shot back, causing Cal to halt mid-step.

“He’s getting better,” Cal said slowly.

“No, he isn’t. He’s put on a good show, but he will not survive his illness.”

Indignance crossed Cal’s flushed face. “It’s his liver, I know it is. If you would let me operate?—”

“Operate!” The countess swore under her breath. “You think you can operate because you sneak off to surgical theatres and lectures when you think I’m not watching? Gods, Cal. You are more naïve than I ever imagined!”

Cal’s jaw muscles worked. “If someone will operate, it can be resolved.”

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