Page 121 of Summer of Sacrifice

Seleste was, for once, glad her Sisters were nowhere near. Sorscha would cackle endlessly. Aggie would smirk behind her cup, delighting in the tea unfolding before her. While Winnie would lecture her about the importance of propriety.

Sometimes she thought Winnie must have a secret, unhinged life none of them knew about. No one could be that rigid.

About this, though, Seleste would be rigid. It wasn’t only that she didn’t want to be the paramour—no matter how accepted such a position was by the beau monde. It was also her desire not to degrade Cal or even Catherine. Most of all, it was the fact that she was a witch with an incredibly long life ahead of her and a hidden magic that most thought had been eradicated during the Witch Trials.

When their case was over, she and Cal would have to be over. Again.

“Thank you,” she finally muttered, determined to focus on the task at hand. “Perhaps we should retire. It’s getting late.”

Cal glanced out the window behind her at the Strawberry Moon, high in the sky. “Perhaps you’re right. De Montfort’s symposium will begin precisely at midday, and we need to procure a Société de Guerre mask and cape for you.”

“Société de Guerre?” He hadn’t yet revealed the name of his secret society. “What a peculiar name.”

Cal rose and began rifling through one of his bags. “It’s something to do with the founding members’ shared past. No one really knows the complete origin.”

“And you all wear masks?”

He pulled his mask out of the bag, holding it aloft. “And capes.”

This was one of those times Seleste wished he knew about her powers—how easily she could conjure a copy of his mask and cape for herself. Alas, she was a danger to him and his reputation enough as it was.

“Shall I take the floor this time?”

For the entire journey from Bowery to Merveille, Cal had slept on the ship’s floor of their cabin, rolling around every night with the toss of Mer Noir’s waves.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Cal began taking off his waistcoat and reached for the buttons of his shirt. “I’ll gladly join you in the bed though. As a perfect gentleman, of course.”

Seleste scoffed and Cal flashed her a toothy grin. “I’ll believe that the moment all The Void’s gods and goddesses come down and sing a chorus.”

Cal laughed, blessedly leaving his pants on, though his chest was tantalisingly bare. “I like to believe all the tales of Hespa’s chosen are true.” He spread a blanket down on the floor next to the rickety bed. “It’s a shame Lord and Lady Magie De La Nuit’s daughters have been written over as some myth.”

Seleste’s heart seized. Seleste and her Sisters’ foremothers had been painted as nothing more than a hearthtale—childish and unholy—since they were little girls. Perhaps before. The realm at large believed Talan, Hissa, Monarch, and Belfry to be a legend. A depiction of lost, Hollow children in search of the Goddess Three to become Hallowed. For no god and goddess would desecrate Hespa by bearing children not chosen by Her.

With a small grunt, Cal laid out flat on the blanket, crossing his ankles and looking up at the ceiling with his arms folded behind his head. “How could anyone believe their love, the great Lord Night and Lady Magic, bringing children into The Void is unholy? What is more holy than that?”

Seleste couldn’t respond, not past the lump in her throat. How could he be so perfect for her and so destined not to be hers? Humming her agreement rather than attempting to speak, she rose and unbuttoned her dress, discarding it over a chair. Cal went rigid as she walked to the bed in her shift, but he dutifully kept his eyes on the ceiling.

“Goodnight, Seleste,” he whispered moments before his snores filled their small room.

“Goodnight, my love,” she whispered back, long after he’d fallen asleep and long before she did.

The crowd was unexpected.

Cal must have had a similar thought, for he pulled the hood of his cloak lower over his face, leaning down to whisper in Seleste’s ear as they walked, “Dr. de Montfort’s symposiums never have such a turnout.”

Pushing forward through the throng, Seleste adjusted the mask tucked under her arm beneath her cloak. “I see some sort of peculiar contraption on the platform,” she whispered back, just loud enough to be heard over the din. “Snag one of those flyers, maybe it will tell us more.”

She wasn’t certain if it was mere curiosity driving them to learn more about the symposium itself, or if it was the unsettling charge in the air. Cal took her suggestion, snatching a flyer from a pageboy, the pair of them pausing to read it.

Dr. James de Montfort’s Open Air Symposium:

Anatomical Peculiarities

Featuring a historical demonstration,

Never before seen surgical prowess

that will beguile all

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