Page 128 of Summer of Sacrifice

“Société de Guerrehas modelled their dark works after Morgana the Archane,” Cal finally said, more to himself than anything. “Morgana the Archane.”

Seleste nodded with a grimace. “And not just any dark work. The last known case of necromancy that resulted in the Academy being shut down and alchemy outlawed.”

He scrubbed at his chin. “Is it just me, or did some of that read like— No, it’s ridiculous.”

It wasn’t ridiculous, at all. “Like what?”

A sheepish smile sent colour blooming on his cheeks. “A spellbook.”

Because it was exactly that.

“You think I’m mad.” He stood, fiddling with the buttons of his waistcoat.

“I don’t. I had the same thought.”

“How can this be? Mages… Mages don’t have magic any longer.” He paced as he continued trying to convince himself. “They’re simple men chosen by Hespa to run the Church. That’s all.”

“Clearly, that isn’t the case,” Seleste offered gently, steering clear of witchery. Though she was equally as confused. He was right, as far as she knew. Only witches had possessed magic for generations. “It’s best if we simply accept what this text is saying as fact for the time being, to help with the case.”

“Does it?” He whirled toward her, face screwed up in confusion and thought. “Help, I mean. It didn’t tie them to the murders like I thought it would.”

“Well…” Seleste rose and held the book in front of him. “Maybe it does.” She pointed to the bottom, where four names were scribbled, only three of them legible.

Orrin Pollock

Achilles Zavai

Nadja Rashad

“Pollock!” Cal exclaimed. “But he was killed before most of the others. Could these here have furthered his work? What’s this last one?” He leaned in, eyes squinted.

Seleste shook her head. “Unfortunately, all I can make out is a C and I think that is an r there at the end of the surname.”

He looked at her. “Do you think these are the true identities of those who put that corpse in the mechanism below the society, or simply the ones who wrote the teachings?”

Spellbook, Seleste corrected inwardly. But he wasn’t ready for all that. “I’m not certain, but the link between Pollock and your father as well as Lord Nicolas is irrefutable. The lead we’ve been looking for.”

“What are you thinking?”

“First, we need to attempt to match the next names with their poison on the list. Then, I’m afraid it’s time to visit the good doctor’s abandoned practice.”

Cal picked up Lord Nicolas’ medical file from the bed. “If he was killed via belladonna, which emaciates the appetite, and then the mind?—”

He set it back down and strode to the table again, finger running down their crumpled list of names and poisons. Seleste was frowning at him when he looked up. “What is it?”

“Cal, this only leaves the Duke of Rochbury before the Prince himself.”

“That’s right. We need to set someone in place to protect him, without alerting him to what’s going on.” Cal snatched his coat and was moving toward the door, but Seleste caught his arm.

“Cal. If the duke perishes…” She swallowed hard. “The king’s son is a sickly boy.”

His brows knit in the middle. “Yes, he was born sickly, but I don’t see what that has to do with?—”

She watched as realisation hit him square in the stomach like a battering ram, his face draining of all colour. When he looked at her again, his eyes were glassy.

“Why is this happening?” he whispered. “Why wasn’t I on that list?”

He sank onto the bed, jacket crumpled in his lap, and she rushed to sit next to him, taking his hand. “I don’t know. I fear those involved are not good people. But you are.” She pushed him gently with her shoulder.

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