Page 32 of Summer of Sacrifice

Sorscha gasped. “Are you being serious?” He nodded reluctantly, and she squealed, launching forward to smack him on the chest. “That is an amazing idea! I don’t have the fashion skills of Aggie by any means, and I couldn’t sew to save my godsdamned life, but?—”

She let out another gasp, and Asa barely suppressed a smile. “Maybe Tindle—Aggie’s dressmaker, the one on her council—maybe he could send some sketches!” She stood with a bounce. “This is brilliant! I have to tell Aggie right now.” A thought struck, and her excitement was replaced with confusion as she looked around. “Wait. Where is everyone? Weren’t we meeting for supper?”

“Wendolyn claimed she had to return to the Druids, didn’t she?” Asa said around a bite of chicken. “She took that wooden mechanism we found in the catacombs. I assume Grimm is doing what any man in his right mind would be doing after a lengthy separation from his wife.” He ripped another bite of chicken off the bone like a savage, speaking around the mouthful, “No idea about the rest of them.”

Just then, Seleste glided in, all smiles. “Apologies for my tardiness. This spread looks delicious.”

Sorscha sat back down, watching her Sister Summer for any signs of her earlier strangeness, but found none. Whatever had bothered her, she must have brushed it off.

“I saw Arielle and Gaius as I was coming in. It appears they stopped off to speak to your sister, Asa.”

Sorscha began serving a plate for Seleste. “They do good work here, the two of them.”

That sunny, loving smile of Seleste’s left a warmth in Sorscha’s chest, only deepened by the words that followed it. “From what I can tell, you do as well, Sister.”

Sorscha snorted at Seleste’s attempt to make up for their earlier argument.

“She does,” Asa confirmed, surprising her.

“Sorry we’re late.” They turned to find Aggie, flushed and glowing, and Grimm standing there. “Winnie already left again,” she said as they sat. “Unfortunately, we need to eat and run as well.”

“I’ve returned.” Winnie materialised next to Aggie on the bench, no small amount of mages with weakened magic taking notice with presumed envy. “Just for a moment.” She handed Seleste a rolled parchment. “Laurent knew several of the symbols and jotted their meanings down for you. He wanted to hold onto the apparatus for now. There were a few he still wanted to look at.”

Seleste took the scroll with barely-disguised glee. Lifting her goblet, she said, “We all have important matters to tend to. But first, a toast. To reuniting the Four Factions of The Order.”

They all raised their goblets, and Sorscha snorted. “By accident.”

“By design,” Agatha corrected.

But Seleste’s smile had faltered. Sorscha followed her line of sight to see Grimm wincing at Aggie’s words just before their goblets clinked together.

Seleste, Then

SELESTE

Rain gently pattered against a window in the drawing room. Ordinarily, sun and sand were preferable to Seleste, though she didn’t particularly mind a Summer shower on her isle. The way the droplets cascaded down the palm leaves or filled the waterfall to overflowing was soothing. She could almost feel the sun breaking through the clouds on Isle Tiamat, the mist floating up from the falls’ lagoon. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, conjuring the faintest scent of coconuts and hibiscus, sea salt and sand.

Alas, the acrid scents of her oil lamp and damp dusting cloth overpowered it. She opened her eyes, taking one last look at the showers beyond the window before she must return to her cleaning. The fog obscured the rolling green hills from view, its depths so opaque that she couldn’t help but be reminded of Aggie again. Sister Autumn had arrived at the Summer Solstice with her eyes nearly vacant. They’d been that way since she’d returned on the previous Winter Solstice to hand the Grimoire to Winnie. Aggie hadn’t told any of them what happened—what her Orders were—past one mumbled word: monastery. She’d not returned correspondence since that Autumn and had not uttered a word to any of them at the Spring Equinox, either.

That one word had been enough for Seleste, though. Following the Winter Solstice, she returned to her isle and scoured every newspaper. She had nearly every paper on the continent delivered to her Seagovian post box. Magically, she retrieved them multiple times a day from her hut—save for The Spectre, the circular amongst witches and magical folk that was delivered daily to her hut’s woven doormat via its enchantment.

Seven papers and forty-one articles later, she’d found it.

Arson! Monastery in Litur set ablaze!

Arsonist at large.

Seleste peered out the window, determined to write to her little Sister again before crawling into bed at the end of the day. Surely, the earl and his family had correspondence leaving Whitehall at some point, and she could slip her letter in. The Sisters were not strictly supposed to have any contact at all. Sorscha and Aggie openly defied this on numerous occasions by sending courier ravens to one another. Seleste only did so when something was urgent. It was unlikely Aggie would reply at all. She hadn’t to the last two letters. Therefore, this letter would not constitute as raven-worthy. Mind made up, Seleste nodded resolutely to the rain-slicked window and turned to resume her cleaning.

Perfect timing. She smiled to herself as she moved to dust a lamp. The young Lord Bardot was headed toward the drawing room. He always came in the mornings before his sisters had risen. That was unless he’d taken a longer ride through the grounds. With the rain, he would have been shuttered indoors and missed his morning ride. His schedule aside, Seleste knew his gait like all the others in the family.

The young Ladies Bardot ran everywhere unless accompanied by their au pair. Lady Della had a nearly imperceptible swish to her walk, due mostly to her prim upbringing, only outweighed by the voluminous fashion she kept herself in. The earl, however, was still quite ill and had not left his room in several days. In his limited wanderings, she’d learned his gait was easy. The bearing of a man who’d never struggled a day in his life, save for his current illness.

Seleste had memorised the other household gaits as well. Leonard with one leg that dragged ever so slightly, Becky with her swift tattoo along the floorboards, Frances with her quick, quiet steps…

The young lord of the house, though—his steps were sharp, purposeful, and never quiet. He had no reason to go unheard or tamp down his dignity. Despite him effectively sneaking up on her twice, it had not happened since she’d made a point to learn his movements. He was her target, after all. That was if he was the future earl and not his father. Though, since Lord Bardot—if that did turn out to be the family name they’d been hiding—had fallen ill and mostly been sequestered to his room, Seleste couldn’t see that the Grimoire would Order her to befriend him. That led her to deduce he was the Earl of Bellvary, and his son, Lord Bardot the younger, was her quarry.

Today, Lord Bardot had a bit more of an edge to his gait than usual as he headed down the corridor toward the drawing room. He turned the corner into the room with a scowl on his face and his hair damp. Seleste was momentarily struck by how handsome he was despite his glower. Alas, her decision, made the afternoon the Grimoire instructed her to befriend him, had been not to give any credence to such thoughts.

---