Page 99 of Summer of Sacrifice

Cal looked around, watching his sisters in the garden, who were oblivious to him and Seleste, and taking note of the rest of the grounds. When he turned back to her, he reached out and took one of her hands, gently squeezing it before he dropped it again. “Will I see you tonight?”

She couldn’t bear to avoid him any longer. Every excuse not to see him twisted her gut. Every night away from him was almost physically painful.

“Yes.” She smiled and his face lit up like the sun.

“I have something special planned.” He started to lean in and kiss her, but realised his error, thinking better of it and backing away, his eyes still on her lips.

“Keep thinking what you’re thinking,” Seleste teased as he turned to walk away, earning her a salacious grin sent over his shoulder.

Seleste pressed her palm against her churning stomach. He seemed fine. Better than fine. Perhaps the Grimoire merely wanted to solidify something within the future Earl of Bellvary. They were moulding History with their Orders, after all.

The evidence in front of her was Cal—perfectly healthy and amazing. Logic would suggest that she not let anxiety take any more ground.

Seleste reached into the bodice of her gown and took out the tourmaline crystal she’d stashed there. Thinking of Aggie, she wished she could visit her Sister Autumn. Alas, all she could do was let the crystal infuse her with its peace.

A scream echoed across the grounds. Seleste was running before she even registered what she was doing. Both girls were screeching, arms above their heads as they ducked and swatted to avoid a raven. The bird dove and pecked at them, grabbing bits of their blonde hair and pulling. Seleste instantly recognised the overfed, insolent courier raven.

She slid to a stop next to the girls and smacked once at the bird to get its attention. It bobbed in the air, flapping its wings and squawking at Seleste.

“Go to the house!” she instructed the girls, swatting the raven repeatedly, herding it as she marched toward the treeline.

“Festus!” she seethed at her Sister Spring’s raven when they were under the cover of the woods. “What in Hades are you doing?”

He offered her a stubborn squawk and sat on a branch near her eye level, feathers ruffled. He shook one of his legs until a tiny scroll descended, tied to him.

Still fuming, Seleste snatched it from him. “Get out of here.” Festus was all too willing to obey, flapping off into the treetops.

Suddenly nervous about what her Sister had to say, Seleste unfurled the scroll.

Dearest S,

Apologies for sending this prat. Olivier was with Aggie.

I know you’ll ask—Aggie is fine. Well, fine might be the incorrect word. She’s…sullen. Her Orders last Autumn were rough on her. I finally got her to confess what happened. She’d slit my throat if she knew I’d told you, but she was sent to set fire to a monastery in Lyronia. Then, she was Ordered to poison the food supply of the Prilemian Army.

Seleste could almost see Sorscha shaking her head in dismay at Aggie’s misfortune, just as she was. Gods, their little Sister had suffered so much, Hespa calling on her equal darkness and light.

As for Winnie, I have not heard from that old hag, either. But that’s no sweat off my back, as you well know.

It took me some time to decide what to tell you about the potion and spell you sent word of. Where did you find something like this? It’s a peculiar mix of light and dark magic—archaic in ways that I can’t exactly explain because I can’t put my finger on it. There are a thousand different uses it could be for. My suggestion is to scry and see what you can glean from that.

My greater suggestion is to not cast this spell, and certainly don’t give that potion to anyone.

Bisous,

S

Seleste was going to be sick.

She bent double, vomiting into a cluster of ferns, then dabbed at her mouth with the hem of her dress, composing herself.

“Brûler.”

The letter from Seleste caught fire until it was burnt to ash that lifted off into the trees as Festus had. With that, she pushed her shoulders back and strode to her room within Whitehall.

The girls would be at teatime with their mother, and Seleste was late. She was to be dusting and sweeping for Frances as the maid prepared two guest rooms for the Townsends.

Instead of completing her duties, however, Seleste hid in her room, between the bed and the far wall, crouched on the floor with a bowl of water. Scrying was a delicate process, but she needed to hurry. With the guests arriving in a few days, Frances had been moved into her room, and she could come in at any moment.

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