Page 120 of Summer of Sacrifice

“Not quite. None of us in the society go by our given names, not since the founders, but even those names are kept quiet. On the list, though, there were words in an ancient tongue next to each name. That I translated to be?—”

“Poisons.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you have the list?” She couldn’t help it. Her heart was beating wildly, anticipation making her fingers twitch. Her most interesting case to date.

“I do.”

He handed her a folded parchment that he pulled from his pocket and she rushed to the bed, Cal following to sit on the opposite side of its corner.

Seleste spread the parchment out on the bed between them, acutely aware that they should still be at the table. “Do you think these are members of the society or those sent to do the dirty work?”

Cal rubbed a hand up and down his thigh nervously, and she debated moving across the room again as she realised his nerves concerning her weren’t only for his worry over how she’d react to his society membership. He was nervous to be near her alone now. And that fear was shared by her as well.

He cleared his throat. “I’m not certain yet. There is a record somewhere of those in the society, past and present, but not their true names, save for the founders as I said.”

“Do you have reason to believe your father was ever part of the society?”

Cal frowned, pensive, then shook his head. “I don’t believe that is the case. Not with his hatred of my studies.”

“There is a chance this is just a list of names and the poison they intend to study.”

“Perhaps, but look here.” His fingers brushed hers as he pointed to the list, memories of the previous Summer washing over her, heady. “This is translated to aconite. It causes vomiting, breathing problems, and heart failure. Exactly how the next death, the marquess’ son appeared: Myocardial infarction.” He pointed to the next word she’d already translated in her head. “Cyanide. The Marquess died a moon later, diagnosed with a fatal seizure caused by the shock of his son’s death.”

Seleste’s brows knit together. “Cal,” she said slowly, “I will not pretend to be familiar with the peerage of Seagovia by name, but I do know its order.” She watched as he swallowed. “You think the other names on this list will translate to those in direct line for the throne, don’t you?”

He nodded solemnly. “You can see now why this warranted stalking you and begging you to help. I think the next two on the list will be targeted with thallium and strychnine, but I can’t be certain, as they’re in no real order.”

Seleste watched him for a long moment, dread curdling in her stomach. Something deep gnawed at her, but she couldn’t bring herself to voice what she was thinking. Not yet.

But she was terrified.

Seleste, Then

ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS AGO

“Seleste,” Cal murmured without looking up from his notes.

She shook away the salacious thoughts that had slipped into her mind as they worked when she paused to watch him.

He looked up, a wry smile on his face. “You have to stop looking at me like that if you want me to remain honourable.”

Frowning at him, Seleste adjusted the collar of her dress, abominably tight against her throat. She hated the fashion of Merveille. “Perhaps we should invite your betrothed into our shenanigans as chaperone.” The moment the icy words left her mouth, she regretted them. But to her surprise, Cal chuckled.

“Catherine would sit over there”—he pointed the end of his quill at a lone chair in the corner of their room in a nondescript inn—“and cheer us on.”

“I highly doubt that,” Seleste argued. “What sort of woman desires to be in a love triangle? They’re despicable.” Gods, she sounded like an adolescent witchling. Love triangle? It made her want to vomit.

“She’d agree with you there as well.” He set his quill down and folded his hands. “You forget that neither one of us agreed to this marriage. And while there might be three hearts involved in this scenario, there is love between only two, and neither of those involves Catherine.” Head tipping to one side, he mocked a frown. “Technically, four hearts,” he amended. “Catherine knows all about you, and I know all about her Yvette.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed.”

“I stand by my principles, regardless. Unless the betrothal is retracted, I will stick to my fantasies.”

To her chagrin, he smiled again. “And I’ll stand by your principles, so long as you keep those fantasies off your face whilst looking at me.”

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