Page 101 of Lady of the Lake

He knows.Wrythe knows.

And now Raphael will know, too.

My secret, the one I was guarding so closely from everyone here, is about to explode.

Wrythe shifts a bit closer to me, making sure that I see his blade. The message is clear: if I speak, he’ll kill me. I give my mom a pleading look, one I’ve given her many times before, a look that says,Mom, please don’t.Don’t make a spectacle. For once in your life, just be a mom.

She looks around and catches my eyes, and I see something there, a connection. She knows I want her to remain silent. I know she can hear the whistling wheeze as I breathe.

But then her gaze shifts, and of course, she’s lured by something she could never ignore. An attentive crowd.

“Well,” she says, her smile growing, “I told young Tarquin that I really love the chandeliers here, they make this place so majestic. And the banister, of course, it’s positively?—”

“I meant about the painting,” Tarquin interjects, his voice sharp and loud.

“Oh.” My mother laughs, turns around, and stares up at the painting above us all. The same painting I saw the very first day I came to this place.

It’s the towering Fey king dressed in black, driving his sword through a naked woman’s body, a pile of human corpses at his feet. His lips are curled in a twisted smile.

Mordred, my father.

“It’s really silly.” Mom says. “I just told young Tarquin that this man in the painting looks exactly like a man I met in Cornwall long ago. Now that Fey man was quite lovely, really. Not dangerous like the man in the painting, but I thought the similarity was uncanny.”

“And how many years ago, would you say?” Tarquin prods.

“Mom,” I try, “don’t?—”

The knife prods at my back.

“A long time, young man. I doubt you were even born. Maybe twenty-five…no, twenty-seven years.”

Silence stretches across the crowd.

My mom, energized by the shocked gazes that her words created, says, “It’s strange, really. He looksexactlythe same. Such an incredible coincidence.”

“So, what?” Raphael says. “She met a man who looks like Mordred. What the fuck does that have to do with anything? He died in the Avalon War.”

“Really?” Wrythe says. “As I’ve told you all before, we’ve recently found a magical moth in Merlin’s Tower. As many of you know, moths were the spies of Morgan and her son, Mordred. And now, we found this on Nia Melisande.”

He raises his hand high to show the moth to everyone.

“And you lie constantly,” Raphael shouts. “You could have planted that on her.”

“Let’s ask Nia herself,” Wrythe says, still jabbing me in the back with his blade. “Tell me girl, is this moth yours?”

As I open my mouth to answer, I feel a twinge of pain on my palm. The scar of the Hemlock Oath. I can’t tellanyonethe truth, or the oath will kick into effect. A fate worse than death by a dagger.

Somehow, Wrythe has figured this out. He must have seen the scar on my hand, and like Tana, recognized it for what it is—an ancient binding ritual. He connected the dots.

“Well?” Wrythe asks again. “This moth? Are you going to tell us anything about it? Or shall we take your silence as confirmation of what I said? You have made a pact with Mordred, your father. Yes?”

I gnash my teeth in frustration.

“I will take that as confirmation, then,” Wrythe declares, triumphant.

“There’s a secret room in Merlin’s Tower,” I quickly say. “And the Pendragons have developed?—”

“We’re not talking about your tales of conspiracy!” Wrythe’s voice drowns me out. “Do you deny coming here to plant this moth?”

---