Page 110 of Starchaser
The corner of Orella’s lip kicks up, a familiar smirk that reminds me of Margaret. “Wecome from a long line of Sorcerers and Sorceresses.” Her mouth twists, a sad expression that clashes with her lovely, cheerful face. “If it weren’t for your father’s magic, you might not have survived the initial fever.”
“My—” I trip over the hem of my white gown and stumble a few steps before Charlie grabs my arm.
I try to grasp at a splintered, fever-drenched memory of a red skeletal mask and a man’s voice telling me I’m safe, but I can’t seem to grab hold of it.
My mouth works, struggling to form words, when a muffled voice at the end of the bridge gives me pause.
Laughter, full and rich, sends my mind into a whirl.
And then I’m racing toward the sound of his voice. I don’t slow down, not even as I throw myself at the double doors, stumbling into the warm, sunlit parlor, my vision blurring as I attempt to survey the room and its inhabitants.
I thought I imagined him—thought the vision of him dressed in the scarlet garb of Captain Shade was a result of my injuries, but…
“Father?” I cover my mouth to hold back a sob as he enfolds me in his arms. I inhale the scent of fresh bread, cinnamon, and vanilla, as if he spent all morning baking in the kitchen, his dark apron dusted with flour. The salty sea brine clings to his loose linen shirt, his skin tanned. He looks nothing like he did the last time I saw him at Bludgrave Manor, the night he drove a blade through his own heart. He looks healthy, and happy, and…
“How?” I draw back, my fists clenched tightly around his shirt, afraid I might let go and this will have all been a dream.
Father smiles, but sadness twists his lips. “I had a little help.”
I catch a glimpse of Killian over Father’s shoulder. He leans against the fireplace mantel, brows pinched as he puffs on a cigar.
“You!” I say, storming past Father. I rip the cigar from Killian’s hand and stomp it underfoot.
“That was a rather fine rug,” Killian remarks dryly, giving me an expectant look—the kind that says,Go on, have at it.
And I do.
“You let me believe he was dead! That we couldn’t recover his body from the fire!”
“Aster.” Mother’s soft voice comes from behind. I whirl to find her sitting on one of the two velvet sofas, her expression pitying. “You mustn’t blame Killian. He was following orders.”
My lip curls. “Yourorders?” I bark a laugh, and in the corner of my eye, Charlie winces. “Of course, I should have known! This is all your doing!”
Mother sits up straighter, but I don’t miss the exhaustion that seems to weigh on her shoulders as she smooths her yellow brocade coat. “Your father was compelled. He would have killed you had he not chosen to sacrifice himself. He trusted that Killian might be able to save his life, and hedid.”
I shake my head, staring at Father—at the scar peeking out from his half-buttoned shirt where the blade pierced his chest. “I watched you die.”
“Yes,” Killian says, his voice gentle. “His heart had to stop for the compulsion to break. As soon as I could, I used my magic to repair the organ. The moment you were gone, I knew I had to get Philip out of there.” He takes another cigar from his jacket pocket, lights it. “Luckily,” Killian goes on, cutting his eyes to the right side of the room, “I have some friends who are rather adept at staying hidden.”
I was too distracted—my focus solely on Father when I entered the parlor—but now I see the cervitaur I met the night I joined the Order of Hildegarde, her long mossy-green hair shimmering in the sunlight. She smiles at me, bowing deeply, and to her left, the dwarf—Grendwin, I think—follows suit. To Elatha’s right, thebespectacled badger, Tollith, gives me a shy wave, and Bronmir, the faun, dips his head respectfully.
“They hid Philip until you disembarked theStarchaserand he was able to come aboard,” Killian says. “I stayed close by, keeping an eye on things at home through Liv.”
As if summoned, Liv pokes her head out of Killian’s pocket and blows me a kiss, her musical laughter like the tinkling of the tiniest, clearest bells. I think about what Killian said on Holy Winter’s Eve—about hissources—and I realize the pixie must have been spying on me longer than I even suspected. I quirk a brow at her, and she sinks back into her hiding place.
“Why keep it a secret?” I ask, turning to look at Father—wanting to hear it from him. “And why were you dressed as Captain Shade?”
The air shifts, and Grendwin clears his throat.
“Your Majesties,” he says. “I’ll take my leave.”
Majesties?
“You’re quite all right, Grendwin.” Father chuckles, and I catch the way he glances at Mother, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his lips, before he looks at me once more, his expression somber. He lifts the medallion from my neck, running his fingers over the skull and crossed daggers. “My mother gave this to me when I was just a boy. She used to tell me stories from a time before the Fall—stories of a legendary hero known as Malachi Shade.” He pauses, his brow furrowed. “I created the identity of Captain Shade as a means of spying for the Order just after Owen was born. When I met Titus, I passed the mantel on to him, along with Hildegarde’s maps of Castle Grim. Taught him the magic needed to access her many hideaways. He’s been acting as Captain Shade ever since.”
The room spins, and I stumble backward a step.
“We never meant to hide the truth from you forever,” Father says, taking me by the hand and guiding me to the sofa, where I sit between him and Mother, my skin itchy and hot and altogether uncomfortable. “We only hoped that when the time came, you might be able to understand the choices we made to protect you and your brothers and sisters.”
