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GRAY SEAS
HAILEY EDWARDS
Copyright © 2023 Black Dog Books, LLC

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination
or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Edited by Sasha Knight

Copy Edited by Kimberly Cannon
Proofread by Lillie's Literary Services
Cover by Damonza
Illustration by NextJenCo
 C O NT E NT S

Gray Seas

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
23. Epilogue

Join the Team

About the Author
Also by Hailey Edwards
 G R AY S E A S

Black Hat Bureau, Book 8

After the challenge for the throne of Hael went sideways, Rue expected Stavros to place a bounty on
Asa’s head, but she didn’t expect him to pin an even bigger target on her back. Then again, it was her
fault he was forced to turn tail and run from the fight during a live broadcast to the entire kingdom.
That had to sting his pride. Life would have been so much simpler if only he had been incinerated by
her magic along with the rest of the arena.

But simple is one thing Rue’s life has never been. And things keep getting more complicated when
a stalker turns to murder, carving messages into the bodies of his victims. With a killer on her trail,
she ought to be focused on staying alive, but a hot tip on another case leads her into the bowels of the
Black Hat compound, where Rue discovers a world of secrets and lies that just might bring the
Bureau crashing to its knees.
 C HAPTER ONE

T he dainty clip-clop-clip of delicate hooves on stone was enough to make me twitch at each
blasted little step the cervitaur made in my direction. The director assigning me an assistant
who was sleek deer from the waist down still galled me. The Silver Stag case was the turning point
in my life, marking the moment I woke up and realized I had been living a nightmare. And he had
chosen to taunt me with it.
“Muffin?”
Arms folded across my chest, I stared at the ornate door in front of me and grunted in Inga’s
direction.
“They’re wheatgrass and coconut.” She swallowed loudly. “I—I made them myself.”
The director, for all his come back to work or else threats, was hiding from me.
Right.
Behind.
This.
Door.
A smile crept up on me at the confirmation he was afraid. Of little ol’ me. But it wilted at the
proof he no longer had any intention of even pretending to trust me in his immediate vicinity. Hence
the locked door with a nasty ward keyed to me and only me, which I had been poking at for the last
hour out of spite.
Odds were good he felt a teeny jolt each time I disrupted the spell. Nothing painful, sadly, just
annoying. Akin to poking him in the side for attention each time he relaxed, ruining all hope of him
focusing on his work.
You waste my time, I waste yours.
That was my mantra for the day.
“I can take a bite first,” Inga tried again, “if you’re worried I poisoned them.”
As she hovered around me like a carpenter bee dive-bombing anyone who trespassed on their
territory, I got a bitter taste of my own annoying medicine.
“Until you mentioned it,” I murmured, lining up my next jab, “the thought hadn’t occurred to me.”
“Oh.”
“Why does it matter if I eat your muffins?”
A snicker-snort told me a certain golem with the maturity of a twelve-year-old boy had overheard
me.
 “I m-made a b-bad impression.” Her voice grew higher, tighter. “I want t-to make amends.”
The urge to bang my forehead against the door in front of me was strong, but I resisted to avoid
another zap from the repellent magic coating it and pivoted to face her.
“I’m in fascination with Agent Montenegro, which I’m sure you know now even if you didn’t last
time we met.” I suppressed a growl at the memory of her flicking her cutesy tail at Asa. “I advise you
to keep your hands, hooves, and horns to yourself if you want to keep them.”
“I r-requested th-the week I was in h-heat off work.” Her stammers grew worse the longer our
gazes held. “I-it was d-denied.” Her fingers tightened on the greenish muffin in her hands until she
crushed the base and the top plopped onto the floor. “I-I m-meant n-no o-offense.”
Once upon a time, I would have relished terrifying Inga into a quivering mess of prey instincts.
Say, while she was swishing her hips at Asa the last time I was in my office. But her fear didn’t thrill
me. Neither did the news she had tried to avoid the inevitable come-hither routine with Asa and been
denied all hope of maintaining an amicable working relationship with me. Probably by the director.
As yet another taunt.
Grr.
“You’re not in any trouble.” I pried the crushed muffin from her trembling hand. “We’re good,
okay?”
To punish her after that hard-won confession would be as satisfying as kicking a puppy.
“Yes, ma’am.” She bent her front legs, sweeping into a bow, allowing her to clean up the crummy
mess. “Thank you.”
As a token of good faith, I bit into what remained of the muffin and gulped fast. “These are great.”
Tasty as fresh-cut grass arranged in a cupcake liner and then iced with sunscreen.
“Mr. Kerr said you prefer h-homemade treats.” Her lips almost curved before flatlining with no
hope of a resuscitation. “They’re vegan. I hope that’s o-okay.”
“I love all muffins equally,” I lied, relieved when her eyes lost their deer-in-the-headlights
quality.
“Oh good.” Her knees, all four of them, knocked with the instinct to flee. “Do you need anything
else?”
“No.” I waved her off and faced the door once more. “You can return to your desk.”
Clip-clop-clip. Clip-clop-clip. Clip-clop-clip.
How long was that hall anyway?
Clip-clop-clip. Clip-clop-clip. Clip-clop-clip.
“You’re cute when you growl.” A heavy arm draped across my collarbones, almost buckling my
knees with its unexpected weight, and Clay rested his chin on top of my head. “Like a kitten with its
back up.”
“Don’t make me hurt you.”
“Oh, like when you dropped off the face of the earth for ten years? That kind of hurt?”
“You’ll never let that go, will you?”
“Ask me again in ten years.”
“Ha.” I studied the whisper of magic responding to my proximity. “As if I would remind you.”
“You were very nice to Inga just now.” He shook me gently. “I’m proud.”
“Take it back.” I glanced up and got a lovely view of his nose hairs. “I’m evil. Horrible. Cruel.”
And I was stumped as to why he had paid good money for hair implants there of all places.
“You ate a wheatgrass and coconut apology muffin. A vegan muffin.” His scoff warmed my face.
“What horrors will you unleash upon the unsuspecting world next?”
 “Just because I can’t think of one—” I shrugged him off, “—doesn’t mean I don’t have ulterior
motives.”
“Mmm-hmm.” He slid in front of me. “How long are you going to stand outside this door?”
The magic read his identity and dissipated, which meant he could knock and get himself invited
in.
Not that he would ever venture into the study unless under a direct order for fear of his master
slapping more restrictions on him. Or, more likely, grilling him until poor Clay spilled every secret of
mine he held.
“You’re on guard duty.” I poked his shoulder. “You would be standing outside a door all day
anyway.”
“I’m bored.” His bottom lip thrust out in a perfect pout. “Let’s break for lunch early.”
“Fiiine.” I let him hook his arm through mine and drag me away. “You’re such a crybaby.”
“Slap a diaper on me and stick a binky in my mouth. I don’t care as long as it gets me to food
sooner.”
“Let’s discuss your kinks after I’ve eaten.” I tapped my chin. “Or never. Never is good. Actually,
it’s great. I’ll pencil you in right after the apocalypse.”
“Works for me. I’ve always wanted to meet the four horsemen’s ponies. I bet they’re adorable.”
“You’re not adopting a harbinger of doom as a pet.”
Now that he was a homeowner and lived on a farm, his new hobby was adopting anything that
couldn’t outrun him.
“Harsh.” He hauled me out of the compound into the sun. “Harbingers of doom need love too.”
A weight lifted off my shoulders as I filled my lungs with fresh air. Even the distant crash of ocean
waves pummeling the cliffside beneath the stark mansion where I spent the bulk of my childhood
failed to cast my mind back to those dark days. Maybe because I had Dad now. Mom too. Sort of.
During the stroll to our SUV, Clay and I bickered over the best butter substitute for vegan baking.
Vegetable shortening was his pick, but I sided with margarine based on its artificial flavor.
We piled in our ride, I drove out the front gate, and we rolled into town where I pulled into a gas
station.
With a grunt, Clay exited the vehicle, and I did too. Then I cast a spell to fry any tracking devices
or other fun equipment that might have gotten attached to the SUV while it was idle. A few chunks of
metal hissed as they hit the asphalt under the tires, and I turned my attention to a secondary sweep for
spells.
The precautions were tedious but necessary to protect our privacy.
Hence the debate on butter substitutes rather than anything sensitive, like our lunch plans.
“Done yet?” Clay slurped behind me before pumping a straw that screamed in my ear. “I’m
starving.”
“Almost.” I turned to find him shoveling gas station nachos, heavy on the jalapenos, into his mouth
between gulps of an electric-blue slushy. “Why are you like this?”
“Handsome? Charming? Intelligent?” He thrust a loaded chip in my mouth that incinerated my
tongue on contact. “Be more specific.”
Forget the peppers. The cheese sauce was molten-magma hot. As my tastebuds died screaming, I
considered waiting until he got in the SUV then smudging his shem so he missed out on gulab jamun.
The fried dough balls soaked in sweet rosewater syrup were a favorite of his.
“Drink?” He tilted his cup toward me when I started fanning my face. “It’s blue raspberry.”
Since my mouth was on fire, I did take a sip. Then I stole the whole cup and flung it in a nearby
trash can.
“Hey,” he squawked, pointing a cheesy finger at the garbage. “That was half full.”
“That just means it was half empty.”
“Look here, pessimist, that jolt of sugar was all that stood between me and oral incineration.”
“How did you even get food that fast?”
“It’s not fast food. It’s junk food. They are not the same thing.”
“To prove I’m a good friend—”
“You’ll buy me another slushy?”
While his eyes shone with hope, I snatched his nachos and trashed those too.
“—I’ll save you from yourself.” I dusted my hands. “No nuclear cheese, no need for a slushy.”
“You were right.” He faked wiping a tear. “About what you said before.” He sniffled. “You are
evil.”
“I’ll make it up to you.” I patted him on the shoulder. “Promise.”
Once I climbed behind the wheel and strapped in, he slid in the back and made sad puppy eyes at
me in the rearview mirror until I rolled up to Glory of India. I had my pick of parking spots in the
empty lot, which was nice. This place was usually packed to the gills during the lunch rush.
There were definite benefits to booking an entire restaurant for a private meeting.
Happiness too large to fit in my body exploded in tingles across my skin when Asa rose from a
low bench beside the small koi pond, a remnant of the days this was a Chinese restaurant. I was out of
the SUV and running before Clay got his door open. Asa and I met in the middle, he dug his fingers
into my hips, and he lifted me until my feet dangled above the pavement.
“Four hours.” Clay spread his arms. “It’s only been four hours.”
Asa, proving I was a bad influence on him, spun me around like we were a couple reunited in a
romcom. I cackled like the witch I was, tucking my face in the crook of his neck and filling my lungs
with his scent.
“I missed you,” I whispered in his ear, and he growled in response, sending shivers down my
spine.
“Knock it off.” Clay bumped his shoulder into us on his way past. “You’re embarrassing
yourselves.”
The jostle slid Asa’s unbound hair over his shoulder, and a white bolt shot past me.
“Clay.” Colby lit on his head and nestled into his wig, giving his scalp a six-point hug. “You’re
here.”
His eyes softened to marshmallow fluff, and he reached up to collect her. “Hey, Shorty.”
Opening his jacket with one hand, he held out the magically insulated inner pocket while she dove
in.
About to gleefully point out I wasn’t the only one suffering from separation anxiety, I got
distracted by a woman mashing her face to the window by her table. She buffed the glass with her
forearm, puffed hot breath on it, and then wrote hey bestie in the resulting fog with a fingertip.
“That’s who you traded me in for?” Clay muttered out of the side of his mouth. “Seriously?”
“You traded me in first,” I reminded him. “Colby is your bestie now, remember?”
“I stand by that upgrade.” He passed Colby her custom headset and phone. “Can you say the
same?”
Sure, Marita had stuffed a straw up each nostril by the time I glanced back at her. And yeah, she
was blowing bubbles in her drink that way, but she was also grinning from ear to ear. Because she
saw me.
 Me.
I had an actual friend. One I made all by myself. One who…was lifting her tee to show us her
pink bra?
“Is she flashing for beads?” Clay tilted his head. “She knows we’re not in New Orleans anymore,
right?”
“Why are you looking?” I smacked him upside the head. “She’s a married woman.”
“Her undershirt.” He ducked my second swing and raised his arms over his head. “There’s
something written on it.”
Sure enough, Marita had figured out she was putting on a show and began wrestling with her
undershirt where it stuck to her tee. Our pictures, hers and mine, were printed on the front. Beneath
our disembodied heads was written Besties for the Resties.
“She’s just buttering you up so you’ll take her monster hunting.”
“Jealous?” I tweaked his side. “Green isn’t your color.”
“Lies,” he hissed. “All colors are my colors.”
Before Marita escalated again, I made a beeline for the door and then the reserved table. “Hey.”
“Don’t hey me.” She smacked into me with the force of a linebacker. “Hug me.”
With her pinning my arms flush against my sides, the highest I could reach with my fingers was her
hips, which didn’t make our embrace awkward at all.
“I can see we have work to do.” She reared back to frown down at me. “Practice makes perfect.”
“I don’t need—”
“Prepare for Stealth Hug Protocol.” She wiggled her fingers at me. “Love could happen at any
moment.”
Beside me, Clay mouthed Stealth Hug Protocol with the joy of a child experiencing his first
Christmas.
“Um.” I scooted closer to Asa, escaping her immediate grab range. “Okay?”
“Marita.” Clay chose the seat next to the one she had vacated to greet us. “Always a pleasure.”
The lack of pleasantries between Asa and Marita told me they had chatted while waiting on us to
arrive.
“Back at you.” Her gaze dipped to his pocket as she reclaimed her spot. “Lunch for five?”
“Just four.” He winked to confirm Colby was present. “We can begin whenever Rue is ready.”
Marita smacked her palm on the seat next to her, which put me very close to a person armed with
hugs. Asa, who must not have read my panic, sat on my right, leaving the chair between them my only
option.
Once everyone was seated, I cast a privacy spell to allow us to speak freely amongst ourselves.
“First, Marita, I want to thank you for coming.” I sank onto my chair, one cheek hanging over the
edge closest to Asa. “I appreciate your willingness to take time away from your mate and pack to help
us.”
“Derry is a loser.” She rocked her chair onto its back legs. “And he can suck it.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Clay announced to the table. “The famed warg mate bond in action.”
“All’s fair in love and riding sea monsters.” Her smile was all teeth. “That’s how we keep it
spicy.”
Before I heard a detailed accounting of the aforementioned spice, I plunged back into my briefing.
“There’s been no word from Aedan or movement from Calixta.” I wiped my sweaty palms on my
pants. “We don’t know where they’re holed up, with whom, or when they plan to strike. Meanwhile,
as of this morning, Stavros is alive and well in Hael.” I sprouted claws from my fingertips, pricking
neat holes in my slacks. “That means Asa remains a prime target.”
A heavy silence blanketed the table, and Clay honed his gaze on me.
There was a very good reason Asa hadn’t come to work with me as the other half of my security
detail.
Blay was MIA, and he had been since Asa wrested control to allow the farm’s doctor to save
their lives.
There was lingering tenderness in his gut that worried me too, and exhaustion dogged his
footsteps.
Days ago, I reminded myself. He almost died days ago.
Time, and daily healing sessions with Colby, aka Mystical Med Mage, would cure the rest.
Colby, who had absorbed the news of Aedan’s sacrifice the same way she adapted to her new life
with me. She ignored everything that came before. Not a healthy coping mechanism by far, but I hoped
to get him back before she did any real damage to herself. I didn’t know what else to do. For either of
us.
“That’s why Marita is here.” I forced myself to breathe. “I couldn’t think of a fiercer guard for
Asa.”
“Aww.” She made a heart with her fingers and pounded it against her chest. “You do love me.”
A flicker of annoyance pinched Clay’s features before he smoothed them, but I could have told
him no one would ever take his place in my heart. Could have but didn’t. Because payback ought to
be savored.
“Might I ask,” Asa inquired, linking our fingers, “why the centuria wasn’t tapped for this job?”
“You may.” I allowed his touch to ground me. “I want a guard who doesn’t think like a daemon.”
“Isn’t that counterintuitive,” Clay cut in, “when we expect daemon retaliation?”
“Asa can provide Marita with the daemon perspective,” I explained my reasoning. “Based on his
suggestions, and her prior experience in this field, she will tailor her precautions to give him the
widest coverage possible.”
“That frees Moran up to stay at the farm,” Asa observed, “to watch over Mother and Peleg.”
“Oh, does it?” I pushed my eyebrows up my forehead. “That’s a happy coincidence.”
Asa made a soft noise in the back of his throat that telegraphed his disbelief.
Until Callula recovered enough for portal travel, in another day or two, she was a guest in our
infirmary. The hope was, when we returned her to the temple, that Asa’s grandmother might have
learned how to sever my link with the Hunk. That had been our bargain, but we had no guarantees of
her success.
Peleg, on the other hand, would be on bedrest for a couple of weeks. He was awake and talking,
but the Hunk had walloped him good while protecting Colby from his rough handling. He required
more time to heal from his injuries before Moran settled him in his own room and read him the Colby
riot act.
If I had my way, Callula and Peleg would have Asa for company. I would leave him behind the
wards with the entire centuria to guard him. But he nixed that idea. Obviously. Or he wouldn’t be
sitting next to me.
The worst part was I couldn’t kick up a fuss since I would pitch a fit if he tried to bubble-wrap
me too.
“All right.” He accepted my plan without complaint. “In that case, thank you for your service,
Marita.”
“Thank me when it’s over,” she countered, “and you’re not dead.”
 Pinching the bridge of my nose, I pretended not to have heard my worst fear blabbed without a
filter.
“Protecting Asa is priority one,” I plowed ahead. “Locating and detaining Luca is priority two.”
As the woman responsible for freeing Dad from his cell beneath the mansion, and the pot-stirrer
behind the recent black witch rebellion within Black Hat, I had decided to kill two birds with one
stone. Gift Luca to the director, and it got her out of our hair. Plus, I hoped it restored me to the
director’s good graces.
Easy access would make it much simpler to kidnap him and trade him to Calixta in exchange for
Aedan.
“Incoming,” Clay said under his breath then louder, “Thanks for closing the restaurant for us,
Krish.”
A quick twist of magic unraveled the spell, and if the smell bothered anyone, no one mentioned it.
“Anything for you, sugar.” A slender man with dark eyes braced a hip against the table. “What’ll it
be?”
“Chili pakora and keema samosa to start, with enough garlic onion naan to build a fort, please.”
Studying Clay over his order pad, Krish chewed on the inside of his cheek. “That for you or
everyone?”
“Ha.” Marita tapped her menu where it rested on the table. “That’s just for the lightweight.”
While Clay spluttered incoherent noises, she ordered half the appetizers and a wide selection of
flatbreads.
If a peckish golem could eat a side of beef in one sitting, a hungry warg could put a dent in the
herd.
“The rest of us—” as in Asa and me, “—will have tandoori keema kulcha.”
Now that Asa and I had progressed in our fascination beyond requiring each other’s saliva to
make food palatable, I was on a mission to discover Asa’s tastes, which was proving to be a
delicious journey.
Once the waiter was out of hearing range, I zeroed in on Clay. “You know each other?”
The restaurant was his suggestion, but he was a fan of Indian food, so I hadn’t given it another
thought.
“Krish and I go way back. He’s a good kid. You don’t see many gandaberunda out this way.”
Gandaberunda were two-headed birds of immense power, but they rarely ventured outside of
Jaipur.
While being friendly with Clay counted for something, I recast the spell to give us a bubble of
privacy.
“How do you intend to lure out Luca?” Asa rolled his thumb over my knuckles. “Use Saint as
bait?”
Luca and Dad’s relationship was rocky. Mostly because he shirked her terms to spend time with
his dead wife’s vengeful spirit. (Yes, my life is a lot right now.) He had every intention of fulfilling
their bargain, by bringing down the director and Black Hat, just not on her timetable.
“Nanette Bakersfield.”
“The technomancer?” Clay rested an elbow on the table, and it tilted toward him. “What about
her?”
As a technomancer, Nan cast spells using technology, resulting in her status as an elite hacker.
The Toussaint coven hired her to erase their involvement in stealing corpses from New Orleans
morgues to feed a sea monster they planned to sacrifice to grant a young witch the power of
resurrection.
Which, yeah, might sound even crazier than the whole vengeful spirit mom thing.
(Did I mention my life is a lot right now?)
“Nan hacked the Kellies to gain access to us, and Colby returned the favor. She’s been tracking
Nan since New Orleans. While there’s no guarantee Luca is nearby, their credit card statements
indicate they often travel together.” I pitied the fool who underestimated my little moth girl. “So,
really, Nan is our target.”
“Find Nan,” Marita hummed with approval, “we find Luca.”
“Coming in hot,” Krish called as he backed through the kitchen door into the dining room.
The poor thing carried three trays balanced up one slender arm and a plate in his opposite hand.
A tug on my magic unraveled the spell, and I pretended not to catch the whiff of rot accompanying
it.
As Krish extended a plate toward Clay, a burst of pale light strobed throughout the dining room.
Asa cupped the back of my head, shoving me down, but the earth-shattering boom that shook the
floor toppled everyone from their chairs. Food spattered my cheek in a fragrant burst of garlic, a
vicious snarl rent the air, and the world went dark and hot and silent.
 C H A P T E R T WO

A persistent whine in my left ear annoyed me enough I pried my eyes open and found myself
staring at a blue sky with fluffy white clouds rather than a drop tile restaurant ceiling. I sucked
in air to comment but couldn’t inflate my lungs. Probably the fault of the hulking crimson daemon
flattening me into a pancake with Marita spread-eagle across his back like a cherry on a sundae. The
metal beam across her shoulders, pinning her in place, didn’t help. Neither did the golem crushing my
right arm under his hip, also stuck in the fetal position beneath debris from…an explosion?
“Blay?” I wiggled my hips, but I couldn’t budge. “Marita?” I tugged on my numb arm, hissing.
“Clay?”
With Colby tucked in Clay’s soundproof pocket, she wouldn’t hear me if I called out to her.
“I…can’t believe…” the rubble shifted above me as Marita stirred, “…I got blown up…on the
first…day.”
“Yeah.” Oxygen whistled through my parted lips. “Sorry about that.”
“Are you…kidding me?” Her laughter was wild and eerie in the silence. “Best first day…ever.”
A low groan vibrated through my bones when Blay roused himself. “Rue?”
“I’m here, big guy.” I stroked his silky hair with my free hand. “Thanks for protecting me.”
Flames engulfed him before he could respond, leaving a battered Asa in his place.
The rubble shifted at his decrease in mass, causing metal to groan before settling again.
“Hey.” I cupped Asa’s dusty cheek. “You two okay?”
“That daemon is a genius.” Marita shimmied up Asa until our eyes met over his head, and she
grinned at me. “Shifting into Asa gave me an extra foot of wiggle room.” She squirmed through the
gap. “Hold on.”
With space to maneuver, she flipped herself over our heads, landing in a crouch with her back to
us.
“Check on Clay first.” I sucked in greedy gulps of oxygen. “Colby’s in his left suit pocket.”
Metal clinked and broken tile crunched under her boots as she dug him out.
“He can’t die, right?” She wiped a hand over her mouth. “His head is dented like a soda can.”
“We can fix that.” I relaxed a fraction. “Any movement?”
“None.” She crouched beside him. “He’s not breathing.”
“His shem must have been smudged.” I could handle that too. “That means he’s inanimate.”
Good thing too, or else he would be screaming at the sky over the incineration of his wig.
The poor thing resembled bad hair plugs across the visible side of his scalp, the hair burnt to
nubs.
“He’s curled pretty tight.” She grew a fingernail into a claw. “I’ll have to cut her out.”
“Be careful,” I rushed out, unable to stop myself.
“I will be,” she promised then gently began slicing through the material. “Moment of truth.”
Careful of the charred fabric, Marita peeled the pocket open like a banana to reveal one shivering
moth.
“Hey, cutie.” Marita scooped her up and inspected her. “You look good. How do you feel?”
“Okay.” Her antennae twitched as she surveyed the damage. “What happened?”
“We’ll figure that out later.” Marita carried her to a clear spot under the open sky. “Sit right here.”
Wobbly on her feet, Colby plunked down on what used to be the hostess stand, kicking up plaster
dust.
“Asa, you’re next.” Marita clomped over and reached for him. “This might hurt.”
“Rue—”
“—is trapped under you and can’t go anywhere until you do.” Her jaw set. “Your safety is my
priority.”
Hooking her hands under his armpits, she gingerly hauled him over me into a clear space on the
floor.
Only when her watch snagged on loose strands of his hair did my sluggish brain register the
danger.
“Marita.” I lurched into a crawl then swayed onto my hands and knees. “Watch out.”
An impressive snarl curling her lips, she scanned the area for threats, frowning when she saw
none.
“Are you sure you don’t have naan in your eye?” She sniffed the air. “I’m not picking up on
anything.”
“You touched Asa’s hair.” I groaned as my ribs protested my movements. “The y’nai…”
“Those hand-chopper-offer things?” Her eyes flashed with a golden sheen. “I’d like to see them
try it.”
That was the thing about y’nai that made them so dangerous. You didn’t see them coming. You
touched Asa’s hair, your hand popped off your wrist, and you were left gaping as your arm stump
spurted blood.
“Asa?” I cut my palms on debris but kept going. “Can you sense them?”
“No.” He leveraged himself into a seated position. “As far as I can tell…we’re alone.”
“You’re no longer Stavros’s heir.” I put it together. “The usual rules must no longer apply.”
Hard to believe, even with Asa’s status revoked, that Stavros would pull them off spy detail out
of spite.
Then again, he had to cheat to have a hope in Hael of beating Blay, so maybe his pride was that
blinding.
The wail of sirens announced the arrival of the human fire and police departments, as well as
EMTs.
“Activate hair bow protocol,” I ordered Colby. “Now.”
Gliding a zigzag path to me, she hit me in the forehead then scrambled up into my hair to burrow.
“Ma’am,” a young woman called from a shattered window. “Stay where you are, and I’ll come
get you.”
That sounded like a good idea to me, so I didn’t budge except to sit and wait.
“Well, well, well.” A familiar outline filled the doorway as soon as it was clear. “Look who we
got here.”
“Long time, no see, Marty.” I blasted him with a fake smile. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood.” He scanned the wreckage. “Saw the smoke and came to investigate.”
Marty wasn’t the type of guy who shouldered extra burdens, so I doubted his cameo was that
innocent.
The restaurant was owned by a paranormal family and staffed with them too. That guaranteed
Black Hat would generate a case file. Especially since the compound was within spitting distance of
the restaurant.
But Marty as first agent on the scene? Nah. I wasn’t buying it. My luck was bad, but not this bad.
“Look at you, being all civic-minded.” I shifted my attention to the nice human who began
examining me. “Who called it in?”
“Not sure.” She ran through the standard battery of tests. “You with that guy?”
Without specifics, I wasn’t sure who she meant. “The sexy one, yes.”
A laugh spluttered out of her as she picked glass shards from a cut on my shoulder.
“The suit over there?” I hooked my thumb toward Marty. “I’m his boss.”
The lovely mottled red his face turned before ripening into purple was worth pulling rank.
“Oh.” Her steady hands failed her. “You’re FBI too?”
“Yeah.” I peeked over her shoulder to find a baffled Asa receiving basic medical care. “We all
are.”
With the y’nai absent from their posts, the EMTs could sweep his hair behind his shoulder away
from his wounds without suffering instant retribution. His instinctive flinch at their touch made it
obvious he was uncomfortable with strangers acting so freely with him.
“I’m sorry about your friend.” She finished up and bandaged me. “We’re waiting on another
ambulance and another set of hands before we move him.” She gathered her used supplies. “Sit tight.
I’ll be right back, and we’ll take you and the others on a ride to the hospital to get you checked out.”
Part of the magic animating a golem twisted the perceptions of humans to show them a dead body
if the golem’s shem was smudged or destroyed, leaving it vulnerable until its master or kin came
along to fix it.
As soon as she turned her back, I picked my way to Asa. “Got an elastic?”
“Always.” He fished out one, though it took him two tries, and handed it to me. “They’re really
gone.”
The twist of regret and relief on his face told me who he meant.
The y’nai, who had been a constant in his life, had cut their ties too.
“I, for one, won’t miss them or their constant tattling to Stavros.”
Moving into position behind him, I finger combed his poor hair then worked it into a tight French
braid. I watched the tension melting from his shoulders before I had even finished tying off the end
with a snap.
“Thank you.” He took my hand, kissed my wrist. “I’m still processing.”
To say you wanted nothing to do with your family, or their legacy, was one thing. For the reality
you had really, truly severed those ties to punch you in the face? That hurt. Not because you wanted to
reclaim what you had lost, no, that had been the whole point, but because it forced you to see yourself
in a new light. To ask who am I without the burden of familial expectation pressing down on your
shoulders.
Losing the y’nai was a wake-up call for him, for me too, though I had been assigned mine only
recently.
 Asa would bounce back, he just needed a minute while his worldview realigned.
“Where’s Marita?” I had lost track of her after the EMT set to work on me. “I don’t see her.”
“She stepped outside to make a few calls.” He searched my face. “Are you okay?”
“Ask me again once we get Clay reanimated.” I sat beside him. “And Marty is in our rearview
mirror.”
“We need to clear out the humans.” He touched his side, winced. “Before they take Clay to a
morgue.”
“Marty is here.” I heard doubt in my tone. “Maybe we’ll get lucky, and he’ll actually do his job.”
“Just how hard did you hit your head?”
The unexpected voice jolted me, and I twisted to find a daemon carving a path toward me.
“Isiforos?” I was surprised how glad I was to see him. “How did you…?”
Jase Isiforos was one of my lieutenants, and a Miserae daemon who fanboyed over Asa and Blay.
“Marita.” He held up his cell. “We exchanged numbers in New Orleans.” He put it away. “I was
already local, so I booked it over here.”
As sweet as my relief had been, I couldn’t stop it from twisting into bitter suspicion.
“Last I heard, you were in Baltimore.” I tuned in to his heartbeat. “What are you doing here?”
Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump.
Slow and steady. He was calm. His hands, I noted, were also empty.
“I watched the broadcast.” His smile flashed, and it was blinding. “You were phenomenal.”
When Stavros decided to broadcast the match against Asa for the throne of Hael, he hadn’t
anticipated I would become the star of the show. Neither had I. But when Stavros cheated, gravely
wounding Blay, I went supernova on the whole arena. I had no regrets. Except that I hadn’t been
faster, both to save Blay pain and to prevent Stavros from escaping. The coward.
“She was,” Asa agreed, his lips twitching. “Although I had to watch a recording to see it for
myself.”
As much as I wanted to keep my cool, I was losing it fast. “That doesn’t explain why you’re
here.”
“Doesn’t it?” He chuckled then hit one knee, pounding his fist over his heart. “Asa is my chosen
sovereign, and I will do everything in my power to protect him. That includes dumping my caseload
into my team’s lap and catching a flight to help any way I can.”
Chosen sovereign?
No, no, no.
Kings weren’t elected by the people. Each left crimson footprints up the dais to their new throne.
If you wanted a crown, you bled for it. You didn’t plaster the neighborhood with Vote for Asa
posters.
That was not how this worked by any stretch of the imagination.
“This is not good.” I dragged a hand down my face. “Please tell me you’re the only one.”
“No can do.” He rose and dusted off his knees. “Asa has more support now than ever.”
“Daemons respect power,” Asa mused, lowering my arm. “You impressed them with your
strength.”
“This was not the plan.” I balled my fists on my lap. “We didn’t sacrifice Aedan so—”
Clicking my teeth together, I kept myself from outing our plan to put my grandmother on the throne.
“Your fan club will be disappointed to hear you’re not interested in the crown.” Isiforos rubbed
his nape. “I saw Dad last night, and he was using his Cricut to make Asa for King shirts to give his
friends.”
 That was exponentially worse than posters.
“Tell him not to waste his vinyl,” I clipped out, then exhaled and schooled my tone. “Change is
coming.”
“I’ll rein in the resistance,” Isiforos bargained, “but only if you tip me off so Dad can get his craft
on.”
“Deal.” I scanned the debris. “Where’s Marty?”
“In his SUV eating lunch.” Isiforos anchored his hands on his hips. “I’ve taken control of the
scene.”
That would explain why my EMT never returned, and why no one else had ventured into the
building.
“Can you fold down the seats in our SUV? We need to stow Clay in there until Asa and I can
repair him.”
“Consider it done.” He rocked back on his heels. “You want the casualties tally?”
“Not really.” I pinched my lips together. “But I owe it to the victims to hear it.”
“Five total.” He counted them off on his fingers. “One chef, three assistants, and the waiter.”
“The casualties would have been much worse,” Asa said, “if we hadn’t had the place to
ourselves.”
“If we hadn’t had the place to ourselves,” I countered, “we wouldn’t have made such a tempting
target.”
Isiforos waved to Marita, who was heading our way. “Keys?”
Shifting my weight to one side made my hips ache, but I palmed the keys and tossed them to him.
“I have bad news.” Marita plunked down next to me. “Derry is coming.”
Of all the things she could have said, I hadn’t anticipated her ranking that as the worst-case
scenario.
“You did get blown up,” I reasoned. “I can see why he would be concerned.”
“He’s not concerned, he’s excited.” She kicked a chunk of rubble. “He put on his adventure
pants.”
The quick check out of the corner of her eye was gauging how to comfort me. Humor was her
preferred method, but not everyone appreciated a laugh while corpses were being carried out under
sheets on stretchers behind them. Me? I took the good wherever I could find it.
“Wait until he goes to sleep and cut them off at the knee.” I chose a moment of levity over the
gravity of the situation. “That’ll show him who’s boss. No one will respect adventure jorts.”
Jean shorts. Jorts. The fashion lingo I learned from Clay had proven oddly useful yet again.
“I was thinking of hot gluing fireworks poppers to the soles of his shoes.”
“Those tiny wads of paper that explode when you throw them at the ground?”
“Yep.” Her gaze went dreamy. “I can hear the screams now.”
“That sounds…” I struggled for words of encouragement, “…exactly like something you would
do.”
“You’re a true friend.” She bumped shoulders with me. “Always encouraging me to live my best
life.”
A commotion at the former entrance caught my attention as Black Hats began securing the area.
“We’re done here.” I grunted as I shoved to my feet. “Isiforos should have the SUV prepped for
Clay.”
Asa, who had gone quiet, accepted the hand up I offered him, smearing warmth across my palm.
“You’re bleeding.” I gripped his other wrist and tore his arm away from his midsection. “How
Another random document with
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Rose did not reply, she glanced anxiously toward the door. They
both heard steps on the stairs and Mrs. Allestree’s voice panting at
every step. “Robert, I don’t care! Of course the man cheats, they all
do, but it’s a beauty and only seventy-five dollars!”
Lily Osborne continued. “Of course Fox will have to marry her, that’s
the code, I believe! Thank heaven, when I got my divorce I didn’t
have to marry to save myself! It’s such a pity on his account, with his
career, but the secretary would be a fool not to divorce her, she—”
Rose turned coldly. “Pardon me,” she said, with white lips, “I don’t
care to listen to scandal,” and she walked away to meet Mrs.
Allestree, her head up but her heart sinking within her. The sheer
misery that swept in upon her being, chilling its natural happy calm,
transforming all the cheerful amenities of life, appalled her.
 XV
TWO days later Mrs. Allestree rang the bell at Margaret’s door with a
sudden sensation of panic. She had felt it her duty to go, in spite of
Robert’s protests, for the morning newspaper had printed a scarcely
veiled account of the scandal in the Cabinet. White, it appeared, had
openly quarrelled with his wife and abruptly left her the day before,
publishing his private affairs by going to a large hotel which was
crowded with fashionable guests. Society caught its breath and
waited—with the relish that it usually waits—for a cause célèbre.
“It’s a cowardly thing to do, Robert,” Mrs. Allestree declared hotly;
“no man should expose a woman to such a scandal. I shall go to see
Margaret to-day, it’s my duty!”
“Oh, Lord, mother!” groaned Allestree, “can’t you let it alone? What
in the world can you do?”
“Do? Robert!” the old lady’s bright eyes flashed, “I’m ashamed of
you! Do you think I’ll let people imagine that I believe my own
nephew is a scamp? Not a bit of it! And Margaret—the child’s heart-
broken, that’s all; I’ll never believe a word against her! Of course he’ll
marry that Osborne woman.”
“Mother, mother! You know what Gerty told us; Margaret herself is
going to get the divorce, she’s forced the situation.”
“Gerty’s a fool!” said his mother promptly and unreservedly.
Then she put on her bonnet and went, but as she approached the
imposing house with its great porte-cochère and its long row of fluted
white pillars, its upper balcony and its conservatory, its flagrant and
ostentatious wealth, her heart sank drearily. Experience had taught
her that the very wealthy have their own way; moreover, what could
she say? What had she a right to say? But she was a courageous
old woman and strong in her convictions; she rang the bell. A tardy
but irreproachable footman opened the door and regarded her with a
carefully impersonal stare.
“Wonders who the old party is in an 1830 bonnet!” thought Mrs.
Allestree amusedly, but she inquired for Margaret and was admitted
after an instant of hesitation which involved the inspection of her
card.
She waited a long while, it seemed to her, in the dim drawing-room,
and looked about her at its luxuries and the long vista of the ballroom
beyond with a new interest. She had never been a frequent visitor at
the house and its aspect was new and unnatural, its spacious and
imposing vacancy seemed to be accentuated by every touch of the
golden talisman; there was no atmosphere of home. “Splendid
misery,” she thought, and sighed; there was not much to bind the
heart of a woman—a natural woman—here! She listened, hoping to
hear a child’s voice, even the baby’s cry, but the stillness was
perfect; it was evidently a well ordered household even if Margaret
held the reins with a lax hand. Gerty must be a tolerably good
manager, Mrs. Allestree thought with a prick of conscience,
remembering that Margaret put everything on Gerty’s shoulders.
It was all dazzling enough, there were gold nuggets in the very
ceiling, fifteen carat, the old woman recollected with a secret smile,
and even the pictures suggested great wealth; on the wall opposite
was “The Angelus” and beyond a Reynolds which had cost White a
fabulous sum. He knew as little of art as he did of the kingdom of
heaven, but Margaret had married him for money, and she seemed
to have been inspired with a grim contempt for it afterwards and
loved to scatter his wealth to the four winds of heaven.
After awhile a French maid came down and asked Mrs. Allestree to
come up stairs. Margaret, it appeared, was only half recovered from
her attack at Mrs. O’Neal’s.
She was lying on a lounge by the open window of her bedroom when
the old woman entered, and she greeted her with a languid smile.
Her white morning gown made her look paler than usual, but she
was the picture of indifference and she had been viewing a new hat
of a very pronounced size and startling effect.
She held out a hand to Mrs. Allestree with an odd little laugh. “Oh,
how do you do?” she said calmly; “you know Wicklow has gone off
and left me! I’m ordering a new hat to keep up my spirits.”
Mrs. Allestree sat down weakly in the nearest chair. “Margaret!” she
protested faintly.
Margaret looked at her from under her drooping lashes. “Did you
expect to find me in tears?” she asked coolly.
Her visitor colored deeply; after all, Robert had been right, she had
no justification, her well meant sympathy was fruitless, her coming
an intrusion. “I suppose I shouldn’t have come here at all,” she
admitted reluctantly, her fine old hands trembling a little in her lap,
“but I came to tell you that I had always loved you, Margaret.”
The younger woman looked at her strangely, her face changing
rapidly from defiance to a shamed affection, the unlooked for
tenderness touched her sore heart; her stormy nature had been
passing through one of its eclipses, when the light itself seemed to
go out and leave her groping blindly for relief, for hope, for an
escape from the intolerable situation which her own folly and
infatuation had created, and which kept closing in upon her like the
narrowing walls of the inquisition dungeon. “I think it lovely of you to
say it,” she murmured, a little break in her voice, her lip quivering as
she averted her face.
Mrs. Allestree’s eyes softened; she gave a hasty glance about her,
partly to assure herself that they were alone and partly because she
was just realizing the fanciful splendor of Margaret’s surroundings.
The room was white and gold and every article on her toilet-table
was gold mounted, every detail suggesting the height of luxurious
sybaritism. “Margaret,” she began gently, “it is never too late, can’t I
do something to—to bridge it over?”
Margaret’s lips stiffened, her momentary emotion passing at the
mere suggestion of a continuance in the old intolerable relation. She
shook her head impatiently. “I wouldn’t bridge it over if I could!” she
exclaimed with passion.
But the old lady, foreseeing troubles which would involve those near
and dear to her, could not give up so easily. “My dear child, it’s
dreadful! The woman always suffers—and your husband’s high
position, the publicity of it!”
Margaret shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t help that!” she said
scornfully, “I’ve borne it long enough. Haven’t I a right to be happy? A
nursemaid might expect that, a cook! Why shouldn’t I have a little
happiness in my life?”
“You have so much!” Mrs. Allestree looked about her, “everything
wealth can purchase—and the children! God has been good to you;
hasn’t He a right to chasten you a little?”
Her glance at the material comforts of the room, her evident
consideration of the wealth, the worldly as well as the religious side
of the question, irritated Margaret anew, for she had no tolerance for
compromise, she had bought all these things at too dear a cost, and
knew it in the overwhelming bitterness of her soul.
“What in the world do I care for all this if I haven’t happiness?” she
demanded bitterly, “and I’ve never had it, never for a moment!
Besides, it’s all nonsense to argue about it; it’s over and done with,
thank God! We quarrelled irrevocably; Wicklow wouldn’t forgive me if
I’d forgive him—and I never will!”
“Oh, Margaret, Margaret!” Mrs. Allestree shook her head; “there are
your children, you must think of them, you’re bound to, my heart
aches for them!”
“Well, it needn’t! Mrs. White will bring them up beautifully; she
adores them, I don’t!” Margaret’s thin cheeks were burning and her
eyes glowed dangerously; the children had been held over her head
too often, she was in no mood to hear of them again.
“That’s the most wicked thing you’ve said!” exclaimed her visitor with
indignation; “you’ve lost your mind, Margaret; you can’t expect
happiness feeling as you do! There, I know you’ll despise me, but I’m
an old woman, and I had to speak my mind!”
Margaret raised herself on her elbow and pointed an accusing finger.
“Speak it,” she exclaimed with bitterness, “but—were you ever in my
place? Were you ever married to a man like my husband, a man who
was openly unfaithful to you—who was the talk and the jest of the
town because of another woman? Were you ever made to feel that
you were bought, a mere chattel?”
Mrs. Allestree looked at her in silence, her fine old face grew pale,
her lips trembled. Margaret sank down again, her hand on her heart.
“You never were!” she said scornfully.
Mrs. Allestree wiped away her tears. “I meant well,” she said, “but
despise me, Margaret, I deserve it!”
“I don’t despise you, I think you a dear,” Margaret retorted, softening;
“only you do not in the least understand. It’s all right for you to be so
good and so pious, but I can’t be!”
“You’ve made me a wretched old hypocrite!” said Mrs. Allestree; “oh,
Margaret, you can be just what you want to be, you are so clever, so
beautiful, so charming!”
Margaret shrugged her shoulders. “I’m a miserable sinner, dear
heart, it’s no use to try to reform me.”
“You are wilful! Oh, child, it’s for you I speak, you’ll regret it!” She
bent forward and patted the limp white hand that hung over the side
of the lounge. From the bottom of her heart she wished she knew
how to reach her, but she had been curiously defeated. “You’ll regret
it all your life; we women never can break the bonds. Marriage is an
incident in a man’s life; God didn’t mean that women should feel the
same about it.”
“A great many do break the bonds,” said Margaret eagerly, “and
begin all over again; why shouldn’t I?” she spoke with the force of
longing; hour after hour she had argued thus with herself, yet at a
word her soul leaped up unconvinced and the battle began all over
again; that inexorable law which binds a woman’s life and fixes it in
the orbit of eternity had laid hold upon her.
“A great many do?” Mrs. Allestree’s thin lips tightened and she
looked away. Then she rose and gathered up her gloves and her
parasol and her spectacles. “Too many, and what do people say of
most of them?” she added severely, regaining a hold upon her
shaken convictions.
Margaret bit her lip, there was a little spot of color in each cheek, her
heavy eyes shone with feverish defiance. “I wish I were like you, I
wish I had lived your life, I should like to be good if I could!” she said
slowly, without mockery.
Mrs. Allestree turned red. “Don’t, Margaret! I’m really not the
Pharisee or the Levite, only I wanted to help you!”
“I meant just what I said,” Margaret retorted quietly; “but I can’t be
religious, I—I must be loved, I must be happy, I should die just being
good!”
The old lady stooped and kissed her impetuously. “You’re ill, child,
and weak; wouldn’t it do any good if I—I should go to see Mr.
White?”
“And bring him back here?” Margaret shuddered. “My dear friend, I’m
going to get out of here to-morrow, I shall never come into this house
again!”
Mrs. Allestree stood up shocked, the force of Margaret’s hatred of
White bit through all reserves. The old woman felt her impotence,
how could she fight this will, this unscrupulous will to be happy,
happy at any price? “Where will you go?” she asked helplessly.
“To Omaha. Of course I could get a divorce anywhere, every one
knows that! Oh, you wouldn’t have borne all I’ve borne! But I shall go
to Omaha; I want to have it over soon and I can stay there until I get
it.”
“And the children?”
“I sent them over to Wicklow’s mother this morning; she was nearly
in spasms for fear I’d want the custody!”
Mrs. Allestree stood looking at her a moment in speechless
amazement; then she surrendered. “Good-bye, Margaret,” she said
quietly; “I’m a useless old fogy and busybody, I see it, but I couldn’t
help coming; I remember you running about in short skirts with your
hair in a pigtail. Heaven knows I wish you were a child still and as
happy as you were then!”
Margaret sighed. “I wish I were!” she said.
Mrs. Allestree tightened her bonnet ribbons under her chin with
shaking fingers, her heart swelling with anger and disgust. A woman,
the mother of children, to behave like this! It was monstrous! Behave
like it herself? Never! Her stern lips parted once to utter a word of
rebuke, but her courage failed her; she remembered Robert’s
remonstrances. After all, what right had she to speak? “I wish you
were, indeed!” she repeated stiffly.
Her tone, something in her offended gesture, reached Margaret’s
heart. She rose, rose with a visible effort, and went to her with an
unsteady step, throwing her arms around her neck, disarranging the
astonished old woman’s bonnet as she did it. “Love me!” she
sobbed, with the abandon of a child who has been punished, “love
me—I’m starving to be loved, to be taken care of, oh, don’t you
understand? I want to be happy!”
There was a moment of suspended indignation, of doubt, then the
old arms clasped her; if she could but save this brand from the
burning! “Poor child!” she murmured, “you poor, unhappy, misguided
child! Let me be the peace-maker.”
It was a woeful mistake; Margaret raised her head with a wild little
laugh, pushing her away again almost with force. “Oh, you’ll never
understand me!” she cried, with a finality which was a sharp shock to
her listener, “never! You can never change me—I’d sell my soul to be
free!”
 XVI
FOX had not seen Rose alone since that night, now some weeks
distant, when, after a bitter struggle with himself, he had definitely
accepted the inexorable fact of Margaret’s demand upon him. To
injure a woman, however unwittingly, seemed to him contemptible,
even when he secretly raged against the injustice of her claims and
repudiated them in his heart with something akin to savage anger. It
had been a bitter experience, a shock to his egotism, to his
infatuated belief in himself, that belief which comes sometimes to
genius with the force of absolute conviction.
The adjournment of Congress had left him more at liberty than usual
and he was anxious to leave the city, yet to do so would be
interpreted as flight. He had purposely absented himself from
White’s house, and Margaret, understanding his mood, had refrained
from communicating with him, but he was instinctively aware that
she was unshaken in her resolution, and the news of the open
rupture came to him almost as a relief; it was over, and it was
useless to indulge in vague hopes and futile thoughts of escape from
his responsibility; he must meet the fate that his folly and selfishness
had invited, and with it the wreck of his own happiness! And he was
a strong willed, selfish man; it was well nigh impossible to yield to
such a course, to give up, to let Rose go just when it seemed most
possible to win her. As for Margaret, the manner in which he thought
of her, the wretched obstinacy with which her fate entangled his,
argued ill indeed for her future hope of happiness if he married her. If
he yielded that reluctant assent to the situation, if he accepted the
claim she made upon him, it might be a bare and cruel fate for both.
He was himself unaware of the impossibility of concealment, that his
final indifference would be more cruel, more deadly than present
repudiation. He thought, instead, of himself, of the wreck of a dream
which had filled his soul with the beautiful and tender amenities of
love and loyalty and protection; he forgot that a man can hide his
heart as little as the leopard can change his spots, and that a woman
can suffer more in its revelation than she would from physical
brutality.
All this while the thought of Rose came to him with cruel regret.
There were hours, between daylight and dawn, when he walked the
floor battling with his own soul, battling with the irresistible desire to
go to her, to tell her that he loved her, no matter what happened; let
the universe crumble, let her despise him for his weakness, if she
would, but to tell her the truth! It seemed to him supremely worth the
cost.
It was late in the afternoon of one of those perfect spring days when
the cherry trees are white with bloom behind the garden walls and all
the parks are full of robins. Fox had left his work in his vacant
committee-room at the Capitol, and crossing the city was walking
westward with no companion but Sandy. The desire to see Rose had
crystallized in his heart even while he struggled against it, and he
turned almost unconsciously in the direction of her home. He had
heard that very morning of the rumors, now numerous and
substantial, of Judge Temple’s financial losses; one man had told
him that the judge was on the brink of ruin, and the thought of
distress and sorrow coming to her stung Fox with renewed misery.
As he came in sight of the modest old house with its ivy mantled wall
and its white door, with the half moon of triangular panes above it,
and its fluted white pilasters on either side, he looked up over it with
the feeling of a man who had shut the gate of Paradise in his own
face. He had intended to pass it, crossing on the street below, but at
the corner Sandy stopped and pricked his ears and then dashed
forward with a joyous bark of greeting, and his master knew that he
was betrayed.
Rose had just mounted her horse at her own door and was
dismissing the negro who had held the reins. The sun shone full in
her face and made a nimbus of her soft bright hair, while her slim
figure in the saddle looked more youthful than ever. She had
recognized Sandy and greeted him with a kindly word as he leaped
at her stirrup, and seeing his master behind him, she held in her
restless horse and waited quietly, only a slight deepening of the color
in her cheeks indicating the tumult in her heart. She had schooled
herself for the moment and even in the shock of unexpected meeting
her training held good; she was more composed than he was, as she
answered his greeting. But, at a glance, he saw the change in her,
the reserve in her eyes, the slightness of her smile, and taking
offense at what seemed to him an injustice, he overlooked the fact
that it was the baldest, the most pitiful acting of one who had never
dissembled before in her life.
“It’s too perfect a day to be indoors,” she said, with a lightness of
tone which shocked her own ears; “I am going down by the
speedway to see the river and that soft haze which I know is lying
over on the Virginia shore; in the afternoon sun it looks like a
mirage.”
“I don’t think I should enjoy the sight,” Fox said dryly; “life has been
too much of a mirage to me lately.”
She looked down at him, the sun illuminating her beautiful eyes.
“Life?” she repeated, with sudden girlish enthusiasm; “isn’t it what we
make it? We owe it to ourselves—that moral responsibility.”
He laughed with bitterness; her childishness struck him with renewed
force; she could never understand his impossible situation; she
would condemn him, and he deserved it! “Moral responsibility!” he
repeated, with sudden fury, “what cant it is. I’d be willing to cast it all
into Hades for one moment of liberty from these wretched shackles
which ‘make cowards of us all!’ No living man can control his life
where it touches another’s.”
She shrank instinctively, with a sharp moral recoil, from his
impassioned words, coloring deeply. Her hands trembled as she held
the bridle, and even that slight motion made her horse swerve, eager
to be off. Intuition, swift and unerring, interpreted his words and his
sudden stress of feeling. “Pardon me,” she said simply, “I did not
mean to set myself up as a judge. I suppose I’m very ignorant of
such matters and—I would rather be so,” she added with gentle
dignity.
He looked at her deeply touched. “My God, Rose,” he murmured,
“leave me; if you stay a moment longer I must speak, and you will
never forgive me!”
Her lip trembled like a child’s, but her clear eyes were full of a grave
condemnation; yet she was deeply moved; he had never called her
by her name before, and the sound of it upon his lips, the very way in
which it was uttered voiced his heart; she could not close her ears to
it, no matter how much she struggled with herself, and she did
struggle, determined to hide her own pang of anguished regret. For a
moment neither spoke, then she leaned slightly from her saddle and
held out her hand. “Let us part friends,” she said in a voice of
restraint.
He did not take her hand; he groaned. “I cannot!” he exclaimed with
renewed bitterness; “do not offer a sop to a starving man!”
Her horse plunged and she grasped the bridle again with both
hands. Her face changed so completely that it seemed to him a
strange face. He could not read it but he believed that, in her heart,
she condemned him, that he appeared to her in the guise of
Mephistopheles himself. Yet, as she turned and looked back at him,
there was an expression in her eyes at once inscrutable and
beautiful; he could never be sure how far it confessed her heart. Had
she loved him? It was impossible to know, and he stood mute
watching her slight figure outlined against the sun as she galloped
down the long quiet street, under an arcade of new green, wreathed
here and there with the bloom of the tulip trees, narrowing at last to
an arched vista of luminous sky above blue distant hills; its stillness
and its new thick foliage shutting from view, at once of mind and eye,
the city life which enfolded it, and was shut out by its gracious gift of
leafage, which hid long rows of houses or clothed them with
imaginary beauty.
Fox stood still, rooted to the spot, his mind darkened by the fierce
tumult of feeling which clamored against fate and against Margaret.
She had broken with him long ago, what right had she to thrust
herself into his life? Then the picture of her in her forlorn grief, in her
appeal to him, came back with an abruptness which wrung a groan
from his lips. What man, so placed as he, could fling her unhappy
love in her face?
And Rose? What she believed of him, shaping her thoughts by that
stern old moralist her father, it was not difficult to imagine!
He started to self-consciousness as Sandy, tired of waiting, suddenly
jumped up and pawed his arm. Coming to himself again he flushed
hotly at the discovery that some chance passers-by were staring at
him, and whistling to the dog he walked rapidly away, the battle still
raging in his soul with bitterness.
Meanwhile Rose had turned her horse’s head through less
frequented streets toward the White Lot, and galloping through the
bridle paths around the ellipse, she turned and crossing the street
rode down to the speedway, the sun shining athwart her path and
the river lying before her a sheet of silver.
As she had anticipated, a soft haze floated on the farther shore, the
sun seemed to turn the very mist to gold, and through this glowing,
impalpable atmospheric vapor she saw the beautiful swelling hills,
half fledged in tenderest green, the shadows purple, the distances
melting into the sky itself. Across the river a flock of birds winged
their flight, vanishing at last into the heart of the west.
The long white road stretched smooth and bare to the water’s edge,
she heard the tide lap the sand, and the sharp hoofbeats of her
horse rang clear. It was almost deserted; some social function had
drawn the tide of carriages and motors elsewhere; a few stragglers
passed her, but she galloped on. Behind her the city dropped away
into silence, the foliage in the open spaces of the park and the White
House grounds almost hiding the public buildings and clothing the
whole with a sylvan aspect. Some children paddled at the water’s
edge; a boy cast his net; the prattle of their voices came up through
the clear soft air.
Rose checked her horse and sat looking across the river, shading
her eyes with her hand. The sight of Fox, the sound of his voice had
unnerved her. She had thought herself strong enough to dismiss him
from her mind, to live down that dream, that idle futile dream, but she
found that she had not counted the cost, that she had suffered a
serious hurt. Already Rose’s inner mind began to question her own
judgment. She knew nothing of the circumstances; had she a right to
condemn him? Secretly she blamed Margaret; what woman does not
blame the other woman a little? What woman does not know that the
other’s charming ways, her skill, her beauty, may have captured the
unwary male creature almost against his will and certainly against
his better judgment? Eve would never have blamed Adam in her
heart if there had been any one for Adam to flirt with, but therein lay
Eve’s profound superiority over her descendants—she was the only
woman!
But Rose knew Margaret, knew her charm, her subtilty, her daring,
and she battled with herself, trying to beat down her secret
condemnation of the woman only. She was a stern little moralist, and
she tried to be just; Fox must be to blame also, for was not Margaret
married? The enormity of his offense could not be excused; besides,
as she reflected, with a gnawing pain at her heart, of what avail to
argue? If the divorce was granted—and it would be, beyond a doubt
—Fox would marry Margaret.
Her lips tightened, her hands grasped the bridle again, and she
galloped on, a wave of misery sweeping over her young soul,
blotting out the bright contentment of her life, her natural
cheerfulness. Suddenly she thought of that day a year ago, how
happy she had been! She remembered it, a bright beautiful day, and
she and Mrs. Allestree and Robert had driven out to Rock Creek
Park and she had found some wood violets. A few months, and her
old life had been blotted out, her happiness clouded; even her
affection for her father seemed overshadowed, her whole being
preoccupied and absorbed with this new misery. Was this then what
men called love? Alack, she wished that she had never met the little
blind god, or meeting him, had passed unscathed!
She turned her horse’s head and rode slowly back; the scent of
flowers, of sweet new grass, of the fresh turned earth came to her,
and the sweet treble note of a song-sparrow, but the world would
never be quite the same again; she had met life face to face and
learned one of its profound lessons. The young purity of her soul
refused to accept it as a common lot, and it was characteristic of the
sweetness of her temperament that, however she suffered, she did
not blame Fox for having deliberately won her love, but she shrank,
with almost physical repugnance, from the thought of him as the
lover of a married woman. The judge’s lessons had gone even
deeper than he knew.
 XVII
GERTRUDE ENGLISH, with her hands clasped behind her, stood
looking over Allestree’s shoulder and watching him as he worked, in
a desultory way, at some details of Margaret’s now nearly finished
portrait. It was good work, but it lacked the inspiration of his picture
of Rose; it had been, indeed, well nigh impossible to convey the
mockery, the uninterpreted mystery of Margaret’s glance.
“You haven’t made the face half sad enough,” was Gerty’s candid
criticism, “and her eyes—do you suppose any one else ever had
quite such eyes?”
Allestree smiled. “I was going to say that I hoped not, but I suppose
you would construe that as a want of appreciation.”
Miss English opened her own eyes. “Of course I should,” she said
promptly, “and I can’t see what you mean; her eyes are lovely!”
“Admitted!” he said teasingly; “you can’t understand me, Gerty; I
have vagaries.”
“Oh, I suppose that’s genius, isn’t it?”
“Precisely, genius is a form, a mild one, of adolescent insanity.”
“Well, don’t get violent while I’m here, Robert,” she retorted; “I have
enough of whirlwind and tornado just now with Margaret. Heavens,
how glad I’d be if I didn’t have to go to Omaha with her!”
“Poor child, must you?” Allestree stopped painting and looked
around with open sympathy.
“Oh, yes, I must,” Gerty replied with resignation; “I’m homely and
poor, Robert, and they will take me along labelled—‘Propriety,
reduced gentlewoman as secretary and chaperon, age near thirty,
conduct exemplary, travelling expenses paid!’”
“I’d take to the woods, Gerty!” he laughed, not without sympathy; he
dimly imagined the sting under the words.
“Or do something outrageous and get sent home—I wish I could, but
I’d starve,” Gerty said calmly; “nothing else keeps me in the straight
and narrow way but the fact that meat is twenty cents a pound and
bread five. Isn’t it sordid? But I’m really dreadfully sorry for
Margaret!”
“I was beginning to lose sight of that fact,” remarked Allestree dryly.
“I’m not sorry for Fox though,” she added, laughing maliciously.
Allestree frowned, concentrating his attention on the picture again.
“It’s a wretched business,” he observed.
Gerty walked to the window and looked out; when she came back
her face was flushed. “Robert, do you know I’m afraid that I did
something wrong the other day,” she broke out; “I’m nearly sure I
did!”
He looked at her smiling grimly. “You forgot about the scale of
domestic necessities then, Gerty?” he said.
But she ignored him. “I went to see Rose some time ago, just after
Margaret told me, and I talked—I talked too much.”
“The unruly member, alas!” he mocked, laughing now.
“I did,” she replied. “I told her about Fox and Margaret—and Robert,”
Gerty paused and dropped into a convenient chair, “Robert, she
turned as white as a ghost! Is it possible, do you think it’s possible
that she loves Fox? I never thought of it until Lily Osborne told me so
last week.”
“Mrs. Osborne—why do you listen to Mrs. Osborne?” Allestree broke
out, with a fury which astounded Miss English; “she has no right to
speak of Rose Temple, it’s—it’s an outrage!”
Gerty stared at him a moment in silence, her face reddening still
more with the horrified recognition of another blunder; of course she
knew that he had always loved Rose, in fact she had discounted his
devotion as too stale an affair to be really vital. “I know Lily Osborne
is a cat, of course,” she said slowly, “but then one can’t be rude
without any given reason. She didn’t say a word against Rose, and I
suppose it’s natural enough if Fox has admired her; everybody
does.”
But Allestree was not appeased. “Mrs. Osborne!” he broke out again,
“of all women—Mrs. Osborne! Gerty, don’t you let her say a word to
you again.”
“Good heavens, Robert, I shan’t dare squeak after this!” Miss
English retorted plaintively; “and, of course, Mrs. Osborne will marry
White and, they say, he’s going to lose his place in the Cabinet.
What on earth has she been doing about the Russian and German
ambassadors?”
“I don’t know,” said Allestree sharply, “and I don’t care!”
Gerty rose abruptly and picked up her parasol. “Robert,” she said
with feeling, “you’re like a bear with a sore head, and I always said
you had such a nice disposition; I should have fallen in love with you
myself if I hadn’t had a snub nose and freckles.”
In spite of himself Robert laughed. “Was that an insurmountable
barrier, Gerty?”
“Certainly; snub nosed girls never fall in love with artists, it isn’t
profitable!” and Gerty moved toward the door.
As she did so she glanced out of the open window. “There’s Rose
now,” she said and beckoned gayly; “she’ll come up and make
amends for my blunders!” she laughed.
Allestree colored hotly, aware that he had betrayed himself; the
amazing indelicacy of Gerty’s raillery was not inconsistent with her
usual careless freedom of speech which gave much unwitting pain
and had cost her correspondingly dear more than once, yet it made
him wince to encounter it, to feel her thoughtless probe sink into the
dearest recesses of his heart and be powerless to resent it.
Frankness, after all, is frequently a doubtful virtue; like a two-edged
sword it cleaves both ways and leaves no healing balsam in its train.
It was Margaret White who always said that an expert and
comfortable liar was an absolute blessing to society.
Meanwhile, Rose had dismounted at the door and come up stairs
with no other motive than a desire to escape her own society. The
sight of Gerty at the window furnished her with an excuse, and she
came in still pale, in spite of her swift gallop by the river, and with a
look in her eyes which shocked Allestree; he had never seen pain in
her look before. Miss English greeted her affectionately; at heart she
was really penitent.
“I came up here to see Lily Osborne’s picture,” she declared, “and
Robert has sent it off already! Isn’t it a shame? I hadn’t seen it.”
“It was excellent,” Rose replied soberly, taking the chair Allestree
pushed forward for her; “she really is a beauty, Gerty; I like to say
that to show myself just and broad-minded!”
“That makes two pictures Robert has finished this winter;—yours and
the serpent’s, as I call Lily Osborne, and now he is nearly done with
Margaret.”
“Not many, if I’m to make a living by it, Gerty,” Allestree retorted
smiling.
“A living? Goodness, if I could only get your prices!” Gerty raised her
eyes and hands to heaven; “I’m a poor thing worth a dollar an hour
and expenses.”
“Raise your rates, Gerty, you’re indispensable,” said Rose.
“Indeed I’m not, there are lots of others waiting for my shoes. Good-
bye, dear children; I’m going now to write two dozen notes, pay fifty
bills and interview a caterer and a florist,” and she kissed her hand to
them as she withdrew, mischievously aware that she had coaxed
Rose into an interview with Allestree; like Judge Temple, Gerty
thought happiness lay in this direction and in no other.
As she disappeared Rose left her chair and went to look at
Margaret’s portrait with dreamy eyes. “I must go, too,” she said, “I
only stopped for a moment on my way. I’ve been riding by the river
and through the White Lot. I kept thinking of those lines, do you
remember them, Robert?—
“‘Hast thou seen by daisied leas,
 And by rivers flowing
Lilac-ringlets which the breeze
Loosens, lightly blowing!’”
“I’ve been longing to be out all day myself,” he said soberly enough,
“to see the ‘lilac-ringlets,’ but I must finish this; in some way I have
grown to believe that Margaret will never again be quite the Margaret
we have known so long. I wanted to be sure of this expression.”
Rose looked again at the picture, and her lip quivered a little in spite
of herself. “Yes,” she replied simply, “I understand you; I don’t believe
you will see that old look again. I feel—” she paused, choosing her
words, her eyes darkening with an emotion which she was
controlling with an effort—“I feel as if Margaret had died, that some
one else would come back to us, some one we do not know!”
It was a striking fact that at the very moment when Margaret believed
that she was about to achieve happiness, her friends regarded her
as approaching its final eclipse. One moment of detachment, of the
external view-point, would open an appalling vista to many a human
soul, for it is true that those whom the gods desire to destroy they
first make blind.
As Rose voiced this thought Allestree averted his eyes; he felt the
keenest regret for his thoughtless words; Gertrude English’s
unmerciful tongue had torn away the veil from Rose’s emotions. He
would have been more than human had not his heart burned with a
sudden fierce anger. What right had Fox, who had so much, to step
in between him and the girl he loved,—to wound a heart so delicate,
so sensitive, so tender as hers?
“I pity Margaret!” he said sharply, with some bitterness, “but he who
sows the tares—”
“I don’t want to judge,” Rose rejoined quietly; “father is very bitter
against divorce; he thinks it a menace to the national existence, and
I know I think always as he does and—perhaps I’m hard, Robert;” as
she spoke she looked at him appealingly, resting her slender,
ungloved hand on the easel beside Margaret’s portrait; her whole
attitude was one of regret, of reluctance.