Page 8 of Mistress of Lies
“Our father was cruel to you, so I removed him as a threat,” Shan said, with all the simplicity of truth. “If you cannot recognize that, then perhaps you simply need more time to process.”
“Blood and steel,” Anton whispered. “You are becoming him after all.” Pushing away from the table, he stormed towards the door.
“What about breakfast?”
He paused, not even bothering to look back. “I find, dear sister, that I have no appetite.”
With that he disappeared into the hallway, and Shan released the tension she had been holding like a thread unspooling. Of all the reactions she had anticipated, of all the plans she had laid, this was the one outcome she had not expected. She wanted to chase after him, to beg and plead until he saw reason, but she knew that it wouldn’t work.
So she remained in her seat, and calmly, mechanically, ate her breakfast. She needed the fuel for the day—there was still much to be done: food and drink to be prepared, a ballroom to be turned out and outfits to be chosen. Eventually, Anton would come crawling back to her.
He always did.
“It’s time,” Bart said, peering out of the second-story window. Guests had been arriving for the past half-hour, milling about in their drawing room and ballroom—rather quickly redone into more of a parlor, thanks to Bart’s ingenuity—and Anton had been down there from the start, accepting condolences.
She had been right in the end. Though he had avoided her all day, simmering in his petty rage, he had still turned up at the appointed hour; freshly shaved, neatly dressed, his hair artfully styled and his expression carefully arranged as the guests poured in.
As the new head of the family, it was Shan’s place to come down after the guests had started to arrive, not altogether that different from a debutante’s ball. Though it had not been long since hers; since she had turned eighteen, graduated from the Academy, and been accepted as a fully-fledged Blood Worker. Most girls didn’t have their Ball and their Ascension in the same decade. Perhaps Aeravin would be better off if they did—the old clung to life and power with a tenacity that choked off the future.
Shan shoved the thought aside. Amusing as it was, there were other pressing matters to attend to. A quick stop before the mirror—her makeup impeccable, her hair still in place—and she was ready to face it all.
“I’ll be here,” Bart said, sitting at the desk, pulling the family ledgers towards him. Shan had to play the socialite, but why should that stop all the work?
Shan almost laughed. Her father must be rolling in his grave. He would have never allowed Bart—even as well-educated as he was—to sit at the LeClaires’ desk. He had given his secretary a small, windowless room to work out of, as befitted his station. And he hadn’t even hated him as much as he hated Bart. Bart had, after all, found his way into his son’s heart and bed, sullying his namesake with his lowness.
Shan swore she would treat Bart better, and all her people for that matter. Blood and steel, for his loyalty and his place in her brother’s heart, Shan would give Bart the world.
“Take care,” she said, leaving her friend to his work as she left the safety of her father’s study—no, her study—to face the wolves. She could hear them already, talking and whispering and gossiping. Her fingers twitched, her claws pressing against the silk of her dress, but she forced herself to relax her hands, to smooth her expression into the calm and cool mask that she had mastered long ago.
Tonight, she was facing them not as a child—not as an untested heir—but as a matriarch. This was her house. Her domain. She needn’t worry about missing any key bit of information, no matter how small. She had spent years training her birds—her servants and informants and spies—fluttering about invisible and unobtrusive. While they served food and drink, while they served in the background, little more than decoration, they would be listening. Tonight, Shan would act as the center of attention and they’d flit about, following her instructions.
And when it was all over they would come and whisper what they learned in her ear, and she’d reward them for their good work.
So when she stood at the top of the stairs and looked at the people below her, Shan allowed herself the smallest of smiles. One day her web of information would be so strong, so complete, that she’d never have to fear anyone again.
The room quieted as the footman announced, “Lady Shan LeClaire.” The crowd turned to her as one, their hungry eyes searching for any sign of weakness. She stood tall, letting them look their fill. They stood in clusters around the room, amongst tables laden with food, stretching from the grand fireplace all along the wide windows—each group its own little battalion.
She was the image of serenity, dressed in her finest black gown, and it shimmered in the glow of the witch light. The silken corset hugged her figure, and the skirt flared out from her pinched waist, but it bore a modestly cut square neckline—which would have been unfashionable if she hadn’t been in mourning. It was sleeveless, like most dresses. No Blood Worker worth their salt would restrict their arm movements, even at this time. Not when their power relied on their claws and daggers.
There was nothing to criticize her for: Shan had made sure of that when she had selected this dress weeks ago. After a moment, she began her glide down the stairs, giving her footman a small nod as she passed. She made a note to personally thank him later. Her control of her household would be built on goodwill, a more powerful currency than the threats and fear Blood Workers normally traded in. When one expected pain, a little kindness went a long way.
But the simpering fools who crowded her home didn’t deserve such allowances. Behind their sympathetic words and kind smiles lived hearts of stone. Success in Aeravin depended on cunning and ruthlessness, and the Blood Workers flocked to each new pawn, eager to see if they could play the game.
She bared her teeth in a fierce smile as she moved through the throng, her heels echoing on the marble floor. Lord Dunn offered carefully worded condolences and suspicious eyes; Lady Belrose extorted her to come to her next salon; and Lord Craddock leaned on her to join him at the theatre. She kept careful note of every promise she made—and did not make—asking them to please send her a note so she could add it to her schedule.
They met her vicious smile with ones of their own, swearing that their invitations would be sent before the week was out, and Shan demurely gave her thanks. They had their roles and played them perfectly, and Shan knew that every interaction was just the opening gambit in each Blood Worker’s personal game of chess. As the invitations rolled in, Shan would respond, picking and choosing each social outing with care as she made her countermoves.
And the game would play out.
“My dear Lady LeClaire,” a soft voice whispered at her ear, and she froze as she recognized it, her blood turning as cold as ice in her veins. The Eternal King had accepted her invitation after all, the one she had sent with no expectations. It was a formality, done by every new ascendant in this position. In her lifetime she had never heard of him accepting.
She spun around, her skirts flaring prettily round her ankles, and sank into a deep curtsy. “Your Majesty.”
As she stood there, her form perfect and without a single tremble, the King reached down, palm up. “Please rise, my lady.”
She took his hand, letting him help her, and she stared up at him. He was studying her, curiosity softening the harsh lines of his face. Despite his looming presence in society, Shan had only personally met him a handful of times—brief flashes of formality through her life. Visiting her father when she was very, very young. Attending the official welcome of her class to the Academy of Dameral. Passing through her graduation to grant the highest honors.
Through it all, he was stern. Cold. Untouchable. The force that had broken her father, her family, her entire world while letting his country slip through his fingers. Though she had worked her whole life for this, she was not yet ready for him to be looking at her. She ached to use her claws or her daggers, to carve that bored look from his face.