Page 4 of Summer of Sacrifice
“Indigo,” Tindle corrected, his tone scathing. “That coat was inspired by the expanse of night sky surrounding a nebula.”
Emile blinked at him, and Winnie lifted the sleeve of the innocuous coat. “That is…specific.”
Tindle shrugged, sipping his tea once more. “Grimm let me borrow a telescope.”
Sorscha barked a laugh, tongue darting out to lick a crumb off her long fingernail. “You’re a true artist, mon mignon. Not that any of this will matter if my dearest brother rips Emile’s soul out again the moment he sees him.”
“Sorscha,” Seleste censured. “You’re not helping.”
“She’s not wrong.” Emile’s face was ashen, and he turned pleading eyes on Agatha. “Maybe this truly is a mistake.” As if planning to bolt, he stood too quickly, fiddling with the Goddess Three pendant hanging from his neck.
Agatha wanted to rub her temples to stave off the headache of careening a bunch of ancient children and their many feelings…then perhaps go stand in the woods and scream. Instead, she gripped her skirts in a fist to keep from doing either of those things and said as gently as she could, “Emile, we have been over this. Grimm knows you are part of our council now?—”
Sorscha snorted. “And didn’t he immediately rip apart into his reaper at the news?”
Agatha ignored Sister Spring, but she caught Winnie cuffing her over the back of the head in her periphery, Sorscha almost toppling out of the chair she was reclined in.
“Emile, he knows you are part of the council and is willing to give you a chance once he speaks to you and Anne.”
The Grand Magus put his head in his hands, groaning. He said something, but it was muffled by his palms.
“Aggie,” Seleste said gently, hopping to lay a calming hand on Emile’s shoulder. “Could I have a word with Emile in private?”
Agatha regarded her carefully. Her cunning, kind Sister Summer had been the last in agreement to allow Emile von Fuchs onto the council, even after Sorscha. After all von Fuchs had done, it had been difficult to move past everything, despite knowing it was The Order working through him. Whilst making her decision, Seleste requested a guidepost similar to Grimm’s—a private meeting with Anne and Emile. It had lasted well into the night while Agatha paced outside Dulci’s pâtisserie, the three of them upstairs in the baker’s flat.
When they’d finally emerged, all three of them had red-rimmed eyes. Emile looked lighter, and Anne looked stronger. Seleste had hugged them both and strode directly to Aggie. “I’m in agreement. Emile is not the man we knew. He is as wounded and used as the rest of us.”
“Why not?” Agatha answered Seleste, too tired to conceal her irritation. “Let’s go, everyone.” And they all filed out.
Seleste would no doubt counsel Emile for a good, long while, but she would also most likely get him in a morning coat and present for the dreaded meeting with Grimm.
Bickering quickly ensued when they’d all taken up a place in the cramped back storage of Tindle’s shop to give Emile and Seleste privacy. Tindle didn’t want his clothing touched, Winnie didn’t want Sorscha breathing so loudly, and Aggie wanted to throttle them all.
“Summon me when it’s time,” Winnie said with a roll of her eyes and disappeared.
“Likewise.” Sorscha waggled her fingers and was gone.
Agatha turned to Tindle. “Will you be all right here alone?”
He tried to sneer at her, but it fell flat. “I’m fine, Aggie,” he said, his voice weary.
“Go lie down. And that is an order.” She straightened his cravat. “Get some rest. Augustus will bring a carriage to pick you up when we’re ready.”
“Pish posh. Go deal with our sullen reaper, darling.”
Sullen seemed a paltry word to describe her husband’s temperament. The thunder outside had dipped into a gentle rumble, but Grimm’s searing anger was still pulsing through the bond. It was not an ideal state in which to meet with one of his nemeses and attempt forgiveness—already not Grimm’s strong suit.
With an empathetic tilt of her mouth, she closed her eyes and let the bond lead her to Grimm.
She materialised in the cemetery next to him. There he stood with his hands in his pockets, completely dry despite the rain he’d caused. “You control the weather now?” she teased, her dress already nearly soaked through. Summoning a black parasol to ward off the onslaught, she watched his midnight curls sway in the wind.
“It would appear so.” Grimm didn’t look at her. “Or, rather, my dark moods do.” His attention remained fixed on two headstones before them, but he slid one hand out of his pocket and clasped it around hers, the callouses a comfort against her palm.
“You’re dry,” she mused, truthfully only attempting to poke pinpricks of light into his gloomy aura.
“I didn’t want to soil this coat,” he murmured, still transfixed. “I like it.”
Agatha scrunched her nose. “It’s wrinkled to Hades already. A little rain wouldn’t hurt it.”