Page 6 of Summer of Sacrifice

The innkeeper returned with their keys—ancient skeleton ones that Aggie would have fawned over—and proclaimed that two bowls of chicken soup and two ales were included with the price. Seleste handed over an ample amount of coin before gesturing to the lone empty table.

“Shall we, Bast?”

He eyed her warily, likely never having been invited to enjoy a drink with someone he’d been carting across the country, let alone invited to partake of a meal with an unaccompanied lady. But, as Sorscha would so predictably say, Seleste was no lady. She was a witch.

“Come,” she urged, walking toward the table where the innkeeper was already setting out two bowls. “No one likes cold soup, even if it is blistering hot out.”

Just as they sat, the music hit a lull, and Seleste closed her eyes against the onslaught of observation. Bast inquired if she was all right, but she waved him off, tucking a grimy napkin onto her lap. Blessedly, the music kicked back up, drowning out everything but their little table. Instantly, her mind cleared of the cacophony that was only cumbersome to her.

There was little room for chatting with such festivities taking place around them. Still, she and Bast ate in companionable silence and laughter, drinking their ale and enjoying the show of drunken dancing and reverie until Seleste could hardly keep her eyes open. Bast carried her bag up to her room, offering her a well-mannered smile and a small, unnecessary bow before disappearing into his own lodging across the hall.

The rooms were as rustic as every other part she’d seen of the inn, hardly the size of a closet. It reminded her of the last moons she spent with her Sisters in their tiny cottage in Drifthollow. Winnie had only just begun to come into her magic more than the tiny spells of a witchling, and she had done everything she could to magically build for them a home after theirs burned in Helsvar. That cottage was crooked, bare-bones, and perfect. That Summer was one of Seleste’s most difficult, but it was also one of her most cherished.

By the time she’d changed out of her travel clothing into a marvellous peach nightgown perfect for the balmy night, it was nearing the Witching Hour. Sleep was the obvious choice, with another long day of travel ahead. She would need to be fresh-faced and prepared for anything when she arrived at the hiring agency in Merveille, or she would have no chance of being properly sent to interview for the serving position at Whitehall. Alas, she felt a strong urge to pen a letter to Aggie before going to bed. Never mind that she wasn’t precisely supposed to contact her Sisters.

“Litha,” she whispered to the slumbering butterfly at the windowsill. “Darling, will you fly out and call one of my ravens? Edina, perhaps.”

Though Litha gave a little huff impossible for a butterfly, she floated out the window as Seleste opened it. A gentle breeze came in to take her place, and Seleste withdrew her buttercream stationary with Litha’s likeness sketched at the top. Inkwells were precarious nuisances to travel with, so she’d not brought one and merely whispered her words to the parchment, letting her magic scrawl the message to her Sister Autumn.

Chapter

Two

GRIMM

“You’re certain about this?”

Agatha sighed, but Grimm could tell she was pleased he’d turned from melancholy to brooding, at least. “I will say it again. I am just as shocked as you are, but we’ve all grown quite fond of the man. Well, warlock, as it were.”

“Gerome Von Fuchs…” Grimm regarded his wife where they stood outside the council chamber, his face scrunched like he’d smelt something foul.

“Emile von Fuchs. Gerome was the name Chresedia gave him when she took him hostage.”

Grimm’s lip pulled back. “Von fucking Fuchs, Agatha.”

Goddess help him, she actually stomped her foot. “Yes,” she snapped.

He couldn’t help the low chuckle that rumbled out of him. “I made you queen, and you just stomped your boot at me like a child.”

And there went a finger pointed at his face, her other hand forming a fist on her hip. The sight sent peace skittering through him. Finally, after moons of separation and another moon of him drowning beneath grief, she was in front of him, driving him mad.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he pushed further. “And the portrait of a woman I found hidden in his desk years ago? That you also found in his desk last Autumn? How did he explain that one to you, hm?”

“Do you truly think I didn’t put pressure on him? Ask all these same questions you’ve had?”

He simply lifted a brow in waiting.

Anger flushed up her neck, and she growled. “It’s hard to completely forget the love of your life, you oaf.” She shoved a finger against his stomach. “Even on the draught, he could recall that he knew the woman whose portrait was in his pocket when he was taken. He did not know it was Adrina, but he knew he loved her once. Good enough?”

“No.”

She stamped that boot again. “Would you just get your sorry arse in there and get this handled?”

Grimm ran a hand down his face. “All right, all right. Let’s get the fuck on with it, then.”

He let coolness consume him, all his practised years at court coming up to meet him. The last time he’d seen this man, he’d been in a wine cellar under Wendolyn’s Glacé Manor after he’d hurt Agatha and Anne. This meeting would be no easy task. But he trusted his wife’s judgement, and he trusted his friends.

With a yank, he opened the door to the council chamber, shaking his head inwardly at the move they’d made from his small meeting chamber to the large, ornate one of the rulers of Seagovia—now his wife and him. The heels of his boots thunked across the floor in time with Agatha’s boots’ clicking. He let himself marvel as he walked at the faces around their table. Dulci, Tindle, Augustus, and Anne on one side, Eleanor, Laurent, Winnie, and Sorscha on the other. And there, sitting very still next to Seleste at one end…Emile von Fuchs. It was a full house. Only Gaius and Arielle were missing, and he would have killed for both of their support in the moment.