“METAPHORICALLY SPEAKING, I mean,” Camilla rushed to add, watching Lord Synton’s face carefully, noting the exact moment he decided against hunting Vexley down. For a minute, he’d reminded her of an angel of vengeance: all lethal grace and divine punishment, charging in to completely obliterate a foe for their wrongdoing.
Looking at him now, at the cold calm and utter control he had over
himself, Camilla had no doubt Synton would be capable of murdering Vexley and not sparing another thought once the dastardly deed was done. The fact that he hadn’t done just that indicated that he’d weighed the advantages against the disadvantages and found Vexley to be safe from retribution.
For now.
She didn’t think Synton would glory in the kill, but he certainly wouldn’t mind being the one to dispatch Vexley.
Or, on second thought, as she saw his pupils constrict, perhaps he would thrill in the violence, welcome it with open arms. Which ought to make Camilla wary of him but somehow comforted her instead.
“How, exactly, does one metaphorically kill one’s father?” he asked. “Should I believe one might have also metaphorically killed one’s mother?” Synton’s tone was cordial enough, but there was a hardness in his eyes, a stiffness in his shoulders, and an undeniable feeling that the man standing before Camilla was nothing more than a feral animal trapped in the cage of
expensive suits.
This man liked the darkness, welcomed it; the shadows were where he preferred to be.
Camilla imagined painting Synton that way—his beautiful face emerging from the shadows, the lushness of his lips set against the harsh lines of a harsher expression, wielding a blazing sword dripping with the blood of his enemies.
“Miss Antonius?”
Her name jolted her out of her vision. Camilla shook her head, clearing it. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. And of course I didn’t kill my mother. She left to travel the world. End of story.”
“Enlighten me about your father, then.” He bit out the words as if each syllable gravely offended him.
She took a deep breath. “Vexley is in possession of something that belonged to my father. Something I very much want back. If he’s to be believed, it’s secured outside Waverly Green, and only he knows its precise location. Should Vexley meet a foul end, I won’t ever retrieve it. It’s an object my father treasured, so losing it… it has a great emotional attachment for me, is all.”
It wasn’t the full truth. It had begun one wintry night. Camilla recalled Pierre grabbing a coat and rushing out the door, muttering about a story Camilla’s mother had once told them, years before. This had been toward the end, when he was often caught up in his fantasies of the past, but this time had proved different. Pierre had gone missing for three days, coming home exhausted but proud, the owner of a magical key he’d claimed would change everything.
Camilla had gleaned that he’d bargained for that key on Silverthorne Lane. It was soon afterward that the secret entryways took over his world and the secret gatehouse studio was built.
He’d been a man obsessed, forgetting to eat, barely sleeping; it had been difficult to watch, to try desperately to pull him back to his life before Fleur had ruined it with her tales of shadow realms. But still, after he’d died, the key had felt important. Like it might reveal something Camilla had missed about his madness, if she herself found the right door.
Of course, now she knew she should have pawned it back at the dark market. Instead, she’d kept it secreted away, unwilling to part with it.
Sentimentality often grew fangs and bit a person in the rump.
If Camilla had sold it, Vexley never would have stolen it from her, and she’d not have one more chain wrapped around her now.
“Your father is really dead, then.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “He really died a few years back.”
There was a slight softening in Synton’s features, like he understood what losing something irreplaceable meant. For a tense beat, Camilla thought he’d reach out, hold her hand, let her know she wasn’t alone.
Then he slammed any empathy down, his expression going carefully blank as he stepped back, putting distance between them. He was wholly unreadable now.
Except for his clever eyes, which seemed to indicate that his mind was rapidly sorting through puzzle pieces and riddles, figuring out his next move and whether this information changed anything.
He slowly dragged his gaze over her, a new spark entering those shrewd eyes.
“I’m hosting a masquerade ball in two nights’ time.”
Camilla drew her brows together, not immediately understanding the giant shift in conversation. “My invitation arrived earlier.”
He nodded, almost absently. “I will assist with locating the object that belonged to your father. I will also hold on to the forgery and keep Vexley on a tight leash, ensuring that he doesn’t cause any problems for either of us. If you agree to paint the Hexed Throne, I’ll return the forgery to you after it’s complete.”
He held up a hand, forestalling any argument.
“We both get something we want out of the bargain. Before you toss the offer aside, take time to really think it over, Miss Antonius. It’s a fair deal.”
It was a reasonable request, yet Camilla’s pulse roared in her ears. She couldn’t paint that throne.
At least not without giving away one of her most closely guarded secrets.
But her choices were quickly dwindling.
“What is the true reason you want that painting?” she asked, knowing it was likely in vain. Yet if she considered giving him one of her secrets, he should return the favor.
“I told you. I collect intriguing art. Your talent is such that I’d like to own this piece.”
Synton’s expression abruptly shuttered, but she’d caught a glimpse of something desolate, something that seemed to span centuries, staring out from his emerald eyes. There had been no hint of humanity in that look, only coldness so impenetrable that she shuddered in its wake. She could easily imagine he’d lived lifetimes alone, tortured by something he’d never escaped.
“Very well,” she said, inexplicably moved. “I’ll give you an answer in two nights, at the ball.”
