Octavia turned her head to where she thought he was. "When did you become an expert in council examinations?"

  "Since it was necessary." Carlo clenched his cane until his knuckles whitened. “You, I, and Drusus have been ill-used."

  "Regardless of what you may think, of what this looks like, Lucy does love you."

  Carlo sighed. "She explicitly said regardless of whatever else happens, she loved me. That was my first piece of evidence, when I look back and reflect. One week. Can you hold on for one week?"

  "I will have to," said Octavia. "Carlo, whatever else, you must make sure the children are safe."

  "One more week, then you can see to it yourself."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Carlo and Vergilius had little to say to each other as they returned to Mistraldol. Carlo was lost in thought. He believed he had stalemated Lucy in almost every way he could. The children had dedicated guardians, he had made himself as useful to Octavia and Drusus as he could, and now he needed to see how much of an ally Lucy could be against herself.

  After seeing Vergilius off, Carlo decided to find his wife. A young man he didn't know took his coat in the entryway. "You are?"

  "Robert, sir."

  "McAllistair have the day off?" Did butlers take days off?

  "No, sir. Influenza."

  "I see." The old fellow must be quite poorly if he had stopped butlering. "Can you tell me where I might find Signora Borgia?"

  "Sir, she is also ill, and in bed."

  Carlo frowned. A blood magician, ill? Could that happen? It might be possible. Lucy was with child, and the world was new. Carlo should have noticed she was sick. In his defense, he had been busy scrutinizing information, making strategic moves, healing, and building a case these last few days. Lucy was the enemy. His most beloved enemy, but still the enemy.

  Robert hovered and extended his hand to collect Carlo’s walking stick. "Mr. Claudian did not know where to send word."

  "No worries, Robert. I'll keep the cane."

  Carlo moved slowly through the east wing. The shadows concentrated heaviest in front of their bedroom door, hissing and whispering at him. "You fellows had best be careful," said Carlo. "I can't imagine she'll tolerate your slander for long." The shadows scattered, and Carlo went inside. He moved bed curtains aside and found her under a stack of velvet covers, tiny in the massive bed. She looked like a sleeping child. He pressed his lips to her damp forehead. She was running a fever.

  He watched as she opened her eyes. "What's this I hear about you and influenza?"

  "I am as puzzled as you," Lucy said. "You shouldn't worry."

  "Thank you, but I will decide how worried I should be."

  "I should be taking care of you." She coughed. There was some blood.

  Carlo's concern spiked. This was not influenza. "While I was recovering, have you been ill? Or since you've discovered your condition, have you been able to be ill?"

  "I did have some nausea initially. Maybe, I can be sick now, because of the baby."

  Carlo frowned. "We should call the doctor."

  "He's already been to see poor McAllistair, and suggested we bleed him."

  "Not that doctor then. Besides McAllistair, is anyone else ill?"

  "I don't know."

  By her bed, half a cup of chocolate. She'd been drinking a lot of it since he'd woken up. He sniffed it. Acrid, strange. Almost like…"Lucy, this isn't the cocoa you gave me the other day?"

  "No. Helen gave it to me. It was a present."

  Carlo sniffed the drink again. The chocolate masked the odor, but not quite. "I'll be right back."

  "What is it?"

  "Probably nothing. I'll be right back." Carlo was careful not to spill any of the liquid as he made his way to the laboratory. He placed the cup on a table, and raced to the kitchen, almost knocking over a maid who carrying a stack of linen on the way.

  After clumping down the backstairs, he crossed the kitchen and searched all the tins on the large shelves which lined the walls. Baking powder, cardamom, he tossed everything, tin after tin, to the floor.

  Mrs. Larkin stared at him. "What on earth are you doing?"

  "My apologies," said Carlo. "Where is the chocolate Miss Galt gave my wife?"

  Mrs. Larkin wiped flour-covered hands on her stiff apron and motioned with her head. "Right there, sir. Second shelf." She studied the stack of canisters on the floor.

  Carlo picked up the cocoa. He recognized the smell now, sharp and sweet at the same time, the poison he had used against Atreus Galt in the duel. "Has anyone else been drinking this?"

  "I gave some to Mr. McAllistair when he came down sick."

  As suspected. "Has anyone else drunk this? Touched it?"

  "Just me, sir. I've made the drink."

  "How do you feel?"

  "Fine, sir. A little tired."

  "For god's sake, Mrs. Larkin, sit down and don't exert yourself."

  "But the dinner…"

  "Do as I say," Carlo said. He flew out of the kitchen, back to his lab, where he slammed the cocoa tin down by Lucy's mug. His eyes lighted on the shelf of vials, and he scooted some out of the way, the clink of desperation. Did he have any of the antidote on hand? His grandfather always said to have antidote on hand. He found one bottle. He had paid it no attention since the duel. Why would he have? Who else could make that poison?

  Apparently, Helen Galt could make that poison, enough to gift her friend, enough to harm the woman who jilted her brother. He would need another day to make more antidote. He raced into the bedroom.

  "Lucy," Carlo said. "Drink this."

  "Where's your cane?" Lucy asked, sitting up.

  "Drink it," he snapped. "All of it."

  Lucy swallowed the liquid. "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "You've been poisoned," said Carlo.

  "Helen would never—"

  "She has. Anything you can do with your magic, anything at all, do it." He didn't want to give voice to his worries about his daughter. "I'll be in the laboratory."

  "Wake up, Carlo." Drusus shook him.

  Carlo started. He had been dreaming about Sekhmet again. While he had been waiting for the antidote to cool, he must have fallen asleep. There was no direct light in the lab, so he had no idea what time it was. "Drusus? How is she?"

  "Worse," Drusus said. "Much worse."

  Yesterday afternoon Mrs. Larkin fell ill. Carlo worked through the night and had an antidote for both her and McAllistair in the morning and administered it with every hope they would recover. On the other hand, Lucy had become gravely ill in spite of having the first dose, because she had drunk more of the chocolate.

  Carlo poured the new dose into a bottle. His body still ached from his time in Duat. "Do you think she'll die?"

  "She won't die."

  "You don't know that." Carlo's throat was raw. His head throbbed.

  "Ra won't let her die," said Drusus.

  "It's not her fault," said Carlo. He stood, straight for the first time. His reliance on the cane seemed such nonsense now. "If we had left things alone, hadn't tried to help her in Venice…she's going to die, and it's my fault. My child is going to die, and it's my fault."

  "She's stronger than she looks. If you need proof, nothing has changed with me. I am still"—Drusus forced the words out—"as I was, a sure sign she is not going to die."

  "What if she dies, but Ra doesn't?"

  Drusus recoiled as if Carlo had slapped him. "I will not allow such an outcome, nor will you."

  Carlo was so tired the darkness looked glassy. He couldn't remember sleeping, but he must have. Lucy was gone from the bed. Her fever had broken, but she had yet to regain consciousness. Where was she?

  Blood slicked the bed and trailed into the hallway. Oh no. Please, no. The shadows skulked away, ashamed. Carlo glided through them, following moans and sobs. Lucy was in the hallway, alive. Around her the floor was soaked with blood. Not only blood, but a tiny body, red and pink, covered in its caul. His daughter. He picked her up. Cold, still. The blood was still flowing, thick, sludgy, ebbing the life out of Lucy.

  Carlo knelt, felt the warmth seep into his knees, placing the body of the little girl on the floor gently. He grabbed Lucy's shoulders.

  "Carlo," said Lucy. Her hand was limp. "The baby."

  "Lucy, listen to me. You must stop this bleeding." He shouted for help. The shadows rustled like flying bats.

  Lucy's voice trembled, "What has happened to the baby?"

  Carlo spoke softly, "You must stop the bleeding now, Piccolina, or we will lose you."

  "I don't think I can. I can't concentrate." Her eyes were dark and hollow. Her eyes snapped into something hostile, golden. "Lucy is not here."

  "Ra." Carlo bit back his anger. "Help her. If she dies, you die."

  "How could I help your wife, imprisoned as I am?"

  "Carlo!" Drusus ran down the hallway, half dressed. "Is she…?" He stopped, surveying the blood, the body.

  "Khun," said Ra. "Playing at being human."

  "Leave her alone, or I will—"

  "She has you. You will do nothing."

  Carlo cut across Ra's insults. "Lucy, listen to me. I need you to stop this bleeding."

  "Poor Borgia was duped," said Ra. "There could be no happy marriage, no wonderful life with a cracked vessel."

  "You did this to her," Drusus said. Carlo could feel the tension in Drusus like a spring compressed.

  "You blame me," said Ra, "when you should blame Lucy. She is as ruthless as Isis. I want freedom, as you do."

  "You have no idea what I want," said Drusus.

  "Please, Drusus. Ignore him. Stay with Lucy." Carlo viciously stuffed his own inclination to mourn his child back into an empty space inside himself. Drusus crouched, and cradled Lucy while Ra hurled insults. Carlo stumbled his way down to the hall to the lab, still in disarray from his potion making. He lit a lantern and searched through tinctures and plants. There were two things he wanted: comfrey oil and ephedra. One would help with the bleeding. The other would bring her back to herself enough that Lucy could use her own magic to finish the job. Carlo carefully mixed and measured, making himself be cautious and exact. Lucy's life depended on him.

  He ran back.

  Drusus was talking over Ra to Lucy. "You are my favorite sister," he said. "You cannot die. How will I look after you if you leave me?"

  Lucy was ashen. Her eyes darkened. "Drusus, where is my baby?"

  "Focus on me," said Drusus. "Stay here with Carlo and me."

  "Drink this," said Carlo, holding a beaker to Lucy's pale lips.

  Lucy drank. Her eyes fluttered closed and the bleeding slowed. Carlo collapsed on the floor, dumbfounded.

  "What was in that?" said Drusus.

  "Comfrey, to staunch the flow." Carlo picked Lucy up and carried her to the couch in the lab. He laid her down gently.

  Drusus took one of the lab sheets off a table, and came back with a small parcel a few minutes later, his mouth grim and tight. "I'll see to things."

  A small army of servants came to clean the bed, roll up the rug, and scrub the floor. Carlo watched all of this, detached, as the doctor who had pronounced him well three weeks ago verified the miscarriage. Drusus gave Carlo a brandy and stood by while he drank it.

  "Was my daughter a Binder?" he asked Drusus.

  "They are always born on the same day, Carlo. It wasn't that day."

  Carlo finished the brandy, which scorched his throat, followed by a chaser of numbness. Drusus took his daughter's body away, and Carlo leaned against the wall of the clean bedroom they installed Lucy in, as out of the way as possible. In the earliest hours of the morning after the death of his daughter, before Lucy regained consciousness, Carlo found himself ghosting the hallways of the great house. Evie scrubbed the wooden floor underneath the rug, still ominously stained.

  The Klaereon mausoleum was pristine white marble, stark relief against the mythology of Binder black, on the grounds of Mistraldol, far away from the house. Drusus and Carlo saw to the interment of the tiny body, as Lucy was still too weak to leave her bed. Flavia, the name Lucy had decided on for their daughter, slept in a tiny hole in a wall next to people Carlo did not know. Carlo traced the letters of her name, the one date of her birth and death.

  Carlo wept.

  Hathersage, October, 1842

  Lucy, pale and large-eyed, swaddled in blankets, was a tiny doll in the large chair of the room where Carlo had so recently had his convalescence. Lucy hadn't eaten much. Evie took away the tray. Carlo understood. He had no appetite himself.

  Carlo knelt by Lucy and took her hand as Evie closed the door. He wished he could trust Lucy. He wished for many things. "How are you feeling?"

  Lucy shook her head. Carlo squeezed her hand. "Me too." Carlo brushed Lucy's tears away with a finger.

  "Can you take me outside?" Lucy asked.

  "It is cold outside today. Maybe we will stay here for a while."

  "I want to see Flavia."

  "Give your body a chance to do its work, heal you, and then I will take you." Carlo moved pillows, tried to make her more comfortable.

  "I don't want her to be alone, where it's cold and dark."

  Carlo took her hands in his. "I know."

  "It wasn't supposed to be like this," Lucy's voice caught. "You would have been happy. Now I have nothing to give you."

  "I still have you," said Carlo.

  Lucy shook her head. "You don't want me."

  "There you are wrong. I want you above all things. Do you think I would go to all this trouble for anyone else?"

  "I wish we could be happy."

  "Maybe not now, Lucy, but some day again, yes."

  Lucy closed her eyes. "I should have sent you away when you came back. I was too selfish."

  "Be selfish for a change." Carlo searched her eyes. Could he reach her? "Whatever you think you have to do, however you think you must save everyone else, all that matters is your happiness."

  "I wish I could believe in that."

  "No?" Carlo kissed her. "Believe in me, then."

  "I do believe in you." Lucy's voice dropped. "I will always believe in you."

  Carlo held her as she drifted to sleep. "I hope you will," he said into the quiet room.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Scarborough, October, 1842

  Skye Castle was a fanciful name for the Claudian ancestral home on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. There were entryways for grounded people, but there were also entryways that were designed solely for people who could glide or fly, half-aerie, half manor house. Carlo watched Drusus fly into one of the higher balconies. He returned his attention to Lucy, lifting her out of the back of the carriage and taking her inside.

  They were greeted by Lenore, Lady Claudian, Vergilius' wife, a blond woman with a sense of the impeccable. "Signor Borgia," she said. "Signora. My condolences for your loss. I am shocked your husband allowed you to travel at all."

  "I could not be happy at home with Octavia's fate in the balance," said Lucy. "Thank you for accommodating me."

  "Do not be foolish," said Lenore. If someone could smile with both grace and disapproval, well, that was the smile Carlo was receiving now.

  "She's very tired after our journey," Carlo said. Lucy was almost weightless. His own emotions were jagged, constantly cut by the razor of suspicion over what she was planning in her madness, worried about losing her as well as his daughter. Her hold on Drusus remained strong, and from that alone he could glean she hadn't given up. He couldn't leave her with the children. It was a tense relief she was insistent on attending the examination.

  "Let's get you comfortable," said Lady Claudian.

  Dark shadows ringed Lucy's eyes. "Thank you."

  Carlo carried her up the stairs behind a young man who carried their bags. There were layers and layers of floors in the house, some of them not connected by stairs, where only the family could go.

  "Is Octavia here?" asked Lucy.

  "I doubt she will be here until tomorrow." Carlo said. They entered an innocuous room full of sun, a balcony open to the sea air. A maid helped settle Lucy into bed. "You need to sleep."

  "I will not have much choice in that," Lucy said.

  Carlo kissed her. "I will be back as soon as I can be."

  "That's what you said to me when you went to see Isis."

  Carlo held her hand. "I mean it this time."

  She couldn't muster the energy for a smile. "Go find Drusus. He needs you."

  Carlo backed out of the room. Why wasn't she healing herself? How could he manage to help her care about using her powers? Was it because the Borgia poison was so potent? What if he had made it possible for the Galts to kill his wife, withering away before his eyes?

  The main hall of Skye Castle had been transformed for the examination. Tiered balconies and boxes lined the walls and made the whole thing a theater, extending well into the upper reaches of the house. The view from the highest seats would make the council and witnesses look like dolls. Carlo climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. Drusus waited for him by the edge of one of the entry balconies for the family, studying the large chamber below, bustling with magicians who had come to see the formalized clash between the Galts and the Klaereons. Mirrors made the guests seem more numerous than they actually were. People often took a vigorous interest in affairs not their own.

  "How is she?" Drusus asked.

  "She's exhausted. And you are still under her direction?"

  Drusus nodded. "As a concerned brother, I am to keep you out of harm's way. She determines what is harmful."

  "Admirable. She doesn't know about your resistance, does she? I marvel at how you are pulling that off."

  Drusus took a moment to phrase it so what he wanted to say would encounter the path of least resistance. "Some of the things you said to me in Berlin might have helped."

  Carlo raised an eyebrow. "I have some hopes the truth potion might also help you regain control of yourself."

 

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