Syphon's Song (29 page)

“It’s very thoughtful of you to keep me in clothes. I’ll pay you back.” Bronte headed to the bathroom with the large bag.

“You certainly will not.”

Bronte ignored her. She donned gray tights, a long-sleeved crimson dress that skimmed her curves and a pair of black boots. They were tall, fuzzy on the inside with a flat heel and good tread. They would more than suffice for a quick escape should any be necessary. Her feet would stay warm in these. She brushed her hair with her fingers, pulled it into a twist, and secured it with pins from her bag.

She walked out of the bedroom, if not a new woman, then a more respectable one.

Helen looked her up and down, gave her a nod of approval and hustled her toward the door.

“Wait.” Bronte dragged her feet. “I thought the hearing was at noon.”

“We started early. I want that woman and the Casteels—except for you, of course—out of my house. Sooner. Not later.”

Bronte had no idea to which woman Helen referred, but she wasn’t going to stir the pot by asking. She had another pot to stir. “You started? Without me?”

“Not to worry. It’s all going perfectly.”

Gregor took the lead as they walked off the porch. “Miss Casteel, Lady Rallis,” he nodded. He was dressed similar to Vincent, all black and covered in weapons. The bearded man, Dane took up the rear. Bronte didn’t like having him behind her.

“It would be my pleasure to drive you back to Rallis Hall,” Gregor continued.

Helen gave a small nod to the man. She expected nothing less.

Dane opened the door for her and she slid into the backseat on the passenger side.

Bronte climbed into the other side. Gregor closed her door with a wink and got behind the wheel.

Helen steadied herself against the door as they bounced away. “I’m giving you a driveway as a wedding present.”

Pushy woman.

“There’s no wedding on the calendar. And if you marred Vincent’s meadow with a strip of pavement, I think you’d find yourself on the wrong side of the gate he’s sure to install.”

Helen nodded. “Perhaps you should give him a driveway.”

“No.”

Dane turned to Bronte with a speculative look. There might have been a touch of respect in them.

As the house came into sight, Helen sat up straighter. “When we get into the hearing, let Edmund and I do the talking. We know what to say.”

“That sounds very familiar,” Bronte replied. “The last time you said that, I ended up being exposed as a syphon in the newspaper. Thank you, but I’ll do my own talking.”

As Gregor pulled into the back lot, Helen looked up toward the low ceiling of the vehicle like she was searching for patience. “Vincent warned me you would say something like that.” She spread her hands wide. “Bronte, I know what I’m doing here. I know the people who are waiting for us. And I know the law. You don’t. Darling girl, I don’t think you know how bad it is in Casteel Territory, how far that family has fallen, how desperate they’ve become.” Helen patted her knee. “When your mother kicked you out, she did you a favor. I think she’s lost her mind. A lot of mages in Casteel’s territory seem to have done so in the last decade. But…” Helen’s word was long and conciliatory. “If this is what you want, I will stand behind you. And when you get in trouble, I will be there to fix it.” Helen gave her another pat, got out of the car, and walked into the back wing of the house.

Bronte didn’t move for a moment, though Dane stood next to her open door. Gregor stayed in the car with her. The cool fall air reached into the vehicle, waiting for her to step out into it, to accompany her to the house where everything would change for her.

“Are you getting out?” Dane’s voice was carefully neutral. Vincent would have been tugging her out.

“Will he be alright…out there?”

“The colonel’s the best at what he does, ma’am.”

That wasn’t an answer to her question, but Dane didn’t offer anything more.

“We don’t have to do this. We can go back to Vincent’s if you want.” Gregor met her eyes in the rearview mirror.

“No, we can’t. Who knows what the Rallises will do if I’m not there to stop them?” Finally she slid from the car, nerves keeping pace with her, and strode toward the towering house. Its stark gray lines reached high, broken up by regular intervals of windows and the double wooden doors. Gregor reached for the knob to open one. She stepped into the biggest kitchen she’d ever seen. Large appliances gleamed silver throughout the work area. Pale yellow walls softened their imposing presence. There were two of everything—sinks, coffeepots, ovens—one of which had something savory baking inside it. Its scent drifted through the air.

Helen waited for her by a swinging door. She smiled and led the way through a butler’s pantry lined floor to ceiling with cabinets. Dane blocked Bronte’s view as he stepped in front of her. Gregor followed behind. They paraded into a huge dining room with a table so shiny Bronte wished for a pair of white gloves to avoid smudging anything. The table could seat twelve, with a great deal of space around it to expand. It was unusually wide. Bronte could have lain across its width, stretched her hands over her head, and still not spanned it. It would be inconvenient for passing the salt, but quite comfortable when it was her parents who were on the opposite side of it.

The two sat side by side. Deep frowns marred both their faces. Her brother sat next to them. She guessed it wasn’t hard to tell they were brother and sister, though he was fifteen years her senior. They had the same dark hair and pale skin, but Todd’s face was etched with an unhealthy gray, as if he’d spent years steeped in anger. He studied her with a glare that hid neither his curiosity nor his hatred.

She could face down prejudice and snobbery. Outright hatred was much harder. But she wasn’t running anymore. She tipped her chin up at the threat in his eyes.

Helen walked along the table and gestured Bronte into the chair at Edmund’s left. He was one seat shy of the head of the table. Helen sat on Bronte’s other side. Dane and Gregor stood at either corner of Bronte’s chair. She was surrounded, a reassuring fact as her family muttered angry secrets among themselves, pausing for the occasional glower at her.

Bronte didn’t know the remaining four people at the table. A pale blond woman sat at the head of the table next to Edmund. The other three were at the far end, tucked together and intent on their own conversation.

Edmund smoothed his tie and jacket as he leaned into Bronte. “You haven’t missed much. Just long-winded introductory statements, at least on your parents’ part. My introduction was succinct and compelling.” He squinted at her as his gaze caught on her hair. “What’s in your hair?” He fingered through the hair at the nape of her neck.

“Edmund,” Bronte whispered as she pulled away, “One doesn’t tease at a hearing.” She cupped her hand over her mouth so her family wouldn’t hear, though her parents and brother had started their own whispering session. Bronte was sure she was the topic of their conversation.

“No, I’m serious,” he whispered back. He put his hand on top of Bronte’s head and wrenched her toward him. She was surprised her bodyguards didn’t stop him.

Creepy shivers started down her back as she realized he wasn’t joking. “Is it a bug?”

He fingered through her hair. The loose knot she’d fixed began to droop.

She scrambled to repair it.

“A bug?” he sounded incredulous. He pulled away from her to see her face instead of her scalp. His mouth gaped. “Very funny. It’s a wea…” His whisper stopped abruptly.

She wrinkled her eyebrows and shook her head slightly. “A wea?” She touched the back of her head tentatively but didn’t feel anything crawling around. She caught the eye of the pale blond woman. The firm line of her mouth and drawn brow didn’t encourage Bronte to ask for her opinion.

Edmund was slow to speak. “It is…” His voice was a bare murmur. “A wee little bug?” He stared at her, his eyes making a close study of her face as if she were a book with very fine print. He shook his head. “I can’t believe my brother let you out of the house without telling you there’s a…bug in your hair
.
My brother is way dumber than I am.”

“He left before I got…” Dressed. Too much sharing.

“Remember this, Bronte. Years down the road, when you realize you chose the wrong brother, remember I warned you Vincent isn’t very smart.”

Helen poked her nose in. “Edmund, do not insult your brother. Vincent is a very smart man, Bronte.”

Phyllis’s ears perked up despite their quiet tones.

 
Bronte studied him. “Was there really a bug?” She couldn’t believe she was asking this at her own hearing. Edmund gave a shaky laugh and patted her on the shoulder.

Helen stretched her neck to see Bronte’s hair. “You have a bug in your hair?”

“I’ve got it, Mother. No need to get excited.” Edmund’s voice turned vehement. “In fact, let me check again.” He yanked his fingers through her hair. Her knot disintegrated. Pins tumbled to the seat of her chair and down to the floor as her hair fell to her shoulders.

“Edmund!” Helen admonished. “Manners. Please.”

Bronte frantically fingered her long tresses to arrange some semblance of an ordered coiffure. She was adding this to the list of the crazy things the Rallises had done to her. She touched the back of her hair, one last check for that bug. There was no creeping little body, though one section felt different—thicker maybe, as if something coated it. But her fingers slipped right through, unable to grasp anything. A thorough shampooing was in order.

The pale blond stared through the whole episode. Was she the judge? She looked about the same age as Bronte—young for a mage judge. Bronte smiled at her, but the woman’s expression didn’t change, frowning as hard as her mother. Her nose was quite proper, small and pointed, and her lips were true red. She wore a high-collared black jacket similar to Vincent’s dress uniform, minus the medals. Black wasn’t her color, though she’d be quite lovely if even a hint of happiness glimmered within her.

Helen whispered in Bronte’s ear. “That’s the High Council’s envoy. She’s here to retrieve your grandfather’s body. She insisted on attending this hearing. At the other end of the table are Judge Eaton, her reader mage, and the recorder mage.”

Two cracks banged through the air. Bronte flinched, her ears popping at the judge’s spell to bring the room to attention. “Now that the subject in question is present, we shall bring this hearing to its conclusion.”

Every gaze in the room shot to the judge. She was dressed in a white turtleneck, and her short, red hair was spiked at the ends. The effect was an angelic devil.

Phyllis screeched, her face red enough to burst. “Conclusion? I’m not anywhere near finished.”

The judge lifted an eyebrow.

Phyllis huffed and looked away, outranked by the other woman.

The judge continued, “In light of the evidence presented, Bronte Casteel is hereby declared a mage according to the laws of the Republic.”

Declared a mage. Just like that?

The verdict rang out. The walls of the room vibrated with the force of its energy. Bronte gripped the arms of her chair as the spell passed through her. The pain in her eardrums seared as the pressure built and then eased. Her vision narrowed to the table before her. The wood gleamed like ice. She would not let her head collapse against it—no matter how heavy it got or how fast the room spun around her. She could only imagine the smudge of forehead grease that would be left on its shine. She gripped the chair tighter.

“To the next order of business, I have here before me a transfer request from Rallis to Casteel regarding syphon mage Bronte Casteel. It is unusual for a transfer to be presented before a judge on its first request, but given the circumstances, I will allow it. How say you, Casteel?”

“Denied!” Phyllis spate the word through bared teeth.

Edmund cleared his throat. “Judge Eaton, if I may?” The judge nodded and Edmund took the floor. “Rallis has a final offer for Casteel.” He turned to Phyllis, “Lady Casteel, your medallion currently resides—”

The Council’s envoy interrupted. “Look at your daughter, Lady Casteel.” The steely blonde’s cold voice could have frozen the air. “Poised, calm. Good breeding, despite her power. But you kicked her out. So she’s likely seething under it all. Ready to take you out in a flash of mage vibes if you don’t grant this wish to be transferred to Rallis Territory.” Her voice was full of threats—heavy and scary. But there was no point to it. The envoy was misinformed. Bronte had no weapons against her mother.