Chapter 4

L eon's dismal prediction about the party turned out to be right.

No sooner had Baron stepped foot in the Bennett Manor ballroom than he realized it was a hive of wasps, filled with all the sharpest gossips of society. He'd denied them a good swarming for three months, and they certainly made up for lost time.

"My Lord Baron!" said one such wasp, buzzing too close and truly looking the part in her bright yellow gown tied with a black sash. "It must be so bittersweet, taking the title. On the one hand, you've lost your father, yet on the other, you may be the first Caster to hold a court seat in three generations. Morton doesn't count, of course, marrying in as she did."

Baron gave a relaxed smile over a tight jaw. "There's no ‘may' about it, madam. I am Lord Baron of the Reeves estate."

"You've not yet presented yourself to the king. Inherited title or not, nothing's official until His Majesty approves it."

"Which is exactly what he'll do at the next court event. If you'll excuse me."

Rather than allowing him escape, the woman hooked her arm through his and steered him directly into a hive of her buzzing compatriots. Baron gave an inward groan. Hopefully the twins fared better. They'd joined a group of other young teenagers, and he'd lost sight of them in the crush.

"We were discussing Lord Reeves's possible seat at court!" the woman beside him announced.

All five of the gossips they'd joined were happy to swarm around that topic. From all around Baron came expressions of false concern—what a tragedy for his house if the king did not give his approval, he must prepare himself for the worst, and oh dear, what stress he must be under directly after the loss of his father.

"Listen here, Guillaume—Guillaume, isn't it? Gwee-yahm." Lord Stanley clapped Baron on the shoulder. "These Patrian pronunciations really are hopeless, Reeves. Your mother should have gone with a sensible ‘William' rather than this Grillam nonsense. As if you don't have enough working against you with that witch's brand!"

His wife swatted his arm. "Dear, you'll embarrass the poor chap. It's Gillan. Not so hard at all."

It was actually Ghee-yum, as Leon liked to say—the boy enjoyed any reference to food—or Corvin's more correct GEE-yohm , but Baron did not volunteer a pronunciation. Some people speculated that he hid behind a nickname out of shame for his half-Patrian heritage, but that was not true. Baron's name was the final remnant of his birth mother, and he would never allow others to tarnish it.

Resting one hand on the dress sword at his side, Baron spoke with a tone as hardened as the steel within the sheath.

"Lord Reeves"—he held Lord Stanley's gaze until the man's eyes retreated into the depths of his wine cup—"is the correct pronunciation."

Sweeping his eyes over the group silenced the rest. Perhaps he should have remained as nonthreatening as possible, because he knew the truth: behind the mocking laughter lay fear.

One woman's eyes darted to the witch's mark on the side of his neck, and Baron clenched his jaw, feeling a phantom pain against his throat. The brand couldn't be missed, reaching as it did from beneath the left side of his jaw nearly to his collarbone. When the mark had first been given, it had nearly resembled an S, but time and growing had stretched it out of shape until it was barely more than an impression of curved wings in opposition to a central point.

No matter how it looked, the message was clear: Beware.

"If you'll excuse me." Baron bowed and turned away.

Dodging a few more groups, he reached Margaret Bennett at last. The girl stood with her father while her mother made rounds of conversation through the room. Since Baron had previously met Silas's sister, no formal introductions were required. He merely bowed.

"Miss Margaret, congratulations on—"

"Baron!" Margaret gave a genuine smile at his appearance, the first to do so. "Has my brother sent word from Pravusat?"

"It's ‘Lord Reeves,'" her father corrected gruffly. "That distasteful nickname has always been a blight, and Marcus was a fool to encourage it."

Baron inclined his head. "Lord Bennett."

Silas's father was a stern man in all things but especially in social hierarchies. Despite being only a viscount—a single step above Baron's own position—he conducted himself with the superiority of a duke. Luckily, his children hadn't inherited the ailment.

"I'm afraid I've not heard from Silas recently," Baron said. As Margaret's face fell, he added, "His last letter indicated the university is quite spectacular. Almost another world."

It was a small deception to say "last letter" as if Silas had sent more than one. Honestly, Baron had been surprised to receive anything from him—Silas was not one for writing unless keeping research notes. In that spirit, his entire letter had been exactly three lines long, including the signature:

It's a different world in this country, Gilly.

It's freedom.

Silas

"I'd hoped he might be home by now," said Baron.

Margaret's expression drooped again. "I'd hoped as well. At least by my birthday."

Though the silence tempted Baron to slip away, he hesitated. Margaret did look lovely, her pink gown a complement to her easy blush, and she was the only person who'd been welcoming all evening. Surely he could stay a little longer.

Baron smiled. "While I'm no substitute for Silas, I'd be honored to share a dance with the lady of the evening."

Her own smile blossoming, Margaret reached for his extended hand—

Only for her father to catch her wrist.

"She's not dancing with a Caster," Lord Bennett said. "Not with this Morton business. It would taint her image."

The brand on Baron's neck—hanging exposed above his collar—seemed to burn as hot as the day he'd received it. After the branding law had been implemented generations earlier, Loegria's fashion standards had changed to accommodate it; no more high necklines for either men or women. No opportunity for a Caster to hide. A witch's mark remained visible at all times, an announcement to the polite men and women of society concerning the deadly magic user in their midst.

With the brand, Baron was permitted to practice magic if it caused no harm. But permission was not trust.

One might wonder , he thought, why I even received an invitation .

But, of course, Lord Bennett's strict enforcement of social hierarchies would not allow him to slight a member of court by lack of invitation. Caster or not, Baron was a titled lord until the king himself said otherwise.

Which was exactly why Baron could not allow the king to say otherwise. He'd promised his father to serve as a voice in the court representing those like himself who grew more threatened and misunderstood each day.

"I see," said Baron softly.

Margaret's face flushed as she looked down, tucking her arms against her middle. She'd never possessed the fortitude to stand against her father. That was her brother's prerogative—and the reason he'd been exiled to study abroad.

"Happy birthday to you, Miss Margaret."

After a bow, Baron retreated into the crowd. At least he was not overtaken by a swarm this time. Most of the wasps had flown onto the ballroom floor or migrated to the edges of the room, burrowing into cakes and finger pastries.

Time to leave, then. Yet as he craned to look for the twins, a new figure intercepted him—Lady Bennett in all her hostess glory, layered skirts flouncing with every movement. "Lord Reeves! Enjoying the evening?"

Before he could respond, a maid rushed up.

"My lady!" The girl's wide, terrified eyes knotted Baron's insides, reminding him of another servant and the wrenching words, Your father's collapsed. Come quickly!

"It's your grandmother's vase," the maid cried. "It's been shattered!"

That distressed him for a different reason. If something had been broken, he was certain he knew the culprit.

Two culprits, to be precise. Both surnamed Reeves.

The twins had gotten into a fight, lost track of their surroundings, and knocked the family heirloom from its shelf. Though they'd wandered from the main party into the annex, there were still plenty of people gathered to witness the drama.

Lady Bennett wailed, clutching her heart like it had shattered along with the vase. Between her sobs came the story of how the vase had been a wedding gift to her grandmother from Duke Something himself, one of a kind, irreplaceable, invaluable, imported, a piece of history, her most prized possession.

Baron wanted to melt into the floor. As a Fluid Caster, he might have been capable. Just drip through the floorboards and never be seen again. Tempting.

Instead, he stepped in front of Leon and Corvin, offering profuse apologies on their behalf.

"This behavior reflects on you, Reeves!" Lady Bennett wailed. "I raised two children in this house, and they never so much as cracked a saucer!"

Leon bristled. "Hey, Baron isn't—!"

Baron shot the boy a look that silenced him on the spot.

"Of course, Lady Bennett," he said. "I take full responsibility. I'm truly sorry I can do nothing to restore the vase."

Amid a buzz of whispers from the other guests, he ushered the twins to the waiting carriage, holding tense until they'd passed beyond the gate. Then he released a sigh.

"It was an accident, Baron," Corvin whispered. The boy had pressed himself all the way to the far end of the carriage bench, his eyes on the floor.

"Accident or on purpose," Leon muttered from the other end, "it was us. She shouldn't have screamed at you."

Sitting across from them, Baron took a steadying breath, holding his tongue as every possibility passed over it.

Can't you stop fighting?

What if one of you had transformed?

I already have so much—

"You're not hurt?" he finally managed. When both twins shook their heads, he said, "Good."

"We're sorry." Corvin shrank in his seat, the posture he always assumed before a lecture. Had Father been alive, he would have received one, at twice the volume of Lady Bennett's. Worry always brought out the worst of Father's temper.

But Baron wasn't their father. He never could be.

"It's been hard for all of us," he said.

Both boys relaxed.

After a few moments of calming silence, Corvin muttered, "I bet Silas broke at least ten saucers growing up. She just never found the pieces."

Even Leon smiled at that.