“Ready to get Lord Riven back, of course. What didyouthink was happening here?”
Earlier today, Margaret had felt like an expert guiding a new assistant. Now, she stared into the young nachzehrer’s eyes and felt lost. “But I’m the one she threatened. I refused her invitation and made her angry, so it wasmyhusband?—”
“Ahem.” A tall, unfamiliar man with unfashionably long, greying brown hair stepped forward at the bottom of the stairs. “Lady Riven.” He nodded with grave courtesy. “We’ve met only once before, last night, when I was in my other form.”
“Other—? Oh, yes, of course.” Even in its current, storm-hammered state, her brain could putthatmuch together: this must be Herr von Krallemann, the werewolf owner of this inn. Perhaps she ought to curtsey to him—but he was already speaking again, his voice firm. “According to Fräulein Leonie, our neighboring baroness has been watching all of us through ourmirrors for months and actively abusing at least one guest in our inn through that medium.”
Pausing, he swept his gaze across the other assembled guests. “To be clear:wasFräulein Leonie the only one to hear degrading personal insults—in their own heads, as it may have seemed—when looking into their bedroom mirrors?”
Gazes shifted away from him in response. Low, unhappy murmurs sounded. Herr Schneider played a low, melancholy ripple of notes in a minor key on his soul pipe, while Herr Fischer, the night raven, jerked his head in a swift, unhappy negative.
Apparently, Leonie hadnotbeen the baroness’s only victim.
Margaret could feel distant rage at that news lighting somewhere far on her emotional horizon, but it couldn’t burn through the numbness at her core. That shield of blanknot-feeling was all that kept her standing upright now instead of falling into a useless panic.
“In other words,” Herr von Krallemann said inexorably, “you and your husband are far from the first or only members of my household to have been attacked, and she began well before you came here. This inn is meant to be a much-needed shelter,nota staging ground for her malice. None of us can allow the situation to continuenorallow this blatant outrage to go unpunished.”
“But whatcanwe do?” The words burst out from Herr Fischer as he jigged unhappily on thetiled foyer floor, wrapping his arms tightly around his chest. “Can’t send for the local militia for help.They’dnever stand for us against a human.”
“They might, perhaps....” Herr von Krallemann began.
“No!” Margaret spoke urgently over him. “No onecan march over there in an attack. At the first sign of any militia or the rest of you approaching, she’ll open her curtains and turn my husband into ashes! She showed me where she’s holding him; he hasnoprotection.”
“I see.” Herr von Krallemann’s expression tightened. “In that case, if she followed through on her threat...and her servants cleared away the ashes quickly enough...then the militia would not believe he had ever even been there. She could even complain thatwewere the ones harassing her by calling them.”
“They’d believe it, too,” Herr Fischer muttered.
At the image of dusty ashes swept into a fireplace, Margaret felt a wave of faintness nearly overcome her; she forced herself to focus instead on her next step. “Ihaveto go to her estate alone, ready to do whatever she tells me if he’s to have any chance at surviving the day.”
“But you can’t,” Leonie said. “You told me yourself earlier not to trust her to keep her word on anything—and who knows what she might ask you to do?”
Nausea curled through Margaret’s stomach. “I know,” she said, voice low and shamed. “Lord Rivenwould never wish me to make this choice. But I can’t lose him, even for my principles—or his. Icannot.”
“Ohhh.” By rights, Leonie should have been disgusted by that confession—but she let the word out on a long, wondering sigh. “Iwaswrong about you after all.Isee! You don’t think of him as lesser at all—and youdidn’tmarry him only for the sake of your studies, did you?”
“My husband is the best and most honorable man I’ve ever known,” Margaret said tightly. “He is lesser tono one.”
And if he woke tonight to discover that she’d committed unforgivable acts in the baroness’s service—in his name!—he would never look at her the same way again.
Five minutes ago, alone in her room, she’d seen that crushingly bleak outcome as her best and only hope for his survival. Now, though, under Leonie’s expectant gaze—and surrounded by a breathtakingly unexpected crowd of willing support—she drew a deep, clearing breath for the first time since she’d glimpsed that glass coffin in her mirror and been overwhelmed by mindless terror.
What if shecouldsave him without tarnishing the honor that was such an essential part of his nature? True, that had seemed impossible at first...but then, how many times had she been told in her life that her goals were unachievable? Time and again, authority figures had instructed her to give up all her lofty aspirations and settle forlesser options.
On her own, she’d proventhosedisdainful warnings wrong. Now, with a whole group of allies assembled by her side, how could she finally give in to despair?
As the storm of panic in her head finally cleared, her gaze moved from one supernatural creature to another—each with their own particular strengths and skills andallof them courageously assembled to stand against the woman who had breached their safe haven and tried to crush their spirits.
If they could only find a way to use the baroness’s own self-satisfied reflection against her...
And if Margaret could force herself tofinallysurmount the one challenge that she had always shied away from attempting...
Thank goodness there were no mirrors in this foyer!
Looking at Leonie, Margaret said, “Do you think you might be able to trust me, just for a little while?”
For the first time since they’d met, the nachzehrer’s gaze was unshielded. “Yes,” Leonie said firmly. “I will.”
Margaret leftthe inn on her own, exactly as she’d promised. Her own carriage was still well out of reach, along with her servants, but she found a faded brown carriage waiting for her on the narrow, thickly shadowed road between the trees, just beyond the inn’sown clearing. Much like the gown the baroness had worn in the mirror, this conveyance had the look of something that had once been fashionable and of good quality. By now, though, the gold gilding on its walnut doors had almost entirely worn off—and as Margaret approached, she glimpsed two deeply intriguing sets of scratches marring the back of the carriage.
