“NO!”

The cry tore out of her, and with it, power. Iridescent colors exploded wild and glimmering over Arron’s head, and then there was a great flash that forced Beatrice’s eyes shut just as the chandelier made impact.

Just as it should have made impact.

But there was no crash, no scream, no crunching of bones. She opened her eyes to see Arron standing, unscathed, beneath what appeared to be a huge, oval-shaped mirror. Motionless in the air it hung, and at a slight angle—with a faint blur of color twisting about its edges.

The diamond chandelier was nowhere to be seen.

Relief overcame her first, and gratitude that Arron was unharmed. But that warm wave was washed almost immediately away by one of icy dread as she realized what it had cost.

Of every arrow-sharp gaze that pierced her, it was the duchess’s which drove the deepest. And it was hers which Beatrice forced herself to meet, though it felt like her stomach had filled with lead and it was all she could do not to collapse to the ground and sob.

But the Duchess had stepped forward, her face aglow with triumph—her eyes shining with the delighted fierceness of midnight diamonds. Dark replacements for the sun-bright jewels now gone.

“This changes everything,” she declared, striding with arms widespread to embrace Beatrice where she stood, frozen in shock and terror. “You, my daughter-in-law to be, shall make me a queen.”

Then the mirrored portal flashed once more, and was gone.

It was well past midnight, and the drawing room was crowded. Installed near the hearth—the chamber’s only source of light save a few lanterns along the wall—Beatrice took comfort in its warmth. There was little else to be found in her current predicament.

“So, in essence,” said Charles, cutting into his mother’s speech and running a hand through his hair for the thousandth time that evening. “You are blackmailing us into joining your coup.”

“I am motivating you to do what is right, Charles. This…subtle transformation from within that Darcy has you all working at…surely by now you must see its ineffectiveness. Your father died waiting for the day we could marry and join into one pack.”

At that Charles actually growled.

“My son,” said the Duchess, voice barely above a hush as she glided forward to cup Charles’ face in her hands. “How can you hesitate, after what they did to you? And how can you blame me?” He said nothing, and she released him and turned away, eyes drifting to the hearthfire, to Beatrice.

“Think of it. In a single day, we could change everything. One declaration from me, and no more would the Fox shifters of our birthland—the only ones to appear anywhere in the world—be tortured, killed, imprisoned or secreted away. No more would the loves and lives of all in the provinces of Dustren be determined by Blessing alone. After all, not everyone can be taken in by a half-Hygardian.” Her expression soured as she glared back at Charles once more.

“Or do you not care for the troubles of the people of Dustren, since you have outrun them yourself?”

“Your Grace,” Gray spoke, his voice gravely and deep from misuse. He paused to clear his throat as everyone turned to regard him. “We hesitate not because we do not care, nor because of cowardice, but due to reasonable caution. This power is not the boon you think it is.”

“You mean the monsters, I take it,” said the Duchess, flashing her dazzlingly white teeth in something that was both a smirk and a grin. She put out her right hand and Theodor, standing to that side, pressed something into her palm. She lifted it up, batting it like the fan which was now tucked into her jeweled belt. “A sword of bone defeats them, does it not? And what is it that you have there?” She raised the booklet to point over Beatrice’s shoulder at D’artanien, who in response clenched his treasure and shifted it further into shadow.

Gray’s lips drew into a hard line before he spoke. “We have one sword of bone. One. It matters not how skilled a mage might be, they cannot control the integrity of their portals any longer. The Liminal itself has been torn. And these creatures—Daimondrakes, they’re called—they can appear in astounding numbers. There is no safe way for a Fox to use her power.”

The duchess scoffed. “Then we make more swords.”

Gray was already shaking his head, his frustration palpable. “Your Grace, such a sword is only effective when made from the bone of a specific creature.” He paused as Jemison came up behind him to stand at his back, squeezing both his shoulders. Bringing up a hand, he laid it over the Tiger shifter’s, and the tensed lines of Gray’s body relaxed somewhat.

“A fearsome beast, from another world,” he continued. “And there are none alive today who can open a portal to that world or even know which of the many it is.”

Duchess Arinvale regarded her fellow Wolf mage loftily.

“I am not demanding that we accomplish all of my goals in a single day. There is time to find solutions.”

“It’s not as though we have a choice, in any case,” said Charles, locking eyes finally with Beatrice, speaking directly to her. “She will hold to her word if we don’t agree to this. She will report you, and they will take you away.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Jemison, taking a drink and slamming his cup upon a sideboard as he scowled at Duchess Arinvale. “Why would you deliver the power you covet into the hands of the man you secretly wish to depose?”

The Wolf recalled her son Theodor then in the smugness of her countenance. “I am familiar enough with the League to know they’re too devout and too frightened to ever allow her power to be put to use. It would be like placing in their hands the finest of swords only for them to toss it into a well. And though I may not be able to wield it myself, no one else shall either.”

Beatrice wasn’t sure why—perhaps it was that look of the duchess’s that so reminded her of Theodor—but suddenly she was filled with a boldness and an anger that took even her aback when she spoke.

“I am not your sword, nor anyone else’s,” said Beatrice. “But I do wish to help. I do wish to change things. I only…” her flame flickered. “I don’t know if I truly can. But I want to try.”

Jemison and Gray began immediately to argue, but the duchess spoke over them both.

“Lady Stagston, I thank you,” she said. “You must know, I was not sincere in the harsh things I said upon my arrival, I meant only to incite strong emotion without revealing my intentions, in case you had no power after all. In the hope, of course, that you might reveal it without my having to resort to—”

“To putting my life in mortal peril, and the life of someone I love?” The moment the words were out of her mouth, Beatrice realized what she’d said and in front of whom and flushed, glad she could not see Arron where he stood in the shadows at the back of the room.

“I suppose it was your Jaguar and Lion mages, who brought the chandelier down upon us?” she continued, a bit haltingly.

The duchess said nothing, but her look was answer enough.

“I do not do this for you, but for my home,” said Beatrice. “For my sisters. But I have caveats…and questions.”

The duchess tilted her head to look down her nose at her.

“Oh?”

“The king’s son, his heir. We will not allow him to come to harm. He’s just a child.”

Duchess Arinvale sniffed. “Of course. He is far too young to rule—I would be named Regent until he comes of age. There will be plenty of time to find an amenable solution before that occurs.”

“And what if we were to see him raised well, such that when the time comes, he could take his rightful place at the throne and be trusted to honor the changes made in his stead?”

“I would allow it,” said the duchess, though there was a rigidity to her tone. “Assuming, of course, we have managed to maintain the secret of our involvement in his father’s downfall throughout. Otherwise, I shall have to declare myself queen and take the throne by open conquest. In that case, we should be forced at least to fake the prince’s death, and smuggle him away somewhere to be raised in obscurity. Though I must warn you, If he becomes a nuisance as an adult, I shall have no compunctions in having him killed.”

Beatrice didn’t doubt her, but supposed it was the best she could hope.

“Very well. My next query, then, is this; will you give your oath that you will do as you have proposed when you have taken power—to end the compulsory work houses for non-shifters, the laws against mixed packs and marriages and the abuse of the Foxes? And what’s more, can you assure me that you will be able to undo Darcy’s own blood oath? Otherwise, if she learns of my power…”

“Ah,” said the duchess, regarding her keenly as she tucked away the forbidden booklet and withdrew her fan. “A Wolf mage may undo an oath by ritual, but only upon the death of the one to whom it was given.”

“Lord Commander Warrick of the Knight’s League,” said Gray, his tone strange, unreadable. “But you mean to kill him regardless, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do,” said the duchess without hesitation. “He is the true power behind the throne. We all know this.” When there was no argument, she focused her attention on Beatrice once more.

“Yes, Lady Stagston, I shall give such an oath. But it shall be upon you to see to it that your wife does not learn the truth while Warrick still lives, and upon you to hone your skill in secret such that the lord commander’s demise be made possible.”

“Then I bid you, Your Grace, strike a vein at your leisure, and let us take our oaths.”

Beatrice had to fight to conceal her surprise at her own words. What has overcome me?

Whatever it was, she was glad of it—for in some deep part of herself she took a righteous pleasure in embracing this inevitability head on, in defying the shrinking nothing-girl she’d been appraised to be.

There was whispering amongst the guests and householders in attendance. Jemison cursed and Gray murmured what sounded like a prayer.

The duchess beamed ferociously, and even in human form there was more to her then of Wolf than of woman. Beatrice shivered.