Page 80 of Apprentice to the Villain

She didn’t.

“I will pay for you to rebuild. Wherever you wish,” Trystan said quietly. He offered it readily, humbly, with a downturn of his head, like he was submitting to his transgressions with utter defeat. “I’ll help you stock the finest liquors, the best mead, therichest wines. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

Malcolm laughed without humor and without patience. “As much as the offer tempts me, I have no interest in rebuilding an establishment the public is only going to scorn or use as kindling. It’s okay, Tryst, really. I knew it wouldn’t last. There’s no need to atone for it.”

Trystan didn’t take this well. She could tell by the way his shoulders fell, like he’d defeated one demon just to be battered by another. “Allow me to apologize, then, for your having to suffer me as a brother.”

Malcolm stepped forward, reaching up and placing a hand on Trystan’s shoulder, cockiness slipping away to reveal familial sincerity. “I assure you, there’s no need to apologize for that, either.”

She almost died for the sweetness of the sentiment, watching in the corner like a creepy spectator. Until she heard, “Sage, for the love of the gods! Are you crying?”

Her drink sloshed in her glass as she waved her arms around. “What do you want from me? This is cute!”

Malcolm laughed, and then the boss did, too—smaller than Malcolm’s, but she saw the dimple, so there was no need for complaints.

“Oh,” Malcolm said with a snap of his fingers. “As for my rather unorthodox entrance, Evie, I was looking for a place to hunker down for a little while. I’d heard from local gossip that your house was vacated, so I thought it would be safe to lay low here until I figure out my next move. I’d hoped you wouldn’t mind. I’d actually sort of hoped you wouldn’t find out at all.”

She smiled and patted Malcolm’s cheek. “I don’t mind. Please stay here as long as you like, but you’re of course welcome to come join us at the manor. Clare is residing there, too; I’m sure she’d like your company.”

Malcolm’s light-brown eyes widened. “Clare is staying withyou? OursisterClare? Next thing you know, unicorns are going to be giving birth to rabbits.”

Trystan gave Malcolm a pointed look before uttering one word: “Tatianna.”

Malcolm digested the information immediately with a decisive snort. “I should’ve guessed.”

Licking her still-swollen lips, Evie pulled the piece of frame from her pocket. “We came here looking for a painting of my mother’s. Have you happened to see it around in your time here? It’s an outdoor landscape with two little girls playing.”

Malcolm gasped. “Oh, yes! There’s a few in the small cupboard off your kitchen. I’ll fetch it for you.” He flew out the door, and for a moment it was just her and Trystan again.

The air grew thick, his eyes roving every inch of her face until he landed on her lips. He lurched forward and halted like he had to physically hold himself back from her, like he wanted her too badly to move. Evie had never felt so overcome in her life.

But then Trystan slammed himself back against the wall when Malcolm stormed in, portrait in hand. It was in a gilded frame with one corner missing.

“This is it!” she exclaimed, her focus now completely on the painting. She brushed a finger down the rough canvas and stepped back to better view the picture. Two young girls, perhaps no older than Lyssa, frolicked in a field surrounded by strange and large-looking plants. Vines twirled around every inch of open space, and the colors were so liberal and vibrant they almost distracted from the people in it. It was obvious her mother was one of the little girls—she looked exactly like Lyssa. Like her sister had been placed right into the art.

Pinned-back braids; round, dark eyes; golden-brown skin; hand clasped with that of the little girl next to her. The other had braids, too, but they were dark red, like fire. Her eyes were a light brown that reminded Evie of toffee, her pale skin wasdotted with freckles just across her nose, and she held a gilded gold key in her hand. Evie searched for an artist’s mark, an inscription, any clues as to who the redheaded girl was or where this was painted. But there were only two fadedFs at the bottom.

She assumed they didn’t stand forfreaking fucked, but it felt rather appropriate anyway. “Do you know where this is, sir?” She took the portrait from Malcolm and angled it toward the boss.

He squinted hard and rubbed his chin. “I’m afraid not, Sage. I don’t recognize it at all. But perhaps someone in town will. We’ll ask around.”

She shut her eyes tight. She knew exactly what needed to be done, but her bravery wasn’t up to the task, her heart not yet healed from the battering it had taken the last time she’d challenged it this way. But emotional scars sometimes demanded to be reopened—to let out the remainder of the pain, to free you from it.

“No, we can’t waste any more time,” Evie said, a pit of dread pooling in her stomach. “We’re working against the clock with the guvres and the manor’s wards failing, and there’s only one person I am certain will know exactly where this portrait was painted and who this little girl is.”

Trystan tilted his head at the artwork, then sent a questioning look to her. “Who?”

“My father.”

Chapter 48

Evie

“I can’t do it,” Evie whispered, staring at the cellar door.

The boss stood on one side of her, Tatianna on the other, smiling, hand clasping hers. Warmth seeped through the touch, like the healer was sending her magic to every broken piece of Evie’s heart. “Come now, little friend. You’ve done far harder things than this.”

Evie wanted to argue, but Tatianna always tended to speak in hard resolutions, like her beliefs were facts and not subject to argument, and, annoyingly enough, the healer was usually right.