Page 89 of Salem’s Rise

I nearly choke on my drink. “What?”

“My nephew.”

“I understood who you meant. I’m questioning the logic behind it.”

The corner of Lucien’s mouth lifts ever so slightly. “He smiles around you. That’s rare.”

“We’re partners. That’s all,” I say. “We’re not even friends, really.”

Lucien laughs softly, the look on his face all-knowing. I immediately regret speaking the words. It occurs to me that this man is far too perceptive for me to be anything but brutally honest. He would see through anything less.

“Okay… so maybe that’s not entirely correct. I’m not sure what’s going on with us,” I say, changing tactics. This, at least, is truthful. “But I didn’t think you, of all people, would approve.”

A flicker of genuine confusion crosses his face.

“Why would you think that?”

“Besides the obvious?” Heat creeps up the back of my neck. “I’m a nobody. He’s a Blackhollow. He has expectations. A grand life already planned for him that someone like me could never understand and never fit into. We’re from two totally different worlds and, no offense, but your world is absolutely terrifying.”

Lucien looks at Silas before turning back to me again.

“You’re right, Ms. Mercer. This life demands a great deal,” he says quietly. “It takes from anyone who’s not prepared to defend what belongs to them.” His hand tightens around his drink. “My brother and his wife—Silas’s parents—they barely survived it. I’ve found my own happiness with time, but happiness creates vulnerability. Once you possess something worth protecting, the Veil knows where to place the knife. You must get very good at deflecting it to protect those you love.”

Lucien has a faint smile on his face, as though he is thinking of someone special. Silas mentioned an aunt, though I’ve never seen the woman. I wonder where she is tonight. Whether Lucien keeps her away from these rooms to protect her, or whether she’s somewhere within them, disguised as another elegant stranger.

“I suppose,” Lucien continues, “I taught Silas cruelty because I believed it would keep him alive. I’m not certain I taught him when to set it aside or who to set it aside for. I have been hard on him. Perhaps harder than I should be.” His expression tightens with something that looks almost like regret. “But I think someone like you could show him how to make space for a little happiness too.”

I don’t know what to say to that or if I’m supposed to say anything at all. Of all the things I expected to hear from Lucien tonight, that certainly wasn’t one of them.

Lucien’s eyes move over my face with sudden, unsettling familiarity. “You look just like her.”

“Who?”

“Your mother, of course.”

The ballroom seems to tilt by half a degree.

“You know my mother?”

“Very well.” Lucien’s expression softens. “Your father too.”

The champagne glass goes cold in my hand. “What… what do you mean?”

“We attended the university together, just like your brother and now you. Of course, that was many years ago.”

“That’s impossible,” I say. “My mother never mentioned going to school here. And she definitely never mentioned you.”

“No.” Something in his expression dims. “I imagine she wouldn’t.”

The orchestra reaches the end of the song. Applause rises around us, but it barely reaches me. This entire conversation feels detached from reality, as though the world has quietly shifted into something I no longer recognize.

“I was deeply sorry about your father. He died far too young,” he says, and my throat tightens at his words. “I always hoped your mother might eventually find some measure of peace. She loved him so. He was her entire world.” Something in his expression falters, grief briefly breaking through the careful composure. “I hope you know I attempted to help where I could, but she’s a proud woman and refused much.”

A memory surfaces then: envelopes that arrived when I was younger, checks my mother never explained, money that appeared after late mortgage notices or when our situation turned especially dire. Our mysterious benefactor, she used to call him. Suddenly, it makes perfect sense—and yet no sense at the same time.

“That—that was you?” I stumble on my words. “I don’t understand.”

“I cared very much for your parents. It was the least I could do.” There is a hint of sadness in his voice. “So many times, I encouraged your mother to return to Salem’s Fall, but she refused,” he says. “I cannot blame her. I suppose coming back here without him was too hard.”