Secrets of the Starcrossed

by Clara O'Connor

  “Tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” What girl was ever going to be able to resist a little payback for having been pretty much ignored all the way to her first ball?

  “Tell me what this woman told you.”

  “She told me I had met the great love of my life.” Giving in too quickly would only make him suspicious.

  “Cassandra.”

  “Oh, look.” I pointed in the reflection of the window to a body across the room. “There’s your father.”

  Despite the delicious edict that the ball be a masquerade, Matthias Dolon had lifted his mask as he greeted another rather portly man. Marcus stiffened but made no move to look around. Meanwhile, I scanned the window for any sign of Devyn or Fidelma. The masks didn’t help matters but the wisewoman was likely to be in Celtic dress, and her distinctive long silver hair should narrow down the possibilities. Devyn was likely to be harder to locate. Despite his heritage, he was sure to be in the typical formal wear of a citizen – a long fitted jacket with an embellished shoulder scarf. Marcus’s was a particularly notable example, interwoven as it was with the crest of his house and subtle golden Celtic swirls around white roses that nodded to his more exotic lineage. I rethought my strategy. I couldn’t afford to pique his interest too early unless I could hurry him right in to meet Fidelma before he had too much time to think.

  “I must dance,” I announced.

  “Now? No, not before you…”

  I pouted, a proper full-lipped spoiled-princess huffy move. If Devyn could see me now…

  “If you won’t dance with me—” I threw at him before picking up my skirts and quite literally flouncing off. I was halfway across the room before I realised that with the masks I was unable to recognise anyone well enough to ask them to dance with me. Except for Marcus’s father. I swallowed. At least Marcus was unlikely to ask for me back if I was in the arms of the only other man it was appropriate for me to be seen with.

  “Sir,” I began. His shoulder sash pompously included the Courtenay house he had married into as well as his own. The Dolons were a family of no particular note – unlike the one his son had been born into via his mother. “It’s Cassandra Shelton. Would you care to dance?”

  In the pause that followed, I could see his mask lift, no doubt from his violently raised eyebrows.

  “It would be churlish to refuse my future daughter-in-law.”

  Wouldn’t it though. Taking leave of his companions, he offered me his hand.

  “Has my son been derelict in his duties?” he asked.

  “No, not at all,” I hastened to assure him so Marcus didn’t earn another black mark, especially as it was so unwarranted. “I just thought it would be nice to get to know you a bit better.”

  “Did you indeed?”

  “Yes, well, we had so little time to talk over the summer.”

  “That is true.”

  He twirled me away and then back into his arms, his lead rather heavy. “You and Marcus seem to be getting along well. Or at least better since he has to see you at least twice a week.”

  “Has to see me?” I repeated his odd phrasing.

  “If you are to marry next year, he cannot continue with this medicine nonsense to the detriment of his relationship with you, my dear.”

  Right, so not only was the reason I had started seeing more of Marcus because his father had insisted on it, it was also because his doting papa was threatening his career.

  This man clearly cared little for his son and even less for me but Devyn’s outlandish claims rang in my ears: that our match had been engineered in the hope that my probable Briton blood would increase the likelihood of magic in our children. Each of these little manoeuvrings on the part of our parents made my skin creep and chipped away at the belief that we were anything more than a genetic experiment to them. Suddenly I felt furious at the callous manipulations they were inflicting upon us. How dare they. A gust of wind suddenly swept through the hall. Heads turned.

  “Do you mind if I cut in, sir?” Without waiting for an answer, the newcomer swept me away in an outrageous breach of etiquette.

  “Do you mind?” I spluttered.

  A soft chuckle came from behind the black and bronze mask.

  “Would you rather I let you unleash your fury on the room?”

  My new dance partner’s voice was soft and low, his hair the tousled black curls I had imagined running my fingers through in many a moment of weakness. His movements were graceful, his muscles shifting under my fingertips as he spun me about the room.

  I laughed, the sound a light trickle that drifted into the air and caused a couple of neighbouring Britons to turn and search for the source. I saw a tall, broad-shouldered man in a gold mask with long blond hair tied at the back of his neck standing at the edge of the dance floor and scanning the room intently before Devyn turned me, blocking my view. Rather too sharply.

  “Do you know that man?” Even as I asked I knew the answer.

  “Cass.”

  In an all too recognisable tone, Devyn shut my question down.

  I exhaled my annoyance but that was forgotten in an instant as a hand wandered slightly lower than was appropriate and pulled me a number of fractions closer. Excellent diversion technique, Devyn. I was aware I was being managed even as my bones melted beneath his touch.

  Speaking was no longer possible or desirable as Devyn twirled me about the room. Others parted in perfect timing as we swung by and it felt as if my feet barely touched the floor as he pushed me away and then pulled me back to him time and time again. My hand landed lightly on his chest each time, the beat of his heart underneath my fingertips a counterpoint to the one delivered by the music.

  At that moment I felt as if I were the girl in my vision of the alternate present. The girl who knew true love, true happiness. Not one who was perilously close to irrevocably changing her future by revealing too much to the man she was supposed to marry.

  A man who was currently watching me dance with another.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As the song ended, we moved back by the tall windows not far from where Marcus stood talking with a group of people. He never stood alone for long at any party. He was always surrounded by… I would say friends, but even his inner circle never felt like people he trusted completely, even as he enjoyed their company. Marcus was a prince of the city and they were his courtiers, beautiful, rich, witty, but not true friends. He didn’t allow them to be.

  “You need to get Marcus to a room where we can speak privately. We’ve found a place that should allow us to talk to him and hopefully help him if he lets us,” Devyn said, leaning in as he led me off the dance floor.

  “Where?”

  “At 10.30 go through the door on the other side of the room, follow the hall to the end, and then turn right. Take the second door on the left by the painting of Senator Lewis. You can’t miss it; he’s the fat one holding the pug.” Devyn smirked as he stepped behind me. “If anyone asks, you’re meeting your father, who has sent for you.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to say anything. Do you think he—” I stopped short as the blond man I’d spotted earlier stepped in front of us. Two other well-built men were positioned each side of him, apparently not there for the dancing so much as attending the man who was now blocking our route.

  “Good evening.” He paused as if waiting for an introduction. When nothing was forthcoming from behind me, I looked around to discover Devyn had melted away into the crowd.

  Why on earth would he have left me to deal with this Briton on my own?

  “Welcome to the city, my lord.” I hoped that was the right form of address. In the feudal system outside the walls, most of the nobility were lords and this dignitary looked like he might be someone significant. His tunic was plain but well cut, the half sleeve revealing intricate swirling tattoos on his forearms, and his golden torc was one of the more elaborate I had seen.

  The eyes that glittered behind the intricately embroidered mask
turned back towards me, having also scanned the crowd for my erstwhile dance partner. They assessed me keenly.

  “Am I?” he responded to my greeting.

  I wasn’t going to touch that political jibe with a bargepole. The last thing I needed was to further offend a prickly Mercian. While his long hair and clothes weren’t too different from the Celtic lords from Cymru and Kernow, he was fairer and taller than would be expected. The swirling patterns on his mask and tattoos were distinctly aquatic compared to the martial ones the Anglians tended to prefer. I had been spending every spare minute studying the outsiders, comfortable that my new thirst for knowledge would go unremarked given the surge of interest caused by the festivities. The information in the feeds about their fashions at least seemed reliable, making me pretty confident this man was from Mercia.

  “It’s a lovely ball.” I smiled brightly. “My first.”

  “Mine too.”

  Did that mean this was the first time he had been part of the delegation? He sounded young, but it was hard to tell without seeing his face. He held himself with authority. I extended my hand to introduce myself.

  “I’m Cassandra Shelton,” I offered, becoming awkward as my hand hung in the air between us. The man shook his head lightly.

  “Not our custom, I’m afraid.”

  He was lying. I had seen other Britons this evening take the hands offered to them but that at least answered my previous question: if the other dignitaries were more accustomed to our greetings this one obviously wasn’t. Or just didn’t care how I perceived his rudeness.

  “Your dance partner is returning?” he asked.

  His guess was as good as mine.

  “He had to go and say hello to someone, I’m afraid. Did you want to meet him?” Did this man know Devyn? If so it made Devyn’s disappearance even more mysterious.

  “Very much,” he said.

  I was taken aback.

  “You know him?” I asked. Given the circumstances, I shouldn’t be pursuing this line of inquiry, but I couldn’t resist.

  “I may have been mistaken,” he answered softly. “It’s been a while.”

  I smiled politely as I spotted Marcus coming our way. “I must go. My match is looking for me.”

  “Yet you were dancing with another.”

  Despite his refusal to shake hands, the stranger was well enough acquainted with our customs to observe the breach of etiquette I had been committing. Unmarried girls of my social status might attend classes and parties with members of the opposite sex before marriage, but at a formal event it was frowned upon to dance with another man, especially here in the Governor’s Palace. My only saving grace was that at masquerade balls the rules usually got bent ever so slightly; at the very least, transgressions were more difficult to spot when identities were concealed.

  “Yes, I was.” I moved to get past him before Marcus spotted me talking to the Briton in the golden mask but a small sidestep by the blond man prevented my escape. He gave a slight shake of his head. My departure was not permitted and I had a feeling that to force the issue would draw attention to us. Or rather, more attention; I had already noticed a number of heads turn our way.

  “What?” I snapped, I needed to slip back into the crowd. He extended his arm in the Celtic manner and I hesitated. He had refused my handshake but now wanted to touch me in the more intimate Briton manner. People were looking and I needed to move on before I was identified but I reached out anyway and gripped his tattooed forearm. He tensed as our wrists touched and then relaxed as I pulled away.

  “I had wondered if he had managed to do it after all,” he said as if to himself, his blue eyes surveying me intensely. “But no. Hope is a cruel thing.”

  I kept my expression as innocent as I could. He did know Devyn. Was this the lord he had abandoned? That would explain his quick exit.

  He stepped aside, allowing me to pass. “Tell your friend I am most keen to speak to him.”

  “Of course.” I nodded even as I realised he hadn’t given me his name but it was too late as he had already moved on. I went back to Marcus and played the dutiful fiancée all evening, making small talk with the hospital’s board members, gossiping with Marcus’s friends, the boys every bit as bad as the girls. Though I continued to scan the crowd for the black and bronze mask, there was no further sign of Devyn as the clock ticked down towards the allotted time.

  “Marcus,” I said, interrupting his conversation after having waited for it to end naturally for ten anxious minutes. “Could I talk to you for a moment?”

  Marcus made his excuses and then followed as I made my way to the door Devyn had indicated earlier. Entering into the calm of the hallway was a relief; the noise was swallowed up as the door closed behind us.

  “Cassandra, what’s this all this about?”

  I had already started to hurry along the corridor. We were late.

  “I need to talk to you,” I said as I walked faster.

  A tug on my elbow pulled me to a halt.

  “About what we were discussing earlier?” he asked. “I think we should wait until we are somewhere less… formal.”

  “No, it needs to be now. Here.” I hesitated, unsure how much to say. “Please, Marcus. I need you to trust me. Please come with me. I need you to meet some people.”

  Marcus pushed his mask back from his face displaying his bewilderment.

  “What people? The man you were dancing with earlier?” he said, casting me an icy sideways glance. I’d forgotten he’d seen me dancing with Devyn when I was supposed to be with his father.

  “Yes, actually. I asked him if he would talk to you.” I pulled my elbow free, already moving again, turning the corner. Which door had Devyn said? The first one, further along, I thought, and then I spotted the unorthodox cross little pug in one of the portraits. A smile tugged at my lips; it really was an odd thing to have in what was yet another staid dark portrait in a hallway full of them. I knocked on the door beside it, which opened before my knuckles had barely lifted away. Marcus followed me in.

  “These are my friends, Devyn and Fidelma.” I introduced him, fiddling nervously with my pendant before rushing on in a tumbling explanation. “They’ve offered to help you with your work on the illness. That is, your work, not the hospital’s, because I figured it out, Marcus. I figured out what it is that you are doing differently.”

  Marcus frowned at me as I paused to take a fortifying breath before I put all our lives at risk.

  “You’re using magic.”

  Marcus looked at me like he didn’t know me. Which I supposed he didn’t – I barely recognised myself. I could practically hear his thoughts. I had everything a citizen could possibly want yet here I was introducing him to two Britons for purposes of which the State would not approve: offering him help with his magic.

  “I don’t have magic,” Marcus denied once he had found his voice. He directed his words at me, and was yet to acknowledge the others in the room by so much as a flicker. “Even if I did, it doesn’t work in the city.”

  “That’s not exactly true,” Fidelma corrected. “Magic lives within and it’s subject to the power to contain it running in the blood. If the blood is strong, it will out.”

  “I don’t have magic,” Marcus repeated. I crossed to him and laid my hand on his arm. He stiffened but didn’t knock it off.

  “Marcus, you have magic, and you are healing people with it. That’s the difference between you and the other doctors.”

  Marcus’s brow creased as he contemplated my words. He’d spent a lot of time searching for the answer to this question and there had to be a part of him that recognised the truth when he heard it. Hopefully, that same part was what would stay his hand in raising the alarm and summoning the authorities.

  “No, I would know if I was using magic,” he retorted.

  “Healing magic is different to other magics. It flows from the spirit and the only outward sign it is being used is in the improved health of the patient,” Fidelma explaine
d. “If your patients are improving and there is no other cause then you have your proof, boy.”

  “Don’t call me boy.”

  It was his first acknowledgement that he could hear Fidelma. It was a sign he was actually listening.

  “It’s true. I think it’s why you’re so exhausted all the time. I figured it out when you tried to heal Otho,” I said.

  “What? How?” Marcus interrupted, now taking a step away from me, causing my hand to fall from his arm. I looked at Devyn for guidance. Should I tell Marcus? Could I trust that he would not betray us? Perhaps if I gave him the knowledge that he was not alone he would feel like he could trust us too.

  Devyn shook his head. He would risk his own life, but not mine.

  I shrugged. “When he asked you to let him go he instantly became worse. And I saw you with your other patients. They looked so much better, even after you’d been with them for only a short few minutes. Each patient, Marcus, every single one. And with each one you looked worse. I think it’s draining you, Marcus. You’ve got to get a handle on what you’re doing so it doesn’t kill you.”

  The crease on his brow deepened into a furrow. He looked from Fidelma to Devyn.

  “I don’t know you,” he said taking in Devyn’s formal wear, so similar to his own. “How do you know each other? Do you have magic too?”

  Devyn’s face betrayed no expression at all as he answered Marcus.

  “I have some abilities.”

  He hadn’t responded to the first the question.

  Marcus stepped towards him. “Are you a citizen?”

  “No.”

  There it was, the fact in the room that most scared me. That Marcus had magic in his blood was no fault of his own, and while it would make him an outcast, it was merely an unwanted part of his well-known heritage. The same could be argued for my own newfound gifts. Fidelma was part of the delegation and had the diplomatic protection that entailed. Her worst crime here was trying to help a beloved scion of the city. Devyn on the other hand…

  Briton. Spy.

  Accepting his help would be an act of betrayal against the city and Marcus believed in the city. Perhaps before his own self.