by Dave Rudden
She gave Denizen a half-smile. “Hardwicks aren’t great with emotion. We’re our own worst enemies, really.” She paused. “Which, considering our vocation, is actually rather impressive.”
Denizen’s look was withering. “Are you ... proud of that?”
Vivian shrugged, clasping her hands round her own cup.
“Perhaps we can ...”
She hesitated.
“Perhaps we can help each other.”
Denizen smiled hesitantly. “I’d like that.”
“Maybe we’ll be lucky,” she continued ruefully, “and some good will come of the Concilium. Humans and Tenebrous working together—I never thought I’d see the day.” She gave her son a sharp glance. “I told you to keep that blade close.”
“I did,” Denizen protested, before raising an eyebrow. “Would you really have deposed the Palatine of the Order of the Borrowed Dark for me?”
Vivian’s cheeks had gone pink. “Well, I guess we’ll never know now, will we?” She smiled to herself. “Let’s concentrate on fixing this house first—”
“You mind your house, I’ll mind mine,” Denizen said suddenly. All the color had drained from his face.
“What?”
“That’s what she said. Mercy. You mind your house, I’ll mind mine.”
Vivian frowned. “And?”
“Not her father’s house,” Denizen whispered.
Mine.
URIEL CROIT STOOD JUST out of the reach of the streetlight’s glow.
The street was aggressively forgettable—just a row of identical redbrick houses adorned with wreaths of ivy like freshly dug graves. Despite its anonymity, he’d had no trouble finding it. The Family kept a very close eye on its unFavored. It was how Grandfather had caught Uriel’s parents so quickly the first time.
He shifted uncomfortably in his Outside clothes. He’d have to get used to them. Eloquence was rubble now. The architecture of his childhood had collapsed without black wire to support it. Nothing had been saved.
Not yet.
The door was white. Uriel’s knuckles rang against it.
I could go.
I could just go.
Just go.
He had half turned away when the door opened, painting him in warm yellow light.
“Uriel.”
She had bright green eyes, her hair the patchwork gray and black of a Croit. He was older, shorter, chubby, and he clutched her waist with the kind of fussy protectiveness that made Uriel at once doubt their history and be certain of it. He knew that look. It was the look of someone who’d do anything they could to keep their family safe.
“Hello, Mother. Hello, Father.”
He wasn’t given room for anything else. A whirlwind of hugs, of affection, of contact. He had to hold himself back from fighting it. It wasn’t the way he was used to being touched.
Their kitchen was bright and warm. Little notes to each other. Paintings. They’d built a life here. A life together.
Uriel’s mother pressed a cup of tea into his hands.
“Where’s Ambrel?” she asked.
He dropped the cup. The sound was very loud, and Uriel Croit stared at his fingers—trembling, unable to close. Too numb. Too cold.
Things so easily become a ruin.
…IS THAT EVERYTHING NEEDS a second draft. You miss details the first time round. Words are forgotten, or move, or the ending changes the beginning. (I’m looking at you, Ambrel Croit.) Though this book was a continuation of the same story, the telling of it became a very different beast, and I have new people to thank.
Firstly, always, my family for their constant championing of me and this nonsense job I do. Special thanks in particular to my dad, now the terror of many a rural bookshop. Thank you for carrying that newspaper clipping in your pocket.
To the wizard-seraph-rock-star-supernova agents of Darley Anderson—you are tireless and wise. Clare, Sheila, Mary, Emma, thank you for pens, penguins, advice, curries, Tenebris—everything, basically. Thank you for getting me here.
Ben, Caroline, Wendy—thank you for your patience and your guidance and your patience and also did I mention you’re really patient? (They would have edited that sentence.) You guys are my Intueor Lucidum. Thank you for helping me to see in the dark. To my stellar publicity team—Tania, Claire, Jess, Vicky, Hannah, Emily, and Annabel—the Cants that shape the fire. Thank you for being magic.
This book would not be the dark, strange, sad thing it is without the friendship and tutelage of three of the most talented writers I’ve ever had the misfortune to read. Graham Tugwell, Deirdre Sullivan, and Sarah Maria Griff—heroes, monsters, Doomsburies. Let’s be terrible forever.
A book never comes from a single place, but I owe a special debt to Dr. Sarah J. Nangle for the Croits. Thank you for your insight, your knowledge, your advice and support. I owe Siobhan for letting me skulk around the Long Room picturing the whole place on fire, Melissa for banning chats and burgers, Dearbháil for portraits, Shannon for awkward door-slams, Arvind for more sword fights, Roe for nonfiction, and Kerrie O’Brien for poetry.
Finally, thank you to honorary Mallei Vanessa O’Loughlin and Rick O’Shea, and to all those who keep letting me stand in front of a mic or a classroom—Elaina, Niamh, Aidan, William and Laura, Annie, Claire, and many, many more.
And finally finally, thank you for reading. We’re very nearly there.
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