The Cerulean (The Cerulean Duology #1) - Amy Ewing Page 0,45

frivolous a word, too fantastical, and these creatures and their skills are very much real.”

“What do they do?”

Xavier leaned forward. “They replenish. They can make this country as fruitful as Pelago. Imagine not needing to bow to the demands of the Triumvirate. Not to be dictated or talked down to by those three scheming, godless queens. And we will own this power, Leo. We will control it, the McLellans alone, and our name will go down in history as the family that saved Kaolin.” There was a fanatical gleam in his eye that made Leo uneasy. “They’ve been keeping this secret to themselves, all these years, those greedy and grasping Pelagans. She thinks she is untouchable. But she will see. . . .” He trailed off.

She? Leo thought. But he decided not to press that matter—something about it felt dangerous, especially in tandem with the conversation he’d overheard with Kiernan. He wondered if he should stop asking questions altogether, but his father had never confided in him like this, and the need to know more was irresistible.

“So then why perform a play at all?” he asked.

Xavier refilled his own glass. “Advertising,” he said. “And money. No reason not to have one last hurrah before I bow out of the theater scene, and no better way to get the word out than to make a big splash about it. It will leave no doubt as to who they belong to, who is responsible for bringing them to Kaolin. Those creatures are mine, and no one is going to take them from me.”

Something about this version of his father scared Leo more than the version he was used to.

“I have dedicated my whole life to repairing the damage my father has done, to ensuring that this family lives on with the respect it deserves.” There was a haunted look in Xavier’s eyes. “Think about what kind of man you wish to be, Leo. Think about the mantle you will wear one day. I would hate to see everything I’ve worked for, everything I have built, squandered as it once was. I would hate to think my own son capable of such ruin.”

Leo swallowed hard and gave a curt nod.

“You have surprised me with the ingenuity you showed in the plains, catching that girl and bringing her back to me. Let us hope she does not disappoint.”

There was a knock on the door, and Swansea poked his head in. “I have heard from Mr. Grange. It is done, sir.”

“Good.” Xavier stood and moved to stare out the back window at the garden. “You are dismissed, Leo. Go send your sister down to me.”

It was only after he left that Leo realized he’d forgotten to ask his father about the island he had seemed so intent on finding. But then, perhaps it was for the best—he’d gotten more than he’d ever dreamed, and he didn’t want Xavier to think him an eavesdropper.

15

Agnes

AGNES SAT IN THE TUB WHILE HATTIE, THE MAID, scrubbed her back, her mind replaying on a loop the moment when Branson had hit Sera.

She hated herself for just standing by and letting them take her away. But what else could she have done? The truth was, no matter how much she might wish otherwise, she was unable to disobey her father when he was standing right in front of her. Sneaking out was one thing. Ignoring a direct command was quite another.

“So Mrs. Phelps told him I was gone?” she asked. She hadn’t taken the housekeeper into account when she’d planned her escape.

“Yes, miss,” Hattie said. Then she lowered her voice. “I’ve never seen him so angry. He got all quiet. Like he turned to stone.”

Agnes shivered. Mrs. Phelps bustled into the room and Hattie fell silent.

“How are you feeling, dearie?” she asked, checking the temperature of the water and wiping her hands on her apron. “More hot water, Hattie.”

Hattie curtsied and left. Mrs. Phelps wasn’t as forthcoming as the young maid, but Agnes had to know what was happening.

“Where did the truck go?” she asked.

“Never you mind about that.” The Solit triangle brooch at her throat gleamed as Mrs. Phelps bent to wet a washcloth and scrubbed down the length of Agnes’s right arm before moving to the left. “Let’s get this nasty dirt off you.”

“I don’t mind a little dirt,” Agnes grumbled.

Mrs. Phelps sighed. “I know you don’t. But your father does.”

It was always what her father wanted. She thought about the jar with Sera’s hair in it, now hidden