Legacy (Keeper of the Lost Cities #8) - Shannon Messenger Page 0,197

of violet-stained memories, wondering what would happen if she slammed her consciousness against it.

Would it all come toppling down?

As soon as you know something’s forbidden, he told her, it’s all you want. I often wonder if that’s part of the appeal for—

Sophie didn’t bother listening to the end of that sentence, too lost in the purple-tinted memory she’d focused on. The scene was slightly faded and blurred, since Lord Cassius didn’t have a photographic memory, but Sophie could still easily tell that she was watching a much younger version of him retrieve books from his locker in the Level One atrium at Foxfire.

He looked so uncannily like his son at that age that Sophie would’ve thought she was watching Keefe—if she hadn’t known that Keefe had skipped that particular grade level.

Then again, Lord Cassius also lacked Keefe’s easy swagger.

In fact, when she looked closer, she realized that his movements were rushed and tense, and the expression on his face was… nervous?

“Scared” actually might’ve been a better word for it.

She learned why a few breaths later, when a group of much taller, much more confident Level Threes sidled over to him, knocking his books out of his hands and messing up his hair.

Lord Cassius said nothing.

Did nothing.

But internally he swore that things would change.

Someday he would be better than everyone else—and then he would show them all.

The memory ended there—but something about the abruptness of it felt intentional. As if Lord Cassius had snipped off the rest, either to sort it somewhere else or to keep that part hidden.

So… I’m assuming you said the thing about the purple memories to distract me from the real stuff you don’t want me to see? Sophie guessed.

Or I don’t like anyone witnessing my moments of weakness, Lord Cassius countered—which might’ve been a believable explanation, if he hadn’t had the answer ready to go.

Your mind games aren’t going to work on me, she told him. And I don’t really get why you’re bothering to play them. Searching your memories was YOUR idea—YOU wanted to find out if there was something that Lady Gisela hid from you.

Yes, I’m aware. But that doesn’t mean I’m willing to allow anyone to invade my privacy—and surely you’ve realized that something my wife stole wouldn’t be tinted purple, or red or blue or green or any other color, since that means I’m aware of it.

Actually, that was a valid point.

This part of his mind was so organized—so controlled—that anything missing or out of place would’ve been glaringly obvious.

She needed to find the rest.

The parts he couldn’t shape into the precarious narrative he wanted to display to the world.

The parts he’d tried to bury.

That won’t help either, he warned, but Sophie was already poking and prodding at the corners and shadows—the cramped little nooks and the cold, empty stretches and…

There.

A tiny crack.

A flaw in his well-honed mental armor.

All she had to do was slip through and…

… down, down, down she went—careening through a dark, lonely void.

Hurtling toward a sea of nightmares.

But then her fall seemed to slow, and the air thickened around her, nudging her back up, until she could see a fuzzy gray path.

Everything about it called to her.

Welcoming her.

Guiding her.

As if Lord Cassius was providing her with an escape, to spare her from the shadows.

But it was another trick.

Another defense.

And Sophie wasn’t afraid of the dark.

So she pushed back against the barrier and plunged straight into the mire. Sinking past glimmers of doubt and fear. Fighting her way through flurries of despair and hopelessness. Until she burst through to the other side, landing in an explosion of light and color and sound.

The real Lord Cassius.

Not the rigid construct he liked to present.

This won’t help you, he insisted as she focused on the vibrant memories piled haphazardly all around her, like someone had tossed them away. I may not like this part of myself. But I’m still aware of its presence.

Why don’t you like this part of yourself? Sophie asked, trying to process what she was seeing.

Most of the memories were brief flashes—snippets and scraps trimmed away from longer moments.

And many of them featured Keefe.

His smiles and laughter.

His pranks and jokes and art.

The same things Lord Cassius was always trying to force Keefe to change about himself.

And for a second Sophie was furious.

How dare he mentally edit his son?

Who was he to deny reality?

But then… she noticed the warmth.

It wasn’t strong.

And it wasn’t comforting.

But it was there—wrapped around each edited moment.

And she knew: You love your son.

Of course I do.

The