gasped—but when she whirled around, no one stood behind her. The crystal had reflected a portrait hanging on the wall. And the man in the portrait was too old to be Nathaniel, though he bore a close resemblance, down to the silver streak that ran through his black hair. His smile, on the other hand . . . it was warm and kind and open, far happier than any smile she had ever seen on Nathaniel’s face.
“My master’s father, Alistair Thorn,” Silas provided. “I served him in his time.”
He’s dead, she realized with a jolt. He must be. Suddenly, she found it uncomfortable looking into his eyes. Her gaze strayed to the white cat the artist had painted on Alistair’s lap. It was a dainty, long-haired creature, captured in the act of grooming its paw.
The air stirred, and Silas stood beside her, studying the next portrait over, which depicted a blond woman in a lilac gown. This time Elisabeth recognized something of Nathaniel in her expression, the way her eyes sparkled with the suppressed laughter of an unspoken joke. On her face it looked welcoming instead of mocking, illuminated by love.
Silas said, “His mother, Charlotte.”
Wistfulness tugged on Elisabeth’s heart. “She’s beautiful.”
“She was.”
Elisabeth glanced at Silas, lips parted around an apology, but he was expressionless, still gazing at the portraits. She instantly felt foolish for almost apologizing to a demon—a being who had not loved any of them, for demons could not feel love, or compassion, or loss.
Silently, he gestured to the third and final portrait.
Elisabeth stepped forward and examined it closely. The painting was of a boy, perhaps seven years of age, pale and grave, with a dark collar buttoned high around his neck. He looked so serious. Perhaps that came with being the heir to the Thorn legacy. Had he known the stories about Baltasar even then? It felt strange to think of Nathaniel as a child. An innocent.
“So he wasn’t born with the silver in his hair,” she said finally, looking to Silas.
“No, he wasn’t. The silver is the mark of our bargain. Every sorcerer possesses one, unique to the demon that serves them. But this portrait isn’t of Master Thorn. It’s of his younger brother, Maximilian. He passed away a year after it was painted.”
Elisabeth stepped back. The hair stood up on her arms. The house felt like a mausoleum, its cold, empty halls full of ghosts. Nathaniel’s entire family was gone. The Lexicon’s words returned to her: For once a bargain with a demon is struck, it is in the demon’s best interest to see its master dead. . . .
“What happened to them all?” she whispered, not certain this time if she really wanted to know the answer.
Silas had gone still. It took him a moment to reply, and when he did, his whispering voice floated through the foyer like mist. “Charlotte and Maximilian perished together in an accident. A senseless tragedy for a sorcerer’s wife and son. I know what you are thinking—I was nowhere near them when the accident occurred. Alistair followed only a few months later, and I was there, that time. It proved . . . a difficult year for my master.”
“You killed him,” Elisabeth said. “Alistair.”
Silas’s reply came as a breath, barely louder than the distant ticking of the grandfather clock. “Yes.”
“Nathaniel knows?”
“He does.”
Elisabeth grappled with this information. “And he still—he still decided to—”
“He bound me to his service directly after it happened. He was only twelve years of age. The ritual was surely frightening for him, but of course, he already knew me well.” Silas drifted toward a blank spot on the paneling, where there was an empty spot left for one final portrait. He lifted his gloved hand and lightly touched the wall. “I was there when Master Thorn came into the world, you see. I heard him speak his first words, and watched him take his first steps. And I will be there when Master Thorn dies,” he said, “one way or another.”
Elisabeth took another step back, almost colliding with a coatrack. Nathaniel had told her that everyone else in line for his title was gone, but she hadn’t expected anything like this. Certainly not that he had been completely alone in the world at only twelve years old, bargaining away his life to the demon who had killed his father. The demon who would one day kill him.
A step creaked. Elisabeth turned. Nathaniel was coming down the stairs, one hand in his pocket, the other skimming