Isi watched people file into the house as she leaned beside the window. They pushed carts laden with boxes: equipment, clothing, food, everything they needed to operate here for a week or two. This complex was closer to Kalin Bay than Siera’s manor; it was easier to watch Novem from here.

  She traced the window molding, so familiar and foreign at the same time. Her parents’ house. Her house. Isi wasn’t sure if she was happy to be back or not. The da Silvas moved through the rooms as if they owned it. Maybe now they did.

  Her parents were long gone. Nothing but memories.

  No one seemed to remember. Just like no one seemed to remember it should be hers. How convenient for everyone to forget.

  Her lips twitched. As it turned out, Marcus was a mind-eraser as much as anything else. She bit her lip, holding back a grin. He’d hate that description.

  But it wasn’t wrong. His presence had a way of making people “forget” things, like who she was supposed to be. As soon as it became clear she was choosing him, they simply forgot that she should have been training for a council position, not acting as a spy. That the house should be hers.

  Because Marcus was a sin. If stars forbid she ever married him—if she had a Pulser child—that would be bloodline ruin. Easier, apparently, to pretend none of it mattered.

  They didn’t realize how dangerous or how stupid that was. Their loss.

  Isi pushed off the wall and crossed the large sitting room to the alcove where her mother’s sculpture stood: a horse surrounded by blown autumn leaves. It had always been her favorite, a quiet moment of motion frozen in time. A reminder of what was gone, but also of something of her mother still standing, untouched by da Silva hands.

  And a reminder of what she had become. Frozen but not without motion. The huntress lying in wait. The question was, was now the time to act?

  Marcus would be horrified she was even considering it. She missed him, but it was better he wasn’t here. He was still dealing with the fallout, making sure Sasha got the pages back. That was his job: Tactical Coordinator, managing mercenaries.

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  Marcus had orders, objectives. Do this, retrieve that. Isi had… whatever this was: a family war creeping into a real one.

  She traced the statue’s contours. Move now or keep waiting?

  Before, she’d worried Siera would uncover that Marcus had stolen Trevor’s drive for her. It was still possible she would. If she ever found out the true story, Siera would bury her. For now, though, the drive had been forgotten, buried beneath the war Siera had just unleashed. Novem’s secret pages were all anyone cared about.

  Maybe it was better to strike first. Siera hadn’t gotten council permission; the council might very well disapprove of her launching a shadow war for a private vendetta.

  Whether they’d step in was another question. Some of them must have heard something. They had eyes everywhere. Maybe they wanted Siera to act first so they could claim deniability later.

  Politics. Isi hated politics. Too bad she’d been born into it. She’d never had a choice.

  She stepped out of the lounge and into the grand atrium, where people were still streaming in. Conversation dipped. Eyes followed her. A few smiled; others outright ignored her. Liked, but always an outsider. Her choices had ensured that.

  Just one choice, really: Marcus. Their rejection would follow her until she broke it off—or until they decided for her.

  She swept through the room, smiling at allies and enemies alike. Most of her enemies looked away. Whispers sprang up behind her; one whisperer was louder than the others, explaining to a younger cousin what was officially “forgotten”.

  An explanation and a warning all wrapped up in one. Her mother had married outside the Clans. Only Jace Rafinin had a name and prestige. He was useful and in the end acceptable, because he was a Luminar.

  Isi’s choice was disaster incarnate. A consort with family ties to Novem, poor, the opposite of everything a high-ranking da Silva should be. And the unforgivable part, the one Marcus couldn’t outrun no matter how useful he was: Pulser.

  The delicious irony. The da Silvas needed people like Marcus, valued them. Controlling operatives like that was the sort of thing the clan respected. Loving them wasn’t.

  Don’t break the mold. Don’t rock the boat.

  Well, some boats were meant to be rocked. Isi shot a sharp grin at the whisperer. They went silent.

  An older gentleman gave her a look of near-pity as he entered the atrium. He knew exactly whose house this was. He knew it should be hers by right. And yet he only watched, waiting. Maybe to see if she’d accept her place or to see if she’d fight for it.

  She did nothing. She turned on her heel and walked away, not ignoring the problem but biding her time. One day this wouldn’t just be her parents’ old house. It would be hers again.

  She’d make sure of it. One way or another.