Мелисса де ла Круз - Masquerade

But after the disaster in Rome, we agreed that taking positions of power in the human sphere was forever out of the question.”

Schuyler nodded. Cordelia had told her as much.

"And they've kicked out the Carondolets from the Conclave, Cushing told me all about it.

Because he had proposed a Candidus Suffragium.”

"What is that?”

"The White Vote. For the leadership of the coven," Lawrence said, kicking off his banker's cap-toes and waving his stockinged feet in front of the fire.

"But I thought Michael—Charles—was Regis. Forever."

"Not quite," Lawrence said, flicking his ashes into an ashtray he had removed from his jacket pocket.

"No?”

"No. The coven is not a democracy. But it is not a monarchy either. We had agreed that leadership can be questioned if the coven feels the Regis has not led us properly. So the White Vote is called.”

"Has there ever been a White Vote?”

"Yes." Lawrence sunk so low into the chair that only the smoke from his cigar was visible. "Once, in Plymouth."

"What happened?”

"I lost." Lawrence shrugged. "They banished Cordelia and me from the Conclave. Since then, we have held no power on the council. We bowed to their rule, and later on, around the time of the Gilded Age, we decided we had to separate.”

"Why?" Schuyler asked.

"Cordelia told you we suspected that a high-ranking member of the Conclave was harboring the Silver Blood. I thought it would be safer for her if I disappeared for a while, so I could continue our investigation without The Committee knowing about it. We thought it was clever of us. But alas, it meant that I was not here when Allegra succumbed to her heartsickness. Or when you were born. And my work so far has been fruitless. I am no closer to confirming my suspicions than I was before.”

"But what happened—why did they let you go free? I thought you were exiled.”

Lawrence chuckled. "So did they. They had forgotten I went into exile voluntarily. I don't think any of them ever expected me to come back. They didn't really have much of a choice. I haven’t broken any rules of the Code. There was no reason to prohibit my return. Still, because I have been gone for so long they demanded that I testify.”

"Testify to what?”

"Oh, to promise not to question the Coven's leadership as I had once done. You know, call for another White Vote. They even reinstated my position on the Conclave, as long as I promised not to bring up the Silver Blood menace again. According to Charles, the Croatan threat has been contained, if it ever existed at all.”

“Just because no one's died in the last three months," Schuyler said.

"Yes. They are blind as usual. The Silver Bloods are back. It was just as Cordelia and I had warned, so many years ago.”

"But everything else is all right, then," Schuyler said happily, not caring about the Croatan threat for the moment. "You're back, and they can't do anything about it.”

He studied the fireplace sorrowfully. "Not quite. I have some bad news.”

Schuyler's smile faded.

"Charles has informed me he is making plans to adopt you.”

"What? Why?" Charles Force—adopt her? What gave him the right? What kind of sick joke was this?

"Unfortunate as it is, he is, nonetheless, your uncle. When Allegra, his sister, revoked their bond and refused to take him as her partner in this cycle, he turned his back on the Van Alen family. Actually, he did everything he could to destroy this family. To destroy your mother. He could never forgive her for marrying your father and giving birth to you. He hardened his heart against her. He even changed his name.”

Schuyler thought of the many times she had found Charles Force kneeling by her mother's bedside. He had been her mother's constant visitor, and she had overheard him begging Allegra for her forgiveness.

"Hence, he is your last living blood relative, aside from me, of course. But there is no record of my existence in this cycle in fact, according to the papers, I'm legally dead. I died in

1872. Thank goodness for Swiss banks. Our accounts are merely numerical codes, otherwise I would not have been able to touch them. Charles has decided that I am not fit to raise you. He wants to raise you himself.”

Her uncle. Cordelia had intimated as much, and yet Schuyler had refused to acknowledge this fact of her twisted family tree. "But they can't…I mean, he's not…I don't even know him.”

"Do not worry, I won't let that happen. Allegra would want nothing more than to keep you away from him," Lawrence said.

"Why does he hate you so much?" Schuyler asked, a glimmer of tears in her bright blue eyes. Lawrence had finally returned, and again the forces or make that, the Forces were conspiring to take him away from her.

Schuyler thought of what adoption might be like: having to live with Mimi and Jack, her cousins. Mimi would love that, she was sure.…And Jack, what would he think?

" `They will be divided, father against son, son against father,' Lawrence said, quoting from Scripture. “Alas, I have always been a disappointment to my son.”

New York Herald Archives SEPTEMBER 30, 1872 DISAPPEARANCE STILL A MYSTERY Maggie Stanford has given no sign in two years. Father dead of grief, mother demented.

THE MYSTERY SURROUNDING the disappearance of Maggie Stanford, now eighteen years old, who disappeared on the night of the annual Patrician Ball two years ago, has yet to be solved. The police never found a ransom note or any indication of kidnapping or foul play in relation to the case, and have suggested the girl ran away of her own volition. Mrs. Dorothea Stanford, of Newport, has reportedly become mentally unbalanced from the shock of her daughter's disappearance. Mr. Stanford died from grief shortly after Maggie went missing.

Strange hallucinations continue to afflict the mother, who claims that her neighbors and friends are concealing the truth about her daughter's whereabouts and keeping her from coming home. The Herald visited Mrs. Stanford in her home, and from what could be made of Mrs. Stanford's speech, she is still laboring under the impression that someone has her girl in custody and refuses to release her.

The Herald has discovered that Maggie Stanford had been living at the St. Dymphna Asylum in Newport for a year before she went missing, receiving treatment for an unknown condition. Anyone having any information on her disappearance is urged to come forward.

TWENTY-FOUR

Chic magazine was located in a snazzy new steel-and-glass building in the middle of Times Square. It was just one of the high-profile media properties owned by the Christie-Best organization, a conglomerate that also counted Flash, Kiss, Splendid, and Mine among its many other one-word-only glossy titles. Its lobby was a serene, marbled space with a dribbling Zen fountain and an army of blue jacketed security guards who manned the onyx reception desks.

One afternoon after school, Bliss stood patiently in the lobby while waiting for the guard to call up to Chic's model booker for entrance. Farnsworth Models had sent her for a go-see, an appointment to see if the magazine would like to hire Bliss for their next photo shoot.

Bliss was wearing her standard go-see outfit: tight, tight dark-wash Stitched for Civilization jeans, Lanvin flats, a loose white blouse. Her face was freshly scrubbed and free of makeup, as advised by her agency. Bliss had been much in demand since she had booked the Stitched campaign, and the photos of her in the dazzling Dior dress had been reprinted all over the globe—crowning her the new young socialite (and displacing Mimi in the international bestdressed list). She had shot a shoe ad, a Gap ad, and had already done a five-page editorial spread in Kiss. Chic was the mother lode, the top of the glossy heap, and while Bliss thought modeling was a bit of a lark, she also wanted the gig very much.