Unfortunately, Gideon had shared the secret location with his former friend, Lord Vesper. At the time, it had seemed like a worthwhile risk….
He looked back at Damien’s beachfront manor house — not nearly as fine as the Vesper family castle on the mainland but still a stately home of golden limestone and oaken beams. It had once been a simpler dwelling, the original Cahill home on the island, but Vesper had wasted no time remodeling. He’d added a boathouse, servants’ quarters, a storehouse, and a smithy. Small boats waited at the dock for the baron’s pleasure. Mysterious shipments arrived as the tides allowed, making Gideon uneasy.
He turned toward the back of the island — toward home. Nestled at the base of the island’s cliffs stood the present Cahill manor, a simple but solid two-story oaken structure built by Gideon’s grandfather. It had housed three generations of Cahills. At present it sheltered everything Gideon held dear — his wife, Olivia, his children, his alchemy lab, his research.
A simple footpath, less than a mile long, separated the Cahills from their neighbor Lord Vesper, but the path was overgrown with weeds. Every time Gideon walked the distance, it seemed farther. Each time, he found it harder to pretend friendship with the man he had once admired.
Gideon tugged at his gold ring — a memento from his only trip abroad, many years ago, to visit his dying father in Milan. Damien believed the ring was a family heirloom. In a way, it was. Gideon’s father had given it to him on his deathbed. But Gideon doubted even his father, a true genius, had understood just how terrible the ring’s secret was.
Twenty-four hours … Gideon’s legs began to shake. He must try to finish the new variation of the serum. And he had larger priorities as well: protecting his family, protecting the secret formula. But convincing Olivia and the children would be almost as hard as outwitting Damien Vesper. He took a deep breath and headed for home.
The dining table was in the garden. For weeks, Olivia had been grumbling about the need to clean it. Apparently, she’d taken advantage of the sunny morning to do the job. She’d drafted the children to help. Gideon stopped at the edge of the apple orchard and watched, cherishing the sight of his family and dreading what he had to tell them.
Luke and Thomas must’ve just carried the massive table outside. Their clothes were soaked with sweat.
Luke — never one for manual labor — winced as he picked a splinter from his palm. He was the tallest and oldest of their children — twenty-three now, a man full grown, as he never tired of reminding them. Most young men his age would’ve been married with families of their own by now, but Luke was not one for domestic bliss. He griped constantly about the sacrifices he’d made, coming home from his studies at Oxford to help his parents, but truth be told, he hadn’t done well at university. People outside the family tended to find him … unsettling.
He had Olivia’s raven hair and Gideon’s furrowed brow and preoccupied scowl. His frame was long and wiry, rather snakelike, and in fact when he annoyed his siblings (which was often) they called him “the last snake in Ireland.” Gideon chided the younger siblings when they said such things, but as much as he loved his elder son, he couldn’t help agreeing there was a disquieting quality to him. He tended to creep into places where he should not be, silent and cold-eyed, always watching, ready to strike if attacked.
His younger son, Thomas, was built more like a barrel maker or a barrel itself — stout, squat, and solid. Gideon had little doubt Thomas could’ve carried the dining table by himself, though it weighed several hundred pounds and was a good eight feet long. Thomas was only thirteen, but he’d beaten grown men at arm wrestling and once in a fit of rage had broken down a door with his head. His siblings joked that this had addled his wits, but Gideon did not agree. Thomas spoke rarely, and he might not be the quickest thinker, but he did think. Given time, he could work out almost any problem. At the moment, he was staring with distaste at a wad of oily rags his mother had given him.
“Go on, then,” Olivia commanded. “Luke, you, too. The table won’t polish itself. And girls, for goodness’ sake! Jane, come over here. Katherine, what are you doing?”
The girls were distracted as usual. Jane, the youngest at ten years old, was chasing a butterfly through the chrysanthemums. Quite late in the autumn for butterflies, Gideon thought, but leave it to Jane to find one.
She was a wisp of a girl with long straw-colored hair and eyes that seemed to drink in everything they saw. Her hands and dress were stained with paints. Gideon had to smile at that, as she shared his habit of writing notes and sketches everywhere, even on her arms and clothes.
Katherine, fifteen, was a different story. She’d plopped herself down cross-legged in the cabbage patch and was fiddling with the centerpiece from the dining table — a bronze astrological globe Gideon’s father had sent them from Italy years ago. As always, Katherine wore a frock and breeches like a boy. Her dark hair was cut short. She was busily disassembling the globe, her fingers working at the joints and hinges. Perhaps Gideon should’ve been angry, seeing a family heirloom destroyed, but in truth he was surprised it had lasted this long. Katherine took apart everything, and Gideon understood. He’d been the same way at her age.
He stepped out from the shadows of the apple orchard, and Olivia noticed him first. As always, he caught his breath when their eyes met.
No matter that they’d been married twenty-five years. She was as beautiful and formidable as ever — her long curly hair still black as midnight, her green eyes still piercing. Gideon often reflected that the children had gotten their best qualities from Olivia. She saw value and beauty in even the smallest things, like Jane. She could fix nearly anything, like Katherine. If her family was threatened, she could be as dangerous as a coiled viper, like Luke. And like Thomas, she was strong willed and stubborn enough to break down any door — although she didn’t need to use her head. One of her stern looks was usually quite sufficient.
She blew a strand of hair from her face and set her hands on her hips. “Well, Gideon Cahill. If you’re done chatting with His Lordship, perhaps you’ll help me with this unruly mob.”
“Papa!” Jane beamed, holding up her cupped hands, in which she’d caught her butterfly. “Look what I found! May I paint its wings?”
“No, child.” Gideon tried to repress a smile. “It would hurt the poor creature.”
Jane pouted. “But I can make him much more colorful.”
Katherine snorted, glancing up from her disassembled heirloom. “Don’t be silly, Jane. You and your ‘art’ will destroy the world.”
“Will not! And I’m not silly, am I, Luke?”
Gideon found it strange how much Jane adored her oldest brother, but then again, she could see the smallest good in even the most unlikely places. Despite his look of utter distaste for being here, in the bright sunlight, doing physical labor with his family — Luke managed a dismissive shake of the head. “No, Jane, dear. Your art, at least, never left something valuable in pieces.”
Katherine’s ears turned red. “I’ll put it back together!”
“Like you did the miller’s wheel last year?” Luke asked. “We had no flour for a month.”