Envy turned and began walking toward the kitchens. Apparently, he had a cup of tea to request for Miss Antonius. Then he’d take another long, icy bath. Alone.

“She doesn’t succumb to my influence, at least not strongly.”

Lust’s shift in topic drew him up short.

“Have you tried to use your power on her?” he continued.

“The rules of the game won’t allow me to use magic,” Envy finally admitted.

It was a weak excuse, one his brother didn’t bother to call out.

“Wait until after she paints the throne.” Lust was quiet for a moment. “Then try.”

Lust didn’t say it, but Envy knew what he was thinking: that Camilla might be very different from Envy’s last mortal.

Lust, for all his incessant bed hopping, was a secret romantic.

But Envy had already decided how this story would end.

In his world the only happily-ever-after he sought was for his court.

CAMILLA PULLED THE emerald brush from where she’d hidden it in her bodice, eager to use it for the first time, even if she wasn’t as thrilled to begin work on the Hexed Throne.

Trepidation inched its way down her spine, making the fine hair along her arms stand on end.

She already sensed the wrongness of what she was about to do, felt the first gusts of dark magic blowing in around the edges of the room, like spilled ink bleeding its way across a fresh page. If her father’s stories could be trusted, the Hexed Throne—from wherever it slumbered—was cracking an ancient eye.

Would it be curious or furious at being summoned?

Camilla would soon find out—after striking the devil’s bargain with Synton, there was no getting out of this part now.

Perhaps she was giving her talent too much credit, perhaps it would only be a simple painting.

And Synton is only a simple art collector with no dubious aspirations whatsoever.

She all but rolled her eyes at herself. Denial never did anyone any favors. Damned or not, this was the fate she’d chosen for herself, and it was time to get to work.

A quiet tapping drew her attention to the window.

She walked over and peered out across the manicured grounds, not seeing anyone. Another chill of foreboding caressed her spine. It was probably just a wayward branch. But after her encounter with Lord Garrey in the hedge maze, she wasn’t so sure.

Anyone could be out there.

She glanced up at the cloudless sky, the color an unblemished, crisp fall blue. There was no breeze today. No hint of any impending storm. She shook the odd sensation away and took quick stock of her supplies; oils, watercolors, pencils, charcoal, pastels…

Tap, tap, tap.

She jerked her attention back to the window. Had a shadow just passed? Chills raced over her. Surely it was just a bird flying too close.

Foolish. Her mind was playing tricks on her, that was all. After such a violent attack, that was not surprising.

Tap, tap, tap.

This time, the noise was louder, a definite knocking. When Camilla looked out the window now, her breath caught. Was that Lord Garrey?

Fear slammed into her. Not Lord Garrey.

A cloaked figure stood just on the other side of the glass, his face hidden from view in the garment’s depths. A scream caught in Camilla’s throat a half second before she recognized the figure as one that had lurked outside her gallery. He rapped gloved knuckles along the pane, jerking his head toward the latch.

“Synton?” she called out at last, backing away.

Somehow, the figure outside seemed amused. It made no movement to try to stop her, or to come in. Still, she retreated toward the door, keeping her attention on the man. He lifted a hand—probably to break the glass—and any calmness she’d been clutching at vanished.

“Synton!” she yelled. “Hurry!”

The figure tilted his head back, but all she could make out was one pale yellow wolflike eye that seemed to wink at her before he abruptly turned and darted away.

A beat later, Synton was there.

“What’s wrong?”

Camilla stared at the window, recognition dawning, if not understanding. That eye… it couldn’t be. She had to be mistaken. She dragged her attention to the lord, trying to find a reasonable excuse for her behavior. She couldn’t very well tell him the truth, not now.

“Apologies, my lord. Do you have the tea?”

He gave her an astonished look.

Camilla cleared her throat awkwardly. “Once I begin painting, I’ll need to be completely alone.”

Synton frowned at her and then looked over the rest of the room, suspicion clear in his face. But there were some things she couldn’t reveal, not after how hard she’d worked all these years, and the man at the window—however he’d gotten here—was one.

After a drawn-out moment, Synton finally left, still frowning, and came back a few minutes later with a tray. A silver tea service, some biscuits, and cubes of sugar.

“Will that be all, Miss Antonius?”

His tone was mocking, but she ignored it.

“For now. Thank you.”

Once he left, Camilla fixed herself a cup of tea to settle her nerves. She didn’t want to think about why the hunter had tracked her down, especially now, of all times. He might once have promised he’d be back, but no good could come from his visit right before she painted a hexed object. And how had he known she was at Synton’s, anyway?

The more she’d tried to keep her world together after her father’s death, the more threatened it had seemed to become. She’d made her choice, years ago. That should have been the end of it. But deep down she’d always worried that she’d only been granted a small reprieve from the inevitable. Her past was circling like a buzzard, waiting to dive down and drag her carcass off. The hunter was gone for now, she figured, and surely harmless. Until he tried to speak to her again, she might as well embark on the task at hand.

Camilla sipped her tea, a smooth Waverly Green blend, and looked around the space again, finally able to appreciate the details now that she was alone.

As if it were chiaroscuro made solid, the chamber was a study of bold, dramatic contrasts—on one side a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows let in bright sunlight, and on the other dark paneled walls cast nearly black shadows in the corners.

A long wooden table held stacks of sketchbooks, leather-bound and well-worn. Broken bits of charcoal, a few balled-up sheets of paper. And a crystal decanter half filled with deep amber liquid, with two matching crystal glasses.

A large limestone fireplace along the wall at the back of the studio held a gentle blaze that was giving off a warm, cozy glow. A leather settee and a handwoven rug were tucked in front, offering an artist a comfortable place to lie back and dream. Along the last wall, a few canvases were stretched and waiting on easels.

It was all perfect, exactly what she’d have chosen for herself. Synton was a man who missed nothing.

She’d need to be extra careful around him now. The faster she completed the painting, the faster she’d be free from their arrangement.

She pulled an apron from the nearest chair and tied it around her waist.

Camilla returned to her easel, situated before the wall of windows, and sat, her attention focused solely on her own work now.

With steady hands she undid her locket and tucked it into a pocket she’d had sewn into her dress.

She kept the ridiculously oversized emerald-and-diamond ring on; then she canted her head and closed her eyes, pulling up an image from her father’s stories.

In all accounts, the Hexed Throne burned on one side only, completely unaffected on the other. Another stark contrast; another act of balance.

Camilla thought about her father’s voice, telling her the Hexed Throne had been created by the First Witch, a supernatural being descended directly from the sun goddess, according to legend.