‘They’re putting Sebastian on trial.’
I stopped walking and stared hard at my brother, trying to wrap my head around his words. Fifteen minutes ago, Sebastian and I had been on our way back to the Circe de Romany from our picnic. Then Quentin and his Marksmen met us at the gate, and turned everything upside down.
‘What are you saying, Francis?’ I demanded. ‘Putting him on trial for what?’
‘We have to go, Josephine. It’s starting.’
My brother took me under the arm and hurried me through the opening of the red and gold tent. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Our entire clan had gathered in the Circe’s large Holding Tent. People stood along the canvas walls or squeezed themselves onto the long benches, talking in low, questioning voices.
A table had been set up on the far side of the tent and our father, Nicolas Romany, sat blank-faced in the center. I recognized the men positioned on either side of him. They were judges, appointed by each family in our clan to preside over a trial. One of them was Andre, my Circe partner. And another was Quentin.
My heart dropped like a heavy weight inside me.
Francis followed my gaze, and his green eyes mirrored mine. His jaw tightened. ‘Father called the kris a half-hour ago and ordered everyone to be present. We’ve been waiting for you to get back from your trip to Copper Mountain.’ My brother nodded towards the entrance. ‘Both of you.’
‘Francis, what—’
‘It’s not good, Josephine,’ he said, cutting me off. ‘It’s really not good.’
I allowed him to lead me through the center of the tent. I felt eyes on me from every direction, like bugs crawling all over my body. I held my chin high and kept my face wiped clean of any expression, but my insides churned.
I took my place, standing behind the table next to my mother. She didn’t look at me. Francis stayed on my other side, his shoulder pressing comfortingly into mine. Leo, the head judge, stood up from the table and motioned to the Marksmen standing on either side of the tent door.
‘Bring it in.’
My stomach clenched with nausea as the guards opened the flaps and Sebastian was shoved forcefully through the opening. He went down on one knee, but only for a moment before he was yanked to his feet. I winced at the sight of him. They’d strapped his gigantic wings to his back with tight cords, and their clawed tips dragged along the ground behind him. His arms were also pinned behind him, heavily chained across his wings.
Sebastian stumbled to the center, looking weak and disoriented. He shook his head several times, like he was trying to clear whatever it was away. His pewter hair fell across his forehead. Marksmen forced him down onto his knees, but he looked up sharply, his strange, silver eyes focusing on the people at the table. And then, his gaze landed on me.
Sebastian’s expression held no anger, only confusion. He blinked once, slowly. Immediately, I felt his emotions, deep inside my chest, as strongly as if they were my own. He was concerned about … me. My breath caught in my throat. I could only stare back at him, praying he felt my emotions the same way. He gave me one last blink, then pushed himself determinedly to his feet.
Quentin also rose and stepped around the table. He was dressed in his normal Marksman outfit, perfectly fitted from head to toe. Once, I used to love the way his tall, trim figure looked in the uniform. Now, it just made me feel sick inside. He smoothed his sleek black hair, the way he did when he was feeling confident about something.
Sebastian ignored him, turning to my father instead. ‘Nicolas, I don’t—’
‘Chain the creature,’ said Quentin.
I watched in helpless horror as four of our largest guards descended on Sebastian. They pushed him backwards to the middle of the tent, to the thick center support beam. Metal chains were flung across his chest and yanked taut. Sebastian grunted as one Marksman adjusted the manacles and fastened them with a lock that clicked ominously into place.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded Sebastian.
I heard the telltale growling sound seeping into his voice, though I could feel him trying his best to stay calm. My eyes pricked with hot tears, but I forcibly blinked them away.
My father answered. ‘It’s not your time to speak, Sebastian Grey.’
One of the Marksmen – a man named Jacque, who I’d known since we were children – stepped forward and raised his fist towards Sebastian.