Ronan wrinkled her own nose at the sight of the pudgy, squash-nosed boy in the picture. Peregrine Randolph, Lord Stewart was a handsome name wasted upon someone who was decidedly not. It was grossly unfair to think that she would be the one who would count herself lucky if he took a liking to her, and not the other way around. But as the heiress to a bankrupt house, with little access to the power of magic, such was her lot in life.
“Lord Stewart,” she said in a flat voice. “Hobbies: archery, still life, and discussing Plato.” More importantly, the Hillshire riches included a vast collection of rare and valuable amulets forged by the brotherhood of Merlin. They were said to bring the bearer good life, good fortune, and good luck—though obviously not good looks. She smiled, and supposed that was where she came into the picture.
The next photograph filled the whole page, which boded well for the wealth of the family of the aristocrat in question. This one was slightly cross-eyed and buck-toothed, but what did it matter if his family had a powerful enchanter at their disposal? Especially one who could make lands fertile and farms profitable. “Marcus Deveraux,” she said. “Or, as you prefer to call him, Charles Arthur Marcus Deveraux, Viscount Lisle. Hobbies include falconry, piano, and romantic poetry.” So pretentious. She bet he only knew that one line from Byron, the one everyone knew, about walking in beauty.
She flicked her eyes at the next titled lord in question, a grainy photograph of a dark-haired boy with a prominent nose and chin. “Archie Fairfax,” she said. At a sharp glance from Vera, she relented and recited his real name. “The Honorable Archibald Fairfax. He prefers champagne, music halls, and noise.” Finally, an honest answer, she thought.
Ronan sighed. They were all the same, these inbred, weak-chinned boys. They had too much money and time but too little to do, even as they professed a proclivity toward an athletic endeavor, supposedly cultivated an interest in some form of art, or followed the teachings of a great philosopher. Truth be told, it was common knowledge that boys from privileged backgrounds mostly favored cards, girls, and drink. Their only advantage came from their families’ magical holdings.
Unlike her own father, who wasted his time on such wrong-headed pursuits as “technology” and “progress” and who would have been dubbed “Empty Pockets Astor” in the papers if anyone knew the truth of their situation. Thankfully, her mother was good at keeping up appearances. No one in New York knew how badly off they were.
Perhaps she was just bitter. The Astors held one of the oldest and most important positions in the Americas; they were deeply loyal to House Aquitaine, and had been well-rewarded for it. If only her father had managed to hang on to more of his inheritance, instead of squandering it all away on frivolities—investing in such notions as railroads and steam engines that would never be built, nor run correctly. He continually assured his family they would soon receive generous dividends. But not soon enough for their comfort, she thought, knowing the vast sum that was mortgaged against the estate. That was the problem with Americans, they placed too much faith in science, when anyone could see that such pedestrian inventions as shoulder rifles or mechanized cannons would never beat England and its powerful Merlin. The American rebels had learned as much during the failed Insurrection of 1776, when the Redcoats and Her Majesty’s magicians had laid waste to the attempted sedition with their superior spell-casting.
Luckily, her ancestor had been on the right side of the rebellion, and had retained the governorship of New York and all the privileges that came with it. Their country home in Hastings was practically a castle. Of course, nothing could compete with the sprawling and magnificent stone piles that the Europeans called home, but even the queen had spoken fondly of her time at Hudson Park. Maintenance, however, was another matter; keeping up the estates and the staff had all but drained the family finances. Many of their beautiful things had quietly been sold to pay their monthly bills.
Relief was on the way however, in the form of passage on the Saturnia, which was to take her across the Atlantic. Once there, she would be presented to the queen. It was her family’s dearest hope that Ronan secure a desirable mate and land an engagement before the season ended and all the eligible aristocrats repaired back to their country homes. As it was, her trousseau was not worth its mention in the Herald. The enthusiastic descriptions of the fabulous gowns she would be taking to London masked the shabby reality: scraping together the very last of their resources had only resulted in a trunk full of knockoffs of the latest Parisian styles. She had a few of her mother’s glamorous gowns, of course, but they were twenty years out of date. Her jewels, or lack of them, were an unspeakable tragedy. No longer did she have her great-grandmother’s famed Astor tiara, but only an expert reproduction—it was a fake, paste and glass, and created in utmost secrecy. The real one had been sold long ago to an Arabian princess, who was probably wearing it somewhere in the desert. A shame.
Ronan was sailing across the sea so she could sell herself to the highest bidder, and she must make a match—a rich one that would allow her to pay off their debts and secure her future. And if the family came with a retinue of magicians at their beck and call, then all the better. It was tiresome living without a little glimmer every now and then. All of her friends had the latest fripperies from the empire: powders that turned your hair gold, creams that took away blemishes on the skin. She was at least fortunate in that she did not need a magician to appear beautiful.
“There’s my favorite girl,” her father said, entering the room. He was a large man with a bristly beard and a gruff but gentle demeanor, the type who was called upon to play Father Christmas every holiday. “What’s this?” he asked, looking askance at the book on the desk, which was open to a lavish illustration of a ducal coat of arms. He made a face, realizing what was going on.
“Oh, Daddy, it’s nothing,” Ronan said, closing the leather-bound book with a thump and handing it to Vera, who politely excused herself from the room.
“Your mother puts strange ideas in your head, but an Astor of New York doesn’t need anyone’s help—remember that. You have your good name. You don’t need to scrape at the feet of those empire snobs.”
Ronan held her tongue. To be honest, she did not have it in her heart to resent him. Her father was the one who had played backgammon with her and drawn her pictures as a child. He was the one who had attended her tea parties in the nursery, and read her picture books at night while her mother threw herself into the social whirl of the city. “Did you hear the Haltons have a new fortune-teller?” she asked eagerly. “She predicts a rise in the stock market.”
“Bah, that dark magic has no place in the future,” Henry said. “Fortune-tellers are nothing but frauds, my girl.” She knew her father did not want to admit it, but if she did not succeed in marrying well, they would have to move out west—a last resort—to her mother’s people, the “barbarians.”
She kissed her father on the cheek and left to dress for dinner, heading up the stairs. Ronan had always been fond of the grand staircase, with its oiled and shiny balustrade, treads that neither creaked nor wobbled, and rails solid as stone. When she was a child, she had turned it into a coliseum full of dolls, placing row after row of silk-garbed figurines on each of the steps. The stairs held her audience, while Ronan performed a dance at the base. Ronan remembered nervously descending these steps on Christmas mornings, her nightdress gleaming against the dark of the wood as she tiptoed toward the dazzling tree festooned with tinsel and presents. She’d miss these old boards when she went off to England. Not that they’d had much of a Christmas last year, anyway…and the ancient but beautiful brass chandelier that used to hang in the center of the room was gone now—sold, like all the rest of the most valuable décor.
Rounding the corner, past the now-empty corridors with the scraped-away wallpaper and more missing paintings, she stopped for a moment to stare at the pendant lights, whose candle mounts had been recently retrofitted for Edison bulbs. It looked as if strands of lightning were
trapped within their tiny globes. Was this not magic? Wasn’t this power just as grand and unknowable as the Merlin’s? Her father believed so. Sometimes, looking at those incandescent lights, Ronan thought he might just have a point.
“Is that you, Ronan?” her mother’s voice called. She turned toward the sound, knowing it was more of an order than a question.
Ronan entered her mother’s bedroom, the only room in the house that still had all of its original furniture. It was the best room as well, with a view of the park and gardens. Outside, the first street lamps had popped to life as the sun hung low near the horizon. Inside, a single Edison bulb lit her mother’s room with a strong, consistent glow. The white paneled walls amplified the light, making her mother’s chamber not only the largest bedroom, but the brightest one as well. Her father had insisted the house be paneled in walnut, but her mother had disagreed. Against her husband’s will she’d had her room paneled in silk sateen, a finish as bright as newly fallen snow.
The bed was done in the English style, tall and canopied, dressed up like a queen’s with bunting stuck between four tall poles. The plush white rug beneath her mother’s bed abutted a second one that stretched underneath an armoire, a dressing screen, and a powder table. Each of these pieces was framed by a pair of gilded chairs, their backs pressed against the wall. Vera told her that the backs of chairs in great houses like theirs remained unpainted, because no one ever moved the chairs or used them. Ronan had never checked to see if it was true, if the chairs were indeed nailed to the walls, but it made sense. Everything in the room was meant to be admired. Every piece—from the exquisite French clock on the mantel, to the row of perfume decanters on the vanity, to her own mother.
At thirty-five years of age, Elizabeth Astor was still extraordinarily lovely, if a little haunted-looking. Her hollow cheeks and red eyes were the result of many sleepless nights. She came from the provinces—she was from nowhere, her parents nobody. Her only treasure was her arresting beauty, which had won over her husband, the third son of the then-richest man in New York. The youngest boy was traditionally not meant to inherit, or expected to come to much; but when the elder and middle sons of Jackson Pierce Astor were both lost during the War Between the Americans thirty years before, the youngest had inherited the governorship, and little Sue-Beth Morley (the horror of that name—so common—it held the stink of dusty towns and tumbleweed)—suddenly found herself the reigning doyenne of New York. Upon her arrival in the city, her mother had had the good sense to adopt the name Elizabeth, and went by the name “Bits.”
“Show me your court bow,” Bits Astor demanded now. “When your father and I were presented at court to meet the queen, they all said I had the most beautiful one.”
Ronan rolled her eyes. Her mother was forever waxing nostalgic about the glories of her season. Knowing the ingrained snobbishness of the Franco-Brits, Ronan was sure that was not all they said about the social-climbing young American.
“Yes, Mother,” she said, and dutifully displayed what Vera had taught her. The deepest curtsy, almost to the floor. Her head was bowed demurely, lashes against her cheeks, eyes downcast. Not once must she turn her back on the monarch. It was said that Queen Eleanor had her Merlin destroy those who dared to disrespect her, and Ronan did not want to suffer such a fate. She respected the power of magic; it was why she found her dear father so misguided.
“I sense a hint of rebellion in the curve of your cheek, my dear; and we must show utmost deference to the Crown. Again.”
Ronan nodded and curtsied again, deeper this time—so low that she felt the backs of her thighs burn with the effort.
When her mother was satisfied with her performance, she crossed the room to stand next to her daughter. She turned Ronan’s face toward the Venetian gold gilt mirror, one of the last antiques left. Bits’s hands were as delicate as a child’s, but her grip on Ronan’s chin was like steel. She turned it to the right, then the left, examining her daughter’s profile, and finally brought it straight back to face the mirror.
“My lovely girl.” Bits smiled.
Ronan looked at what her mother saw. Her otherworldly, celebrated beauty: the porcelain skin, luminescent and pearly; the high sweep of her forehead; a thin, sculpted nose; sharp cheekbones; her pink pout, a proper rosebud, ripe for the plucking. Her long golden tresses, finer than silk, fell on her shoulders loose and wanton; she had been impatient with her governess that morning, and had pulled away when Vera had tried to braid her hair and put it up properly.
“You look exactly like me at your age; thank goodness for that. A consummate New York blonde, as they like to say,” her mother said with satisfaction. “This is your fate. These are your riches. This face will win you a prince; take my word for it. You are an Astor of New York. You should do no worse, as you have much more than I started with.”
Ronan flushed. She looked at her face and her mother’s closely in the mirror. They were like twin images, except for the very faint lines around her mother’s eyes, the faded color in her thinner cheeks.
She knew all of this already, of course. She would choose one of those awful boys from the photographs and make him fall in love with her. And then she would find a way to make this estate matter again. The port town was booming, and New York City was being compared to the great capitals. If the Astors managed to get some enchanters at their service, they might be able to shape their fortunes and their future.
Her mother’s face, and her father’s name—her parents thought that was all there was to her, and maybe they were right. She would be married at the end of the London Season—and she determined right then and there that she would make not just a good match, but the best match; perhaps even catch the eye of the Kronprinz of Prussia himself. She had studied his portrait in the book with the greatest care, and had found much to admire in his noble profile. It was said that the Prussians had used a Pandora’s Box during the final battle, which had brought the queen’s army to its knees and ended the war. With a weapon of such magnitude, one could rule the world.
Ronan was nothing if not ambitious.
About the Author
Melissa de la Cruz (www.melissa-delacruz.com) is the author of many best-selling novels, including the Blue Bloods series. Her series for grown-ups, Witches of East End, is in development as a drama from Lifetime. Her forthcoming new books include Frozen, coming in Spring 2013, and The Court of the Last Princess, coming in Fall 2013. She lives in Los Angeles and Palm Springs with her family.
Praise for the New York Times best-selling series
BLUE BLOODS
“De la Cruz introduces a conception of vampires far different from traditional stake-fleeing demons, coupling sly humor with the gauzier trappings of being fanged and fabulous.” —Booklist (starred review)
“Juicy and voyeuristic.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Anyone who enjoys reading about vampires will love Blue Bloods. Melissa de la Cruz creates a believable and fascinating world. The book is a great supernatural mystery with a fast pace.” —Lynne Ewing, author of the Daughters of the Moon series
“Fans came for the romance but stayed for the slow-build family and murder mysteries.” —Entertainment Weekly
“De la Cruz combines American history, vampires and a crew of rich New York City kids, delivering a page-turning debut.” —Publishers Weekly
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