Of Silk and Steam by Bec McMaster

dying a little. The doctors assured her the laudanum wouldn’t hurt the queen—indeed, quite the opposite—but she had seen the way it changed her friend, leaving her but an empty, dreaming shell.
    How much of her would be left once the prince consort had callously carved away all of the pieces of her soul?
    We could run away. Remember when we used to dream of that? But she said nothing, for the truth was that they were only pretty lies. The prince consort would never let the queen out of his grasp. They’d be lucky if they made it to Calais.
    Unless I steal an airship. The bittersweet jest that made her think, of all things, of Barrons.
    “Sleep well,” she whispered, stepping away and gathering her skirts. “And remember that our day is coming. Sooner than you think.”
    “Mina.” A slightly tremulous voice, followed by a deep breath. “You cannot leave yet.”
    She turned, trying not to look at that damning mark on the queen’s cheek. “I should return to the Council.”
    “You know what he meant when he told you to take me in hand.” Strength was returning to the queen’s voice. She sat above the perfume battlefield, her skirts sweeping through the shards of glass.
    “Please.” Mina’s throat constricted. “I don’t want to—”
    “Not my face,” the queen instructed. “He won’t want it to be visible. But make certain it bruises.” Her chin lifted. “It wouldn’t do for my husband to think he needs to add his own, and if I can bear it…by God, you can do it to me.”
    Sometimes being her queen’s strength was Mina’s own vile challenge.

Seven
    “You’re late.”
    Leo paused in the door of his father’s study. “Father,” he said, stripping off his coat and handing it to one of the hovering maids. “I’ve missed you too. The trip was successful”—only one assassination attempt by a Russian duke—“and the weather remained uneventful for our voyage, thanks for asking.”
    The Duke of Caine turned away from the fireplace, light flickering over his pale skin before he dragged the hood of his cape up, hiding his face. “Do you think yourself amusing?”
    “Frequently.”
    The drapes were drawn, the room a smoky, heated den that Leo suspected the duke rarely ventured away from. A woman sat in the corner of the room, her fingers stilling on her needlework.
    “Madeline,” Leo murmured, crossing to press his lips against her cheek.
    She was his father’s oldest thrall, faint lines now forming around her dark eyes. A beautiful woman still, and one of the few who suffered Caine’s temper with any sense of aplomb. “Leo,” she replied, patting his cheek. “Look at you. You look like some dashing corsair.”
    He raked a hand over his hair, where it touched his collar. “So I’ve been told.”
    “Can you not do that elsewhere?” Caine snapped, gesturing to her.
    Madeline’s smile faded, her dark gaze locking on the duke. “Perhaps I should leave you both to your chess game,” she demurred, though the faint lift of her brow indicated what she thought of Caine’s rudeness. Gathering her things, she smiled at Leo. “You know where you may find me.”
    He’d much rather she’d stay. Her company was preferable to Caine’s. “Later,” he agreed.
    His father owned six thralls, a sign of prosperity and influence, though, perhaps due to his illness, he’d begun to retire three of them. They were rarely kept in the manor house anymore, Caine having set them up in style in various houses around the city.
    Leo himself supported two of his father’s thralls. They’d been a generous gift for his eighteenth birthday, though now he wondered if that hadn’t been his father’s attempt to hide the onset of his mysterious illness. Caine had become more reclusive not long after.
    The only thrall that remained in the house was Madeline, though Leo wasn’t certain whose idea that had been.
    He knew for a fact that Madeline refused Caine her flesh rights. She might have signed a thrall