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Nathalie smiled. “You spotted the eyes. Constance was a witch, and she had the gift of second sight. That’s what each eye being a different color signifies. Like Alain. Her many times great-grandson. It’s an inherited trait. It skipped a whole slew of generations and then popped up in Alain.”

Huh. It seemed the Kings weren’t the only ones with the gift of second sight in their lineage. “What’s the deal between Maxime and Alain?”

“You mean the combat de coqs? How do you say it in English? A cockfight? Two men wanting to be in charge, non?” Nathalie crossed her arms and leaned against the wall beside the portraits. “You see, the alpha is always the strongest, most dominant male in the pack, and while any wolf in the pack could potentially be the pack alpha, for centuries it’s followed Gaharet d’Louncrais’ direct line. Alain…” She sighed. “Alain is as dominant and as strong a wolf as Maxime. I’ve heard stories of their clashes on the training mats. They were vicious, neither one wanting to concede. But there can only be one alpha. For the good of the pack, Alain chose to channel his dominance elsewhere, but it’s made for an uneasy truce between the two of them.”

The playroom. That’s where Alain unleashed his dominance.

Nathalie pushed off the wall and started up the sweeping staircase. “Come on. I’ve got the perfect room for you. Right next to Alain.”

* * * *

Grace was back in the empty hall, freshly showered, staring at but not seeing the tapestries on the wall when Alain returned with the archive boxes in his arms. He set them both on the table, put on a pair of cotton gloves, and removed one grimoire from its box. Not the one she believed to be Cordelia’s.

“Tell me what’s going on, Alain?” She turned her back on the tapestries and sidled up to the table. “What is this secret? Tell me why Annabelle sent the grimoire to you and why you’ve brought it here instead of handing it over to the council.”

Alain slid the grimoire closer to her and tossed a second pair of gloves next to it. “It’s best if I show you.”

She hesitated, then put on the gloves and sat at the table. Alain opened the grimoire, turning past pages of Latin and drawings of herbs. Spells? Remedies? He stopped when Latin changed into something else, something she did recognize. The Runes of Honorius, also known as the Theban alphabet. It was a substitution cipher often used by witches for shielding, or sometimes enhancing, magic.

“Here.” Alain handed her a writing pad with the key to the cipher, and a pen. “I could read it out to you or tell you what it says. I can recite it word for word I’ve read it so many times, but I think it’s best if you read it for yourself.”

Based on the age of it, it was as old as Cordelia’s. “Whose grimoire is this?”

“It’s mine. It was handed down to me through my family line.”

From Constance?

She picked up the pen. “Okay.”

Some of the stiffness dissolved from his shoulders. He grabbed the second archive box. “I’ll leave you to it. I have things to discuss with Maxime. When you’re done, we’ll talk.” He headed for the door.

He was trusting her alone with the grimoire? Cordelia might not have asked her to steal this grimoire, but it was a prize she wouldn’t turn down. The croissants she’d eaten for breakfast curdled in her stomach as she ran her gloved hand across the pages. Her mama and Bernard deserved for her to at least try, but… There were things going on she wasn’t privy to. Questions that needed answering.

His hand on the doorknob, he paused. “We know about your mother, Grace. That she’s being held captive as leverage to get you to do Cordelia’s bidding. Gabriel, Annabelle and the twins are working hard to find her and release her. When they do, you have my word, I’ll have them fly her here.”

He was trying to find her mama? She closed her eyes, blocking out the grimoire, nausea burning a path toward her throat. “My stepdad, too? Bernard? He’s not like the other Kings.”

“Bernard too.”

He left her alone with the grimoire, and a thread of hope she had no right to feel.

* * * *

Alain found Maxime in his study, poring over the journal.

“Grace?” Maxime asked.

“Translating The Legend of the Black Wolf as we speak.”

Maxime nodded, leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers. “We need to work together on this, Alain.”

They did. He understood that as well as Maxime did. It didn’t mean it would be easy.

“Can we call a truce between us? Acknowledge we both have skills to offer?”

Alain had done that years ago when he’d stepped away from challenging Maxime for command of the pack. It’d taken everything in him to back down. His wolf had sulked for weeks. Until one of many women he’d lost himself in during that wretched time had introduced him to a new world, and he’d clawed himself back from the edge. “Oui.”

A rare smile curled on Maxime’s lips. “Good.”