A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 78: Long May it Echo

The wind shifted. A faint spring breeze pulled at the hem of Anastasia's cloak, bringing with it the brief scent of rose oil and burnt paper.

Narcissa turned suddenly, gaze sharp. "Lucius."

"What?" He didn't even glance at her.

"Snuff it out."

Lucius looked down at his cigarette. "Now?"

Narcissa's eyes narrowed just enough.

Lucius sighed. "For Merlin's sake—"

"Drop it," she repeated, voice calm and flat.

Lucius hesitated. Then a small noise from beyond the hedge—soft footsteps, deliberate ones—made his spine straighten. He glanced toward the gravel path, saw nothing yet, and dropped the cigarette at once, crushing it under his heel with a muttered swear.

Anastasia smiled—genuinely this time. "Very brave of you."

Lucius didn't have time to respond.

The last carriages creaked into view around the bend, their dark lacquer glinting like oil beneath the cloud-thinned sun. At its side, a handful of guards in formal cloaks moved at a measured pace, almost too measured, like they were part of a pageant instead of a security detail.

Tom appeared behind them.

He wasn't dressed extravagantly. Not by aristocratic standards. No embroidery, no house sigil on his breast. Just tailored black—subtle, precise, near-monastic in its restraint. A single emerald pin glinted at his collar, nothing more.

He looked like he'd just come from a funeral.

When he reached them, his eyes went to Anastasia first, and he offered his arm with a grace that bordered on ironic.

"My apologies," he said, his voice light and polished as silver. "I've kept you waiting."

"Not at all," Anastasia replied.

He held out his arm. "Shall we?"

Anastasia didn't hesitate. She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow and stepped forward. They descended the steps together. Behind them, the wind stirred the cigarette ash like a warning.

***

The wedding was grotesque in its perfection.

Tulips—hundreds of them, in cream and blush and sugary pink—curled from every archway, vase, and candelabra like manicured claws. Anastasia had never liked tulips. Too eager. Too soft around the edges. And here, arranged in endless, overfilled bouquets trimmed with gold wire and starlight spells, they felt less like décor and more like an invasive species.

The main hall of the Marlow estate had been transfigured for the ceremony. Rows of white chairs—each individually conjured to hover an inch off the floor—hovered in symmetric perfection before a grand marble dais. Champagne flowed in glass goblets that refilled themselves. Floating votives hovered along the aisle, giving everything a warm golden haze. It smelled like roses, sugar, and something beneath it all—an astringent, sour note. Like magic that had been tampered with one too many times.

"It's a casting call," Lucius muttered under his breath as he accepted another flute from a passing tray. "Not a wedding."

He wasn't wrong. Every guest was someone of consequence—or someone who wanted to be. Diplomats from the French Magical Assembly. Old blood from Austria, Bavaria, Carthage. Ministry elites. Foreign investors. A few terrifyingly young socialites dressed in floor-length satin and predatory smiles. Anastasia recognized more than one man who had once sat on the Hogwarts Board of Governors. She saw two ex-Ministers. Possibly three.