“Darling,” she said with a small laugh, “love doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“It has everything to do with it!” I exclaimed. I promptly dropped my voice, fearing I’d inadvertently bring my dad back, and I wasn’t quite ready for that. “Why else get married—or stay married—if not for love?”

“It’s very complicated,” she said in the kind of tone she had used on me as a child. “There’s status to consider. It wouldn’t look right if we split up. That, and . . . well, all of my finances are tied up with your father. We had paperwork drawn up when we married, and let’s put it this way: If he and I divorced, I’d have no way to support myself.”

I jumped to my feet. “I’ll support you then.”

She met my gaze levelly. “With what, dear? Your art classes? I know the queen doesn’t pay you for your help—though goodness knows she should.”

“I’ll get some job. Any job. We might not have much to start with, but you’d at least have your self-respect! You don’t have to stay here, tied to his money and his judgment, pretending this is love!”

“There’s no pretending about it. This is as close to love as you get in marriage.”

“I don’t believe that,” I told her. “I know what love is, Mom. I’ve had love that burns in every fiber of my being, that drives me to be a better person and empowers me through each moment of the day. If you’d ever had something like that, you’d hold on to it with every bit of strength you had.”

“You only think that because you’re young, and you don’t know any better.” She was so damnably calm, it almost made me more upset. “You think love is a reckless relationship with a dhampir, just because it’s exciting. Or are you referring to the girl you were pining for on the plane? Where is she? If your love is so all-consuming and can triumph over everything, why aren’t you together?”

Good question, said Aunt Tatiana.

“Because . . . it’s not that easy,” I told my mother through clenched teeth.

“It’s not that easy because it’s not real,” she replied. “Young people mistake infatuation for ‘true love’ when there’s no such thing. Love between a mother and child? Yes, that’s real. But some romantic delusion that conquers all? Don’t fool yourself. Your friends, who have such grand romances, will eventually see the truth. This girl of yours, wherever she is, isn’t coming back. Stop chasing a dream and focus on someone you can build a stable life with. That’s what your father and I have done. That’s what we’ve always done . . . and I daresay it’s served us well.”

“Always?” I asked in a small voice. “You’ve always lived this sham?”

“Well,” she admitted. “Some parts of our marriage have been more . . . amicable than others. But we’ve always been pragmatic about it.”

“You’ve been cold and shallow about it,” I said. “You told me when you got out of prison, you understood the things that matter. Apparently not, if you’re willing to put up with this act—with a man who doesn’t respect you—for image and money! No security is worth that. And I refuse to believe this is the best anyone can hope for in love. There’s more to it than this. I will have more than this.”

My mother’s eyes almost appeared sad as she met mine. “Then where is she, dear? Where is your girl?”

I had no good answer for her. All I knew was that I could no longer stand being there. I stormed out of the townhouse, surprised to feel the sting of tears in my eyes. I had never thought of my parents as flowery, romantic types, but I’d believed that there’d still been some sort of strong affection in spite of—or perhaps because of—their prickly personalities. To be told that was a sham, that all love was a sham, couldn’t have come at a worse time. I didn’t believe it, of course. I knew there was real love out there. I’d experienced it firsthand . . . but my mother’s words stung because I was vulnerable right now, because no matter how popular I was at Court or how good my intentions were, I was still no closer to finding Sydney. My brain didn’t believe my mother, but my heart, so full of fear and doubt, worried there was truth to her words, and that dark, dreary pull of spirit only made things worse. It made me second-guess myself. Maybe I’d never find Sydney. Maybe I’d never find love at all. Maybe wanting something badly enough wasn’t enough to make it happen.

The weather had cooled outside, and a brisk wind promised rain. I paused in my walk and tried to reach out to Sydney, but the wine from dinner clouded my powers. I gave up and took out my cell phone instead, opting for simpler means of communication. Nina answered on the second ring.

“Hey,” she said. “When I didn’t hear from you, I thought . . . well, never mind. How’s it going?”

“It’s been better. You want to do something tonight?”

“Sure. What’d you have in mind?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “You can pick. I’ve got a million invites. We can have parties all night.”

“Don’t you need to take a break at some point?” she teased, not knowing how close she was to hitting a nerve. “I thought you said you try to sober up every once in a while.”

I thought about my mom, trapped in a loveless marriage. I thought about me, trapped without options. And I thought about Sydney, who was simply trapped. It was all too much, too much for me to do anything about.