Tangwystle

Chapter 1

one

One thing you should know about me is I always hated when people rang the front bell. It interrupted my reading.

My frustration seemed particularly worse the first time I met Baz Coldwell.

It was early in the morning, and if I’d had any sense of self-preservation, I’d have spent the time eating breakfast. Instead, I’d settled on my book and sighed at the interruption.

I’d finally arrived at the heroine killing the dragon rider and plucking his heart from his chest, when the sharp buzz of the bell cut in. Used so rarely, my shoulders jerked, and the book slipped from my hands, leading to a mad fumble to save it from the ground.

Despite the buzz of the bell going off, my head turned toward the side door. Visitors to Blackwell Manor almost exclusively entered through this door.

Perhaps Jettson had arrived with a delivery of coal. But it wasn’t Thursday, and Jettson kept to his schedule.

I frowned further at the only other possibility that came to mind. Gretel. The servant from Clinemell Manor was one of the few who popped her head in. Her curly, blonde nuisance of a head.

But there was no tall, leggy blonde peeking through the grated window in the door. I had to shake my head, reminding myself that whoever it was, had used the front door and therefore it couldn’t possibly be any of the individuals I normally dealt with.

The bell buzzed again, like a jolt of sharp static. An empty dish rattled on the counter. I climbed up the stairs, the bell echoing in the empty halls of the cold manor. Frost still lined the ground this time of year, and no fires were lit.

I continued to follow the noise of the bell, rolling my eyes when the intruder switched to knocking. If I’d had it my way, I’d still be downstairs, reading.

“Yes!” I replied to the front door and secretly hoped the person on the other side heard my irritation. “All right!” I cried back when the knocking only increased.

I questioned if I had accidentally left the front gate open. Blackwell Manor faced out onto the street, and it would not do if someone had slipped in. At best, someone would trash the garden. At worst, they’d try to break in and scavenge for whatever they thought they could find.

Not many would dare to break into a manor, but by then it’d become well known that the master of Blackwell Manor had deceased nearly six months ago. Luckily, just the name, Blackwell, had kept most people at bay. Scavengers had at least some sense not to wreck such an esteemed family’s property.

“Is someone there?” The voice was muffled thanks to the great door.

I must admit I hesitated, torn between hiding below or squaring my shoulders. Most knew me in town, and they’d expect nothing less. The servant of Blackwell Manor, kept her spine straight at all times.

The hearth in the front parlor hadn’t seen a fire in six months, but there was a heavy iron bar previously used to stoke it. The cold material bit into my skin and nearly clattered to the floor when I lugged it back to the door.

“I request you open the door.” The words were uncharacteristically polite for a scavenger.

“This is Blackwell Manor,” I yelled back, hoping my voice could be heard through the thick door.

“Yes.” The male voice replied, his tone clipped. Perhaps I imagined it, but I swear there was a little sigh as he added, “That is why I am here.”

“Deliveries are to use the back gate,” I said, my fingers wrapping around the iron bar.

“Tell me, are the servants at Blackwell Manor always so polite?”

Stars above, he was one of those sarcastic idiots.

“Do you have a delivery or not?” I yelled back.

“Of a sort,” the voice offered.

At that point, I swore he was just trying to piss me off.

“Could you please open the door?” he asked. “I’m quite cold.”

So was I, but you didn’t see me complaining.

It took two hands to turn the lock on the door.

I placed the iron bar next to the door, making sure it was still within reach.

After a moment of hesitation, snowflakes scattered onto the black stone floor.

I was a short woman struggling to open it in the first place, and I knew the moment it cracked open, it wouldn’t take a lot for whoever was on the other side to shove their way in.

I pulled the door fully open, my fingers itching for the iron bar, but kept my chin lifted as I faced this newcomer. “Yes,” I asked in an even voice, blinking at a much taller man.

Snowflakes decorated his dark hair, and combined with the amused glint in his sapphire eyes, I suspected trouble. The cut of his shoulders was particularly nice, along with his square jaw.

But fawning over handsome men was dangerous. They almost always quickly proved themselves to be assholes, after all.

Grinning, while rubbing his hands together, the man conducted a similar appraising sweep. My black dress, stockings, and boots easily identified me as a servant.

“Is a woman usually left to answer the door?” he asked.

“Women can in fact answer doors,” I told the gentleman. No scavenger went around wearing a thick wool coat like he did.

“What about letting people in?” he asked, grinning. “Do women ever do that?”

“Blackwell Manor does not host visitors these days.”

“I am no visitor,” the man stated. “I’m Baz Coldwell. The master of Blackwell Manor.”

The house groaned.

Blackwell Manor was a monstrosity of a thing. All dark stone and airy, but cold, rooms.

I’d worked my ass off the past seven years scrubbing every inch of it. I’d grown vegetables out in the garden and then chopped them up in the kitchen. I’d aired out linen and washed dishes.

But this house was merely a roof over my head. It did not shake or rumble at my touch. At least I didn’t think so.

Upon the man’s words, something about the bolts and joints of the place lifted. It recognized the voice of its new owner—my new boss.

“Master Blackwell’s great-nephew inherited it,” I said, my hand still on the door as if I might shut it. Not that I could do so quickly. I’d have to scuffle against the giant, heavy door, pushing it closed with my whole body. But I admit I was tempted to give it a go.

Because in my mind it wasn’t a scavenger on the doorstep. It was a con man.

But Baz Coldwell laughed. It wasn’t haughty. Or hollow sounding. He rubbed his hands together, blowing against them. “I’m coming inside now.”

And just like that, he brushed past my shoulder. Allowing me a perfect view of the giant pile of bags he left on the front steps.

I supposed he believed it was my job to bring them in. Which, in all fairness, it was.

I lugged them in through the door while the man circled the giant foyer. Paintings hung along the walls, and upon first glance, all should be amazing. The ceilings were tall, and a dark staircase led upstairs. But there were several worn spots on the red carpet, and our breaths frosted the air.

“Why haven’t you lit a fire?” he asked, circling back to me.

I’d managed to pull in bags number six and seven out of about eighteen. Too much stuff. He owned way too much stuff.

“You are not Master Blackwell’s great-nephew.” I blew a strand of dark hair off my forehead and straightened up. I smoothed my skirt down, my pinafore missing. I hadn’t worn it in months.

“Former Master Blackwell. I heard the coroner ruled it as death by old age. Passed away in his sleep,” he said.

I had found the old man, shriveled up, his mouth hanging open. I’d sunk to the floor, not sad, but not relieved either. I knew what I had with Master Blackwell. Food, shelter, and an employer who did not treat his servants like mere concubines.

While meticulous about his tea, Master Blackwell never got handsy with me. And for that, I remained loyal. I didn’t just scrub the floors. I polished them. I grew his favorite vegetables in the garden, and I always ensured his bed linens were fresh.

Death came for the old man, and I was sorry to see him go. But also worried.

“No,” I told Baz Coldwell. His dark brows went up, but his face lit up. Like he was intrigued by how I spoke up to him.

He kept smiling. I noticed it immediately. Most likely because I knew it was the complete opposite of mine. One time I’d been asked by the butcher’s son if I’d share a lemon drop with him. He assumed I liked eating them because my lips appeared to be sucking on something sour.

“No?” Baz asked.

I wiped my hand down my skirt again. “I meant the great-nephew. You aren’t Master Blackwell’s great-nephew. He’s in his sixties.”

“He was,” Baz admits. “He died last month.”

Fucking stars.

“Don’t worry, I don’t plan on throwing the staff out,” Baz added immediately. “A manor this large, it wouldn’t do to toss away the very people running the place.”

If he meant to placate me, it failed when he glanced around the cold, empty room, and a prickle of nerves ran down my skin.

“Who are you?” I asked. How did Blackwell Manor pass from some old great-nephew to. . . this young gentleman?

The snowflakes in his hair had melted. When he ran a hand through his wet hair, dark strands stuck up in a funny manner. “Blackwell’s great-nephew was my guardian. Most of his property passed to his son, but as a courtesy, I was given Blackwell Manor.”

Courtesy. Given.

My boots remained solid against the floor, but I swear the floor tilted in that moment. How nice it must be to just be given a property such as Blackwell Manor.

I’d always suspected the great-nephew had to be even more well off than the former Master Blackwell. Otherwise, he’d have come here in a scurry. There aren’t many that would turn down a place such as this.

Manors with a hint of magic in one of the biggest cities are a sign of affluence most don’t pass up. No wonder Baz had shown up to take possession the moment he could.

“I’m sorry.” I cleared my throat, not liking how attentively he stared at me. His facial expressions were too expressive. Too open. “For your loss.”

His head quirked to the side, and my fingers curled into my skirts. “Thank you,” he replied after a moment. Had he thought I might be rude and not offer my condolences? “How long have you worked here?”

“Seven years.”

“Making you the housemistress?”

I nodded.

“And the valet? The footmen?” His head swiveled around.

“They’ve moved on.”

He frowned. “My guardian continued to pay their wages.”

I got a half-penny every quarter, a pittance compared to what a man might get. The roof over my head and the safety from other men were what I was supposed to be appreciative of.

“They have not collected a wage for a while,” I clarified. His brow drew together. “Master Blackwell preferred a quiet manor.”

Peace and quiet, he used to always say. I couldn’t have agreed more.

“Boswell passed on a month after Master Blackwell,” I explained. He’d worked in the Manor for almost fifty years. I focused on the housework and cooking, and Boswell did everything else. I’d always appreciated his efficiency.

“Close the door,” Baz ordered.

Seven bags remained on the front steps. I hurried back and forth and then pushed the door closed, the metal groaning.

Having the door shut didn’t exactly warm the place up. The snowflakes Baz let in had only added to the deep chill that had settled over the place the past six months.

“Are there no fires?” he asked.

“I’ll start one. This way to the parlor.”

“So I can freeze in some ghastly, empty room?” He stepped around me, exploring the place. “Is there any tea?”

“Your coat is dripping.” I rushed after him. With the amount of luggage he’d brought, he’d certainly gotten a carriage. Yet somehow his clothes appeared to be soaked through. And I’m ashamed I didn’t see it at first.

But then again, how could I with his blue eyes never leaving mine? I could barely look away, even for a second.

Trouble.

The sensation—and realization—ran down me.

Baz had already made it to the servants' stairs and didn’t stop.

Master Blackwell never went into the kitchen. Baz, on the other hand, seemed at home. He flicked his hand at the empty hearth and fire crackled to life.

“Y-you have magic.”

“Just a bit.” His smile wasn’t smug.

He took his jacket off, hanging it up, his finger skimming the white pinafore on the next hook. I rocked forward, wishing to snatch the material away from him, but before I could, he turned to me.

His white shirt was completely wet.

“How did you get so dirty?” I asked.

He smirked, but I noticed the tiniest of shudders.

“You’re cold.”

I didn’t know if I liked this. Having someone show up and replace the former master. Baz had the legal right, but I’d had a good time of it of late. Plenty of time to read.

But I sprang into action when he shivered.

I filled the kettle with water, almost spilling it when I turned and spotted a half-naked Baz.

He hung his wet shirt by the fire. His pants remained snug and low on his hips. Blue eyes glanced at me for just a second, and I saw him decide to leave them on. Like he understood now wasn’t the time.

“That will take a moment,” I said of the kettle, ashamed at how small my voice came out.

As a rule, I didn’t like it when men threw themselves on women, but I could at the very least admit when a man had a nice physique.

Baz was tall, broad-shouldered, and defined with muscles. Hair from his navel traveled down, and I jumped to open a pot. We were down to a tiny spoonful of tea leaves.

“I. . .”

“You weren’t expecting company,” he said.

It irritated me for some reason how understanding he seemed. I already felt completely destabilized as it was.

“It’s market day.” I tried to play it off as if I’d expected to go stock up on a few things. In truth, it’d been bitterly cold the past few days, and with just myself there, there wasn’t a pressing need to go into town.

“Shall I go with you?” he asked.

“No!” I whirled around to the hook near the side door. The one used much more than the front.

“It will be crowded.” He frowned.

“I am more than capable.” I wrapped a black cloak around my shoulders.

“Surely, I should come.” His eyes widened when I dropped a black pointy hat over my head. “Are you a witch?”

“No.” I pulled my cloak tighter and prepared myself for the walk.

Boswell occasionally accompanied me to the market, but with such a big manor and only the two of us, we believed in dividing and conquering. Meaning, throughout the years, I’d come up with several tactics to ensure that the townspeople rarely messed with me.

“There is a mug—”

He shook his head, a bemused smile showing up again. “I can manage making myself a bit of tea. But I do have one question.”

I waited.

“Your name?” he asked.

“Oh.” Right, I’d never introduced myself. “I’m Tangwystle.”