Chapter 1 #3
“From Lord Halveric on behalf of the Court of Eldermire,” he says, and presses it into my hand as though eager to be rid of it.
The vellum is stiff, the black wax still warm from its stamp.
I smile as if the weight of it doesn’t bite into my palm. “Thank you for riding all this way. Can I offer you some bread and wine before you go?”
He hesitates, eyes flicking toward my mouth. The little points of my fangs catch the light when I speak, no matter how I try to hide them. His hand twitches at his side.
“Kind, my lady, but I should return before nightfall,” he says quickly, bow already half-formed as if to excuse himself faster.
I keep smiling. “Safe travels, then.”
He mutters his thanks, stiff as starch, and mounts in a scramble. Hooves strike against stone, restless, eager to be gone.
Only when the courtyard has emptied, the echo of iron shoes fading down the lane, do I let the smile slip.
I lift the letter. That crest glares up at me, twisted and predatory. I fetch the letter opener from the sideboard, its carved bone handle smooth beneath my fingers, and slit the wax.
The parchment crackles as I unfold it.
To Baroness Marienne Solmere of Bloomhill Manor, it begins, the script sharp as a dagger’s point. The Court of Eldermire requests immediate assurance regarding the ongoing suitability of your household. Matters of clarity of bloodline and stability of influence remain in question.
The language is predictably venomous beneath its velvet wrapping. A polite way of asking if the mad little baroness with the haunted children is a threat yet.
I fold it shut before I finish.
No need to let the poison spread.
My smile tightens as I set it beneath the sugar bowl beside the first. A paper graveyard of disapproval.
I smooth my gown, straighten my shoulders, then I call into the hall, “Who wants to help me refill the vases with flowers from the garden?”
Because we are not a scandal. We are a household.
And I will not let them make me flinch.
***
Night falls gently over Bloomhill.
I tuck the children in and sing them to sleep until their breathing evens. In the hush after, I retreat to my chambers.
My hands shake as I untie the ribbon at my throat. Then, the dreaded stillness comes, and with it the question that echoes: What are you doing?
I step onto the balcony. The garden is overgrown since the gardener left —ivy like spilled ink from every archway, roses where they shouldn’t be. I’ve let it run wild. Let it become something feral and soft, like the children. Like me.
I press my palms to the stone ledge and whisper into the dark, “They’ll thrive with love and music.”
There’s a long, still pause.
Then…
“One of them’s drawn the moon symbol on the linen cabinet again.”
The voice is dry as winter bark. Margot.
I sigh, dragging my fingers through my hair. “Very well,” I murmur. “We’ll thrive with love, music… and perhaps a little bit of scrubbing.”
Margot snorts.
Tomorrow, the Court will write again. Tomorrow, someone might call me foolish. Frivolous. Soft.
But tonight, the house is safe.
And soft is not the same as weak.
***
The next day, it’s just after tea when Margot leans into the drawing room and says, with great solemnity, “There’s a carriage.”
I lift my head from a pile of half-written correspondence, a red wax seal still cooling beneath my fingertip. “Is it a delivery?”
She snorts. “Not unless the farmer has started using iron-banded coaches and drivers with swords.”
I freeze. Then smooth my hands down my skirts—lace and rose-pink satin today, too soft for bad news. “Oh, gods.”
She raises one brow. “Want me to bar the door?”
I consider it. Briefly.
“No,” I say, standing. “But fetch me the good gloves, would you?”
The ones without ink smudges or jam stains. The ones I keep for court visits and duels I plan to win through smiling.
By the time I reach the foyer and open the door, the carriage has stopped just outside. The horses paw at the ground, breath pluming in the chill. The emblem on the door gleams in the early light: a hawk with wings outstretched.
Lord Halveric.
Of course.
He steps out with all the poise of a man who’s never had jam on his sleeves. A human noble in fine wool, steel-gray hair twisted into a court braid, mouth set in its usual expression: stern disapproval flavored faintly with lemon.
“Baroness Marienne Solmere,” he says.
“Lord Halveric,” I return, tone as warm as sun-drenched honey. “What a… pleasant surprise. Though, it is customary, in this court, to announce one’s visit in advance.”
He tilts his head. “I did. In my letter.”
My smile never falters. “Did you?”
He blinks once, slowly.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
The letter. The one with the dark wax seal and the pointed little barbs about ‘suitability’ and ‘bloodline clarity.’ I’d folded it beneath the sugar bowl and never finished reading it.
Internally, I kick myself. Outwardly, I beam. “Of course you did. Silly me. I must have been… distracted. Come in, come in, we’re simply delighted.”
He doesn’t look delighted.
I open the door anyway, ushering him inside.
Margot waits just behind me, arms crossed, expression set. “Should I fetch the good wine, milady?”
I nod. “Yes, from the middle shelf.”
She huffs but disappears. I turn back to Lord Halveric and lead him toward the sitting room, doing my best not to trip over the trailing edge of my gown or my own anxiety.
The room is tidy. Mostly. The scones from this morning are a little burnt, but the cushions are fluffed and I’d recently swapped the melted candle for a fresh one. There’s even a floral arrangement, though it’s half wilted.
“Please, sit,” I say, gesturing with a flourish. “Do forgive the quiet. We’ve been a little understaffed lately.”
He lowers himself into the chair like it might bite. “I had heard as much.”
I fold my hands in my lap. “Oh?”
“Several resignations. In quick succession.”
“Ah, well,” I say lightly. “You know how it is. Spring fever. Family matters. A general dislike of jam-related incidents.”
His mouth twitches downward. “And yet, your housekeeper remains.”
“Margot is the sturdy sort,” I say, just as she returns with two glasses and a bottle of dark red vintage.
She pours without being asked, her eyes daring him to say something rude.
He takes a glass. “You’ve taken on a considerable… responsibility.”
I smile. “A delight, truly. The children are charming.”
“I understand,” he says, “they were retrieved from the Garden of Selene?”
I nod. “They were.”
“And yet, no formal guardianship petition or papers have passed through the proper channels.”
I tilt my head, the picture of soft confusion. “Surely that’s a matter of timing. They’re still settling in, and I’ve already contacted an advisor regarding it.”
I haven’t. Not yet. I meant to. I just… forgot.
Or avoided it.
He sips the wine. “You do realize how unusual this all appears, Baroness? Six children. No staff. A house half-empty. A history of…” He glances at the wilting roses. “...frivolity.”
I lean forward slightly, my smile cooling. “If concern is your purpose, my lord, I assure you—we’re doing just fine. Better than fine, even.”
He watches me with that calculating court stare. The one that strips lace from meaning, charm from value. The one I’ve spent a lifetime surviving.
I lift my chin. “I’ve created something good here. You may not recognize it, but that doesn’t make it less true.”
There’s a long pause.
He sets down the glass. “I’d like to meet the children.”
I blink once. “Pardon?”
He repeats it. Calm. Sharp. “I would like to meet the children.”
I smile. Again. Brighter this time. “Of course you would.”
“Margot,” I say sweetly, turning toward her with only the faintest desperation in my tone, “would you be so kind as to fetch the children?”
Margot doesn’t sigh. Not quite. But her eyebrows lift like temple spires, and she presses her lips together in that way that means she’s going to make them presentable whether they like it or not.
“As you wish, milady,” she says. She tucks the bottle under one arm and disappears down the west corridor like a soldier marching to the gallows.
I turn back to Lord Halveric just in time to spot it.
A doll head. On the mantel.
Not a charming one. Not porcelain. Taxidermy. A crow’s. Dressed in lace. Propped between two candlesticks like a guest of honor. One of the girls must have left it there.
I walk. Calm. Graceful. And then I sit—decisively—right in front of it.
“There we are,” I say, smoothing my skirts and flashing him another smile. “You were saying?”
He looks faintly amused. “I was saying nothing. Merely observing.”
“Ah.” I nod. “An excellent pastime. I often observe the clouds. Just yesterday I saw one shaped like a teacup. Very dignified.”
The words tumble out too brightly, too quickly, and the moment they leave my mouth, I want to claw them back. Gods help me. I have a dreadful habit of rambling when I’m nervous.
He doesn’t even blink. “Baroness, I must be frank. These children have not been registered. They have no court sponsors, no verified bloodlines, no placement records. For all intents and purposes, they are—”
“Mine,” I say, gently. “They are mine, Lord Halveric. Regardless of bloodline. Regardless of paper.”
He lifts one brow. “That’s not quite how the law sees it.”
“And yet,” I say, tilting my head, “I believe the law would be rather disturbed to learn that the alternative was leaving six orphaned girls in the ashes of a collapsed cult.”
He sips his wine. Slowly. “And where exactly are they?”
I laugh lightly. “Being collected, of course. There are six of them. And Bloomhill is rather grand and sprawling.”
“I see,” he says.
But he doesn’t see. Not really. Because inside, I’m unraveling.
Where are they?
Did Yla climb the garden wall again? Is Siven covered in chalk? Is Liri sobbing into Margot’s skirts, or worse, clinging to the curtains like a spider? Did Vess bite someone again?