Chapter 1 #4
I press my palms together and rest them in my lap. Composed. Graceful. The picture of serene hospitality.
“I’m sure they’ll be here soon,” I say brightly.
Lord Halveric leans back in his chair, utterly unfooled.
“They must be quite the handful.”
“They’re a delight,” I reply. “Each and every one. Curious, brave, full of character.”
“A shame they haven’t been seen in public.”
“They’re shy,” I say, with a touch of wounded pride. “And it’s been an… adjustment.”
He hums, unconvinced.
And I sit—back straight, heart pounding, spine pressed tight against the mantle to keep that terrible doll head out of sight—and pray that Margot manages to get them here before he calls for a formal witness.
Or worse… before he calls a vote.
I glance toward the corridor.
Still no footsteps.
Still no rustling of reluctant skirts or grumbles of “Do I have to?” echoing down the hall.
Just silence.
Which is deeply suspicious.
“Well,” I chirp, standing again, too quickly, “why don’t I show you the music room while we wait? We have a beautiful rosewood harp. It’s terribly underappreciated, and you mustn’t leave Bloomhill without hearing how the acoustics carry when the sun slants just so—”
“Perhaps later,” he says. “I’m quite comfortable here.”
Of course he is. Right where the floor creaks and the mantle is decorated with horror.
“Lovely,” I murmur, sitting again, a little more stiffly.
My spine is beginning to ache. I shift to the side, trying to obscure the beady little glass eye of the crow doll without looking like I’m throwing myself across the hearth.
I give him my brightest smile. “Would you care for something sweet? We’ve a tart I’m almost certain turned out properly.”
He gives me a thin-lipped smile. “Baroness, I’m not here to dine.”
“Pity,” I say lightly. “We’ve all grown terribly fond of dining.”
He tilts his head. “We?”
“The children and I. And Margot, of course.”
“Charming.”
Is it my imagination, or does his gaze flick toward the doorway again?
“You must understand,” he says, voice low and measured, “the court has concerns. Not just about the origin of the children, but about their upbringing. Their environment.”
“Bloomhill is perfectly safe,” I say quickly.
“For now,” he says, calmly. “But you are… alone here.”
Not alone. Not truly. I have Margot. I have six haunted little souls. But I am well aware that’s not what he means.
“Temporary,” I say, too brightly. “A minor lull in staffing. We’re in the process of hiring again.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Indeed. I imagine it’s difficult, given your reputation.”
“My reputation,” I say, arching a brow, “is floral, fashionable, and frequently exaggerated.”
He sips again, and I can’t tell if he’s amused or simply digesting my answer with his wine.
“You were always a curious match for this manor.”
“I prefer to think of it as a renovation project,” I say. “A place for beautiful things to bloom again.”
He doesn’t respond.
And so I lean forward, smile fixed, every nerve in my body screaming Margot please hurry, and ask, “Now, tell me, how is your sister? Still chairing the embroidery guild?”
His brows shift, almost imperceptibly, at the change of subject.
“I heard,” I continue blithely, “that her peacock motif won first prize at the spring fair. Such vibrant colors! I’ve been meaning to ask whether she uses a special dye or if it’s all in her stitch-work.”
A pause stretches. I fill it at once.
“Embroidery is such a balm for the nerves, don’t you think?”
He exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh. “My sister finds it… diverting. She has the temperament for idle detail.” His gaze cuts back to me, cool and measuring. “Not everyone does.”
I fold my hands and tilt my head, every inch the gracious hostess. “You must tell her I send my congratulations. Truly, I’d love to see her work again one day. Bloomhill’s halls could use a few peacocks, don’t you think?”
He opens his mouth.
A door slams somewhere deep in the house.
I flinch.
His eyebrows rise.
I smooth my expression back into place.
“Ah,” I say, with mock surprise. “That’ll be them.”
Please let it be them.
Please let it not be someone bleeding.
Or on fire.
Or biting Margot.
Or—
The door creaks open with all the delicacy of a coffin lid.
I turn quickly, hands still neatly clasped—though one thumb presses into the meat of my palm, grounding me—and there they are.
Thank the moon and Margot’s iron will.
She stands just behind them, her ever-dour expression betraying only the barest glimmer of triumph. Her bun is tighter than usual. Her sleeves dusted faintly with what may be flour. Still, she has done the impossible.
The children are clean.
Mostly.
Imara leads them, tall and watchful, her posture nearly regal in its stiffness.
Callen follows beside her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with a self-soothing motion that nearly unravels me.
Then Yla, barefoot again, of course, but someone’s managed to wrangle a comb through her curls.
Siven has something tucked behind her back.
I pretend not to see it. Liri clings to Callen’s hand.
And Vess… Vess walks at the end, tugged along by Yla.
My little bats.
“My darlings,” I breathe, rising to my feet. “Come here.”
They cluster around me, some more reluctantly than others, and I do my best not to gather them into my arms like some overzealous governess in a children’s tale. I rest a hand gently on Imara’s shoulder. She doesn’t flinch. Progress.
I turn to Lord Halveric with the most radiant smile I can summon. “Allow me to present the children. Children, this is Lord Halveric of Eldermire Court. He has come all this way to meet you.”
He rises stiffly. Not bowing—no, not to children—but rising nonetheless. His eyes sweep over them like tally marks. Cold. Curious. The girls only stare back, unblinking, not bowing either.
“This is Imara,” I begin, my voice warm. “Like your sister, she is extraordinarily gifted at embroidery, though she won’t admit it.”
Imara nods once. Silent.
“And Callen,” I say, drawing her gently forward. “A born caretaker and expert braid-weaver.”
Lord Halveric blinks. Callen flashes him a tiny, polite smile.
“Yla,” I say next, brushing a flower petal from her shoulder, “She is a wealth of knowledge about flowers. Perhaps more so than my previous gardener.” I wink at her.
She smiles back at me, then gives a dramatic curtsy to Lord Halveric… then stares unblinkingly at the lord’s boots.
“This is Siven,” I continue, voice smoothing. “Training to be a knight. Or perhaps a chef. The path’s unclear.”
“I’m both,” Siven mutters. The thing behind her back shifts. It looks suspiciously like a ladle.
“And Liri,” I say, softening. “Gentle as spun sugar. She enjoys lullabies and the color blue.”
Liri hides her face in Callen’s sleeve.
“And lastly,” I say, stooping to gently guide the youngest forward, “this is Vess.”
Lord Halveric studies them. Then me.
“Charming,” he says, though his tone implies he’s tasting spoiled fruit.
I beam anyway. “Aren’t they?”
Margot clears her throat from the doorway. “They’re clean, they’re fed, and they haven’t bit anyone today. I’d call that a success.”
Lord Halveric raises a single brow. “Today?”
“Progress,” I say sweetly. “It’s all about progress.”
The children begin to shift, restless under the weight of scrutiny. I want to shoo them out again, tuck them into corners and quilts where they belong.
Instead, I ask gently, “Why don’t you darlings go see if the sugar bowl is behaving?”
Siven grins. Yla bolts. Vess toddles after them all.
Imara lingers for a moment, watching Lord Halveric like she’s memorizing his face.
He notices.
Of course he does.
But he says nothing until she too disappears.
When the last of their footsteps vanish down the corridor, I exhale through a smile.
“Now,” I say, smoothing my skirts, “would you like another glass of wine, or shall I interest you with an anecdote about the time my Aunt Florencia attempted to host a midsummer ball and the swans escaped from their pond, parading straight through the ballroom as though they’d been invited guests?”
He does not smile.
But I do.
Because the swan story is very interesting.
Lord Halveric sets the goblet down.
“They seem… stable,” he says at last.
“Of course they are,” I say brightly, settling once more into the chair across from him. “We have a lovely routine. Breakfast, lessons, blood, more lessons—it’s a very full schedule.”
He doesn’t blink. “You’re joking.”
“Only slightly.”
He leans back. The chair creaks under the weight of his disapproval. “Their origins remain… troubling. The Court has concerns.”
“Oh, certainly. The Court always has concerns.” I flash a harmless, silken smile. “They do so enjoy compiling them.”
His mouth tightens, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. “Your enthusiasm is noted, Baroness.”
His gaze flicks unmistakably to the mantel, where the lace-dressed crow’s head still sits like a guest of honor. Ah. I’d forgotten it was there… Heat prickles at the back of my neck.
“And now,” he says, standing with a rustle of wool and quiet judgment, “I believe I’ve seen enough for today.”
“Oh, do let me see you out,” I chirp, already gliding to my feet. “It’s been such a pleasure, really.”
We make it almost to the door before a shriek echoes down the corridor.
Then Siven bursts into view, wild-haired, bare feet slapping against the tiles. Behind her comes Yla, giggling as she gives chase, clutching a shawl like a banner of war.
They round the corner too fast. Siven collides with Lord Halveric, latching onto his arm before I can even gasp. Her small teeth clamp down on his sleeve, tearing the wool with a growl that is far too convincing.
Yla skids to a halt, eyes going wide.
Siven drops back just as quickly, cheeks flushed. “Sorry,” she mutters, wiping her mouth on her wrist.