Chapter 1 #5
The silence curdles. The ripped fabric hangs between us like proof. No blood, though—I would have smelled it instantly. The thought steadies me for half a heartbeat, relief flaring sharp and thin as glass.
Nothing ruined. Nothing spilled. Only fabric.
I laugh—too brightly, too quickly. “Oh, wolves and knights again! Their favorite game. You should see the dramatics they get up to. Why, yesterday we built a fortress out of pillows and—”
Lord Halveric looks down at his sleeve. Then at Siven. Then at me. His face remains expressionless, carved from cold stone.
“Right this way,” I murmur, smile aching, and usher him to the door.
At the threshold, I draw a small purse from my sleeve and press it toward him with both hands.
“For your tailor,” I say softly. “To mend what my household has—ah—spirited away. A token of apology.”
His eyes flick to the purse, then to me. His jaw shifts. “Charity ill suits this matter, Baroness. Control would suit it better.”
I lower my hands with grace enough to pretend it never mattered. “Do travel safely, my lord. Watch for actual wolves on the western ridge.”
He doesn’t move right away. Just smooths the front of his cloak.
“You should expect to hear from the Court soon. I imagine Lord Viremont, in particular, will be very interested to hear of my visit.”
Viremont.
The name lands cold in my spine. The only vampire with any real power within Eldermire's inner court.
He steps into the late afternoon light and disappears down the path.
I close the door. Lean against it. Exhale.
When I regain my composure, I turn and find Siven and Yla hovering near the base of the stairs, their shoulders hunched, guilty as kittens caught on the table.
I smooth my skirts and beckon them closer, crouching so I’m level with their wide eyes.
“Now. Lord Halveric isn’t accustomed to children. He doesn’t understand games the way we do.” My voice softens, a little rueful. “He is only human, after all. Imagine how frightening it must be, to meet wolves in the hall when you expected only baronesses and children.”
Siven bites her lip. Yla twirls the shawl in her hands, cheeks pink.
I reach out to brush a curl from Yla’s brow and tap Siven lightly on the nose. “No more biting important guests, hm? Save that for the stuffed cushions. They don’t complain nearly so loudly.”
That earns me two reluctant smiles, thin but real.
“Good girls,” I murmur, and straighten. My own smile falters the moment I look away.
“Well,” I say to Margot, who has materialized at my elbow like some ghost of practical judgment, “that went quite well, wouldn’t you say?”
Margot does not reply. She only reaches up to smooth a stray lock of hair back into place, fingers brisk but careful, like she’s patching more than just appearances.
The touch steadies me more than I’d ever admit.
***
It comes two days later, sealed in the same waxy shade of disdain.
The courier doesn’t meet my eyes. Just bows, mutters “from the Court,” and disappears down the walk like he’s afraid the manor might bite.
I break the seal in the breakfast parlor, knife trembling only slightly. Margot watches from the doorway, arms crossed, already suspicious. She’s got that look—the one that says I should brace myself or sit down or perhaps eat something sensible first.
I do none of those things.
The parchment is crisp. The ink, of course, immaculate.
To the Honorable Baroness Marienne Solmere of Bloomhill Manor,
Following the recent assessment of Bloomhill Manor and in light of your unusual domestic arrangement, the Court of Eldermire has found it prudent to assign temporary oversight.
Ser Tamsin Greaves, Knight of Eldermire and sworn blade to the Council, will be stationed at Bloomhill until further notice.
Her duties shall include, but are not limited to: maintaining order, assessing the wellbeing of the wards in your charge, and providing full reports to the Council regarding your ongoing suitability as their guardian.
This decision is final and not subject to appeal.
We trust you will offer Ser Tamsin your full cooperation.
—In service to stability,
The Eldermire Council
I stare at the words until they blur.
“Ser Tamsin Greaves,” I murmur aloud, as if the name might vanish if spoken too softly.
Margot clears her throat. “A knight, then.”
“Apparently so.”
“Expected?”
“No.”
I fold the letter. Once. Twice. Again. I don’t bother hiding this one beneath the sugar bowl.
“They’re sending someone to observe,” I say. “To report.”
Margot moves to refill my teacup. “To interfere.”
I sigh, dropping the folded missive on the table with a soft thwack. “To determine whether I’m dangerous or just deeply eccentric.”
Margot arches an eyebrow. “And what are we going to tell the children?”
I reach for the teacup and cradle it between both hands. The porcelain is warm against my palms, the steam curling soft as breath. For a moment I say nothing, turning the question over and over, weighing truth against comfort.
“That she’s a friend,” I say. “Or a very important guest. Or perhaps a scarecrow made of metal and judgment. Perhaps they’ll find that amusing.”
Margot snorts, a sound halfway between derision and laughter. “If anyone would, it’s the children.”
But something in the parchment still prickles.
Not because they’re sending a knight.
But because they think I need one.
Don’t knights have more important matters to attend to than shadowing baronesses and children alike?
One thing is certain: the Court will not take my girls.