Chapter 22
Summer in Acheron presses down like a hand.
Heat gathers between the stone buildings, clings to my skin, turns every breath into effort.
I leave the palace and slip into the chapel, where the air is cool and still, heavy with wax and old incense.
The door closes behind me, the sound ringing too loudly in the stillness.
I do not come here often, but in the July heat it is often the only place to find some relief.
After the long, hard winter in the North, I was looking forward to the warmth of the summer days.
I wonder what Charles is doing. The heat in the southern territories must be unbearable right now.
He left a couple of weeks ago; new trade routes and possibly a new war have drawn his attention toward the South east. We argued—he wanted me to follow—but I stood firm.
After the catastrophic outcome of our trip to the North, I will not be seeing another battlefield any time soon.
My eyes are slowly adjusting to the dim light of the chapel.
Someone is already here.
Lord Ashford sits alone in one of the rows of chairs, head tipped back, staring up at the dome. The Broker. So still he might be carved there, another ornament of stone and shadow.
I move quietly. There has always been something about him that made me want to stare.
The line of his shoulders beneath dark cloth.
The slow rise of his chest. I notice his throat as he swallows, the movement of his Adam’s apple catching the light.
He always appears where I least expect him, vanishes before I can ask questions. Known to everyone. Known by no one.
What sort of deals do you make in places like this?
“Fastrada.”
The sound fills the chapel, deep and resonant, echoing off the stone. It vibrates straight through my stomach.
I shriek.
Laughter follows immediately—warm, unmistakably him.
Ashford lowers his head and turns toward me.
“Forgive me. I couldn’t resist.”
“You scared me,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest.
“Watching people is risky,” he replies. “They have a habit of noticing.”
“Not in a church,” I say.
“Especially in a church,” he raises an eyebrow.
I exhale, then laugh, and walk over.
“May I sit?”
“Of course.”
I take the seat beside him. The wood is cool through my dress. For a moment, we sit in silence, the chapel breathing around us.
“What brings you here?” I ask.
“I come here when the noise gets too loud,” he says. “Stone listens better than people.”
I glance at him. He’s smiling—not guarded, not ironic. For the first time, I notice dimples, softening his face.
“Come,” he says, rising smoothly. “I want to show you something.”
He clears a small circle on the stone floor, then lies down with the ease of someone unconcerned with appearances.
“What in the devil’s mercy are you doing?” I ask with a laugh.
“Join me.”
Is that a challenge in his eyes? Is he trying to gauge whether I am too good to lie on the floor with him?
I hesitate only a moment before lowering myself beside him. The stone is cold against my shoulders. I look up—and lose my breath.
The dome rises impossibly high above us, painted with figures and motion and light. From here, the building feels alive, spinning slowly, drawing my gaze inward and upward at once. I have the strange sensation of falling up into it.
“It’s astonishing,” I murmur.
“I know,” he says. “I like seeing things from angles they weren’t designed for.”
I turn my head toward him. “Do you pray like this?”
“No.”
The answer is immediate.
“You don’t pray?”
He turns to look at me, eyes dark, amused. “God doesn’t listen to prayers. He listens to actions. The devil, on the other hand, listens very carefully—but only to his friends.”
“That’s a dangerous belief,” I say softly. “At court.”
“I don’t serve the court.”
“You serve the King.”
He smiles, slow and intimate. “No. I serve only one person.”
My breath catches. “Who?”
“Ah.” He sighs lightly. “Now you’re being greedy.”
What is it with this man and his secrets?
We lie watching painted saints drift across the curve of the ceiling, each of us lost in thought.
“What are you doing in Acheron?” I ask at last.
“Now that the king has gone south,” he says, “your father believes the time is right to convene certain voices. He’ll need your help to host them.”
“Here?” I say. “In the capital? The walls listen.”
“They do,” he agrees. “Which is why I suggested another place.” He glances at me. “There’s a smaller estate a few hours from here in the countryside. There’s a lake, it’s quiet. It might suit the Queen to retreat for the summer.”
“I rather like the heat,” I say.
“So do I,” he replies. “It reminds me of home.”
I turn to ask where that is, but the chapel door opens.
Footsteps.
I sit up as Rowan enters, sunlight framing him from behind. Ashford remains on the floor, utterly unconcerned.
“My lady,” Rowan says. “The bishop has been asking for you.”
“I’ll be with him soon.”
I turn back to Ashford to say goodbye.
The space beside me is empty.
No one is there, only the echo of laughter ringing in the air, and the dome spinning quietly above my head.
* * *
I suggested moving to the countryside during the last council meeting, and to my surprise, no one argued.
Not one raised brow, not one cautious question.
Only nods and murmured agreement. It occurs to me, belatedly, that they are likely glad to be rid of me for the summer.
A queen away means fewer eyes, fewer interruptions, fewer obligations.
They, too, are eager to retreat to their own country seats, to gardens and lakes and the illusion of peace.
It takes another week to arrange the move.
Crates and trunks are cataloged, sealed, and sent ahead.
I learn in passing that the estate—Lindenmere—is a former favorite of Queen Hilde’s.
It has sat empty for years now, tended only by servants, preserved rather than lived in.
Hilde loved horses above all things, and Lindenmere reflects that devotion: a villa set back from the lake, and beside it an expansive stable, once home to the finest bloodlines bred for the King’s pleasure.
We leave Acheron early, before the heat can rise fully from the stones.
After only a few hours on the road, Lindenmere comes into view.
The villa is pale stone, softened by age and ivy, nothing like the hard, defensive buildings of the capital. The lake glints through the trees, calm and inviting.
When we arrive, the place is already alive. Servants hurry back and forth with crates and baskets. Windows are thrown open, cloths flashing in the sun as they are polished clean.
Aileen and I ride together in the carriage with the girls. The moment the door opens, they tumble out, their excitement is infectious.
“The horses,” one of them says, already tugging at the nursemaid’s hand. “Can we go and see them, pleeease?”
I smile. “Yes. Go on.”
They run off, laughter trailing behind them toward the stables.
“I’ll oversee your things,” Aileen says. “Make sure they don’t put your dresses where they don’t belong.”
“I asked for different rooms,” I tell her. “Not the ones Queen Hilde used.”
She pauses, then nods.
“That’s kind of you.”
“It felt right,” I say. “She loved this place. I don’t want to disturb that.”
I walk inside alone.
The villa is beautiful in a quiet, intimate way. The floors are worn smooth. The walls bear the marks of care rather than neglect. Someone loved this house deeply once; it shows in every corner.
Voices drift toward me from further inside.
“I appreciate it. It’s no small thing, finding men who know when not to speak,” Lord Ashford is saying.
Rowan laughs.
“You always did have particular standards.”
“Standards keep people alive,” Ashford replies lightly.
I slow down without meaning to.
“You’ve chosen well,” Ashford continues. “Every one of them.”
Rowan’s voice softens.
“She deserves that much.”
They sound easy together. Familiar. As if this is not the first house, or the first danger, they have shared.
Rowan departs, footsteps fading. I step forward.
Ashford turns before I speak.
“It’s unseemly to watch people,” he says mildly. “Even more so to listen in.”
“I didn’t mean to,” I reply. “How do you always know when I’m near?”
He smirks. “I pay attention.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It wasn’t meant to.”
I study him. “How often,” I ask carefully, “do you make sure I’m all right without my knowing?”
His eyes gleam with something like amusement. “Often enough.”
“That’s not comforting,” I say.
“Good,” he says. “Comfort makes people careless.”
I fold my arms. “You enjoy this bickering far too much.”
“Only a little,” he says and turns to walk away. He stops, turns around and leans closer. “And only with you.”
He winks and before I can respond, movement at the front of the house catches my attention.
The door opens and—my father steps inside.
For a moment, I forget everything else. I cross the room in three strides and wrap my arms around him, holding on far longer than propriety allows. He laughs softly and returns the embrace, solid and warm.
He has put on weight again.
The thought brings a rush of relief. His face is fuller, the hollows in his cheeks softened. Whatever strain he has been under, it is not hollowing him the way it once did.
“Thank God,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
He pulls back just enough to look at me.
“Is that how you greet your father now? Inspecting him like a physician?”
“Yes, and you pass.”
His smile lingers, but there is tiredness behind it. He reaches up, cups my face briefly, the way he did when I was a child.
“You look well,” he says. “Better than the last time I saw you.”
“That’s the countryside already working its magic,” I reply lightly. “And the children—did you see them run past you? They’ve discovered the horses.”
“That will be your mother’s delight when she hears. She worries constantly. About you, about them,” he says.
“And my brothers?” I ask.
“Still loud. Still convinced they know better than everyone else.” His mouth curves. “Your sister sends letters longer than sermons. She misses you.”
“I miss her,” I say.
We move further into the room and sit where the light spills in through the tall windows. For a few minutes, we talk only of family; Of small illnesses survived, of minor triumphs, of nothing that could be used against us if overheard. It feels almost normal, almost safe.
Then the pause comes.
I am the one who breaks it. “I noticed the guards,” I say. “More than we discussed.”
His expression shifts, just slightly. “For your protection.”
I shake my head. “Father?”
He exhales through his nose, a familiar gesture. “You’ve grown sharper.”
“I’ve always been sharp,” I say. “I’ve just learned to use it.”
He does not argue. Instead, he leans back, studying the ceiling for a moment.
“Someone important is coming,” I say. “More important than me?”
His jaw tightens.
“Who?” I ask.
He hesitates—only a fraction of a second, but enough.
“I can’t tell you yet,” he says finally. “Not here. Not before the others arrive.”
“That makes me like it even less.”
“I know.” His gaze returns to mine. “We were reluctant to involve him.”
“Which means you had no choice.”
“Exactly.”
A chill settles in my stomach. “When?”
“Soon,” he says. “He’ll be arriving soon.”
I don’t like that answer.
“There’s something else,” he adds. “You must be prepared.”
“For what?”
“For questions,” he says. “Many of them, about Charles, certainly about your involvement in his…antics.”
I look out the window, toward the lake, the glint of sun on water. I think of blood. Of magic and lust. Of a man who is dangerous, and a ring installed to protect.
“You want the whole truth?” I ask quietly.
“Yes,” he says at once. “Are you willing to give it?”
I turn back to him. “Yes. But you should know—once I start, there will be no going back.”
His mouth presses into a thin line. “There hasn’t been for a long time, Fastrada.”