Chapter 16
Sixteen
Alder didn’t come back last night.
I don’t know why I expected him to. I fell asleep facing the door like a tragic, languishing Victorian heroine abandoned by her lover—except I’m not in a corset and this isn’t a novel.
My dinner tray remains untouched by the fireplace, the once-warm bread now stale and hard, the butter congealed like a sad metaphor.
I don’t regret what I said. Not one word.
We’ve been circling each other for a decade—hot, cold, together, apart—and I’ve been complicit in every messy, muddled part of it.
But yesterday morning…that was different.
The henhouse. The laughter. The flower he tucked behind my ear.
That felt like something real. Something whole.
And now here I am—alone in a cold castle room that smells like soot and rejection.
The door creaks open.
“Good morning!” Sylvie sings, balancing a new tray with practiced grace. “I brought—oh.”
Her smile falters the moment she sees the dinner tray. Her gaze flicks to me, sitting upright on the edge of the bed, hair a mess, eyes gritty, dress wrinkled, then back to the tray.
“I guess you weren’t hungry,” she says gently, setting the breakfast tray down beside the untouched one.
“I lost my appetite somewhere around sunset,” I mutter and pull the blanket tight around my shoulders.
Sylvie doesn’t press. She moves around the room, fluffing pillows, lighting the hearth. She doesn’t hover, but she doesn’t rush either. She’s quiet in the way only someone who truly understands heartbreak can be.
I clear my throat. “Thanks for breakfast.”
She glances at me over her shoulder. “Be sure to add honey to the porridge. Bernice says it helps sweeten a sour mood.”
“I think I might need the whole hive.”
Sylvie chuckles and brings the tray over. “Here. Eat. Even misery needs energy.”
I manage a small smile and accept the bowl, stirring the porridge absentmindedly. “You’re good at this,” I say.
“At what?”
“This.” I gesture vaguely. “The whole…knowing-what-to-say-and-when-to-bring-honey thing.”
She shrugs, settling onto the windowsill. “Castle life teaches you quickly. You either learn how to read people, or you get eaten alive—sometimes literally, depending on what room you wander into.” She laughs, but the words hit a little too close to home.
I force a smile, pretending my stomach isn’t turning itself inside out over everything I’m trying not to think about. Namely, a certain golden boy who managed to ruin a perfectly good fantasy in record time.
Focus on something other than your spectacularly bad taste in men.
“Speaking of wandering…” I glance up, watching Sylvie in the soft morning light. “I was touring the castle last night, and I didn’t see Clara. Is she…okay?”
Sylvie’s smile flickers. She fiddles with a frayed thread at the hem of her apron, the picture of someone trying very hard not to lie. “Clara is…complicated.”
Complicated. That’s certainly one way to describe a woman who was just sacrificed in a bathtub by Queen-Serpent-Crown.
I set my spoon down carefully, keeping my tone light. “Complicated how?”
Sylvie shrugs, her hands smoothing over her apron like she can iron out her own tension. “She…tended to ask questions. Go places she wasn’t supposed to.”
“She sounds a lot like me,” I say, smiling a little too sweetly.
Sylvie’s gaze sharpens for just a second before she drops it back to her lap. “Castle life doesn’t suit everyone,” she murmurs. “Some people get…into things they shouldn’t.”
I pick up my spoon again, swirling it idly through the porridge. “Is that what happened to Clara?” I glance up, watching her carefully. “Did she get into something she shouldn’t?”
A beat. Sylvie doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
When she finally speaks again, she says, “There are a lot of rules here. Most of them aren’t written down. But everyone knows who enforces them.”
“Delphara?” I ask.
She stiffens slightly. “Maybe it’s better if you don’t worry about Clara.”
Maybe it’s better if I didn’t know there’s a secret bathroom/death chamber hidden in this place, either, but here we are.
Sylvie huffs a small, humorless laugh. “Worrying isn’t exactly encouraged around here. Not unless you want to end up on the Queen’s list, which, trust me, is a lot easier to get on than off.”
I let her pivot. Let her shove the conversation back onto safer ground even though every instinct in me wants to keep digging, keep clawing for the truth.
I stir my porridge again, the honey dissolving into cloudy swirls. “Yeah,” I say lightly. “I’m pretty sure I made the Queen’s list the second I breathed near her.”
Sylvie huffs a laugh. “That’s about as warm as she gets, honestly.”
I flash her a crooked smile, leaning into the easy rhythm. “Good to know I’m not the only one she’s got it out for.”
Sylvie shifts, relaxing a fraction against the window frame. “No. Definitely not.” She hesitates, then adds, “Queen Rothmore has a very…specific view of women. Mostly that we’re soft, and delicate, and inherently lesser.”
I blink. “Wait, what?”
“Every attendant within the castle is a woman. Every masked guard? Man. The message is pretty clear. Although it’s a lot harder to keep the palace running than it is to stand around in a mask and look vaguely menacing,” Sylvie says, rolling her eyes.
“But in the queen’s mind, power looks like masculinity.
Women are for cleaning, fetching, and bed sport. ”
“That’s…deeply depressing.” My spoon clinks against the side of the bowl. “And confusing. I mean, when women think so little of other women, what does that say about how they see themselves?”
Sylvie lifts her shoulders in a slow, tired shrug. “I feel bad for her, really. The only value Queen Rothmore has ever had has been tied up in the man who chose to marry her. It’s no wonder she wears a crown and still feels like she’s not enough.”
Sylvie props her elbow against the window frame, gaze drifting toward the water. For a second, she almost looks sorry for Delphara. Almost.
“You didn’t hear that from me,” she adds quickly, her voice lower now. “And don’t repeat it. Not unless you want to earn a higher position on that list.”
A chill slides down my spine. I lean in slightly, dropping my voice to match hers. “Cone of silence. Whatever we say here stays in the vault.”
Sylvie’s eyes brighten, and she shifts closer, until we’re like two girls sneaking secrets at a sleepover.
She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, voice dropping conspiratorially.
“You’ll think me foolish,” she murmurs, “but there was a time I believed I might be chosen as a lady’s maid.
I thought if I worked hard enough, learned enough, perhaps the Queen would take notice. ”
“Did she?”
“Oh, yes.” Sylvie’s smile turns brittle. “Her Majesty said I was too outspoken to be trusted in any position of importance. That a woman’s job is not to think, but to serve.”
My mouth falls open. “She actually said that?”
Sylvie nods, her nose wrinkling in a look of pure disgust. “And right after, she sent me to muck the stables for a full month.” She pulls a face like she’s just tasted something rotten.
“And I don’t know what they feed the royal horses, but whatever it is, it doesn’t sit well with them, I can tell you that much. ”
We both let out a laugh, but it fades fast.
“Gemma?” she asks gently, looking down at the untouched tray from last night still sitting near the hearth. Her gaze flicks back to me. “You didn’t eat your dinner, and I know I’m being forward, and it’s not my place, but…you look so sad. Did something happen?”
I open my mouth. Close it. What do I say? I saw her friend die in a ritual bath? That magick is real and bloody and terrifying? That I’m letting the man I promised never to love again mess with my heart?
She fidgets with the hem of her apron again, nervous. “I too know what it’s like to arrive in a place and feel completely alone.”
My throat tightens. “Thank you,” I manage, voice small. “I’m…I’m okay. I just need time to think.”
She nods. “Often enough, that’s all that’s left to us.”
Sylvie crosses the room and sits beside me on the edge of the bed, smoothing her skirts as she settles. I set the porridge aside, suddenly too full to eat, and before I can think too hard about it, Sylvie reaches over and takes my hand.
Her palm is calloused, her fingers warm. Solid. Steady.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. We just sit there, two women who don’t quite fit, caught in a place that chews up the soft and spits them out.
“I was never meant for a place like this,” Sylvie says quietly. “Too curious. Too stubborn.” She squeezes my hand gently. “You either learn to bend into something they’ll keep—or break with the attempt.”
A lump rises in my throat. I blink hard, trying to will it away.
I want to tell her everything. About what I saw. About the secrets clawing at the edges of my mind. About how alone I feel, trapped in a castle of lies and blood, trying to hold on to a version of myself that’s slipping through my fingers.
I want to trust her. I want to trust someone.
But I’ve already trusted the wrong man. And I don’t know if I can even trust my own heart anymore.
The words tear free before I can stop them.
“I need to get home,” I say suddenly. “I need to find my way back home and…figure things out.”
Sylvie watches me with an unreadable expression. “And Lord Lockhart? Is he part of that home you’re trying to get back to?” she asks softly, tilting her head. “He was seen sleeping in one of the libraries last night.”
My heart lurches like a startled bird. I press my free hand to my chest, willing it to slow. “That’s part of what I need to figure out.”
Even though I’ve told myself—over and over—that money and security matter more than messy things like love and vulnerability, I’m starting to feel the crack in that logic.
I can’t build a future on something that empties me out.
Not when I’ve glimpsed what it could feel like to be truly seen.
To laugh and tease and flirt and feel something that was a hell of a lot like joy.
What we shared yesterday morning—it mattered.
And I’m not sure I can go back to pretending it didn’t.
A knock rattles the door, and Sylvie jumps up, brushing her hands on her apron as she rushes to open it. I catch a flash of another attendant in the hall before Sylvie returns, holding a sealed envelope.
“It’s for you,” she says, “from Lord Lockhart.”
My heart stumbles.
She hands it to me, and I stare at the wax seal. I break it with a flick of my thumb but hesitate, the note trembling between my fingers.
This is so much worse than a text I can preview and pretend I didn’t see. There’s no swiping this away. No three dots bouncing at the bottom of the screen to warn me something’s coming.
“I can’t,” I mutter. “You read it. Wait—no. Don’t read it. Not if it’s bad. Don’t tell me what it says if it’s bad.”
Sylvie blinks. “Oookay…”
“Wait—no, do tell me,” I say, collapsing back on the bed and yanking a pillow over my face. “Okay.” My voice is muffled now. “I’m ready. What does it say?”
I feel her weight settle at the edge of the mattress. She clears her throat and reads aloud, “‘Meet me at the west dock after breakfast. Come alone.—A.’”
“Romantic,” I mumble into the fluffy down. “If you’re into cryptic letters from billionaire spies with mood swings.”
“What was that?” She looks deeply confused now, her brow furrowed.
“Nothing,” I say, tossing the pillow against the headboard.
Sylvie folds the note then tucks it into my palm. “Whatever this is between you two…you don’t have to decide everything right now. But if it matters, and it very much seems to, don’t leave the table just because the first course didn’t go down easy.”
I blink at her. “Did you just compare my relationship to a meal?”
She shrugs. “I’ve been working in kitchens too long.”
I laugh, rustily but real.
“Thanks, Sylvie.”
She stands, hands on her hips, her chin lifted. “Now then, let’s get your hair sorted and find you something decent to wear, so you don’t look as though you’ve spent the entire night pining.”
I groan. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Is it that obvious?”
She lifts both brows. “You look two blinks away from fainting into the nearest chaise.”
I sit up straighter, dragging a hand through my tangled hair. “Well, that’s exactly the look I was going for. Fainting, but fashionable.”
“Well, my lady, you have succeeded,” she says, already moving toward the vanity. “Although I’m not entirely sure we should be excited about it.”
It only takes a few minutes—some clever pinning, a borrowed ribbon, and a fresh dress Sylvie must have sent for, one that falls against my curves in all the right ways—before I feel like I’ve been at least partially reassembled.
I smooth the fabric over my hips and glance in the mirror. I still look tired, and a little too pale, but there’s a bit more of me there now. Enough to move forward.
“Wish me luck,” I say as I pause at the door.
“Oh no, you do not,” Sylvie replies, folding her arms with mock severity. “You cannot answer a mysterious summons from a handsome lord and not swear to tell me all when next you are able.”
I smile despite myself. “Is that your way of admitting you’re invested?”
She lifts her chin. “I have a sharp eye for trouble, and a soft heart for tales that end well. Of course I’m invested.”
Impulsively, I step forward and wrap her in a quick, grateful hug. “Thanks again, Sylvie.”
She hugs me back tightly. “You are most welcome. Now off you go. And remember, I shall be waiting for every detail.”
As I open the door and step into the hall, a nervous flutter builds low in my stomach. Because I’m not just heading to the dock. I’m heading toward answers.
And maybe—because magick is real—a chance at the kind of love I’ve spent far too long pretending I don’t care about.