Chapter 7 Risk
Wren stared down at Castien’s letter in the candlelight.
Their correspondence had been quick. At first, Blossom delivered Wren’s letter to Castien—accompanied by a guard.
Upon Castien’s returning letter, though, his butler opted to wait outside for her to reply.
It was chivalrous of him, since Blossom was a nervous creature with little trust in the guards.
Wren could not blame her, knowing all that went on beneath their notice.
For this particular missive however, Wren sent Heathford back with nothing for Castien.
She could not decide if she would meet him.
Somehow she knew that she didn’t need to confirm her presence for him to show.
He would be there whether she came or not.
That fact alone tugged her toward the passageways.
He was a man of his word. He’d proven it time and time again.
But that didn’t mean he was forthcoming.
Neither was Wren, something she wished her mind would quit reminding her of.
She huffed and pushed back from her desk.
What did he mean by have it out? It sounded as if he meant to fight.
Wren had never fought with anyone in her life.
Instead, she spent her days weaving around the emotions of others, trying not to get caught underfoot of their insecurities and anger.
Even the night of the incident, her reaction to Heron’s deed was more tears than fire.
Wren’s heart picked up speed in her chest. Castien would not kill her, even if he was angry with her.
He had many opportunities to do so already.
Somehow that knowledge made her more afraid of him.
For she would have to deal with the consequences of her words in the days to come.
This entire situation would be easier if she believed he were the murderer. But she did not.
It was not as if she didn’t suspect that he was a part of the Order already, but to have it confirmed felt like a physical blow.
They had shared so much, and still she felt as though Castien was an abyss she’d never find the bottom of.
She swallowed and looked at the letter again.
He’d signed the initial response Yours, Castien.
But this one, he put just his name. He was upset.
The idea that she hurt him was a wound upon her heart, but she did not know how to remedy it without risking more pain.
There was also the matter of her terrible curiosity.
She still had a mystery to solve, one that was becoming more harrowing by the hour.
And Castien likely knew things she did not.
Her eyes fell to the trunk where Heron’s journal rested.
Castien was also a Gifted strategist. He’d probably understand her brother’s puzzles in minutes, rather than the days it took her.
She hung her head in her hands. Could she show him Heron’s journal?
Wren doubted her brother would approve, considering what she’d read of the Order thus far.
However, Heron hadn’t fully gathered his evidence before his death.
Perhaps he would have found Castien innocent of whatever crimes the others were a part of.
Wren went to the trunk and bent down beside it.
Her hands shook as she undid the locks that guarded her most precious possession.
Once she retrieved it, she wrapped it in a shawl and put it in her school bag.
She would go to have it out with Castien, and if she felt as though she could trust him, she’d show him the journal.
If not, then he would never know of its existence.
Her hands trembled as she walked to Castien’s coat and stuffed it in her bag. The scent of peppermint still clung to it, and she hated how much it reminded her of being in his arms. Dancing together. Laughing at his stories. Feeling safe. Had she ever felt safe with anyone other than Heron?
Her stomach tightened as though someone had taken a fist to it. The duke. Wren had felt safe with him, at one point in time. She closed her eyes and held onto one of the posts protruding from her bed frame for support.
This is the same. He’s already betrayed you. If you go back, you’ll be the little girl in the painting again.
Tears burned Wren’s eyes as her mind assaulted her with images and emotions from that time.
Heron’s grief and guilt and anger were so powerful she felt as though she couldn’t escape them.
She hadn’t learned to manage her Curse yet, and that made her unable to handle such strong emotions.
That led to her spending many of her days alone in her room with her thoughts.
The one person she trusted, she could not stand to be around, due to being choked by his pain.
Pain she caused with her foolish naivete.
Wren shook her head. This was different.
She was an adult now and had learned much about the ways of the world.
Just because she was going to see Castien didn’t mean she trusted him or was weak to his deceit.
She would be on guard. This was for Heron.
Wren could and would take any risk necessary in order to bring justice to him.
It’s what he would have wanted, even if he might protest her ways of going about doing so.
She blinked her eyes open and let go of the post. She did not want to risk getting Tidesick, so she began to dress for the cold.
First, an extra skirt under her academy uniform, then a wool coat that would not be considered fashionable but would keep her from freezing.
Once she was physically prepared, she took a deep breath and headed for the door to her bedchamber.
Everyone should be asleep, but she had no idea if there would be any guards posted within the house.
It did not seem as though there were enough, but the academy could have recruited some of the other staff or professors if they saw fit.
Wren simply had to hope she did not encounter anyone.
If she did, she would take up lying once more.
The engagement was not one her brother would be proud of, but it was necessary on this isle of mist and shadows.
Wren stepped into the hall, her breath held.
Nothing but the flickering sconces protruding from the walls.
Wren kept her steps light as smoke on the wind.
She was attuned to every creak and scuff in the house.
If someone moved within their bed, she paused, her pulse fluttering like hummingbird wings.
Eventually, she made it to the drawing room.
The door let out a soft keening noise as she pushed it in, making her wince.
No one popped out of a dark corner to scold her, or do something worse, so she headed inside.
The room was a portrait painted in shades of gray and black. There was no light, save for that of the moon through the window. It was not conducive to searching for the book that opened the door, nor for being aware of lurking figures.
Wren recognized that while she might not be in danger with Castien, that did not mean she wasn’t in danger at all.
If the murderer wanted her to follow in her brother’s footsteps, she was putting herself at risk by walking the grounds in the dead of night.
However, given the circumstances of the past murders, Wren surmised that staying in her bedchamber would not prevent a killer as cunning as the one haunting the academy from taking her life.
So though it might be safer to stay in her room, nowhere was entirely safe.
The risk was worth it if it meant making progress in stopping the monster for good.
Wren squinted in the dark and felt for the red book that would open the shelf.
She vaguely recalled its placement but still had to tug on a few tomes before she heard the telltale click.
The miniature sitting room was unlit and no less foreboding than the drawing room.
Wren pulled the shelf shut behind her with a shuddering breath.
Her eyes dropped to the panel in the floor.
Once she opened it, there would be no returning.
Logically speaking, she could open it and close it again with little consequence.
But Wren knew herself. If Castien was waiting on her as she knew he was, she would not leave.
She would climb down and have it out with him—whatever that meant—until she got the answers she was searching for.
Wren angled to the side and pulled open the panel. Her curls fell around her face as she peered over the edge. There in the darkness was Castien, just as she suspected. Just as he promised. He held a lantern aloft, his face tipped up.
“I didn’t think you would come,” he said, his voice low and raspy.
Wren breathed her reply. “Yet you waited anyway.”
He lowered his gaze, shadowing his features. She could not sense his emotions, which frustrated her. How cruel to have let her have a glimpse of them, only to snatch it away mere hours later.
“As I’ve said in the past, I keep my word.”
I know you do, Wren wanted to say, but did not.
She could not have him thinking she was any less cross with him.
Unless he confessed everything to her, she was unlikely to forgive him.
Even then, it would be difficult. Such things did not come easy for Wren.
The trust they had before last night was tremulous at best. The events that transpired left that and her heart in tatters.
“Then I hope you will continue to do so as I make my inquiries,” she said before standing to prepare to make the climb down.
“Would you like to give me your bag to make your climb easier?” Castien offered, lifting his face up once more. His brow was furrowed, as if he were concentrating on a complicated problem.
Wren paused. If she said no, Castien might think the contents of her bag were important enough to attempt to steal.
But if she said yes, he would have direct access to them.
Her eyes went to the ladder. It would not be easy to carry something while climbing down.
She recalled getting snagged on her skirts last night, and that was without any extra weight.
“Yes, thank you.” She expressed her gratitude without thinking. The etiquette her mother had drilled into her made it second nature.
Castien set the lantern on the ground next to his feet. Wren let her bag hang by the strap for a moment before dropping it. He caught it with ease, then slung it over his shoulder without so much as a curious glance.
She already felt better about making the descent now that her bag wasn’t throwing her off-balance. Her first few steps down the rungs were still shaky, but she managed. That is, until she neared the bottom and her foot got caught in her extra skirt layer.
A gasp was wrenched from her lips as she lost her grip and toppled backward. She felt a jolt of concern before her back fell against not the floor, but Castien’s chest. Her heart raced.
“For someone who hates me, you spend quite a lot of time in my arms,” Castien murmured against her hair, his breath warm and voice silken.
A fluttering sensation rippled through Wren’s abdomen.
It was disconcerting, and she did not know what to do with it.
She quickly pushed off of him and stepped away with a pronounced scoff.
“Neither of those instances were in my control.”
Castien raised a brow. “Our dance?”
Wren’s face flamed. The fluttering feeling would not leave her. She wished to press a hand to her stomach but did not want Castien to notice. He saw everything. Missed nothing. She loathed it. Loathed him, she reminded herself.
“I knew I would regret this,” she grumbled, and brushed her hands down her dress as if he had gotten it dirty.
Castien smirked in the shadows. “Yet you came anyway.”