Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
He’s back to his usual, imposing self—broad shoulders squared, uniform pressed and pristine.
There’s no trace of the disheveled man we found at his chamber door earlier, though the faint pink at the edge of his jawline suggests he shaved in haste.
If he’s annoyed at being pulled from his…
extracurricular activities, he gives no sign.
“I assume we’re ready?” His voice is clipped, as professional as ever, though his gaze lingers on Nadya just a fraction longer than necessary.
“Whenever you are.” I make a point to give him a polite smile.
Sir Holden’s jaw tightens slightly, but then he gestures toward the front gate. “Your carriage awaits, Princess.”
The carriage rocks to a halt at the edge of a small, sun-drenched clearing.
Beyond it, nestled beneath the canopy of a copse of olive trees, stands a modest cottage.
The walls are whitewashed, the roof thatched and slightly weathered, but the place is alive with color.
Pots of herbs crowd the windowsills—lavender, rosemary, and something that looks like wolfsbane.
Wreaths of dried sage and bundles of wildflowers hang from the eaves, swaying gently in the warm breeze.
A stone path, half-covered in creeping thyme, leads to the front door, which is painted a faded, cheerful red.
It’s quaint. Some might even say picturesque. And yet something about it puts me on edge.
Nadya shifts beside me, twisting her fingers in the folds of her skirt. “I don’t even know if she’ll remember me,” she murmurs. “I was only a girl the last time we met.”
“Well, I guess we’ll find out.”
It’s a little cooler here than it is at the capitol. There’s a weight in the air—something that feels like it’s been lingering since long before we arrived. I think of the stories of Bastosi witches and wonder if that strange thing I’m feeling in the air is a spell.
Sir Holden opens the carriage door, scanning the surroundings with his usual caution. After we disembark, he waits silently by the carriage as Nadya and I step onto the path.
Nadya hesitates, brushing her curls behind her ear.
I can tell she’s nervous, and I don’t blame her.
This matters to her. I’ve dragged her along to live in Hedera with me, essentially making her give up her life in Delasurvia, upending her daily life of being surrounded by friends and romantic interests and family.
All of it for me. So I can give her this.
I can be the supportive friend she’s been to me through all of this.
I reach out and squeeze her hand to let her know I’m here for her.
She gives me an understanding smile. When we reach the cottage door, she lets out a long breath before rapping on the faded, red wood.
For a long moment, nothing happens. Out of the corner of my eye, I think the curtains move.
The latch clicks.
The door opens just a crack. An older woman peers out, her eyes sharp and wary beneath the hood of a sheer linen shawl.
Her skin is rich and warm like Nadya’s, though hers is marked with faint lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes.
Silver streaks wind through the mass of ebony curls piled atop her head, but there’s a liveliness to her expression, an alertness that suggests she misses nothing.
When her gaze lands on Sir Holden—looming and armored—her lips thin. “I don’t take visitors,” she says, her voice low and cool.
Nadya steps forward hastily. “Auntie Tia,” she says softly. “It’s me. Nadya.”
The woman freezes. Her dark eyes narrow as she studies Nadya’s face, as if peeling back the years.
After a moment, her mouth softens. “Gods above…” She pushes the door open wider, her gaze sweeping over Nadya’s curls, her warm, brown eyes, the brown skin that matches her own.
“I should’ve known. You’ve got your grandmother’s face.
Come closer, child. Let me see you properly. ”
Nadya moves toward her, and Tia cups her face with both hands, studying her intently before sighing.
“You’re all grown up, child,” Tia says. Her voice gentles as she releases her hold.
Nadya blinks rapidly, her usual quick wit faltering. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me.”
Tia’s mouth twists faintly. “Family is family. You’ll always be welcome here.
” Her gaze shifts to me, and she tilts her head slightly.
“And if I’m not mistaken, the Princess of Delasurvia is gracing my doorstep as well.
” She doesn’t fall into a full curtsey, but her frame bends a bit as she inclines her head.
I straighten, offering a polite nod. “It’s an honor to meet you, madam.”
Something flickers behind her eyes—something unreadable—but her voice remains smooth. “I met you once, when you were only knee high to me. And my condolences to you, Your Highness. I was fond of your mother, what little I knew of her. She had a kindness about her that was rare among royalty.”
I swallow the ache that rises at the mention of my mother and nod. “Thank you,” I say quietly.
Tia’s gaze lingers on me for a breath longer than is comfortable before flicking to Sir Holden. Her mouth hardens again. “I don’t like armed men near my door,” she says flatly.
“He’s only here to ensure our safety,” I explain, already bracing for his response. “And rest assured, he will stand sentry at the carriage.”
Sir Holden’s jaw tenses, but after a moment’s pause, he gives a curt nod.
Tia sniffs but steps aside. “Come in, then,” she says, waving us through. “If you’ve come all this way, I suppose you didn’t do it just to stand on my doorstep.”
The air inside the cottage holds a cozy warmth, fragrant with dried herbs and something faintly sweet, like honeyed pears.
The space is small but well-kept, everything in its proper place.
Sunlight streams through the open windows, illuminating shelves lined with glass jars, each labeled in a precise, looping hand.
Bundles of herbs hang from exposed beams, their earthy scent blending with the faint tang of dried citrus.
A wooden worktable dominates the far wall, its surface scattered with parchment, half-ground powders, and a delicate mortar and pestle.
A small hearth flickers beneath a wooden mantel, worn but tidy. A quaint sitting area is arranged around a low table. There’s no extravagance here, but the simple beauty of the place is undeniable.
Tia gestures toward the cushioned chairs. “Sit. You’re making me tired just standing there. Tell me what brings you to Bastos.”
Nadya and I settle into the chairs, but Tia remains standing.
“King Silas is presenting his son Dante to the Bastosi queens,” Nadya explains. “It’s for his legitimization tour.”
“Ah, yes. I heard rumors of a bastard son. And of Prince Torbin’s untimely death.” Tia crosses to the kitchenette in the corner, plucking a polished, copper kettle from a hook. “I suppose I ought to make tea—gods know you’ve probably been fed nothing but watered-down wine at that palace.”
I smile faintly at the comment but stay quiet as I glance at Nadya, trying to assess how she’s doing emotionally.
Nadya’s smile is small, possibly forced, but she gives me a nod.
I switch my attention back to Tia. She moves about the small kitchen, her fingers deftly selecting herbs from hanging bundles. I feel it again—that subtle weight. That sense that there’s something in the air. Watching us, maybe. Waiting for something to react to.
Tia moves with brisk efficiency, clattering down a tin of dried hibiscus and another filled with clove buds.
The kettle sings not long after, and Tia pours the steaming water into mismatched ceramic mugs.
Her hands are steady, her movements practiced—but there’s a tension in her shoulders, like a coil wound too tightly.
She places the cups on the small table before us. “It’s best drunk while hot.”
Tia remains beside the table, staring at us. Nadya and I glance at each other, blinking in confusion.
“Drink!” Tia presses her lips together and runs a hand over her neck as if she’d hurt her throat. “It’s just that its flavor is best before it grows cold.”
My brow furrows. The cups are clearly still steaming, so Tia’s worry is unwarranted. Still, I don’t want to upset Nadya’s great-aunt, so I pick up my cup.
Nadya follows my lead, and we both carefully press our lips to the cup rims to take a sip. The liquid burns my mouth, so I’m only able to manage a few drops, but my healing magic eases away the pain.
The scent of the tea is floral with a hint of something cloyingly sweet—honeysuckle, maybe, or dried fruit steeped in herbs.
Tia is still waiting, so after blowing on the tea for a bit, I take another careful sip.
There’s a strange aftertaste I can’t quite place, syrupy and faintly metallic, but not unpleasant.
I hum my approval, and Tia smiles, finally taking a seat in a worn, tweed chair.
I drink again.
“You’re like her, you know,” Tia says suddenly, her eyes on me.
I blink. “Who?”
“Your mother.” Her voice softens, but just a shade. “The same dark eyes. Same warm coloring. Same quiet strength. Except her stillness was worn like a veil, whereas yours is more like armor.”
The words confuse me, and I can’t help but wonder if there’s a hidden meaning behind them.
Nadya clears her throat, her fingers curling lightly around her mug. “Aunt Tia, I have some questions.”
“I thought you might.” Tia’s eyes go from Nadya to me and back again. “I knew there was more that brought you here than sentimental reasons.”
Nadya takes another sip of tea, letting out a long breath again before continuing. “I’ve been reading about Bastos and its… connection to those who practice magic. And I was wondering if you know anything about that.”
“Ah, yes. The infamous Bastosi sorceresses.” Tia nods. “You must be reading about the dark past. Not dark because of the existence of sorceresses, but because of the bad reputation forced upon them.”
“‘Forced’?” I ask, leaning forward a bit.