6. Chapter 6
Chapter six
“Rot and ruin, Fergus! I sent the gold two weeks ago as requested. If you don’t show up with the twenty ice sculptures Lady Isolde ordered, I will personally come down there and yank your intestines out through your nose!” Emmaline barked into the speak-easy.
Ursula always came up with the best threats. Emmaline had never quite had the nerve to use one in earnest before, but gods, it rolled off her tongue beautifully.
“You can’t possibly—” The apprentice for the Vale’s most prominent ice artist balked on the other end of the line.
“Oh, but I can.” Emmaline leaned forward, her free hand tapping against the desk.
“Just get it done, Fergus. We have a contract. I don’t care if Lady Dandelion offered you her daughter’s hand in marriage in exchange for my sculptures—you will honor your contract with House Greymane.
” Her voice dropped lower. “My contracts are binding, Fergus. That’s one of the many reasons why Lord Greymane hired me, as you well know. ”
Silence.
Then a weary sigh. “Lord Icefall will not be happy, Emmaline.” Fergus’s voice was tight with stress. “Lady Isolde insulted one of his mistresses at some high tea event over the weekend. He’s looking to return the favor.”
Emmaline rubbed her temples, willing away the headache forming behind her eyes. That woman. Always making things harder than they needed to be.
Monday was nearly over, and she hadn’t even seen Caelith yet, let alone spoken to him. First, Lord Greymane had demanded a detailed accounting of the ball’s expected expenses. Then, one vendor after another had miraculously found an excuse to cancel on her.
She’d spent the entire day dragging them back from the brink—threatening, cajoling, sweet-talking, and in some cases, outright bribing. She couldn’t afford to let anything derail the ball. If things fell apart, she wouldn’t just lose her job, she’d lose access to Caelith. And that wasn’t an option.
Her mind worked the problem. Fergus’s master was infamously proud, prone to insult, and even more prone to revenge. Convincing him to do anything for Lady Isolde would be like convincing a cat to take a bath. But she had to try.
“You’re locked in contract, so it doesn’t matter what you or your Master wants.” She paused. “But I’ll sweeten the deal anyway.”
“What could you offer…” Fergus started, before she continued unhindered.
“I’ll give you a piece of information—something your Master can use to embarrass Lady Isolde just as much as she humiliated his mistress.”
“And what could you possibly have on her?”
Emmaline smirked, tapping her pen idly against the desk.
“Fergus, please. I’m a trusted member of the household.
And you know how these Lords and Ladies are—speaking freely, thinking we’re nothing more than furniture, never once considering who’s listening.
” She sighed, all weary martyrdom. “Lady Isolde still doesn’t know my name.
She called me Bremmaline or something just as ridiculous earlier today. ”
Fergus chuckled. “She didn’t.” Then he went quiet.
Emmaline held her breath, waiting, hoping she’d dangled the right bait.
Finally, he coughed. “All right, dear. I think I can sell that to my master. You swear you’ll follow through?”
“I’ll give you something that’ll make Lady Isolde hide for a week. I swear it.” She checked ice sculptures off her list with a satisfied flick of her wrist. “But Fergus—it has to wait until after the ball. Is that acceptable?”
Another long pause.
Then, a thoughtful, “Hmmm…”
“Let her think she’s won this round,” Emmaline murmured, lowering her voice like she was letting him in on a secret. “Then hit her after the high of the ball. The fall will sting so much worse that way.”
He whistled low. “You’re far more devious than I ever gave you credit for. And willing to throw your own Lady under a Glider.” His tone shifted into something silkier, intrigued. “I like it.”
Emmaline blinked. Wait a minute.
“Ah, well,” she hedged, suddenly uncomfortable. “It’s not like you know me, so…”
“So let’s change that.”
She choked. “What?”
First Deyric, and now Fergus? What was going on today? Did murder make one more attractive? Or was it something else? Could they tell she was destined for something greater?
“Thank you, but no,” she said flatly. “I’m not available.”
“Really?” He sounded surprised.
“Yes, now I have to go.” She lowered the speak-easy, ready to end the call.
“Very well.” The man exhaled low and slow. “We’ll talk again after the solstice.”
“Whatever,” she muttered before switching the speak-easy off.
The apprentices to Master Artists and other high-ranking magical trades were little better than Lords and Ladies, in Emmaline’s opinion—puffed-up, self-important, and always convinced of their own brilliance.
She stretched, arching her back as she rose from her small desk, careful not to snag her dress on the table’s worn-down wood finish. The last thing she needed was to ruin her mother’s gown on a splinter.
Fergus was probably still puzzling over why someone who had chosen the meticulous world of numbers and contracts over a more prestigious apprenticeship had so easily turned him down. A sly grin slipped across her face. Let him wonder.
Business was simple. You applied pressure to the right places, offered the right incentives, and the situation bent accordingly. But Caelith wasn’t so easy. And no matter how carefully she planned, she couldn’t seem to make him see her.
The small flicker of satisfaction curdled as she glanced at the window. The light was fading, and she was running out of time.
Her foot tapped softly against the floor.
He usually checked in with his mother before leaving for the night.
It was an exhausting habit, she imagined, but one that gave her a slim opportunity.
If she timed it right, she could intercept him as he exited the Lady’s private salon.
Isolde liked to lounge each evening, flipping through the latest city gossip rags over a crystal goblet of moonfire nectar.
Not too close, of course. The wretched woman had an otherworldly sense for detecting non-Noble blood in her presence.
Decision made, Emmaline moved quickly. She stacked her ledgers neatly, tucked a loose parchment into her bag, and slung it over her shoulder before sweeping out of her study.
The low heels of her shoes tapped softly against the stone floors as she made her way through the winding halls, her pulse picking up with each step.
By the time she reached Lady Isolde’s wing of the castle, her stomach twisted in anticipation. This was risky. But she had to see him, and she was running out of time.
Emmaline positioned herself down the hall of the salon entryway, near the arched doorway leading to the Glider port.
It was the route Caelith would have to take when leaving for the evening.
She kept her posture poised, hands lightly grazing the fabric of her gown as she adjusted her stance, making sure the dim corridor lighting caught the silver embroidery just right.
Any moment now. When Caelith emerged, he’d have no choice but to notice her.
And then, the door opened.
She held her breath.
The man stepped out. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up carelessly, while a heavy sapphire ring gleamed on his hand as he reached up to adjust one of the many expensive necklaces draped across his throat.
And—yes!—his gaze landed on her dress, his mouth pulling into a slow, idle grin.
Emmaline’s heart fluttered triumphantly. She tilted her head just so, letting her chestnut-colored hair cascade over her shoulder like she’d practiced. Margo always said it was her best feature.
Then his eyes roamed, and the moment stretched and stretched as he took in her out-of-place shoes, the ink stains smudged across her fingers, and the way her hair had come loose from its careful styling. By the time his eyes lifted back to hers, the spark of curiosity had vanished.
What remained was… not quite disgust. Just absence.
Emmaline felt the moment slip through her fingers. Felt it shatter like brittle glass at her feet.
“My Lord!” She took a hurried step closer, hands fluttering before she clasped them together. “What a coincidence, seeing you here.”
Caelith barely glanced at her. “Is it?”
She let out a breathy, unnecessary laugh. “Yes, well, I—I thought you might notice my dress. It’s a family piece, and I—”
“Mm.” He made a vague, uninterested sound, already angling his body away.
Oh no, you don’t.
She pivoted, stepping into his path. “I was just telling your father how we should invest in spider silk like this; it’s making a huge comeback,” she said, injecting pride into her voice. “If you remember, I handle all his affairs.”
His gaze flicked back to her, but the spark of recognition she was hoping for did not come. If anything, he looked vaguely annoyed.
“Yes, well.” He inspected his nails. “I suppose someone has to do that sort of thing.”
She swallowed hard, trying again. “And last night! You and I worked so well together.”
That got a reaction.
Caelith’s eyes snapped to hers, all disinterest gone. In its place was something dangerous and hostile.
Emmaline’s breath stuttered.
He shifted forward, looming over her. “I beg your pardon?”
She hesitated, the weight of his stare pinning her in place. “I—I just meant, with the… the whole situation, and the way things unfolded, I thought—”
Caelith’s fingers closed around her wrist, stopping the rest of the words from leaving her mouth.
“You will never mention last night again.” His grip wasn’t hard, not yet, but it sent a jolt of warning through her. “Not to me. Not to anyone.”
Emmaline’s throat bobbed.
“Understood?”
She nodded, her head dipping in something close to a bow.
He let go, then, just like that. No urgency, no care. She was just an afterthought, not even worth the tension in his grip.
“Good.” He dusted off his sleeve as his eyes slid past her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have far more important matters to attend to.” He was already walking away.
And then he was gone.
Emmaline stood frozen in place, a sick, sinking weight pulling in her stomach, dragging her down, down, down.
Slow, sinking humiliation soured in her stomach, clawing its way up her throat.
Her hands trembled as she smoothed the fabric, the dress that, for one fleeting second, had almost made him see her.
She stared at the cold marble under her feet before finally sucking in a breath. Turning stiffly, she lifted her head high and squared her shoulders.
He hadn’t recognized her—that was all. The lighting in the corridor had been dim, her hair slightly out of place, her appearance not quite as refined as it should have been. Next time, she’d make sure everything was perfect. The right setting, the right moment.
He had looked at her. Noticed her dress. Smiled. That meant something. It had to.
She would be his intended. She would make him see her. And next time, when he looked at her, he wouldn’t look away.
And if he did?
No. No, she wouldn’t think about that. Because he wouldn’t. Because he was hers.