12. Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
The flames crackled in the fireplace as another paper curled into embers, blackening at the edges before crumbling to ash. Emmaline tossed in another one, muttering under her breath as she rifled through the stack on her desk.
Pointless. Everything is pointless.
Her fingers tightened around the next sheet before she flung it into the fire with unnecessary force.
Numbers and ledgers, things that usually grounded her, felt impossibly trivial in the wake of seeing the Patrol that morning.
She had spent the last couple of hours trying to focus, drowning herself in work, but the officers’ presence still clung to her thoughts, wrapping around her ribs like a vice.
Maybe I should leave. She immediately shook her head. “No. That would look suspicious.”
She sat back in her chair, only to lurch forward a second later, elbows on her desk. “But if I stay—”
She caught her thoughts swirling and groaned, rubbing her temples.
“Goddess above, get it together, Emmaline.”
She had to stop thinking about the Patrol. She had to stop thinking about Lady Isolde, Deyric, Caelith, the murdered noblewoman, all of it. Losing herself to paranoia wasn’t going to—
A voice. It was low and muffled. Close.
She stiffened, glancing at the door that connected her office to Lord Greymane’s study. Another voice followed, and her pulse quickened. The papers on her desk slid as she stood too quickly, knocking a book to the floor. It hit with a heavy thud, but the voices continued, oblivious.
Biting her lip, she carefully stepped over the fallen book, creeping toward the connecting door. Every instinct screamed at her to ignore it, to go back to her desk, but her feet betrayed her, drawing her closer.
Another step. Then another, and she pressed her ear against the wood.
“It’s been taken care of, Mother.”
Caelith. His bored tone carried easily through the door as if the subject of conversation wasn’t important enough to warrant concern.
Lady Isolde’s response was harsh with irritation. “Caelith, this isn’t like the other times.”
Emmaline’s stomach clenched. Other times?
Lady Isolde sighed. “A missing Lady of the Vale will be more difficult to sweep under the rug than your other… distractions.”
Emmaline bit her lip so hard she nearly drew blood. Other distractions?
No. That wasn’t—that couldn’t be what she meant. It had to mean something else. But then she remembered that night. The blood. The body. And the way neither Caelith nor Deyric had looked particularly disturbed.
Her fingers dug into the wood of the door, breath shallow.
“At least she’s gone, I suppose,” Lady Isolde continued, her voice shifting to something thoughtful. “If the witch you mentioned truly did clean the scene, this mistake might be easier to keep quiet than the others.”
Ursula.
Caelith exhaled impatiently. “This one was not my fault, Mother. The cow tripped and killed herself. And the others—” He hesitated. “Well, they were simply misunderstandings.”
Silence stretched between them before he added, “Really. I’m the victim here more than anyone else.”
Misunderstandings?
A chill ran down Emmaline’s spine, Margo’s warning flashing through her mind, how he takes what isn’t given. That had to mean something else. It had to. Caelith would never—
A chair scraped against the floor, the abrupt sound making her jolt.
“Assuredly, my dear,” Lady Isolde murmured.
Emmaline imagined her standing now, pressing out the pristine folds of whatever gown she was wearing, speaking as if they were discussing the weather rather than the murder of a noblewoman.
“And the servants who saw it? Deyric and the one who called the witch. You’re sure they will stay silent?”
Emmaline held her breath.
Caelith’s response came without hesitation. “Yes, Mother. Deyric is loyal. We’re funding his sister’s very expensive education at the School of Light, after all.”
Emmaline’s stomach churned.
“Another one of your misunderstandings, if I remember correctly.” Her tone suggested she had been cleaning up his messes for years. “And the other one? She seems to have an unhealthy fixation on you, my dear. I don’t like it.”
Emmaline gasped, jerking back from the door, nearly stumbling over the book she had knocked over earlier.
She—they were talking about her. She raised both hands against her mouth, missing whatever Caelith said in response. For a single, horrible moment, fear tangled with something dangerously close to doubt. She shoved it down, scrambling to put her ear back against the door.
Just in time to hear Caelith’s smooth, unbothered voice. “Leave her to me, Mother. Everything will be fine.”
Emmaline swallowed. Was he defending her? Standing up to his mother on her behalf? Or was he simply handling her like another problem to be swept away?
Then, the sound of a heavy wooden door creaked open.
“They’re here.” Lord Greymane’s voice.
“Perhaps it’d be best if you found yourself somewhere else, Caelith. No need to make this easier for those hopped-up—” Lady Isolde broke off, but the disdain in her voice filled in the missing insult well enough.
“Yes, Mother.” Footsteps retreated, fading into the distance.
A brief silence. Then—
“One of these days, he’s—” Lord Greymane started.
Lady Isolde cut him off. “He’ll marry a woman who will keep him in line and out of trouble.” There was a pause, then she continued. “If we’re lucky, Lord Dormir will agree to the marriage contract I proposed, and we can announce it at the solstice ball.”
Emmaline’s breath stilled.
“If you’re the one negotiating, I have no doubt Caelith will be married to the Lady of your choice by the end of the month.”
Emmaline snorted under her breath. He wasn’t wrong. Lady Isolde had a talent for bending people to her will, especially those within her social circle. When she wanted something, she got it.
“I had hoped for an Allistair… but alas.” Silence stretched, then, “Where is the Patrol going first?”
The sound of Lord Greymane settling into his favorite chair creaked through the door. “They want to speak with the staff first. Apparently, they caught the scent of some magic they weren’t expecting out near the residence he uses for… you know.”
Lady Isolde hummed. “Really? Well, that is interesting.”
Emmaline’s stomach dropped. “Shite!” She scrambled back from the door.
If the Patrol was sniffing around for magic—her magic—they could compare whatever they found to the traces that remained on her. If they saw her, they would know she had been there.
She needed to get out. Now.
Heart pounding into her ribs, she moved toward the door, ready to bolt. Then she froze.
“Calm down!” she whispered harshly to herself, hands gripping her dress. “You’ll draw attention!”
Forcing a slow breath through her nose, she pivoted and rushed back to her desk. With quick, practiced movements, she grabbed a sheaf of papers, stacking them neatly to maintain the illusion of order.
“Yes, yes, just taking these contracts out for signature,” she muttered, voice tight.
The walls were closing in. She needed to disappear, at least for a little while. Steeling herself, Emmaline squared her shoulders, willed her expression into something neutral, and stepped into the hallway.
The castle was quieter than usual, the midday lull settling over its stone corridors, but every sound felt too loud.
Her own footsteps, the rustling of papers in her arms, the distant murmur of conversations behind closed doors.
She kept her pace even, purposeful, doing her best impression of someone who had absolutely nothing to hide.
Then, there were voices—unfamiliar ones.
She barely caught the cadence of clipped, professional tones before her body reacted on instinct. Turning, she veered down a side corridor.
Patrol officers. They were already questioning the staff.
Sweat gathered on her brow as she hurried along the unfamiliar passageway.
Had she just circled back toward the west wing?
She wasn’t sure. She had spent so much time avoiding attention in the past few years that she rarely strayed beyond her usual routes.
The air thickened, carrying the distinct scents of yeast, smoke, and slow-roasted meat. Somewhere close, copper pots clattered, followed by the sharp reprimand of an overworked assistant.
The kitchens. She had wandered farther off course than she thought.
Voices rose ahead. “I’ve never met or even seen any Lady like you describe on these grounds.”
Emmaline froze, the unyielding stone of the wall biting into her back.
More footsteps. Louder now, coming from where she had just been.
“I’d like to speak with the stablemaster next.”
Shite. She looked left. The kitchen corridor was narrowing, funneling straight toward the voices ahead. She looked right. The others were closing in just as fast.
Her breath stuttered, the air suddenly too thick to swallow. “Shite. Shite. Shite.”
They were getting closer. A shadow moved at the edge of her vision. There was nowhere left to run.
Then—
The wall behind her groaned, and before she could react, an iron grip caught her around the waist and yanked her backward. A startled gasp barely escaped her lips before the wall sealed shut again, the crack between the stones disappearing as if it had never existed.
Her back hit something solid—someone solid. Strong arms trapped her, holding her tight against the unmistakable heat of a body. A breath, deep and steady, ghosted against the side of her neck.
Then, a familiar, low voice murmured in her ear—
“For someone trying not to get caught, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it, little killer.”