22. Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
“Everything is prepared for Friday, Emmaline?” Lord Greymane barely looked up from the stack of papers spread across his desk, his pen scratching against parchment in smooth, efficient strokes.
“Yes, my Lord.” She dipped her head, foot tapping beneath her skirts faster than she meant it to.
He didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.
“Because you know that if there’s even a petal out of place—”
A sharp jolt shot through her, a shock so visceral she barely bit back a flinch.
Petal.
The room shifted around her, warping, narrowing, the air suddenly too thick to breathe. His voice—low, indulgent—murmuring it against her skin. His hands claiming her, as if she were his, as if she had no say in the matter. A name used because he couldn’t be bothered to remember her real one.
Her nails bit into her palm. Not here. Not now.
“If anything is askew,” Lord Greymane continued, chuckling as if he weren’t discussing the carnage Lady Isolde would unleash over a misplaced centerpiece, “we’ll both have to answer to my wife.”
“Oh, of course, my Lord.” She forced the corners of her lips upward, careful not to let them curl too far, careful not to allow her smile to turn into a snarl.
Everything had felt wrong since she’d returned to the castle that morning. It was the same corridors, the same draped banners, the same gilded accents, but somehow, it had all changed in her absence, warping into something uglier.
The teasing lilt in Lord Greymane’s voice, once just another harmless irritation, now grated against her like a rusted blade dragged across stone.
“Good work, Emmaline.” He ran a hand through his neatly tied-back silver hair. “I’ll be much relieved when this whole ordeal is over and we can return to more pressing matters.”
She fought not to scoff. What, like negotiating with the wine merchants over cases of imported elven vintages? Or perhaps settling the ever-crucial matter of whether the estate’s hunting hounds required new silk-lined bedding?
Instead, she simply inclined her head. “Yes, my Lord.”
He paused, expectant. Waiting for her to fill the silence, as she always had.
She didn’t. She couldn’t bring herself to. Not when she was planning to tear everything down around him.
His lips pressed together, but he let it go. “Very well, then. Keep me apprised of any developments throughout the week.”
“Yes, my Lord.” She turned on her heel, retreating to the adjoining room, pulse hammering harder than it should have.
Lord Greymane wasn’t the worst as far as nobles went, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t insufferable.
With his effortless authority, his meticulously measured words, he had the absolute certainty that the world around him would continue running smoothly because of people like her.
He was a man who believed himself a kind and fair ruler, blind to the rot creeping throughout his own estate.
And soon, that rot would crack the foundations beneath him.
Emmaline walked calmly into her office before exploding, flinging the papers onto her desk, the slap of parchment against wood barely enough to drown out the roar rising in her throat. She swallowed it back, choking it down before it could tear free.
You can do this.
She’d sworn to all of them that she could—sworn she’d return to work, pretend nothing was wrong, and keep an eye on Caelith and Isolde while the others searched the scene of her crime.
She could do this. She was just tired.
After reliving her confession again with Margo and Ursula—where Cassidy and Lara had to physically restrain the massive woman from vanishing in a puddle of rage and presumably reappearing somewhere with Caelith’s severed head—they had spent the rest of the night planning.
Today was simple.
Ursula and Cassidy would return to the site where Lady Allistair died, searching for any residual traces, either from the woman’s death or from Emmaline’s own magic. She needed to know exactly what she was dealing with before crafting a charm capable of altering it.
Margo, meanwhile, would be acquiring the rather expensive list of ingredients Emmaline would likely require, while also standing by to intervene should Caelith or Lady Isolde inconveniently return to the residence.
With her family’s longstanding ties to House Greymane, Margo was the perfect distraction.
Emmaline smirked.
She could already see it—Margo simpering before Lady Isolde, all wide-eyed admiration, pleading for the woman’s unparalleled expertise in the latest fashion trends. And Isolde, never one to pass up an opportunity to lord her superiority over others, would be incapable of resisting the bait.
Margo could maneuver even the most powerful Ellyllon without them realizing they were being played at all. For someone without magic, she adapted like a shapeshifter, slipping into whatever role was needed to bend a person’s will to her own. Very few people got to see the real Margo.
Exhaling sharply, Emmaline stomped down on the scattered papers beneath her feet. Not like I’ll need them after this week anyway.
Then she straightened, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. She had work to do.
Caelith needed to be found or at least accounted for. Isolde, she worried about less. The woman would inevitably appear, drawn to the opportunity to sink her claws into the ball preparations like a hawk descending on prey.
Slipping out of her office, Emmaline moved through the castle corridors with practiced ease, keeping her steps light, her presence unobtrusive.
She checked the usual places first—the dining room, the west wing balcony, the council chamber—but no sign of Caelith.
She should check the stables too, but the thought of stepping inside, of facing that space, where Deyric might be, wrapped around her throat like a noose.
Turning down another hallway, she nearly collided with Jenni, one of the castle cooks, the one who had caught her and Deyric outside the storeroom.
Shite. Emmaline forced a smile, hoping to disarm any lingering awkwardness. “Hi. It’s Jenni, right?”
The small woman startled, her round face flushing a deep shade of red. But it wasn’t the flustered, good-natured kind of embarrassment Emmaline expected. No… this was different. She ducked her head, murmured something too low to catch, and hurried past without another word.
Emmaline watched her go, pressing her back against the cool stone wall. That was odd. Jenni hadn’t seemed remotely bothered that night, even after walking in on them just moments after they’d—
Her stomach twisted, and she pushed off the wall, shaking the thought away.
Deyric wouldn’t have said anything. Would he?
No. He wouldn’t. He was in just as much pain as she was.
She had to go to the stables. Caelith might be riding, and his favored horse would be the best indicator of his whereabouts if he wasn’t inside the castle. Unless he had already left the grounds, it was the only place left to check.
Her feet refused to move at first, her body recoiling, but she had to do it. One step. Then another. She could do this. Her pace slowed, though, as voices drifted from the stable entry. She knew those voices. Caelith. And… Isolde?
Pressing herself against the hallway wall, she held her breath, listening.
What the hell was the Lady doing there? She despised the stables, hating the way the hay clung to her skirts and how the scent of horses clashed with her perfumes.
Was Deyric inside, too? Her pulse hammered against her chest as she squeezed her eyes shut.
Inhaling through her nose, she opened her eyes and forced herself to move. She needed to get close enough to hear. Peering around the corner, she caught the faintest glimpse of them.
“You are certain she reported in today?” Isolde’s voice, crisp and clipped, carried through the stable.
Caelith plucked at a nail, exhaling dramatically as he reached for a saddle, tugging it toward him with all the petulance of a man convinced that doing things himself was a great injustice.
“Yes,” he drawled. “I watched for her this morning. She arrived about an hour after sunrise.”
Emmaline leaned back against the wall, brows furrowing. Were they talking about her? Did they suspect she knew what he’d done and wanted to accuse him? Was that why he invited her to the ball, to dissuade her?
“Good,” Isolde said. “If she had any suspicions, she would be running.”
Running? Suspicions? She clenched her jaw. What the shite are they talking about?
Risking another glance, she peered back into the stable.
Caelith twirled his fingers idly as if struggling to find the right word.
“She’s… how did you put it? Fixated on me.
” His lips pulled into something just shy of a smirk, too pleased with himself to hide it.
“Our night together only deepened her attachment. And, of course, I invited her to the Solstice Ball. She’ll be too busy planning her outfit or some other womanly nonsense to suspect anything. ”
The air burned in Emmaline’s lungs. She slammed her head back against the stone wall, relishing the pain.
She needed it to keep her from lunging into that stable and ripping Caelith apart with her bare hands.
They thought she was nothing. That she was theirs to manipulate, to break, to use and discard.
She sucked in air, each inhale shaky, not with fear, but with the seething fire rising in her chest.
Let them think they had her trapped. Let them think she was helpless. By the time she was finished, Caelith wouldn’t have a name left to protect.
Emmaline gripped the rough stone at her back, fingers digging in as she forced herself to stay silent. To listen.
“She will be dripping—” Caelith began.
“Son.” Isolde cut him off, her tone clipped with disdain.
Caelith lifted his hands in mock surrender. “She will be… most eager to help. To save me when the time comes.”
A sick lurch gripped her gut. Save him?
“You’re sure?” Isolde asked. “After one night?”
“The elements of the Song I gave her would have made the experience… transformational.” The corner of his mouth hitched.
“Paired with my other… refinements, all that pleasure was focused entirely on me. If anything could mimic the mythical mate bonds, it would be this. She’ll practically have no choice but to protect me. ”
A sick shudder rolled down Emmaline’s spine. She clutched at her stomach, bile burning the back of her throat. He planned this. Every touch. Every whisper. Every moment.
Lady Isolde exhaled, rubbing her arms. For the first time, something unreadable flickered in her expression. Uncertainty. Discomfort.
“You really are quite the brilliant alchemist, son,” she said. “If only you could focus your pursuits… elsewhere.”
“Mother. Is now really the time to rehash this?” Caelith whined.
“No, dear. You’re right.” Isolde pressed her fingers to her temples as if warding off an impending headache.
Emmaline barely breathed, forcing herself further into the shadowed alcove.
“The cook,” Isolde continued, tone shifting to something more pragmatic. “The one who told you where she’d be. She’s been compensated?”
Jenni.
The shock nearly made Emmaline fall forward.
“Yes, Mother, she won’t say anything.” Caelith grunted, adjusting the stirrups with clear irritation. “Deyric usually does this.” He looked up, muttering, “Where is that lout anyway?”
Isolde lifted a brow. “He may not wish to see you, son. After both his sister and now this woman, you might consider how best to compensate him as well, if you wish to keep him in your employ.”
Emmaline’s eyes widened. Isolde already knew. She already knew what Caelith had done to his sister, and she still—
Goddess above.
Caelith scoffed. “He’s my servant. What place does he have being upset with me?”
“Mm. Just make sure the little secretary is ready and willing to confess to the murder by Solstice.” She waved a dismissive hand. “This unfortunate incident must be put to rest before it further stains the Greymane name.”
Emmaline’s blood went cold. That’s what this was about. They were going to make her confess.
She had to leave. Now. Before Isolde turned and saw her.
“Yes, Mother.” Caelith sighed.
“We can’t afford any hiccups before your marriage contract is finalized,” Isolde added.
Emmaline didn’t wait to hear more. Of course, he already had a marriage contract in place.
A future secured. A name protected. A legacy untouchable.
She took a measured breath. Let them believe it. Let them think she was broken and that she was theirs to play with and mold into the perfect little scapegoat.
They had no idea what she was about to do.
Friday wasn’t going to be a confession. It was going to be a reckoning.