26. Chapter 26
Chapter twenty-six
The servants’ entrance was tucked at the rear of the estate, hidden beneath a carved archway of silver-barked trees and overgrown ivy.
It wasn’t grand like the gilded front doors, nor was it patrolled by an army of house staff who took more pride in filtering out interlopers than actually serving guests.
Emmaline slipped inside, keeping her pace brisk but unhurried. A few maids bustled past, muttering about mismatched linens and some minor kitchen disaster, too distracted to notice her.
She wove through the narrow back corridors, taking the winding stairs two at a time until she reached the upper levels. The scent of polished wood and simmering tea drifted through the air, mingling with the faint buzz of conversation from deeper in the estate.
When she finally pushed open Margo’s door, her foot caught hard on something sharp, sending her stumbling forward into the doorframe.
“For fuck’s sake, Margo,” she muttered, righting herself before glancing down to find a crystal-heeled sandal sitting dead center in the doorway as if Margo had stepped out of it mid-stride.
Inside, the room wasn’t much better, a minefield of papers, wine glasses, and shoes scattered across the plush carpet like relics of an abandoned battle.
“Where’s Cassidy?” Margo asked without looking up.
She was sprawled in a high-backed reclined chair, legs draped over the armrest, the ties of her corset undone, spilling over the side in a tangle of silk. A book rested in one hand, her fingers idly flipping a page like she hadn’t a single obligation in the world.
“She had to bring Lara back to the residence.” Emmaline stepped over what she hoped was just another stack of papers and not some expensive, fragile heirloom.
“Lyra’s breath, Margo. Navigating your room takes more skill than sneaking onto the grounds of a Lord’s private entertainment house in broad daylight. ”
Margo arched a brow, finally lowering her book. “When did you get so dramatic?” She pursed her lips, then folded the corner of her page before setting it down.
Emmaline stopped mid-step, jaw dropping, her eyes locked on the mangled page corner like she’d just witnessed a public execution.
“At least I’m not a goblin dressed in fine silks like some people,” she shot back.
Margo scoffed, already inhaling for a rebuttal, but then she hesitated, something clicking into place behind her sharp gaze.
“Wait.” She straightened, corset ties slipping over her shoulder. “Why are Lara and Cassidy returning? We can’t activate the charm again until tomorrow.”
Emmaline brushed aside a pile of discarded necklaces from the corner of Margo’s bed, tossing them onto the floor with little ceremony before sinking down onto the mattress. She scooted back, the soft sheets cool beneath her palms, then pulled her legs up, crossing them beneath her.
Margo tapped a painted nail against the armrest.
“Apparently, the young Lord Greymane wanted some evidence to back up the confession he plans to fuck or drug out of me.” Emmaline scrunched her nose, scanning the room. “I know you’ve hidden a drink in here somewhere.”
Her eyes flicked over the cluttered space before landing on the ornate wine glass perched on the bedside table. Its delicate stem was thin as a whisper, curving into a wide, opulent bowl.
“Of course he does, the wretched hollowspawn. Probably thinks he’s so much smarter than the Patrol investigators.” Margo gave a slight nod, her way of granting permission before Emmaline took the glass. “How?”
“We caught him splashing remnants of my essence all over the statue.” Emmaline took a slow sip, savoring the rich, dark wine as its warmth unfurled in her chest. “Probably pulled it from… from the manor’s bed.”
“And Lara can remove it?”
She took another sip, letting the flavor linger before answering. “That’s the idea.”
Margo stretched her arms over the chair, watching her with the practiced ease of someone who measured every question before asking it.
“And we’re not worried someone might see a Corgi?” she asked. “Lara is many things, but discreet is not one of them.”
“The place will be empty.” Emmaline extended her legs out over the edge of the bed. “It’s Wednesday. He’ll be at the Madame’s.”
“Hmmm.” Margo smoothed out a crinkle in her sleeve. “Oh. Well, I feel sorry for whichever poor woman is stuck entertaining him tonight.” She was the perfect picture of refined sympathy, as if discussing an unfortunate wardrobe mishap. “But at least Lara will be in the clear.”
“Yeah.” Emmaline watched the wine swirl against the crystal, hesitating. She wanted to ask Margo if she’d been able to follow through with the other part of the plan. And if she was still willing to do it.
But instead, she sidestepped the real question. “Is the dress ready?”
It was one thing to ask Margo to procure ingredients and alter a gown. It was another to ask her to risk everything.
The corners of Margo’s mouth twitched, her expression unreadable. “Yes. Caelith agreed to host me for dinner tomorrow evening. And Ursula dropped off the dreambane a couple of hours ago. It should knock him out quite quickly. I just need to slip it into his drink.”
Emmaline stilled. Of course, the woman knew what she had been thinking. They’d been friends for too long.
“You’re sure?” She knew Margo wouldn’t back out. But now, with the pieces sliding into place, she needed to give her the opportunity to say no. “It’s not too late to stop. We could leave it at framing him for murder.”
Margo held her gaze. “Is that what you want?”
“No.” The word slipped out—raw, certain.
Margo waited, expectant.
“I want to punish him.” Even that felt too small for what burned inside her.
“I want him to feel every sliver of pain I felt when the bond broke.” Her grip on the glass tightened, threatening to break the delicate crystal.
“Every ounce of helplessness I felt when he…” Disgust rose in her throat.
“When he thrust into me, even as my body betrayed me.” The rage flared sharp and hot, her teeth grinding against it.
“I want him to feel the shame and fear of having something precious taken from him against his will.”
She forced her hand steady, breath slowing as the heat hardened into something colder. Lifting the glass, Emmaline took a long sip, then carefully set it down. “In this case, it will be his life.”
With each word Emmaline spoke, Margo leaned closer, her usual grace giving way to something wild, something feral that flashed just beneath her skin.
For a moment, Emmaline swore the brown of her eyes darkened, sinking into pure pitch—something ancient peeking out from beneath the polish of her social grace.
But it was gone before she could be sure.
“Good.” The word rippled like a pebble dropped into still water. It wasn’t quite Margo’s voice, not entirely. There was something underneath, something older. It pulled at the edges of Emmaline’s memory but slipped free before she could catch it.
She shook her head, finishing the last swallow of wine and setting the glass down with a satisfied click. It didn’t matter.
“Alright.” The wicked edge was back in her voice. “Show me my dress. The one I’ll wear to dance through the wreckage of House Greymane with Caelith’s blood still wet beneath my nails.”
***
Emmaline stood at the worn wooden counter, knife in hand, slicing through a cluster of bloodroot. The thick red-veined tubers stained her fingertips as their peppery scent filled the air. Cooking wasn’t her strong suit, but chopping things into submission? That she could manage.
Just as her focus wavered, a knock sounded at the door—her hand jerked, and the blade veered off the root, slicing her thumb.
“Fuck!” She shoved her thumb into her mouth, sucking on the wound, her voice muffled around her finger as she yelled toward the door. “I’m fine! I swear! I’ll see you tomorrow!”
It was probably Cassidy. Or Ursula. Or both, showing up early to hover before the plan kicked off tomorrow.
She grabbed the knife again, more annoyed than injured, and started chopping once more—
Another knock.
“Lyra’s tits!” She slapped the knife onto the counter, cradling her hand against her mouth as she stomped toward the front of her flat. “I said, I’m f—”
She turned the latch, and the door swung open. It wasn’t Margo. Or Cassidy. Or Ursula.
The woman standing outside wasn’t anyone Emmaline knew, but there was no mistaking who she was. Her eyes were the color of summer leaves after a storm, while her hair, a cascade of emerald waves, tumbled past her waist.
“Shite.” Emmaline stepped aside without being asked.
“I take it he told you about me?” the woman said, stepping out of the hallway.
“Sort of.” Emmaline closed the door with her heel, fingers wringing together behind her back as she led the woman toward the kitchen. “I take it… he told you about me?”
The woman’s gaze drifted around the flat—not with judgment, just quiet observation. Her eyes lingered on the cluttered table, the crooked shelf half-collapsing under the weight of mismatched bottles, the worn tapestry tacked unevenly to the wall.
Finally, she turned back to Emmaline, her hands folding neatly at her waist. “Only after he passed out on the Bea Line, and the Night Patrol called me to come fetch him.”
Emmaline’s stomach clenched. She gripped the edge of the counter, biting down hard on her knuckle. “Fuck.”
“Yes.” The woman sighed. “That was Saturday.” She pressed two fingers to her brow, kneading the space between her eyebrows before her attention settled on one of the rickety kitchen stools.
Without asking, she lowered herself onto one of them and looked up at Emmaline. “Can I get a drink or something?”
Emmaline stared, blinking once, twice, then barked out a sharp laugh. “Sure. But can I at least get your name first?”