27. Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
“And… done.”
Emmaline watched through the speak-easy as Ursula slipped the charm into her pocket, the third pulse of light confirming it had fully activated. Relief eased some of the tightness in her shoulders. One more piece was locked into place.
She barely had time to savor the victory before a voice rang out, “Miss Emmaline! There’s a young man at the front gate asking for you.”
“Hold on!” She rummaged through the mess covering her desk, papers sliding everywhere as she searched for her schedule.
“Everything all right in there?” Ursula’s voice crackled through the speak-easy.
Emmaline could see her already striding through the wild tangle of Caelith’s gardens, broad shoulders swaying with each step, her curvy frame cutting through the overgrown hedges without a care, like she hadn’t just planted murder evidence.
“Yeah…” Emmaline grabbed an old workbook, flinging it over her shoulder. It hit the wall with a thud, and beneath it—finally—her schedule.
“Miss Emmaline?” The voice came again. Definitely one of the maids. “He’s being awfully insistent that you come help him personally.”
“What?” She scanned the page, her finger dragging down until it hit the one o’clock meeting.
The name there made her groan loud enough to rattle the glassware.
“Of course it’s him.” Emmaline’s hands dug into the edges of her schedule, the paper crumpling in her grip.
“As if setting up a Lord for murder wasn’t enough for one morning. ”
Ursula’s dark chuckle rolled through the speak-easy.
“Tell Apprentice Fergus I’m otherwise engaged at the moment.
Merrywinter can show him where to put the ice sculptures.
” Emmaline didn’t have the patience for his particular brand of self-importance today or, Goddess forbid, flirting.
Her mind was already too scattered, twisting itself into knots thinking about Margo’s upcoming dinner with Caelith.
“But Miss—”
“Lyra’s tits!” Emmaline shoved back from her desk, the chair’s legs scraping across the floor before it toppled onto its side with a heavy thud. She stormed to the door, yanking it open so violently the hinges groaned in protest.
“I said—” The words died halfway out of her mouth as Lady Isolde glided around the corner in a whisper of silk, likely on her way back from her husband’s study. The woman paused at the sight of Emmaline, one brow lifting ever so slightly.
“I do hope you’re not in such a state because you’ve somehow botched preparations for my ball.” Her voice dripped casual condescension, like the very idea that Emmaline might fail was both a terrible inconvenience and expected.
“Door!” Ursula’s hiss crackled through the speak-easy where her projection still floated above Emmaline’s desk.
“Of course not, my Lady.” Emmaline trailed a hand down her dress, fingers pressing hard enough to leave wrinkles in the fabric, before stepping through the doorway and easing the door shut behind her.
“I was just reminding…” She finally turned to actually look at the woman who’d been knocking this whole time. “…Nyeneve that Merrywinter can help with the Winter Art you reserved for the event.”
She fought not to wince. She was about seventy percent sure that was the right name. With the castle’s turnover rate, keeping track of everyone felt like trying to memorize the contents of a river while it kept flowing past her feet.
“The ice sculptures are here?” Isolde tried for her usual air of detached grace, but the glint in her eyes gave her away. Excitement cracked the mask before she sniffed, visibly remembering herself. “No need to trouble Merrywinter. I am most eager to see what the Master created myself.”
“I hope they’re to your liking, my Lady.” Emmaline bowed just deep enough to be polite as Nyeneve dipped into a quick curtsy and scurried off down the hall.
“They had better be.” Isolde’s nose crinkled. “For your sake.”
“Of course.” Emmaline’s voice stayed mild, her face a mask smooth as glass, but she held Isolde’s gaze without flinching—a step further than she’d ever dared before.
“Good.” Isolde’s posture stiffened, her hand drifting toward the delicate chain around her neck, fingers fiddling with the clasp. When she finally turned away, she muttered something about uppity servants needing to be brought to heel.
Emmaline hummed, watching Isolde’s retreating back before stepping into her office and closing the door. “We’ll see who’s brought to heel come tomorrow, my Lady.” She leaned back against the closed door, her head thunking softly against the wood.
“Everything good?” Ursula’s projection wobbled from the speak-easy crystal, showing her already at the front gates, boots planted wide as she waited for the wards to unlock.
“Yeah.” Emmaline scanned the chaos covering her floor—papers, books, and a few questionable stains she didn’t want to investigate too closely—then shrugged. “Just wishing Lady Isolde would find herself intimately acquainted with the sword end of an ice sculpture.”
“Grumslag’s sweaty balls, Emmaline.” Ursula squinted into the projection, but the grin stretching at her mouth ruined the effect.
She shoved the gate open with one broad shoulder, stepping out into the street.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m loving this bloodthirsty streak, but I need at least one drink in me before we start plotting creative ass-stabbings. ”
“Whatever.” Emmaline rolled her eyes, dropping into her chair hard enough to make it groan. “I’ve heard worse from you at the Celestial Rite of the First Light.”
Ursula paused, leaning her forearm against the tall stone wall surrounding Greymane lands, her smile turning nostalgic. “Damn. It’s been a while since we’ve been to a service together, hasn’t it?”
Emmaline kicked her boots up onto the desk, ankles crossing. “Hard to show up to the Sentinel’s Sanctum with the self-titled Queen of the Damned.” She raised her imaginary goblet in salute. “Long may you reign in chaos and questionable life choices.”
“Fair.” Ursula pushed off the wall, sweeping into a mock bow fit for court. “Have you been lately?”
“No.” Emmaline stared up at the ceiling, the uneven plaster cracked into patterns she could almost pretend were constellations. “I know my recent behavior isn’t the strongest indicator of sanity, but I generally try to avoid doing things that’ll get me nailed to a cross.”
Ursula snorted, but the sound faded into something more thoughtful. “You think someone might sense you can work the Grey?”
“Why risk it?” Emmaline gestured vaguely at the cluttered office, her hand flopping back down to her lap. “Gods, I wish I’d thought to stash a bottle of… something. Anything. I have no idea how I’m supposed to just sit here twiddling my thumbs until it’s time to back up Margo.”
“Bloodthirsty, little…” Ursula’s chuckle rolled through the crystal. “Good. I’m glad you’re eager. Because I have a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?” Emmaline sat up straighter.
“Can you slip out for the rest of the day without arousing suspicion?”
Emmaline grabbed her schedule, flipping it over with one finger. “Lady Isolde will be terrorizing Fergus until sundown, at least.” She drummed her nails against the desk, considering. “Yes… yes, I can manage that.”
What could Ursula possibly be planning? Whatever it was, the bubbling excitement building low in her belly felt suspiciously like trouble.
“Good. Then meet me at the tavern near the public glider stop.” Ursula lifted the speak-easy, angling it so Emmaline could see the entrance.
The tavern door sat half-hidden beneath a sloping thatch awning, worn to a soft silver-grey with age. Wildflowers crept up the walls, weaving between rough-hewn logs, and the sign swinging overhead had lost most of its paint, leaving only the faint outline of a stag’s head.
“And my dear?” Ursula's lips stretched into a smile so smug it practically deserved its own title. “This is going to be far better than any drink you could get.”