29. Chapter 29
Chapter twenty-nine
“At least we’re not back in the bushes,” Ursula muttered, her voice low enough to blend into the ambient creak and groan of the old manor settling around them.
Aeren stood with her back to a rough-hewn support beam, rubbing both arms against the damp chill clinging to the air.
The stone walls bled cold, the kind that crept under skin and settled deep in the bone.
Even the racks lining the room seemed to bow under it, uneven ribs framing their path to the cellar door.
“We’re sure Caelith won’t come down here? Or any of his servants?” Emmaline whispered.
Ursula dragged a finger through the dust lining a nearby bottle, then wiped it off on her thigh.
“From what I can tell, the only ones who set foot down here regularly are the toad—who has yet to be found.” She stuck her pinky between her teeth, picking at something with a little too much focus.
“And Deyric. Other than that, only a cleaning crew comes on Monday night and Friday morning to restock and scrub the place down. Our esteemed Lord likes his privacy.”
“Can’t bribe every single person to keep quiet, I guess.” Aeren kicked at a loose chunk of mortar on the floor, sending it skittering into the shadows.
“It works in our favor now.” Ursula pulled a bottle loose and squinted at the label through the low light. Her mouth twisted, unimpressed, before she slid it back into place. “We just need to be gone before dawn.”
“Plenty of time.” Emmaline’s palm brushed over the hidden pocket inside her jacket where tonight’s special surprise waited—crafted just for Caelith.
After slipping out of the tavern, the three of them had snuck onto Greymane lands under the cover of dusk, weaving through the overgrown gardens and skirting the side of the property until they reached Caelith’s private residence.
The wine cellar made the perfect hideout.
It was far from the main rooms and stocked with both drink and deniability if they were caught before the trap was sprung.
The soft buzz from Emmaline’s speak-easy sent a ripple of anticipation through her spine. “It’s time,” she said, palming the device, its surface warm from her pocket.
Ursula’s hand darted toward another bottle, but Emmaline slapped it away. “No drinks until after we’ve got him locked down.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She gave an exaggerated salute, but the playfulness quickly faded.
Turning serious, Ursula rested one broad hand on Emmaline’s shoulder, then Aeren’s.
“We’re going to end this tonight.” Her voice was steady as bedrock.
“If either of you need to step out—for air, or for good—you can. No judgment.” Shadows coiled behind her eyes, dark smoke licking at the edges of her pupils.
“I will ensure things are finished to your satisfaction. It doesn’t have to be you who does it. ”
“I appreciate it, friend. But you’re wrong.” Emeline’s weight shifted forward. “It has to be me.”
“Us.” Aeren’s fingers closed around Emmaline’s hand.
“Us.” She echoed, balancing the speak-easy on the neck of a half-empty bottle, angling it up as the projection flared to life.
Light filled the cellar in a pale wash, casting the image of an ornate chandelier overhead. It was an intricate spiral of dark iron branches, each arm tipped with soft golden flames. Beneath it stretched a dining table carved from a single slab of polished stone.
The angle shifted, swaying slightly with each step Margo took.
“She’s wearing the device around her neck,” Emmaline murmured. “Looks like jewelry, but it’s how we’re seeing all this, since she can’t just have her speak-easy out and on display.”
The image spun next as Margo turned. “Thank you.” Her voice filtered through the projection. “You’re… Deyric, right?”
Emmaline’s stomach dipped. She’d known he might be here. Expected it. But seeing him, even just this flickering ghost in the crystal, was still a gut punch. Was this how it would always feel, every time she saw him—forever bracing for an impact that never softened, only shifted deeper?
“Yes.” His voice came rough, clipped. “Please enjoy your dinner. Caelith will be down shortly.”
He turned to leave, but Margo’s hand shot out, grabbing his arm. He stopped, looking at her, but his face revealed nothing.
“I’m sorry,” Margo whispered.
Deyric’s head tilted, just slightly. “For what?”
On the other side of the projection, Emmaline tensed. “Margo, what are you doing?” she hissed under her breath, even knowing the crystal only transmitted one way.
The projection wobbled faintly, the view tilting side to side as Margo shook her head. “Nothing. Never mind.” Her fingers slipped from his sleeve as he retreated back through the door.
Margo turned, and the internal dining room door eased open as Caelith stepped inside, his cane tapping lightly against the floor.
His hair—pale gold, perfectly combed back—caught the chandelier’s light like freshly struck coin.
His coat, a deep midnight trimmed in silver, fit precisely with not a thread out of place, every detail meant to impress.
“My Lady.” Caelith crossed the room, lifting Margo’s hand without hesitation. His lips brushed her knuckles, a feather-light touch meant to disarm, not seduce. “It’s been too long.”
Margo’s fingers lingered in his for half a breath before she drew back, her voice gentle. “Far too long, my friend.”
Emmaline pressed her back harder against the stone wall of the cellar as she watched.
Caelith placed Margo’s hand on his arm, and together, they glided to the table like a dance they both remembered, Margo’s pale blue skirts whispering over the floor.
The Lord’s face filled the projection for a moment, sharp cheekbones and that deceptively kind mouth filling the frame, before the view tilted back toward the dining room.
The table itself gleamed, polished stone bare except for a single candle flickering at its center.
Caelith snapped his fingers, and the air shimmered, plates and platters blooming into existence—roasted meats still steaming, jeweled fruit glistening under sugared frost, pastry towers stacked high and dusted in gold leaf.
Margo clapped her hands, leaning into his side with a laugh.
“Only for you, sweet Margo.” His smile softened at the edges as he pulled out her chair, stepping smoothly behind her to guide her into the seat before taking the place directly across. The glow of the chandelier above shone in his hair again, turning it almost white in the flickering candlelight.
“He must’ve brought a crew in earlier to stage all this.” Ursula squinted at the feast glittering in the projection.
“Should we be concerned?” Aeren stepped closer.
Ursula shook her head, scanning the room again before cutting her gaze to Emmaline. “No. They’re gone. Only the players we accounted for are left.”
“We stick to the plan, then.” Emmaline did not look away from Margo and Caelith. “Just watch.”
“Well.” His cane settled beside his chair with a soft clink. “I must admit, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you again, Lady Margo. What’s it been—fifty years? Seventy?”
“Long enough.” Margo’s voice quivered, as though the numbers pained her. “I heard about Lady Allistair’s disappearance. People said you and she were... close.”
Caelith’s fingers drummed once on the tabletop, a single tap. “Ah.” He leaned back. “So you came all this way for gossip?”
“You know me better than that.” The warmth in her voice seemed genuine now. “We grew up together, Caelith. I know it’s been years, but I still care about what happens to you.”
Down in the cellar, Emmaline glanced at Ursula, both of them raising brows. “Does he actually love her?”
“It would explain a lot. How quickly he accepted the dinner invitation for one. How easily he swallowed the flimsy excuse.”
Aeren exhaled through her nose. “He doesn’t love her. Caelith only wants what he can’t have, and Lady Margo never let him have her.”
On the projection, the Lord’s expression eased into something almost sincere. “My apologies, my Lady. It’s been some time since I’ve entertained anyone of your caliber.” He exhaled. “There’s no Lady in all the Vale quite like you.”
Margo’s laugh rang sweet, her fingers grazing absently over the pendant around her neck. “Do you still grow frostberries here? I used to love them whenever I visited.” She gestured towards a crystal dish piled with sliced fruit.
“I’m not sure.” A faint crease formed between his brows. “I’ll have Deyric check the kitchen—or if not, I’ll send him to the fields to fetch the ripest ones we have.”
“That’s not necessary. But if there are any already here, I’d love a taste.”
Caelith stood, pushing his chair back, and the bow he gave her was graceful, almost courtly. “Anything for you.”
He turned, footsteps soft as he left the room, the door closing behind him without a sound.
Emmaline blew out a breath, shaking her head. “Watching him fawn over Margo is like watching a snake try to cuddle.”
“Shhhh.” Ursula cut her off. “This is the part that matters.”
In the projection, Margo shot to her feet, fingers disappearing into a hidden pocket sewn into the folds of her gown. The vial she pulled free caught the candlelight, liquid shimmering inside as she darted around the table, her slippers barely making a sound on the stone floor.
“Just a few drops, Margo,” Ursula muttered, as if the woman could hear her.
“Just a drop,” Margo murmured, but her hands trembled so badly that the vial clinked against the glass decanter as she tugged out the stopper. The cork slipped, bounced across the table, and in her scramble to catch it, half the potion sloshed into the wine.
“Faery farts!” The whisper-shriek cracked through the speak-easy.
“It’s fine,” Ursula said, more to herself than anyone else, dragging her fingers down her face. “He’ll never notice. First sip will drop him. It’s fine.”
Margo scurried back to her chair, smoothing her skirts just as Caelith stepped back into the room.
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” he said, voice dripping with the practiced charm of a man used to apologizing without ever meaning it.
“But you’ll have to wait until dessert. Deyric will return with berries before you leave for the night—enough to take some home, too, as a gift from Greymane’s finest fields. ”
“That’s far too generous, my Lord.” Margo dipped her chin. “But a most thoughtful gesture. You honor me.”
Caelith reached for his glass.
“Here we go.” Emmaline leaned in. Aeren’s hand found hers, while Ursula’s palm settled firm over Emmaline’s other hand, a silent chain linking them all together.
On the projection, Margo’s fingers flattened against the tablecloth, every muscle in her hand rigid despite the calm Emmaline knew would be painted across her face.
“This is…” Caelith lifted the glass, rolling the stem between his fingers as he brought the wine beneath his nose.
“Ah. Le Sang des étoiles. It is impossible to acquire outside the vaults of the oldest houses.” He drew in a slow breath like it held secrets only he could unlock, then his mouth pursed—just slightly—but the shift was enough to set Emmaline’s pulse hammering.
“Shite,” she whispered. “He knows.”
“Calm the fuck down.” Ursula swatted the back of her head hard enough to make her blink.
“Another thoughtful gesture, my Lord.” Margo’s voice floated through the projection, soft and sweet, her glass rising gracefully in front of the necklace. “Shall we toast?”
Caelith’s smile held, but something behind his expression sharpened, a tiny tightening at the corners of his eyes, like a door easing closed. “And what are we toasting, Lady Margo?”
Margo hummed, pretending to think it over, though the slight tremor in her hand wasn’t lost on any of them. “To old friends, reunited.”
The smile Caelith gave her then was nothing like the easy charm from before. It was colder, polite and almost absent, the kind of smile meant for servants or furniture or…
Emmaline’s fist hit the nearest wine rack with a sharp crack. It was the same smile he gave her that night.
“I think…” Caelith swirled the wine. “That I’m going to have a very good night.”
“Ursula!” Emmaline grabbed her friend’s face between both hands, breath sharp. “He knows. What do we do? He’s going to hurt her!”
“How the hell can you tell?” Ursula shoved her off. “That was a little creepy, yeah, but nothing—”
“That’s how he works!” Emmaline was already halfway to the cellar stairs. “We have to stop him!”
In the projection, Caelith set the glass down with deliberate care and stood, his movements unhurried.
“Caelith?” Margo’s voice stayed soft, but the slight hitch betrayed her nerves. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s right,” Aeren said, already beside Emmaline at the base of the stairs. “We need to go. Now.”
Caelith took a step, then another, trailing his fingertips along the glimmering tabletop. “My sweet, dear Margo.”
“Shite, you’re right.” Ursula shoved past them both, taking the lead.
At the door, she turned, face set. “Listen to me. I love this vicious streak of yours, Ems, but Caelith isn’t just some pompous asshole playing at magic.
He’s a trained, decorated duelist. He’s never lost an official bout.
If you go up there, you’ll be more of a liability than a weapon. ”
Emmaline’s fist slammed into the stone wall, breath hissing between her teeth. She hated it, but Ursula was right. “You can take him?”
“Why the hell do you think I’m here?” Ursula sneered. “Besides, he’s only used to opponents that can’t fight back or are controlled by propriety and rules.” She locked eyes with Emmaline. “It will be over quickly.”
“Fuck! Fine. Just—just get her out of there.” She pulled back toward the projection, eyes glued to the scene where she could tell that Caelith stood directly behind Margo now, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders.
“I suggest you take your hands off me, friend.” Margo’s voice was clipped.
Caelith bent at the waist, his hair falling into the projection like a pale curtain. “Or what?” His voice was all silken mockery. “Will you… drug me?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Margo’s hands rose to push him off, but he didn’t budge.
“Go!” Emmaline’s fingers flew over her old speak-easy, summoning Cassidy’s symbols with a speed born of panic and fury. They might need a healer before the night was done.
“I’m going too.” Aeren stepped up beside Ursula.
Light bled from her palms, no dramatic flare, just a thin line of raw force that cracked against the floor.
She flicked her wrist, and it slashed through a nearby wine rack, splitting the wood cleanly before searing the glass into molten puddles and leaving nothing but smoking ash behind.
Ursula and Emmaline stared.
“That kind of power—” Emmaline’s voice scraped out, half awe, half disbelief.
“I swore I’d be able to fight back after what he did.” Aeren’s grip tightened around the power blazing in her hands, knuckles white.
“I’ll fucking say.” Ursula’s grin flashed dark and wild as she took off up the stairs. “Let’s go!”