Chapter 25 Lucy
Lucy
How to find joy: treasure noble discomfort like it is fine art.
The Brass Sparrow headquarters was not a decrepit goat farm. Well, technically, it was above ground. Below, it was bigger than the palace library. At least, it was larger than the palace library in her imagination.
Lucy had never been allowed inside the palace library because maids didn’t need access to “delicate literature.” Esther had tried to sneak her in when they were young, but the princess did not have enough power to get a ‘mere maid’ past the guards.
Lucy remembered Esther’s furious whispering, the way she’d tried to argue rules into changing. It hadn’t worked. Rules are rarely bent for the people they hurt.
The moment Brom pushed the door open, Lucy’s jaw nearly hit the floor.
A chandelier hung from the ceiling. Having lived in the castle for nearly a decade, Lucy could spot expensive decorations from a mile away—and that chandelier was expensive. The kind nobles pretended to be "simple” and “tasteful” while secretly bragging about it.
The entire space opened into a lavish hall: plush carpets, tall bookshelves, polished marble floors, and tapestries that looked handwoven by someone who didn’t hate their life.
“Wha—?” Lucy croaked. “Where did the goats go?”
The Baroness pressed a trembling hand to her chest, looking personally offended by the change in scenery. Lucy catalogued the reaction carefully. Shock. Disorientation. Loss of footing. She savored it like a well-executed painting.
“I am confused. And I dislike being confused. Someone explain this immediately.”
Lucy never thought there would be a day she agreed with the Baroness, but here she was. She’d never admit it, though.
Basil cleared his throat. “The Brass Sparrow prefers... discretion.”
Lucy ran to the front door and poked her head out. “It’s a shack on the outside,” she said. The scent of farm animals gave way to the smell of ale and something metallic. Exactly what one might expect a back alley to smell like.
“More like a crime on the outside,” the Baroness grumbled, shutting the door.
“And apparently a palace on the inside,” Lucy muttered.
Brom waved them over to the lounge area, his demeanor far too chipper for someone who lived in a crypt-like tunnel system.
“So,” he said, slapping a stack of papers onto a glossy table, “tell me what kind of mess you’re knee-deep in. If it’s royal, political, or involves improbable property destruction, that’s my specialty.”
Lucy and Basil exchanged a look—it was definitely the first two. The property damage was yet to be determined, but it was highly likely, given Esther's involvement.
Basil gave Brom the short version: Princess missing, teleportation spell, Lucy’s flawless improvisation skills, and finally, the King assigned Basil to track Esther down.
Brom listened with a slow-building grin. Then leaned back in his chair. Then groaned into his hands.
“Oh, that’s a disaster,” he said cheerfully. “You’re going to need Sylva.”
Basil froze. Lucy wondered why Basil froze—and why Brom seemed so excited. Even the Baroness stopped judging the decor long enough to squint at the strange interaction unfolding.
Lucy trusted Basil’s instincts more than his temper. If he didn’t want Sylva involved, there was a reason—and Lucy filed that reason under important.
“Sylva?” Basil repeated, voice tight.
“Yes, Sylva.” Brom drummed his fingers on the chair. “He’s our expert in wild goose chases.”
“We are not chasing geese,” Lucy muttered.
“You are,” Brom said. “You just don’t know it yet.”
Lucy disliked people who spoke as if inevitability were a favor.
Basil drew a slow, deep breath—the kind usually reserved for his magic lessons with Esther. “We don’t need Sylva,” he said.
“Oh, you really do,” Brom corrected. “And to get Sylva, you’ll need to talk to Rhea.”
Basil’s eyelid twitched. Lucy had never seen anyone besides Esther—or herself—make his eye twitch.
The Baroness gasped. “Rhea?”
“Wait.” Lucy blinked. “You know her?”
“Of course I know her,” the Baroness hissed. “She is—”
But she didn’t finish.
Because the door at the far end of the hall flew open, and a woman with warm brown skin and a smile bright enough to light all of Stonehaven crashed in like a summer storm.
“Basil!”
The room tilted. Not magically—emotionally. Lucy had learned to recognize the sound of history entering a space.
Lucy had never seen Basil look startled. Annoyed? Yes. Irritated? Always. But startled? Never. Yet there it was—the exact expression when Rhea barreled into him, wrapping him in a hug that sounded like it cracked at least one of his ribs.
“Oh,” Lucy whispered. “She’s pretty.”
“And familiar...” the Baroness hissed sharply.
Rhea released Basil and turned, beaming at the group with the warmth of a hearth.
“Come in, come in! Basil, you should have written ahead. I would’ve made tea.”
Lucy blinked. She talked like she knew him well. Suspiciously well.
“Explain,” the Baroness demanded, poking Basil with her fan as if trying to provoke a confession.
Basil inhaled. Rhea beat him to it.
“Oh! You must be Irene. It’s been so long!”
The Baroness went sheet-white. Lucy nearly dropped her satchel.
“You know—” Lucy pointed at the Baroness, “—her?”
“Oh, yes.” Rhea laughed lightly. “She used to frequent the same social circles as me before the Queen helped me choose my real path.” She waved a hand vaguely.
Lucy did not miss the Baroness's rigidity. That kind of stillness only came from old choices and older debts.
“Helped you?” Lucy and the Baroness said in unison. Lucy did not like how in sync the two of them had been in the last hour.
Rhea gestured toward the interior rooms. “Please, we should sit. This story requires tea. Possibly alcohol.”
“Definitely alcohol,” Basil groaned, causing Lucy’s jaw to drop yet again. Basil drinking was unheard of—she felt like she was watching sin unfold firsthand.
They moved through another door, etched with a key rune. Lucy held her breath as they passed through.
Inside, a cozy parlor awaited: cushions everywhere, fox-shaped carvings, and even porcelain teacups decorated with foxes. Lucy guessed Rhea really liked foxes.
Or foxes liked her. Lucy had noticed that décor often reflected more than taste.
Rhea poured tea and settled gracefully. “Basil and I were arranged to marry,” she began.
Lucy choked on air. Her thoughts jumped immediately to Esther. Funny how often “arranged" translates to “endured.”
“Yes, Lucy, it’s true,” Basil muttered before she could ask.
“You had a wife?” Lucy hissed. “A whole secret wife?”
“Former wife,” he corrected.
Rhea gave him a fond look. “He was a good husband. Just not the right one.”
“And whose idea was the... separation?” the Baroness asked.
Rhea smiled softly. “Basil’s. He knew I was in love with someone else and granted me a route to freedom.” Granted. Lucy chewed on the word. Freedom that needed permission always came with strings.
“With whom?” Lucy asked quietly.
Rhea’s eyes sparkled. “With someone I wasn’t supposed to.”
As if on cue, footsteps padded from the hallway, nails clicking on the floor. Lucy turned, expecting a pet fox.
A tall man with pale skin and silver hair entered.
Fox ears flicked atop his head while his pale eyes studied them with quiet caution.
He was elegant, dangerous, and handsome enough to make Lucy rethink every life choice she’d ever made.
Dangerous didn’t always mean cruel. Lucy respected the distinction.
“That,” Rhea said with pride, “is Asher.”
Asher bowed slightly, voice smooth as velvet. “Welcome.”
Lucy tried to bow back and nearly knocked over the tea tray.
Behind him was a more petite figure: a younger beast-kin with silver hair curling at the ends, warm brown skin, and a tail flicking lazily behind him. He wasn’t much taller than Lucy herself, which she noted with quiet scheming: if she ever had to intimidate him, she could manage.
His gaze lingered a fraction too long—then snapped away like he’d caught himself touching something hot. Lucy felt it anyway. Not attraction. Awareness.
“Is this the group?” the boy asked, voice like warm honey. “The trouble hunters?”
Lucy bristled. “We are not trouble hunters.”
He smirked. “You smell like trouble.”
“I smell like lavender,” she snapped.
“Sure,” he said, unconvinced and grinning.
Rhea beamed. “Lucy, Basil, Irene—this is my son. Sylva.”
Sylva flicked his ear. “And you’re the ones dragging me into a goose chase.”
Lucy stared. Sylva stared back, unreadable. Then his tail swished, and she tried not to stare at the very warm, huggable fluff. The movement wasn’t idle. Lucy had grown up around enough animals to recognize restraint masquerading as calm.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m good at chasing things that don’t want to be found.”
Lucy swallowed. That did not bode well for Esther, who absolutely did not want to be found. She was not prepared for the extra—arguably adorable—chaos joining their hunt.