Chapter 38 The Lone Glove
I was pacing my room like a caged animal. My left hand was bare. My right hand was gloved. It looked stupid, and more importantly, it was a massive, neon-lit sign saying 'I was at the bookstore, and I messed up.'
Claus had the other one. He probably had it in his pocket right now, just waiting for a reason to march up to my father and go, "Hey, your daughter is a disaster and a suspected criminal."
"M'lady? Are you in there?"
Crap. Elara. My maid.
I didn't answer fast enough. The door creaked open.
Elara marched in, her eyes darting around the room with the intensity of a bomb squad technician.
She wasn't just a maid; she was the secret police of the Varannes household.
She counted my spoons. She checked my hemlines.
She once scolded me for ten minutes because I wore the 'wrong shade of pink' for a Tuesday.
"M'lady, your tea is getting cold, and oh." She stopped dead, her eyes locking onto my hands. "Where is the left glove?"
I shoved my hand behind my back. "I... lost it. In the gardens. Probably fell off near the hedge maze."
She didn't buy it. She crossed her arms, her face tightening into a mask of pure, unadulterated skepticism. "Lost it? That was custom-dyed silk. It didn't just walk away, m'lady. Shall I call the groundskeeper to search the hedges?"
"No!" I blurted. "Don't bother. It's ruined anyway. Probably stained with mud. Just... throw the other one away. It's useless."
Elara looked like I'd just slapped her. "Throw it away? That's wasteful, it's....."
"I have a headache, Elara. Leave me be."
She huffed, doing that dramatic little curtsy that felt more like a threat, and finally left. I slumped against the door. Dealing with her was more exhausting than dealing with the actual police.
My desk was covered in letters, but one stood out. Gisella.
I tore it open. 'Ilse, I'm so sorry. I can't meet you. The Duke's men are everywhere. They're doing surprise carriage inspections at every gate. I can't risk Didier seeing me.'
Of course. Claus was locking down the city, probably hoping to catch someone trying to move goods.
It was annoying, but it worked in my favor.
If Gisella was scared off, Didier wouldn't get his 'romantic' rendezvous.
The project to dump him was back on track, even if I was currently sweating bullets over a piece of fabric.
But the silence in the house was starting to grate on my nerves. It felt too quiet. Too heavy.
I needed to know. I needed to know why the hell my father was so obsessed with the 'shipments' that made Claus so aggressive.
I waited until the father clock in the hall struck midnight. I slipped out of my room, my slippers silent on the plush carpet. The house was a tomb. I crept down the hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs like a frantic bird, and nudged the heavy oak door to my father's study open.
The room smelled like expensive cigars and rot.
I didn't bother with a candle. The moonlight was enough. I went straight for his desk. It was a mess of papers, invoices, trade routes, bribery logs. I flipped through them, my hands shaking.
Then, I saw it. A thick, cream colored dossier.
Julian Vance.
I opened it. It was a profile. Detailed. Cold.
Julian Vance. Commander of the Holy Order. Wealthy. Cynical. Unmarried.
My eyes scanned the notes scribbled in the margin in my father's jagged handwriting: 'Once Gisella is out of the picture, we initiate the alliance. Julian Vance has the political pull to ignore our border inconsistencies. He's the perfect buffer. We marry Ilse to him by the end of the season.'
I felt the air leave my lungs.
My father wasn't just doing business, he was trading me. He wanted to pawn me off to a guy who essentially ran the city's 'Holy' military, just to get a stamp of approval on his illegal grain shipments.
He didn't care about me....