Chapter 4 In Confidence
Wren held her breath as she pressed her ear to the door of the drawing room.
Her father and Ivanhild spent most of the day making arrangements for the burial rite.
Then, after dinner, they retired to the drawing room with Wren’s mother to sort through Heron’s belongings that had been delivered to the estate that morning.
Wren wished to see the items for herself, but they had been locked in the room by the butler.
She asked if she could help after dinner, but her mother told her she looked sickly and needed to rest before the ceremony tomorrow.
Wren knew she should sleep, but her racing thoughts and the multiple cups of Everleaf she had consumed over the course of the day made sure she would not for some time.
So, she waited to hear her parents head to their chambers for the evening, then slipped out of her bedroom.
Her steps were light as a dandelion seed.
She had made her way to the drawing room door without the light of a candle.
Heron had taught her how to navigate these halls during their many games in the manor.
She’d committed the entirety of the grounds to memory.
No sounds were coming through the door, nor were there any prominent emotions in her near vicinity that she could discern.
Wren slowly twisted the bronze knob and pushed.
Inside there was no light beside that of the moon coming in through the window on the far wall.
She shut the door behind her, tensing at the clicking sound it made.
A series of large trunks shone in the moonlight.
Wren found a small candle on the mantle and lit it.
The flame didn’t create much light, which was good for her purposes.
It did, however, illuminate a memory she wished could be erased from her mind.
Wren’s gaze lifted to the shadowy portrait hanging above the mantle.
The painting depicted her family, but she and Heron were much younger.
He was thirteen and she was ten years of age.
That was a miserable year. It showed on their faces.
Straight mouths and dull eyes. Her mother had told the artist to paint them happy, but the man told her he could only paint the truth.
The duchess scolded her children for acting so unhappy while sitting for the portrait.
She didn’t know. No one but Heron, Wren, and the artist who saw into their souls knew how deep the despair ran.
“That doesn’t look like the Heron I knew,” Ivanhild’s voice came from behind her.
Wren stood very still. How had he come in without her noticing?
He was not a small man. It was disconcerting that he could move so silently.
She slowly turned around. Her Curse didn’t alert her to any new feelings she should be suspicious of, but it was not perfect.
There were times she missed things or misinterpreted feelings from new people.
“No, he was only thirteen there. He would have been twenty-three this year.”
“I wasn’t speaking of his age. The light in his eyes is missing. The painter did a poor job.”
Wren sucked in a sharp breath. She would not cry. Not now.
Ivanhild shut the door behind him. Somehow, the door didn’t click when he closed it.
He turned back around, his large frame filling the room.
Wren’s heartbeat quickened at the realization of how easily he could overpower her.
Perhaps she was overreacting about him coming by her room last night, but she couldn’t be too careful.
With Heron gone, she had no one to rely on for discernment.
And she hadn’t trusted her instincts since the year the portrait was painted.
“I would like to speak with you,” Ivanhild said as he walked further into the room.
Wren looked at the door and willed it to open. If she tried to leave now, he might get angry and grab her.
“Would you like me to open the door?” Ivanhild asked. Wren snapped her gaze back to him. “I only closed it for the sake of privacy, but I can see now how it would make you uncomfortable.”
“It is improper for it to be closed,” Wren replied in a cautious tone.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Ivanhild crossed the room quickly and opened the door until it hit the wall. “Please forgive me.”
He peered out the opening. Apprehension wrapped around Wren like a vine.
Not hers, but his. The hall was dark. All the servants were likely preparing for the burial and would not come to the drawing room until tomorrow morning to dust while the family was away.
Wren was torn between reassuring the man and hoping he was too nervous to try anything.
“What is it that you wish to speak with me about?” She tried to sound calm.
“Will we be overheard?”
Wren did not know how to respond. The professor faced her once more. Wren wrapped her arms around herself. The fabric of her pale yellow nightgown suddenly felt much too thin.
“Did you read your brother’s journal?” Ivanhild asked.
His question was like ice water on her face.
“Did you?” she challenged. Her love for her brother emboldened her. What right did this stranger have to read her brother’s writings?
“Not past the first page. I didn’t want to intrude.”
Wren narrowed her eyes.
“Then why are you asking about it?”
“I wanted to know if it helped you in some way. If perhaps he left a note that would bring comfort.”
“There was a letter to me in his case. It stated there was a gift.”
Ivanhild dipped his chin. “The parcel is at the bottom of that trunk.” He pointed to the large chest nearest him.
Wren took a step forward without thinking. Her first instinct was to rip open the lid and see what her brother had sought to give her before his passing. But doing so would place her closer to Ivanhild. She paused.
“You came to my room last night,” she accused him.
His eyebrows rose. “I did. I thought I saw a light under your door, but when I came in, it was dark. I assumed you were asleep.”
“You didn’t knock. Why? I was in my nightgown.” As she said it, the thought occurred to her that she was in one again.
The man hung his head. His shame rolled over Wren like a wave of heat on a hot day.
“I didn’t want to alert anyone in the house. Your father was not yet fond of me as he is now, and I worried that he would think even worse of me. But I’d heard about you fainting on the steps and wanted to see if you were okay.”
“Why do you care?”
Ivanhild ran a hand over his beard and sighed.
“Your brother spoke of you often. He told stories of your childhood and went into great detail about how kind and gentle you were. He also asked me to care for you in the event of a tragedy. The moment I found out about his passing–” He cut off.
His jaw clenched, and his body tensed against a surge of emotional agony.
“I knew I had to fulfill my promise to him.”
Wren’s eyes burned with unshed tears. Yet again, Wren’s judgment had been wrong, unlike her brother's. Heron was always right. If he trusted Ivanhild, then she would too. And she would start right now.
Wren walked over and shut the drawing room door. She turned on her heel. Ivanhild’s watchful eyes gleamed like emeralds in the flickering candlelight.
“I believe my brother’s death was not an accident. What do you say to that?”
“I say that your brother didn’t exaggerate your curious nature.” Ivanhild looked at the painting, then back at Wren. “And that you’re probably right.”