Chapter 7 Lysa
seven
Lysa
The tour began in the Great Hall, which was to say it began with lord Fenrik Stormgarde walking and me following like a duckling behind a particularly unfriendly swan.
“The Great Hall is available for formal occasions, but such occasions are exceedingly rare” he said without turning. “Meals are served in the smaller dining room adjacent. Breakfast at seven, dinner at eight. Mrs. Crane will inform you of any schedule changes.”
I had to lengthen my stride to keep pace with his long legs. The manor’s corridors stretched before us, lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors who all seemed to share Fenrik’s talent for looking down their noses. The lamps brightened as I passed each one, dimming again in my wake.
“The library is through there.” He gestured to an arched doorway without slowing. “You may use it during daylight hours. The restricted section requires my explicit permission.”
“Is there a form I should fill out?”
His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly.
He didn’t respond. We passed a window overlooking what might once have been a garden.
Now it was a tangle of overgrown roses and wild hedge, beautiful in its chaos.
A few jewel-bright shapes darted between the thorns, the garden drakes, I realised, their scales catching the grey light.
One of them paused mid-flight, its ruby head turning toward the window. Toward me.
Fenrik’s pace quickened.
“The east wing houses the creature sanctuary,” he said. “You’ll have supervised access.”
“Supervised,” I repeated flatly.
“Thorven will accompany you. The creatures can be unpredictable.”
We passed a heavy oak door bound with iron bands. The wood was scarred, as though something had clawed at it. Fenrik didn’t slow.
“The ley-line chamber beneath the foundation is forbidden.” He turned a corner without looking back to see if I followed. “The energies are unstable and dangerous to those unfamiliar with them.”
My jaw tightened. I’d read about ley-lines at the Academy, had felt the pulse of one beneath my feet not an hour ago. Dangerous, yes. But also potentially useful for understanding whatever was wrong with this man and his creatures.
Another corridor. Another locked door.
“The west wing is off-limits.” His gloved hand gestured dismissively toward a shadowed hallway. “My private study and bedroom as well.”
I stopped walking.
He continued for three more steps before registering my absence. When he turned, his expression remained carefully neutral, but something in his eyes—
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I must have misread the marriage contract. I thought I was to be your wife, not your prisoner.”
“You are neither, Miss Emberlin. You are—“
“A contracted healer with limited security clearance, apparently.” I crossed my arms. “Should I expect a uniform?”
Behind me, a door slammed with enough force to rattle the portraits on the walls. The sound cracked through the corridor like a whip, and I spun, my heart lurching. Nothing there. One empty corridor and a door that had been open moments ago, now firmly shut.
When I turned back, Fenrik’s eyes flashed silver for a second before settling back to grey. He didn’t acknowledge the door, nor apologized.
“The house,” I said slowly, “has opinions.”
“The house,” he replied through gritted teeth, “needs to mind its own business.”
Somewhere in the walls, I could have sworn I heard a creak that sounded almost like laughter.
After the tour was done, Fenrik showed me the way back to the Great Hall. Mrs. Crane stood beside a small table that had been formally set: two chairs, a candelabra, the marriage contract spread flat beneath a silver inkwell.
No flowers. No music. No guests beyond the housekeeper, whose expression suggested she was witnessing a funeral rather than a wedding.
Fenrik pulled out my chair. His gloved fingers brushed my shoulder as I sat, and the thick leather did nothing to dampen the shock of it, I felt a jolt of electricity down my spine.
He hesitated there, looming over me with a predator’s stillness.
The warmth radiating from him was a physical weight, suffocating and intoxicating, and my traitorous nipples hardened against my bodice.
I crushed the feeling down. This was a transaction, nothing more.
“The terms are straightforward.” Fenrik said after he took his own seat.
“Your stabilising presence in exchange for full payment of your family’s debts, lodging, access to my library and research materials, and a stipend for personal expenses.
The arrangement binds you legally and symbolically to the estate for a minimum period of one year, after which either party may dissolve the union. ”
I scanned the elegant script. The language was formal, it read like a lease agreement for a property.
Mrs. Crane offered me the quill. The feather was black, coming from something more exotic than a common goose. My fingers closed around it too tightly, the shaft pressing grooves into my skin.
“Why does it have to be marriage?” The question escaped before I could stop it. “Why not just... an arrangement? A contract for services?”
Fenrik’s composure cracked for a heartbeat.
“The manor’s wards respond to bonds of kinship and blood.
” His voice was even, but I caught the strain beneath.
“A simple contract wouldn’t grant you access to the areas where you’ll need to work.
The creatures won’t accept you as belonging here without a formal tie to the estate’s master. ”
His grey eyes met mine, and for a moment the mask slipped again. “And I need to be certain you’ll stay. That you can’t simply... leave when it becomes difficult.”
The ink flowed dark against the cream-coloured page, my signature appearing in loops and lines that sealed my fate.
The moment the final stroke dried, the manor inhaled.
There was no other word for it, a great rushing breath that swept through the Great Hall, stirring the dust motes.
The candelabra flames leapt high, then settled into a steady glow.
The cold fireplace roared to life with a whoosh that made Mrs. Crane step back sharply.
And then the wards found me. It felt like being sniffed by an enormous, invisible hound.
Magic swept over me in waves, testing, tasting, cataloguing.
The sensation travelled from my toes to the crown of my head, pausing with particular interest at my fingertips, where my magic took form.
Acceptable, something seemed to say. Took you long enough.
Every door in the Great Hall swung open simultaneously. Then shut. Then open again.
“Is it...” I started.
“Showing off,” Fenrik said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes.”
The chandelier overhead began to sway, crystals chiming in a jingle. A tapestry on the far wall rippled despite the absence of any breeze, and I could have sworn the woven figures, a dragon and a maiden, actually waved.
Mrs. Crane’s lips twitched. “The house approves of the match, it seems.”
“The house,” Fenrik said, “needs to learn restraint.”
Fenrik led me up a winding staircase to the second floor, our footsteps echoing against stone worn smooth by generations of Stormgardes. The corridor here was narrower, more intimate, and the lamps practically preened at my approach.
“Your chambers.” He pushed open a heavy door and stepped aside to let me enter.
I stopped in the doorway, my breath catching.
The room was enormous, far grander than anything I’d expected.
A high, arched ceiling soared above me, painted in a fading sea-green that reminded me of shallow coastal waters.
The plaster was peeling in curled flakes, revealing the stone beneath.
A mural stretched across every surface, flowering trees with sweeping branches, their yellow blossoms scattered against the green.
The paint had cracked and chipped with age, whole sections flaking away to nothing, yet somehow the damage only made it more beautiful.
The trees seemed to breathe in the lamplights, their branches swaying in some phantom wind.
“It’s...” I stepped further inside, turning slowly to take it all in. “It’s lovely.”
“It needs restoration.” Fenrik remained in the doorway. “The damp has damaged the plasterwork considerably.”
“I like it.” I ran my fingers along a painted branch, feeling the texture beneath my touch. “It feels like sleeping in a garden.”
The bed dominated the far wall, a massive four-poster affair draped in faded blue velvet, large enough to fit my entire family with room to spare. The mattress looked thick and soft, piled with pillows and quilts that someone had recently aired. Mrs. Crane’s doing, I suspected.
“I see subtlety isn’t the Stormgarde family motto,” I said, staring at the mattress. “I could lose a small dragon in those sheets.”
“It was the only guest suite prepared on short notice,” Fenrik said. He stepped past me to check the window latch. “The bed is... historical.” His gloved fingers worked at the latch, which refused to budge.
“Historical,” I repeated. “Does that mean it comes with ghosts, or only dust mites?”
He turned, and I hadn’t realised how close I’d drifted. For a wonder, we were sharing the same space between the bedpost and the window. He froze, his arm raised against the frame, boxing me in. “It’s rusted.” He leaned closer, putting his weight into it.
I should have stepped back, but I didn’t.
The air between us grew heavy, charged with that same static I’d felt downstairs.
He smelled of ink, old paper, and a sharp, masculine spice that made my mouth water.
My gaze dropped to his throat, watching a pulse hammer against the high collar of his jacket.
The heat rolling off him seeped through my linen shirt, finding the skin beneath, and a heavy ache pooled low in my belly. My breathing hitched, a traitorous, shallow sound in the quiet room.