Chapter 13
Anya Delemond
“Slow down!” Anya shouted as Yomira angled her wings for a landing.
Was she slowing down enough? If the wyvern was locked up for years, how much flying experience could she have?
Anya clenched Lord Bryson around the waist and buried her face in his shirt.
She could feel his heartbeat pounding through his back.
I suppose he hasn’t flown too often either. This may be only his second time.
She felt a tad better knowing that the man who had fended off the Duke of Eldenkeep’s almost-assassin was also afraid of something.
“Woohoo!” Blackbird and Sir Oshfeldt cheered and hooted behind her.
If Blackbird was cheering, it must be going fine; though Blackbird enjoyed such thrills.
Wind whirled around her as the wyvern flapped its wings.
The flaps grew slower and the gusts calmer as the earthy scent of grass and loam filled her nose.
Ground, sweet, sweet ground! Anya opened her eyes and peeled herself away from Lord Bryson’s back.
He gaped for breath loudly as she loosened her hands.
In her panic, she had moved her arms up to his chest and strangled the very breath from him as they landed.
And she wasn’t even aware enough to enjoy it.
A field of dandelions surrounded them, just a stone’s throw away from a two-story manor that was under heavy construction on one half. It was a surprise, to say the least. Balcott wasn’t known for its wealth or grandeur. The structure stood out from the humble homes and shops around it.
A chestnut-haired human was up on the roof with a mallet, pounding a board into the framework. The second he stopped, he perked his head up. “Yomira!” he called and waved his mallet. “Millie! Yomira is back!” He began to climb down the scaffolding.
The wyvern bobbed her head and rolled what seemed like a happy grumble in her throat, if there was such a thing.
“Anya,” Lord Bryson said softly. “You can let me go now. I will get off first and help you down.”
“No need!” She was eager to get off this ride, and to escape the embarrassment of holding onto him far longer than necessary.
She hadn’t even noticed. Before he could insist, as he always seemed to, she swung her legs over Yomira’s spine and slid down her winged arm.
Blackbird met her at the bottom and caught her with a hug.
“You did it, My Lady! Horses don’t seem so terrifying now, huh?”
“Horses?” Lord Bryson’s voice came from behind her. She stiffened.
The word from his lips beckoned memories of the verdant garden behind Melusine Manor and their ride back to the inn.
Do you not like horses?
Despite believing him to be a hollow-headed knight, a spark of fear in her mind lit a flame of panic in her chest.
“I never thought so to begin with!” she sputtered, tugging Blackbird alongside her toward the wyvern’s flank.
“But, My Lady, you’ve always—”
“We talked about horses that night,” Anya cut her off with a whisper. Blackbird stared blankly at her for a moment, then her eyes grew wide with understanding, and she nodded so fast her dark braids whipped back and forth.
“Can you not live without something in there?” Lord Bryson called over. “I don’t want to waste time repacking.”
“That is none of your business!” Anya shot back, untying the cinch bag from Yomira’s side.
“Roderick!” The same man from the roof hurried over, a leather carpenter’s apron flapping behind him as he ran.
“Hello, Ellis,” Lord Bryson said, far more calm than the man was. “You have made excellent progress, I see.”
“How could I not take advantage of this gorgeous weather?” Ellis gestured around them, then looked crestfallen. “That, and we need more bedrooms for the children. Having four in each room is a bit much. They’re keeping each other awake by coughing.”
The children. This must be the orphanage.
“Ah. Well, my news should bring you all some peace of mind,” Lord Bryson said confidently.
Anya cleared her throat and stepped next to him. She refused to follow in silence while he tried to wrest command from her. Again.
“Anya Delemond.” She extended a clawed hand to Ellis. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
He accepted her handshake heartily. “Ellis Dacre.” He paused. “Wait—Delemond? As in, the royal family?” He ran a hand through his hair, but the sawdust in it just moved to another spot on his head. “Let me get my mu—I mean our Baroness—she’ll want to—”
“There is no need—” She held her hands up in a placating gesture.
“I’ll be right back!” He bowed hastily, then tore down the broken cobblestone path.
Anya sighed. She left out her title because of moments just like this, though most people eventually recalled the weight of her surname.
She had wanted a calm, quiet tour of the orphanage, but he’d disappeared before she could even ask.
In Eteross, something as simple as buying a loaf of tarragon bread at her favorite bakery was an event unless she wore a disguise. Hence, the charm of the masquerade.
Lord Bryson chuckled, almost like he knew this man well. Perhaps he did. They’d greeted each other by first name. It took her a frustrating amount of consciousness to keep referring to him by his title. She did not want to give him the illusion of closeness by letting his first name slip.
“The children’s home is right here. I am sure he will figure out we went inside.
” Lord Bryson eyed the bag in her hands, then rolled his eyes and started down the path to the home.
Moss weaved between the crackled cobblestone, a stark contrast to the brand-new walnut fence that surrounded a rich field of grass on the far side of the building.
Two clay pots sat on either side of the door with small sprouts poking out of the dirt within.
He rapped on the door three times, then took a step back. She shifted her gaze to him, then noticed the stillness of his chest.
He was holding his breath. His eyes darted everywhere but the door: the multicolored glass windows, the purple clover poking up around their feet, even the knots in the walnut door frame.
He was nervous.
A woman with tawny hair opened the door and beamed at him.
“Roderick!” Then she hugged him. Hugged him.
She treated him with astounding familiarity.
Was it possible he was courting someone even though he went to the masquerade?
Her eyes darted to the woman’s brow, where one amethyst and one sapphire piercing rested—a far cry from the trio of tiger’s eye resting on the Lord’s brow.
Not that Anya cared. Her fingers wandered to the single diamond over her own brow.
“It’s so good to see you.” The woman smiled, but her eyes were tired. Patches of pink scars spanned her right cheek, but they didn’t take away from her humble beauty.
“You as well.” A slight smile tugged the corners of Lord Bryson’s mouth but didn’t seem to reach his eyes. “Ellis went to fetch the Baroness. Though I did not ask him to. He got a little flustered.” He chuckled.
“Come in! Come in!” They followed the young woman into the foyer.
A few dozen pairs of children’s shoes were lined up just inside the entryway.
Anya’s gaze flicked to where the woman’s cane tapped on the wood floor, then forced her eyes back up to the ceiling, lest she seem to be staring.
The building was nearly split down the middle, finished and unfinished.
Sheets of canvas blocked off the rightmost side just below where the man had been working on the roof.
The woman’s wavy ponytail swung as she turned the corner into a homey living area.
Several children were drawing on the floor, and a young Centarian, no older than thirteen, was reading a book to three enraptured little girls.
Her carmine eyes squeezed shut as she coughed violently, halting the story.
Two others played with wooden toys in the shape of a wyvern and a gryphon.
The woman turned back to them and looked up at Lord Bryson. “Roderick, aren’t you going to introduce me to your companions?”
He straightened, then cleared his throat. “Right. Yes. This is Millicent Layne. Millicent, this is Princess Anya Delemond and her lady-in-waiting Blackbird Rowan. And you remember my right hand, Sir Octavio Oshfeldt.”
“Millicent Dacre,” she corrected, curtsying as best she could with the cane. Lord Bryson rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “Welcome to the Balcott Home for Children. It is an honor to have you here, Your Highness.”
“The honor is all mine.” Anya nodded to her. “Thank you for being a safe haven for the children.”
“Princess!” a scratchy voice called. A little girl rushed over and hugged Anya’s skirts. She’d recognize those amber curls anywhere. She was one of the orphans on the last leg of the evacuation: Emmaline Chambers.
“Oh! I’m sorry—” Millicent started.
“Emmaline!” Anya crouched down and returned the hug. “My my, you’ve gotten taller.”
Emmaline bounced on her feet. “Mum! This is the Princess I told you about! The one from the ship!”
“Mum?” The word left Lord Bryson’s tongue with apparent confusion. Millicent’s cheeks tinged rose.
“We’ve adopted her.” Millicent smiled down at Emmaline.
“I’m Emmaline Chambers-Dacre now!” Emmaline said proudly, then coughed. Each hack was bone-chilling. Anya could practically hear the girl’s tiny lungs crinkling with each breath.
“Come here. You need to rest, sweetheart.” Millicent sat in a rocking chair and patted her lap. “Thank you for getting all of them here safely. Including her.”
Emmaline’s breaths became tight wheezes as she clambered onto her mother’s lap. Millicent rubbed her daughter’s back until the coughing subsided and her eyes drooped shut. Millicent’s eyes grew misty as she looked at Lord Bryson.
“Thank you for appealing to the Council for us, Roderick. I know you must be terribly busy…I’m just so worried.” Tears bubbled down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry for asking for your help yet again.”
He knelt in front of her without a moment of hesitation or an ounce of pride.