Chapter 2 #2
Lucian lifted the cup and drank. His shoulders eased by a fraction. No one else would have seen it, but Isolde did. She had spent her life watching for small changes in dangerous rooms.
Thierry saw it too.
Lucian’s gaze sharpened over the rim of the cup. “Who taught you to make this?”
“My grandmother.”
“Her name?”
Isolde picked up the tray. “Old women prefer to keep their names out of noble houses.”
Thierry coughed into his hand.
Lucian set the cup down. “Do you always answer sideways?”
“When straight answers are safe.”
The words escaped before she could cage them.
Thierry’s brows rose.
Lucian came around the table.
Not fast. Not threatening. That made it worse.
Isolde stepped back once before pride stopped her.
He noticed.
“Safe from me?” he asked.
Her mark burned, sharp and bright.
She lowered her gaze. “From everyone, my lord.”
Lucian’s expression changed, but the door opened before he could speak.
Morgaine Valcour entered without waiting to be announced.
Silver-blonde hair. Pale green dress. A smile polished thin.
“Lucian,” she said. “Your guards said you were busy.”
Thierry murmured, “They were correct.”
Morgaine ignored him.
Her eyes found Isolde.
And stayed there.
“What a lovely little servant,” she said. “Where did you find this one?”
Isolde had met noble cruelty before.
It wore perfume better than Odette ever had.
Morgaine crossed the study as if every object in it had been placed for her approval. Her gaze moved over Isolde’s pinned hair, her servant collar, her hands, the plain cuffs at her wrists.
Lucian’s jaw hardened. “State your business.”
“How cold.” Morgaine placed one gloved hand over her heart. “I came to ask after your health.”
“My health is not a court matter.”
“It is when half the noble houses whisper that you vanished into the forest bleeding.”
Thierry moved one report under another. “Noble houses whisper when the weather changes.”
“And yet some whispers grow teeth.”
Morgaine looked at the coffee cup on Lucian’s desk.
“You drink from servants now?”
Lucian’s voice dropped. “Careful.”
The word should have warned her. It pleased her instead. Isolde saw that clearly. Morgaine liked reaching the edge of his temper. It made her feel close to him.
Morgaine turned to Isolde. “What is your name?”
Isolde curtsied. “Isolde Fenwick, my lady.”
“Fenwick.” Morgaine’s smile held. “Wolf-blooded family, yes?”
“My father is.”
“And you?”
“Human.”
“How unfortunate.”
Lucian set the cup down with a quiet click.
Morgaine glanced at him, then back at Isolde. Something like interest sharpened behind her green eyes. “You may go.”
Isolde reached for the tray.
Lucian spoke first. “She leaves when I dismiss her.”
Silence landed hard.
Morgaine’s cheeks colored, but only slightly. Her control was better than her kindness.
“Of course,” she said. “Your household. Your rules.”
Isolde wished he had let her leave. Protection from a man like Lucian was not shelter. It was a torch held over dry grass. Everyone saw where the light fell.
“My lord,” she said softly, “the kitchen will need the tray.”
Lucian looked at her.
For one brief moment, she thought he understood everything. Her fear. Her warning. The danger of being singled out in front of a woman like Morgaine.
“Go,” he said.
Isolde curtsied and crossed to the door.
Morgaine shifted as she passed, close enough for her sleeve to brush Isolde’s arm. A small pressure. A pinch at the back of her dress.
Isolde caught her breath.
Morgaine had tugged at the collar seam.
Not much.
Enough to test.
Isolde turned sharply.
Morgaine smiled. “Loose thread.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
The door closed behind Isolde before her knees could weaken.
Inside the study, Lucian watched the door long after it shut.
Thierry waited until Morgaine moved to the window.
Then he said, “That was poorly done.”
Lucian did not look at him. “By whom?”
“You. Her. The maid. Possibly me, for staying.”
Morgaine’s smile vanished. “That girl is hiding something.”
Lucian faced her. “Most people in this keep are.”
“Not from you.”
“Especially from me.”
She studied him, and for the first time, anger slipped through the polished surface. “You’ve changed since the forest.”
He stepped closer. “Have I?”
“You look at doors as if you expect someone to return through them.”
Thierry went still.
Lucian’s mark gave a sudden burn beneath his shirt.
Morgaine’s eyes dropped to his chest.
He saw the movement.
So did Thierry.
Morgaine recovered quickly, but not quickly enough.
Lucian’s voice became soft. “Leave.”
She held his gaze a moment longer. “Gladly.”
But when she passed into the hall, she did not follow the main stairs.
She followed the servant passage.
And below, unaware she was being hunted by a woman with a court smile and a knife for a heart, Isolde carried the tray back toward the kitchens.
Isolde did not make it to the kitchens.
Perrin appeared at the turn near the linen room and nearly collided with her.
“Saints below,” he hissed, catching the side of the tray before the cup fell. “You walk like a ghost.”
“You run like a thief.”
“I am a thief only when hungry, and today I had two rolls.”
“Then why are you in the wall passage?”
He glanced behind him. His usual nervous humor slipped. “Mrs. Corvin sent me to find you. Then I saw Lady Valcour coming this way.”
Isolde’s skin tightened. “Morgaine?”
“You know another lady who smells like roses and murder?”
Despite herself, Isolde almost laughed. “Where?”
“Two turns back. She asked a footman which room was yours.”
The tray suddenly felt heavy.
“My room?”
Perrin nodded. “I told him you sleep above the laundry.”
“I don’t.”
“I know. That’s why I said it.”
Isolde looked at him properly then. Young, dusty, thin as a rail, with fear sitting plain on his face and courage trying to stand behind it.
“Why help me?”
He shrugged. “You gave my sister broth when she was ill.”
“That was nothing.”
“It was dinner.”
A shout came from the far hall.
Perrin flinched. “We should move.”
“My room first.”
“That is the opposite of moving away from danger.”
“I have something hidden there.”
“Of course you do.”
They hurried through the narrow passage. Isolde kept the tray hugged close to her chest to stop it from rattling. Perrin led her down a servants’ stair, across a wash corridor, and up again through a door hidden behind hanging coats.
Her small room sat under the east roof. Bare bed. Washstand. Peg for clothes. One narrow chest.
The lock had been scratched.
Isolde set the tray down and dropped to her knees.
The lining of her bag was still closed. She tore at the seam with shaking fingers and pulled out the pendant. The silver hand wrapped in wings flashed black in the dim light.
Perrin stared. “That looks expensive.”
“It isn’t mine.”
“Things that are not ours kill us fastest in this keep.”
Footsteps sounded outside.
Slow.
Measured.
Not Morgaine’s light step.
Isolde shoved the pendant into her bodice, beneath the servant dress, just as the door opened.
Lucian stood there.
Perrin made a strangled sound and bent into a bow so deep he nearly struck the bedframe.
“My lord. I was only—”
“Leaving,” Lucian said.
“Yes. Wonderful idea.”
Perrin slipped out fast enough to shame smoke.
Isolde stood.
The room seemed smaller with Lucian inside it. He looked too tall for the low ceiling, too finely dressed for bare boards and patched blankets. His black coat was open at the throat, and for one dangerous second her gaze dropped to where his mark lay hidden.
His eyes followed the movement.
“What did Morgaine want with you?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You do.”
“Then why ask?”
His mouth tightened, but not in anger. “Because I prefer giving people a chance to lie before proving it.”
“That must make you popular.”
“With liars, rarely.”
The pendant warmed against her skin.
Lucian’s gaze sharpened.
“Something you carry is calling to my fire.”
Isolde stepped back. “I carry laundry keys and bad luck.”
“Show me.”
“No.”
The word came too fast.
His eyes narrowed.
A sound rose in the distance. Bells. Not the village bell. The keep’s inner tower.
Three strikes.
Then four.
Lucian turned toward the door.
Isolde heard running below, guards calling to one another.
Thierry appeared in the doorway, breath controlled but face grim. “The council has sent riders. Blood Moon summons.”
Lucian went very still.
“How long?”
“Seven nights.”
The pendant burned so hot Isolde gasped and grabbed at her chest.
Lucian looked back at her.
The hidden mark over his heart flared gold beneath his shirt.
For one breath, the room filled with light from both of them.
Thierry saw it.
So did Lucian.
Isolde’s lie died before she could speak it.
Lucian stepped closer, voice low.
“Say my name.”