Chapter 10
Aoife crushed the herbs with the pestle, working them against the side of the small stone bowl.
The scent rose sharp, clean, and familiar, and for a moment she closed her eyes and breathed it in.
Her mother’s book lay open on the floor beside her, pages softened by years of handling, ink faded but legible.
She skimmed the lines again, though she already knew the recipe. Frostweed to soothe the itch, wigwort to help it heal, and yarrow to keep the evil spirits out. Simple enough. She’d made ointments like this a hundred times.
And yet today everything fought against her.
The herbs clung stubbornly to the pestle, and her hands shook with frustration.
She scraped the mixture into a small jar, set the pestle down harder than necessary, and let out a long sigh.
It had proved a welcome distraction. Any idea she’d had of going around Lord Halverton had been dashed.
She couldn’t manage it on her own, and the staff were too scared to try.
They lived in this house because the world beyond its walls was colder and hungrier, and far less forgiving.
Here they had food, warmth, and beds. Enough was just enough to keep them quiet.
She couldn’t blame them.
Still, her failure sat heavy in her chest.
If she thought, even for a second, about a future where her friends and family slowly starved while she was trapped forever in a house of riches with a man she could not stand, she wanted to hide under the covers and never come out again.
Helping them meant helping herself. She could only bear the endless stretch of a future here if it meant something, if the people she loved were alive.
On top of everything else, there was James. The footman had taken a disliking to her simply for the fact that she was Morran. She had expected the staff wouldn’t be happy, still she couldn’t say it didn’t sting. Aoife wasn’t accustomed to being disliked. That was something she’d have to work on.
Aoife closed the jar. Which of the many storage options was the right place to keep her things?
At home, she kept her herbs within easy reach in the kitchen.
The bedside table nearest the door seemed the obvious choice, but when she opened the drawers, they were already teeming with candles, writing supplies, a chamber pot, and other items she couldn’t identify.
She looked around the room, her eyes falling on the vanity. That secret drawer might come in handy after all. It wouldn’t be as easy to retrieve her things, but considering Lord Halverton hadn’t wanted her to have them, it was best they were hidden.
She stashed the herbs, the ointment, the oils, and the pestle and mortar, and slid the drawer closed with a satisfying click.
Her mother’s book still lay open on the floor. She picked it up, and as she lifted it, a whisper of paper slid out, gliding to the floor and stopping against the leg of the bed.
She dropped to her knees and snatched it up, fingers trembling.
Cormac’s handwriting, messy and barely legible. Her heart lept.
She unfolded it carefully, smoothing the creases. The first words blurred as her eyes stung, and she had to blink them clear.
‘I put this where I knew you’d find it.’
Aoife swallowed hard, the tightness in her chest stretching painfully.
‘Don’t let them change you. I can bear losing you to that place for a while, Aoife. I can bear the distance and not knowing when you’ll come home. But if you stop being yourself, I’ll have lost you for good, and that I couldn’t survive.’
She blinked to clear her vision. Her eyes prickled, and the next words blurred on the page.
‘I’ll keep an eye on Eoin and Maire until you’re back. I know you think this is forever, but you’ll find a way through. You always do.’
She pressed the letter to her knee, breathing slowly. He didn’t know about the oath. If he did, he’d understand how hopeless it was.
‘Try to make friends in there, but remember your old friends are right here waiting for you. The distance isn’t as great as it feels.’
Her throat tightened painfully.
‘I’m right here whenever you need me.’
She needed this, needed him. His voice in her ear saying she wasn’t trapped forever, wasn’t lost.
Her fingers drifted to the soft leather bracelet on her wrist. She ran her thumb along it, inhaling the comforting scent woven deep into it: ash bark and wet leather.
The smell of him.
“I’m not giving up,” she murmured, clutching the letter. “I won’t.”
She folded the letter, slipped it into her pocket and sat for a moment longer, staring at the sunlight slanting through the window, dust motes drifting in its path.
A plan was forming, fragile as the first green shoot breaking soil. She’d have to be cautious. Patient. She’d need to speak to Halverton, but she couldn’t force anything, not when one wrong move could close every door she had left.
The long game, then.
She closed her mother’s book gently and set it aside as the door burst open.
“Hand them over.” Halverton demanded, his tone calm and even as he held out his hand.
“My lord?”
“I have been informed you reacquired the items I confiscated yesterday.”
Aoife weighed the cost of telling against the cost of keeping the secret.
She needed the ointment for the gardener.
She couldn’t help people without her things.
If she lied and said they weren’t here, well, there were a dozen members of staff who could contradict her.
When she didn’t answer, Halverton strode into the room.
“I wanted to say a proper goodbye.” She blurted out.
Halverton turned to her slowly. “I beg your pardon?”
“The things you confiscated were important to me. I wanted to say goodbye properly.”
“To inanimate objects?”
“Yes.” He already thought her beliefs were nonsense. Why not add another to the list?
Halverton sighed. “Teaching you to understand what nonsense your beliefs are might have to take a higher priority than I originally thought. Where are the items now?”
“Buried. In the forest.”
He looked at her sideways.
“Your dress is very clean for the fact you have been digging in the woods.”
“I was careful.”
“Forgive me if I do not believe you.”
Halverton strode to the wardrobe and flung the doors open, pushing dresses aside, looking for evidence she was lying.
She held her breath, but he did not notice her dress hidden amongst the undergarments.
He proceeded to check every piece of furniture.
When he arrived at the vanity, she clenched her fists at her side to fight the urge to stop him.
He opened the main drawer first, moving things aside and reaching inside to check every corner.
It was clear he did not know about the secret drawer, but it was entirely possible he would find it by accident.
Aoife grew lightheaded as he explored the sides of the drawer, only allowing herself to breathe again when he slid the drawer closed.
After several minutes, he was satisfied.
“Your actions undermined my authority in this house. That is unacceptable.”
Aoife stood stock-still, waiting for his judgement. She kept hearing how fair he was. She was about to learn whether that was true.
“Do it again, and you will face the consequences.”
Lord Halverton spun on his heel and strode out of the door. Aoife sank down onto the bed behind her, shaken and surprised. Had she misjudged him?
A sharp metallic clang, bright, resonant and oddly ceremonial, rolled through the corridor
Aoife flinched and straightened.
Clara appeared in the doorway, calm and composed as always, but her breathing was a little faster than usual, as though she’d hurried but didn’t want to show it.
“What was that?” Aoife asked.
“Dressing gong.”
Aoife blinked. “The what?”
“The gong for dressing,” Clara said, as though it were obvious. She stepped fully into the room, smoothing her apron. “It means you’ve an hour before dinner.”
Aoife stared. “And… that requires a gong?”
“It does here,” Clara said, voice dropping with a hint of apology. “The ladies of noble houses need time to change their gowns, fix their hair, all of that.”
Aoife’s frown deepened. “But I’m already dressed.”
“Not for dinner, you’re not.” Clara crossed to the wardrobe, opening it with a decisive tug. The gowns inside gleamed softly in the late light, silks and satins in shades Aoife didn’t even have names for.
“I don’t understand any of this,” Aoife said as Clara dressed her. “Changing clothes to eat?”
“It’s the way things are done here.”
Aoife let out a breath, half a sigh. “Seems a waste.”
It took several long minutes for Clara to help her into the dress. When she was done, she smoothed the bodice and stepped back. “There. You look… well, you look the part.”
Aoife glanced at the mirror beside the wardrobe, hardly recognising the woman staring at her with stiff posture, hair pinned tight, wearing a dress that belonged to a lady with a life entirely unlike her own.
“I’m not sure which part that is,” she murmured.
The footman, Kit, led her to the dining room. He had the same sharp jawline as James, the same golden eyes. No wonder she had mixed them up at first.
The dining room was a long, echoing chamber lit by dozens of candles. Halverton stood as she entered, crossing the room to pull out her chair.
His smile was polished. “You look fabulous.”
“Thank you,” Aoife said, taking her seat. Lord Halverton’s hand rested on her shoulder a moment before brushing softly down her arm. Aoife’s breath hitched. She didn’t speak as she tried hard to resist the urge to move away from his touch.
Finally, he stepped away, and Aoife took a deep breath to steady herself.
Once Halverton was seated, Kit and James moved quietly around them, placing a dish of clear soup in front of her.
James’ sleeve rode up as he set down the bowl. Aoife caught a glimpse of his wrist, a faint bloom of colour already turning. He adjusted the cuff at once.
Their eyes met, and for the briefest moment his golden eyes were fire before his servant’s mask slipped into place.