Chapter 11
Evenings settled into a steady pattern. Clara dressed her in layers of silk and velvet, colours Aoife had never worn, jewels pinned into her hair until her reflection looked like a stranger’s.
Each night brought a new trinket from Halverton: a bracelet, a brooch, a necklace heavy with stones.
They weren’t gifts. Each one was a small claim laid against her.
A lavish dinner followed. Dishes she couldn’t name arrived in careful succession, carried by the footmen who moved as silently as ghosts.
Aoife ate what she could and sat straight-backed, listening while Halverton held forth across the table.
He spoke easily about campaigns and conquests, about the Empire’s distant territories: deserts, jungles, cities she had only read about in borrowed books.
When he recounted his triumphs at Bayforth University, he watched her closely, waiting for the admiration she had learned to perform.
He questioned her, too. Small, precise questions meant to sound flattering: her schooling, her tastes, what accomplishments she had or lacked.
She recognised the pattern quickly as he took stock, deciding which parts of her to smooth away, which to reshape.
And beneath the charm, beneath the praise, was the assumption that she should want to be reshaped.
She did not mention the famine again. Not yet. Instead, she smiled, nodded, and let her voice fall into the soft, agreeable cadence he preferred. She did not yet know how she could affect change, but she did know it wouldn’t be through coming at the problem directly.
After dinner, she became his project. He walked her through the house, showing her its grand rooms with their foreign carpets and wall-sized portraits, the Emperor’s stern face appearing again and again.
There was no sign of Halverton’s own family, no childhood portrait of him. Only vast and impersonal wealth.
And so the days passed with jewels in her hair, strange foods on her plate, and Halverton’s voice shaping each evening, Aoife reduced to a block of stone sculpted for display.
In the middle of unmarked time, her birthday came and went.
It was the first time she wasn’t with her family to celebrate.
She would miss her father’s in a few weeks’ time, and her siblings’ birthdays in the spring.
Every day brought fresh reminders of what was now lost to her.
She ran her fingers along the bracelet, the one gift she’d received.
Aoife was on her way to Halverton’s study one morning when she passed James in the hallway, hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable as he walked. He inclined his head as she approached.
“Miss.”
“Do you know whether this is a convenient time to speak with Lord Halverton?” she asked
A flicker of something crossed his face before it smoothed away. “His lordship is occupied.”
“Oh,” she hesitated. “Do you know when he might be available?”
James considered this, eyes shifting briefly toward the closed door before returning to her. “I couldn’t say. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s busy.”
“I understand,” Aoife said quickly. She did not want to be a nuisance and instead turned to leave.
“Can I pass on a message?” James offered, stopping her in her tracks.
“That would be kind of you. Let him know I’d like a word when it suits him,” she replied. “Nothing urgent.”
“Where should he find you?”
“Oh. I’ll be in the gardens for a while.” She paused. “On second thoughts. Don’t trouble him. I’ll try again later.”
James nodded once. “Very good.”
She watched him for a moment, uncertainty pricking at her. “Is that all right?”
His steady gaze met hers. “Of course, miss.”
Relieved, Aoife smiled faintly. “Thank you.”
James returned the nod, already stepping away. “Enjoy the gardens.”
Aoife found the gardener where she’d left him several days before, among the herb beds trimming dead leaves from a cluster of winterwort.
The air smelled green and sharp, and alive.
It was one of the few places on the estate that reminded her of home.
She was hoping for a few more plants to add to her collection.
She had an idea that might help the cook’s knees.
The cook hadn’t exactly asked for her help, but she didn’t see the harm in mixing something up, just in case.
And if she stopped moving, stopped helping, she was afraid of what she might feel.
“Did the tincture help?” she asked.
He straightened, wiping a hand across his brow. “Aye. Took the sting right out.” He flexed his hand and gave her a grateful nod. “You’ve the knack for it.”
Aoife smiled. “I’m glad.”
He reached into the herb bed, plucked a small bundle of leaves, and held them out to her. “For you. Tarrabeth, if you need more.”
They both froze at the unmistakable crunch of footsteps on gravel.
“Care to explain this?”
Lord Halverton emerged from between two hedges, coat immaculate despite the walk, a folded paper clenched in his hand. His expression was carefully blank, which was worse than anger. The gardener straightened so fast that his knee cracked.
“My lord,” he said, dipping his head.
Halverton barely glanced at him before waving a hand at the man. The gardener didn’t need telling twice. He rushed out of there, offering Aoife a regretful parting look as he went.
“Explain this,” Halverton said again.
“What is it?” she asked, genuinely unsure.
He snapped the paper open and waved it sharply once. “You tell me.”
Aoife took a step closer. It was a brief message in a hand she didn’t recognise.
His lordship is requested to attend Miss Aoife in the gardens.
“I asked to speak with you, but I was told you were busy. I said I’d be in the gardens for a while, in case you wished to find me.” She shook her head, flustered. Had she not been clear when she told James not to trouble his lordship? How had this happened?
“You must understand,” he said calmly, refolding the paper with deliberate care, “that I do not take kindly to being directed. Particularly in my own house.”
“It was a misunderstanding,” Aoife said quickly. “I apologise.”
He regarded her for a long moment. Then his expression softened, the tension easing as though he’d chosen to be magnanimous.
“Let me be clear,” he continued lightly. “If you wish to speak with me, you will wait until you are invited. You will not set times or places.”
“Yes,” Aoife said. “Of course.”
“Since I am here, was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I’m afraid it seems trivial now.”
Halverton laughed. “What matters that ladies occupy themselves with are not trivial?”
Aoife refrained from commenting. “I was reading a book in the library yesterday, ‘The Book of the Farm,’ I believe it was called. Only I couldn’t find it again this morning.”
Lord Halverton laughed again. “Why would you be interested in a book like that?”
He would not appreciate the honest answer, so instead she said, “I thought it would help me understand your role, and mine, if I understood exactly what it is you do.”
Halverton pondered this. “I don’t think you need to concern yourself with that. But I do not see any harm in your reading it if you like. It is in my study. I needed to look something up this morning. I will ask Alton to return it to the library.”
He turned to leave, then stopped, looking at her. “You enjoy the gardens, then?”
“They’re beautiful,” she said truthfully.
“I am pleased you appreciate their beauty.” He offered his arm. “Walk with me.”
She took it, faintly aware of the fact that she was becoming accustomed to touching and being touched by him like this. He led her down a winding gravel path toward the hothouse. The structure loomed ahead, an elegant cage of wrought iron and glass, its panes glimmering in the afternoon sun.
“Magnificent, is it not?” Halverton said as he opened the door for her.
Warm, humid air enveloped them as rows upon rows of exotic plants spread out before her, filled with hanging vines heavy with fruit, trees with broad leaves and flowers in impossible colours that pressed in around them.
So many plants she did not recognise; what might their uses be? What healing might be found here?
“This was built thirty years ago,” he said. “A marvel of engineering in its day. The Empire’s finest minds designed it.” He lifted a hand in a gesture that encompassed the whole scope of the project. “The Empire can accomplish anything when it sets its mind to it.”
Except keep its people fed.
Halverton reached toward a tall stem bearing pale, bell-shaped flowers, their scent faintly sweet. He cut three with a small knife from his coat and offered them to her.
She hesitated. She knew those flowers, their shape and their colour. They matched Florence’s dress perfectly.
Halverton saw her recognition but mistook it for admiration. “They suit you,” he said.
Before she could respond, the hothouse door opened, and a footman stepped inside.
“Message for you, my lord,” he said, bowing slightly as he handed over an envelope.
Halverton slit it open with his thumb, eyes flicking over the lines.
He dismissed the footman with a curt nod and tucked the letter away. “We should return to the house. There is much to do.”
They left the hothouse, Aoife trailing half a step behind him. As they approached the main path, a sharp crack split the air, followed by a choked cry.
Aoife’s head snapped toward the sound.
At the whipping post in front of the main door, a man was bound to the beam, his shirt stripped off, his back red and welted. Another crack, another cry.
Aoife moved toward him, heart pounding. “What…?”
Halverton caught her arm before she took a second step. “That is not for you to involve yourself in.”
“What did he do?” Aoife demanded.
“It does not matter.” His grip tightened, guiding her to turn her body away from the scene as another blow fell behind them. “We have more pressing things to discuss.”
“But why—?” she pressed.
Halverton didn’t answer. He simply talked over her, voice smooth and unbroken despite the screams behind them.