Chapter 13
The dining room gleamed. A long table stretched the length of the room, polished to a mirror shine. Silver candlesticks burned steadily along its centre; crystal glasses caught the light; porcelain plates from far-off lands were arranged in perfect symmetry.
The footmen stood against the wall, waiting, silent and unmoving, their presence denied by the guests’ collective insistence that they did not exist.
The first course was a bowl of oyster soup, followed by what Lord Halverton had told her were “savouries”.
Aoife kept her gaze on her bowl as the conversation drifted gently around the table.
Lord Severcombe dabbed his mouth with a napkin and said, “You’ve kept a fine household, Halverton. Matching sets are so hard to come by these days.”
Aoife looked up, trying to make sense of the comment. Matching sets? Of what? Porcelain? Cutlery?
Halverton smiled, pleased. “I was fortunate. The pairing worked out better than I expected.”
Across the table, Lady Montbrass murmured her approval. “Very presentable.”
Aoife didn’t understand until Kit stepped forward with the tray, his shoulders held a fraction too tight.
Then it clicked. The way he and James mirrored one another: their height, build, the sharp jawlines and matching haircuts, the same shade of golden eyes.
How many times had she confused one for the other?
So it was deliberate then. A sign of his status and good taste that the staff matched.
Aoife swallowed her food without tasting it.
Severcombe went on, entirely unaware of the discomfort tightening Aoife’s spine. “The trouble is, the young men in Eldross are all marching off to do their glorious duty for the Empire. Admirable, of course, but it makes keeping staff difficult.”
Polite laughter. A few nods.
Halverton lifted his wine. “I make do. I have both Eldrossi and Morran men in my service.”
A hush fell, brief but sharp.
Lord Severcombe looked stricken. “You… have Morran men in your service?”
“Of course I do,” Halverton replied, as if it were obvious. “And once they are trained, they work well.”
Montbrass made a face. “Oh, I don’t think I could.”
“They can’t be soldiers,” Severcombe said.
Halverton tilted his head. “What alternative do you suggest when the Empire refuses reinforcements? You either recruit from the locals, or you risk losing everything you’ve built.”
Severcombe chuckled. “Risk is part of the sport.”
Halverton leaned back, utterly sure of himself. “Besides, I have seen the Morrans fight. A battlefield is one place it pays to be savage. I would prefer them with me than against me.”
Polite laughter followed. Aoife kept her head down, forcing her expression into stillness.
“They’re not savages.”
Aoife’s head snapped up.
Lord Montbrass was staring daggers at his son. “My apologies, Lord Halverton. I fear my son has been too sheltered at Bayforth.”
Halverton dismissed his apology with a wave of the hand. “He is young; it is to be expected.” He turned his attention to Lord Oswin. “Once you have seen more of the world, you will realise we are not crass, merely honest.”
Oswin pursed his lips. His father continued to glare at him.
When he spoke, the words came in a rush, as if he were trying to say it all before he changed his mind.
“They are not savages. The Morran are people, like you and I. Just because they hold different beliefs makes them no better or worse than we are.”
Aoife stared at him, lips briefly parted in shock before she schooled her features.
She’d never heard an Eldrossi man speak this way before.
Then again, how many Eldrossi men did she know?
It occurred to her that the prefects and soldiers of the empire did not necessarily reflect the empire as a whole.
“The Morrans gave me this,” Halverton said, voice sharp, pointing at the scars that marred his face. “Tell me again that they are not savages.”
“And what have we done to them!”
Aoife’s legs shook under the table. No one spoke to a lord the way Oswin did. No one dared. She knew what the consequence would be for one of her people if they did, and she feared for Lord Oswin then.
Lord Montbrass rose to his feet. “Excuse us, Lord Halverton.” He walked to the door; James held it open for him.
Oswin showed no inclination to follow until his mother whispered something in his ear.
He sighed and stood slowly, dropping his napkin on the table before following his father out of the room.
Aoife forced herself to take another sip of wine. The footmen stepped forward to clear the plates, their movements crisp and silent, as if nothing had been said at all.
The two Lords Montbrass returned, the elder looking angry, the younger sullen. Next, the fish course was presented: poached salmon in white wine accompanied by a parsley sauce, and a cucumber salad from the hothouse.
She was already full to the point of nausea when the main course arrived: venison roasted to perfection, potatoes drowning in butter and cream, cauliflower blackened at the edges.
As James held the dish for her, Aoife took the smallest portion she could without drawing attention. Lord Severcombe’s voice cut across the table.
“Had a few of my tenants at the door before I left,” he said. “Begging for handouts, but you can’t give these people anything. Feed one, and the whole county will be at your gate. Where does that leave you?”
Lord Montbrass agreed. “Charity breeds idleness.” He stared at his son, challenging him to speak. Lord Oswin did not rise to it.
Aoife was seething. It’s not handouts if it’s the food they grew with their own hands. Her hand trembled as she reached for her glass. She withdrew it and hid it under the table before anyone could see.
Lord Severcombe carried on. “I told them to find work on the public roads. Hard to be lazy with a spade in their hands.”
“The public roads?” Lady Montbrass asked.
“A new project,” Severcombe said proudly. “Infrastructure for the empire. They build roads in exchange for food and lodging.”
“How wonderful,” the lady said.
Halverton surprised Aoife by shaking his head. “It isn’t. Most of the roads begin nowhere and end nowhere.”
Under the table, Aoife squeezed her hands together hard. Was it possible to break your own bones that way?
Lady Severcombe blinked. “Why build them then?”
Her husband laughed. “Laziness breeds lawlessness. If there’s no work, we invent it.”
“There’s plenty of work,” Halverton said sharply. “They could be reclaiming the rocky moors, turning them into arable land. Putting them on meaningless projects is a misuse of time and resources. And a waste of a workforce.”
There was a faint clatter of cutlery as Lord Oswin put down his utensils none too carefully. “What he means,” he clarified, looking at his mother, “is that people are dying.”
His father glared at him again, but this time he didn’t object.
Aoife’s stomach twisted. She could barely breathe. She pushed her plate away and stood too quickly. The men followed suit out of reflex.
“Excuse me,” she said in her best Eldrossi accent, though her voice wavered.
She left the room before anyone could stop her, the murmur of conversation fading behind her.
She barely made it to the nearest washroom before she was sick.
Everything she’d eaten, oysters, fish, wine, came up in painful spasms. When the heaving passed, she pressed a trembling hand to her lips and stood.
She rinsed her mouth, gripping the basin as dizziness swayed through her.
Whether it was from the food or the conversation, she wasn’t sure.
As she exited the washroom, she glanced up the stairs. Her room called to her. She could barricade the door and disappear from the evening entirely.
Aoife straightened her spine, turning away from the stairs. So far Halverton was pleased, relieved, proud even when she’d succeeded earlier, and if Oswin’s outburst had no other effect, it made her look good by comparison.
She couldn’t vanish. Not tonight.
It surely couldn’t last much longer, and when it was over, there would be plenty of leftovers to send down to the village.
The dessert course had already been served when Aoife returned. Her plate had been cleared, and in its stead sat a slice of pie, glossy and golden under the candlelight.
Lord Halverton looked up as she took her seat. “I have chosen for you,” he said, smiling faintly.
She stared at the plate. The scent of apples rose, warm and spiced, and for a moment she was home, sharing fruit with her siblings, juice sticky on their fingers. What were they eating tonight? If they were eating at all. Her stomach clenched.
“Eat,” Halverton murmured, leaning toward her. “You are being rude.”
Aoife looked at him, then at the fork beside her plate. She drew a slow breath, forced her hand steady, and lifted it. The pie was rich and heavy, sweet with butter and cream. It took effort to swallow.
At the far end of the table, Lord Severcombe knocked over his wine. Crimson spread across the white cloth, splashing his wife’s gown. He barked at the footman. “Watch where you’re standing, you fool!”
James stammered an apology.
Halverton waved to calm his guests. “I am certain the maids will be able to remove the stain. If not, I would be happy to replace the gown.”
“You are too kind,” Lady Severcombe replied, her eyes bright at the thought of a new dress.
Aoife barely heard them. She was concentrating on breathing, on swallowing each bite, on keeping it down.
The rest of the evening blurred into politeness and noise. By the time Aoife returned to her room, her stomach was still churning. The scent of food clung to her skin and hair, sweet and cloying. She sat on the edge of the bed, trembling with the effort of keeping herself composed.
She couldn’t stop replaying what she had heard: the laughter, the callous jokes. It wasn’t one man’s cruelty. It was an entire system, smiling while it devoured. For the first time, she truly understood that Lord Halverton was only one face of a larger monster.
The house was silent now. A silence that wasn’t peace but weight, vast shadows pressing down, filling every corner. She was acutely aware of her own smallness, the space between her and everyone she loved.
All her plans, all her restraint, what good were they against a system this large? One lord could be reasoned with, maybe changed. But an empire? The thought hollowed her. Her determination, so fierce only hours ago, wavered.
She lay back, restless, eyes open in the dark. Sweat prickled her temples.
Then came the sound.
A thin, distant cry, not human. It rose through the night like wind through a graveyard, sharp enough to raise the hairs on her arms. She sat bolt upright, heart hammering.
The wail lingered for a heartbeat, then faded, leaving the silence deeper than before.
Aoife stayed frozen, breath held, the sound echoing in her mind. A banshee’s cry. Again.
She pulled the blanket tight around herself and curled up on her side. Her mind raced with names: her father, her siblings, Clara, Cormac. She prayed it wasn’t for one of them.
The dread sat in her chest, heavy as stone, the scale of what she was trapped inside pressing down on her.