Chapter 20
Cormac wasn’t strong enough to hurry, but he tried anyway. Rolling off the bed, he hit the floor with a soft thud and a groan of pain.
“Is everything all right?” came a man’s voice from the other side of the door.
Aoife glanced at Cormac, checking he was hidden from sight before she nodded to Clara. Clara cracked the door open an inch.
“Everything’s fine,” she said.
There was a pause. Alton’s voice again. “It sounded like something fell.”
“We’re fine.”
In the silence that followed, Clara shifted her weight from foot to foot.
“Was there something you needed?” she asked finally.
“I think I should check everything is all right for myself,” he said, and pushed the door open before she could stop him.
Clara tried to hold him back, but he was stronger. The door swung wide.
Aoife leapt from the bed, still in her night robe. “You can’t barge into a lady’s room!” she said sharply.
Alton ignored her. His gaze swept the room, landing on the bed, the dishevelled sheets, the bloodstain. He stepped forward, and Aoife moved to block him, but he moved her gently aside.
His eyes fell on Cormac.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then Alton took a step closer.
Cormac struggled upright, reaching blindly for the nearest object. He found the fire poker and lifted it with both hands, holding it out in defence.
Alton stopped at once. “Easy,” he said.
Cormac’s breath came shallow, sweat standing out on his forehead. He leaned against the wall to stay upright. “Close the door,” he said.
Clara obeyed.
“I can’t let you leave,” Cormac said, his voice shaking with effort. “You tell him I’m here and you’ll doom them both. They didn’t have a choice.”
The poker trembled in his grip.
Alton took a step forward. He reached out with one hand and easily pushed the fire poker aside. He took another step towards Cormac and caught him as he wobbled. “Sit down before you fall down,” he said, and eased the poker from Cormac’s hands. Cormac resisted for a heartbeat, then sagged.
Alton helped him lie on the bed, lifting his legs carefully. “I’m not going to tell him,” he said. “For the same reason you don’t want me to.”
Cormac looked at him, understanding dawning. He let out a long breath and sank into the pillows.
Aoife spoke first. “You’re not going to tell Lord Halverton?”
“You know I can’t,” Alton said. “Not without dragging Clara down with you. But listen to me, if he finds this boy here, it won’t be lashes. It’ll be the gallows. For all of you.” His voice caught as he looked at Clara.
“I’ll leave tonight,” Cormac said, eyes closed.
Aoife shook her head. “You’re not strong enough.”
Alton turned to her. “You can’t hide him here, not with Halverton in the house.”
Clara bit her lip. “Could we… get him called away? A message from the tenants, or the magistrate, something urgent?”
Alton shook his head at once. “I don’t know. He’s been acting strangely. He hasn’t set foot off the estate in a couple of weeks.”
Cormac opened his eyes again, the effort visible in the tightening of his jaw.
“He’s right,” he murmured. “As soon as it’s dark, I’ll go.”
The words landed like a stone in her chest.
Alton nodded once, acknowledging a decision none of them liked. He smoothed a hand down the front of his jacket.
“Lord Halverton sent me to ask if you’re feeling better,” he said, carefully neutral as he addressed Aoife, “and to request you join him for lunch.”
Aoife blinked. Lunch. The mundanity of it landed strangely after talk of fleeing in the dark.
“Tell him I’m not,” she said sharply. “I’ll see him tomorrow.”
Clara inhaled sharply. “Aoife, no.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Request does not mean you have a choice. He expects you at lunch, and if you’re not there, he’ll likely come looking for you.”
Aoife closed her eyes and tried to settle the panic clawing up her throat. When she opened them, she kept her voice low.
“I can’t sit across from him today. Not like this. Not with—”
Her gaze flicked to Cormac, pale against the pillows.
“He’ll see it on my face.”
Clara shook her head. “Then you’ll have to hide it,” she whispered. “Better that than have him walk through this door.”
Aoife’s fingers curled against her palms. A slow-growing tension.
“I’m tired of hiding,” she said, the truth spilling out before she could soften it. “I’m tired of not being myself in this house.”
The words burned because they were true.
“This last day… as awful as it was… I could finally be myself.”
A silence followed.
Alton’s expression shifted from sympathy to caution before hardening.
“Don’t give up on him, Miss Aoife,” he said. “Perhaps he expects too much of us, but without him, I’d have nothing. And, frankly, neither would you.”
His voice wasn’t cruel; it was loyal the way a man becomes loyal to the only shelter he’s ever had.
Aoife bit back the response that rose sharp and bitter on her tongue. She had chosen this house because the alternative was probable death. She could not share Alton’s gratitude for the man who forced her to choose.
“That’s how he keeps you,” Cormac said, voice thin but steady. “All of you. He gives just enough to keep you alive, to keep you grateful, to keep you afraid of losing it.”
Alton stiffened, a wounded expression crossing his face. “We get the same as all the other servants in the empire: food and shelter for our labour. Any master would do the same.”
“Would you?” Cormac asked. “If you were the master?”
Alton hesitated for a long, painful moment.
“I’ve known you five minutes,” Cormac went on, “and I don’t think you would.”
Aoife stepped in, her tone gentle but urgent.
“You told me you thought I could help him. I thought maybe you were right, that if I healed the old hurt, replaced the woman he lost, maybe he’d soften, maybe he’d change.
But I’ve tried everything I know. I’ve been compliant and dutiful; I’ve let him dress me and change the way I speak. And I have nothing to show for it.”
Alton looked at her with quiet puzzlement.
“You thought kindness would change him?”
Aoife hesitated.
“That is how these stories usually go.”
Alton’s mouth twitched faintly.
“Stories are kinder than men, Miss Aoife.”
Aoife met his gaze. “He can be better. He has to be.”
Clara nodded, voice quiet but firm. “We have to try. People are going to die if we don’t.”
“Help me,” Aoife said. “You know him better than anyone.”
Alton’s jaw worked, looking intently at Aoife and Cormac. “If you two want to risk your necks, that’s your choice,” he said finally. “But don’t take us down with you.”
He turned to Clara. “Come on.”
He reached for her hand. She didn’t move.
“We can’t keep doing nothing,” she said.
“If he even suspects we’re talking like this,” Alton said, “we’ll lose everything.”
“We’ll find other work,” she said. “There are people starving, Alton.”
He shook his head. “There isn’t any other work for me. Not with my injuries.” He touched the scar at his jaw. His voice dropped, rougher now. “I owe him everything. And I don’t know who I’d be without him.”
Alton finally released Clara’s hand. “Be careful,” he muttered, then pulled the door open. Clara glanced at Aoife before she followed him out without another word.
The latch clicked shut.
Aoife sat down on the bed and picked up a roll, tearing it in half with more force than necessary.
She ate it automatically. Alton had been her best hope of gaining an insight into Halverton, and she’d blown it.
She should have spoken to him in private.
Should have made sure Clara was well out of it.
He had good reason to be afraid. What on earth was she to do now?
Clara came back a few hours later to get her ready for lunch, after which Aoife had to force herself to go downstairs.
Lord Halverton stood as she entered. “Are you feeling better?” he asked once she was seated.
“A little, my lord,” she said, eager for an excuse not to talk.
“A sip of brandy will help.” Halverton gestured to Kit to fill her glass.
Aoife placed her fingers over her glass. “I’d prefer to keep a clear head.” She said, addressing Halverton. Kit looked between them. Finally Halverton nodded, and he returned the brandy bottle to the drinks cabinet.
“Did they find the bear, my lord?” she asked, knowing the answer, hoping to get him talking.
“They did not.” He frowned.
“I’m sure it couldn’t have gone far. It was an excellent shot.”
“It was,” Halverton agreed.
“You must have had a lot of practice.”
That was all he needed to launch into tale after tale of his prowess in hunting. Aoife made appreciative noises at the right moments, but mostly tuned him out.
Halverton had finished telling her of a time he shot a wolf when the butler entered carrying a silver tray. On it lay a thick cream envelope, sealed with wax.
Halverton slit it open with a knife and read, his mouth hardening as his eyes moved over the page. He read it again, slower, then folded it into precise quarters and set it beside his plate.
He rose, crossed to the sideboard, and poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter. The red liquid caught the light like blood.
He took his seat again.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Nothing unexpected,” he said.
“From the lords?”
He nodded. “Their conclusions. The quotas are unchanged.”
It had been a faint hope that the quotas might be reduced, but Aoife felt the disappointment all the same.
“I am already doing everything I can,” he said, voice tightening. “I do not know what more they expect.”
“What happens if you don’t meet them?” she asked.
“There will be an official reprimand,” he said. “It will damage my standing. My father will hear of it, and that will make it harder still to regain his favour. Another failure I will have to erase. And if that happens, I will be stuck here indefinitely.”
He stared at the contents of his glass.
“They set impossible targets and then call us failures for not achieving them.” He finished the wine in one swallow and stood. “I am afraid I must attend to this.”
As he crossed the room, he placed a hand on her shoulder. “I am pleased you did not try to resurrect the conversation of a few nights ago. I assure you, I know what I am doing.”
With that, he left the room.
Aoife sat in silence. The food on her plate went cold. She prodded it with her fork, unable to eat another bite. The waste made her insides contract.
Her thoughts drifted to the ledger, the number she’d changed.
Would he notice? Maybe. But she wouldn’t lose sleep over it.
If one missing barrel was enough to ruin his precious standing, then that was a small price.
The consequences of his failure were nothing compared to the consequences of his success.
Aoife pushed back her chair and stood. She crossed to the window, staring out at the drenched lawn, trying to steady the churn of anger and fear in her chest.
A floorboard creaked behind her.
She turned.
Mrs Harrow was standing by the table.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Aoife said.
“His lordship asked me to check on you.” Mrs Harrow explained. “I must say you do look troubled, miss.”
Aoife hesitated. “I’m fine.”
Mrs Harrow’s gaze dipped to the clenched fist at Aoife’s side. “No. You’re not.”
Aoife swallowed. “It’s nothing.”
Mrs Harrow lifted her chin, the faintest hint of steel entering her voice. “Don’t make light of your worry, miss. Or his.”
Aoife frowned. “His? He’s upset about a letter.”
“Aye,” Mrs Harrow said. “Words can cut deeper than most would care to admit.”
Aoife bristled. “If he’s worried about his career, that’s hardly—”
But Mrs Harrow shook her head, sharply enough to silence her.
“You don’t understand him,” she said, not unkindly. “And you can’t know what choices a person makes… or why… unless you know what came before.”
For a moment she looked as though she might say more on the topic; instead, she exhaled sharply and said, “If there is nothing I can assist you with, I have other matters to attend to.”
Aoife nodded, and Mrs Harrow left the room, her footsteps fading down the corridor.
Aoife let out a long, shaky breath.
Whatever story Mrs Harrow meant to tell… whatever truth she thought would change things… it wouldn’t change what the villagers needed now. It wouldn’t fill their grain stores or keep their children fed through winter.
She thought of the hidden grain in the woods; the barrel sealed with green paste. It was time to tell Cormac.