Chapter 31
31
T he silk dress hit the floor with a soft whisper, a puddle of periwinkle and lace at Skylar’s feet. Her chest heaved as she glared at the offending garment, her fists clenched at her sides.
“I swear by all that’s holy, if one more simpering fool calls me ‘Lady Skye,’ I’ll run him through myself,” Skylar snarled, her voice low and dangerous.
She was Skylar Anathemark. A Duke. The protector of this kingdom. How dare they address her by her first name, especially one that was too close to the one Arye always used? It felt wrong in her ears, wrong on her tongue. It made her heart clench with longing every time she heard it.
“My lady, please.” Melody wrung her hands. “You’ll become accustomed to it. The dresses, the shoes, the… the etiquette. It just takes a while.”
Skylar whirled on her, eyes flashing. “It’s been two weeks, Melody,” she spat. “Two weeks of suffocating corsets and insipid conversation. Two weeks of men leering at my body while spouting vapid compliments.” She yanked open a drawer, pulling out a pair of familiar trousers. “I’m done.”
As she shimmied into them, relishing the freedom of movement, Skylar caught sight of her reflection in the window. Her silver-white hair hung loose around her shoulders, no longer confined by the elaborate updos her mother insisted upon. Without the bindings that had been her constant companion for years, her chest strained against the thin fabric of her shirt.
She looked… different. Softer, perhaps. But her eyes were the same—fierce, determined, brooking no argument.
Melody’s reflection appeared behind her, worry etched across her features. “The Dowager Duchess won’t approve,” she said softly.
Skylar’s jaw clenched. “The Dowager Duchess can—” She cut herself off, taking a deep breath. It wouldn’t do to take out her frustrations on Melody or speak ill of her mother. “Mother will understand.”
“But the noblemen you’ve been meeting?—”
“Those preening peacocks?” Skylar’s lip curled. “They’re not worth the effort it takes to smile at their pathetic jokes. Did you see Lord Brigman yesterday? The way he stared at my chest while prattling on about his hunting exploits?”
“He did seem rather… fixated.”
“I wanted to grab his chin and force him to look me in the eye,” Skylar growled, pacing the room. “Or better yet, to press my sword to his throat for daring to touch my back.”
“My lady!” Melody gasped, scandalized but unable to hide her amusement entirely.
Skylar’s smile faded, replaced by bitter resignation. She slumped into a nearby chair, suddenly drained. “But I couldn’t, could I? I’m a distant relative now. No power, no authority. Just another pretty face for them to dismiss.”
“Don’t say that…” Melody moved to Skylar’s side, her hand hovering uncertainly, as if unsure whether to offer comfort or maintain the proper distance between servant and mistress.
Skylar waved her off, changing the subject abruptly. “How is Noire?” The question came out more vulnerable than she intended, betraying her longing for her faithful warhorse.
Melody’s expression softened with sympathy. “Lonely, my lady. The stable hands say he barely eats.”
“I see.” Skylar’s throat tightened. She knew how he felt, being back in a place called home that didn’t feel like one.
A tentative knock at the door made them both jump. Skylar nodded to Melody, who moved to answer it.
“It’s Her Grace, my lady,” Melody announced, stepping aside to reveal Skylar’s mother, resplendent in a gown of deep blue that shimmered in the afternoon light. In her arms, she cradled Conley, the infant’s tiny fist curled against her chest.
Skylar’s heart tightened when she saw him. Her replacement. The true heir.
“Mother.” Skylar inclined her head. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
The Dowager Duchess’s eyes widened slightly at Skylar’s attire, but she recovered quickly. “Clearly,” she said, a trace of amusement in her tone. “Melody, would you be so kind as to fetch us some tea?”
“Tea for Mother, wine for me.”
As Melody scurried off, Skylar gestured to a pair of plush chairs near the window. “Please, sit. You shouldn’t be on your feet so soon after…” She trailed off, her eyes falling to Conley.
Her mother settled into one of the chairs, adjusting Conley in her arms. The infant stirred, tiny fists waving in the air before settling back into sleep. “After giving birth to your brother?” she finished, a wry smile playing at her lips. “I’m not made of glass.”
Skylar perched on the edge of the other chair, her posture rigid. “Of course not.”
A comfortable silence fell between them as Melody returned with the tea and wine. The servant moved with practiced efficiency, pouring a cup for the Dowager Duchess before presenting Skylar with a glass of rich, red wine. Skylar took a long sip, savoring the complex notes that danced on her tongue. The Eulogiant Red was a bittersweet reminder of simpler times.
“I haven’t heard from Fern,” Skylar said, breaking the silence. “Was she able to bring her family across the border safely?”
Her mother nodded, her expression grave. “Yes, thank the gods. But it was a close thing. The situation with Thorncrest grows more volatile by the day.”
Skylar’s fingers tightened around her glass. “There will be war,” she said, her voice flat and certain.
The Dowager Duchess studied her daughter for a long moment. “You sound so sure,” she murmured. “If it comes to that… you may need to return. As the Duke.”
Images flashed through Skylar’s mind—the glint of steel, the acrid smell of smoke, the thugs looming over her. She shrugged, forcing nonchalance into her voice. “If that’s what’s needed, I’ll do it. I don’t mind anymore.”
Her mother’s sharp intake of breath drew Skylar’s gaze upward. The Dowager Duchess was staring at her, concern etched in her face.
“You’ve changed,” she whispered.
Skylar’s shoulders slumped, her eyes dropping to the floor. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the rim of her wineglass. “I was always like this, Mother. I know this isn’t what you wanted for me.”
Her mother reached out, clasping Skylar’s hand in her own. Her touch was warm, comforting in a way Skylar hadn’t realized she’d been craving. “Oh, my darling girl. All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy. Are you? Truly?”
The question hung in the air. Skylar looked to the crumpled dress on the floor, then to the stack of letters on her desk. Arye’s missives stood out among them, each one a dagger to her heart.
Come back.
I need you at my side.
Don’t do something you might regret.
“I’m… adjusting.”
Her mother followed her gaze, her eyes lingering on the pile of silk. “You don’t like them, do you? Dresses, I mean.”
Skylar opened her mouth to lie, to reassure her mother that everything was fine. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she found herself transported back to that night in the palace gardens. The cool grass under her feet, the scent of jasmine. Arye’s hand on her waist, sliding beneath her nightgown, fingertips tracing fire along her bare thigh.
“There was one time.” Skylar’s gaze dropped to her hands. “When I felt like the woman I was meant to be.”
Understanding dawned in her mother’s eyes. “Oh, Skylar?—”
“I know,” Skylar cut her off, unable to bear hearing the words aloud. The pity was too hard to endure. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s in the past. Maybe it was just a dream.”
The Dowager Duchess was quiet, absently stroking Conley’s downy hair. “You know,” she said finally, “dresses can be a form of armor too. They protect us, in their own way. They keep men from seeing too much, from taking liberties.”
Skylar couldn’t help the derisive snort that escaped her. She glanced down at her chest, acutely aware of how it was noticeable against the contours of her shirt. “I don’t mind if they look,” she said, challenge in her voice. “And I’d rather have a sword than armor. I prefer to attack, not defend.”
A soft chuckle from her mother caught Skylar’s attention. The Dowager Duchess was shaking her head, a fond smile on her face. “You are so like your father,” she mused, her tone tinged with nostalgia. “He never could stand to be on the defensive either.”
“Tell me about him,” Skylar said suddenly, surprising herself with the request. “What would he think of… all this?”
Her mother’s expression grew distant, lost in memory. “He would be proud of you. But he would also worry, as I do.”
Her mother chuckled, tears sparkling on her lashes. Skylar raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the sudden shift in mood.
“You know what he really would do?” The Dowager Duchess’s voice was warm with affection and amusement. “He would surely summon the Basilisk and try to intimidate the Crown Prince for laying his eyes on you.”
The image was so absurd, so perfectly in character for the father she remembered, that Skylar couldn’t help but join in the laughter. For a moment, the weight of expectations and duty lifted, leaving only the warmth of shared memories.
As their mirth subsided, Skylar felt a familiar ache in her chest. “I miss him.”
Her mother nodded. “The world can be cruel, especially to those who don’t conform.”
“The world can go hang itself,” Skylar muttered, earning a reproachful look from her mother.
“Skylar!”
“I’m sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. She stood, unable to contain her restless energy anymore. “But I’m tired of pretending to be someone I’m not. Of giggling at inane jokes and batting my eyelashes like some vapid courtier.” She sighed, reaching for a sword that was no longer at her hip. “It feels like I’m even less myself than before.”
“Is that how you see other women?” her mother asked, her tone carefully neutral.
Skylar hesitated, realizing how her words must have sounded. “No, of course not,” she backtracked, pacing the length of the room. “I just… I don’t understand how they can stand it. The constant expectations, the need to be delicate and demure all the time.”
“Not everyone feels trapped by those expectations,” her mother said gently, her voice filled with hard-won wisdom. “For some, it’s a comfortable role. For others, it’s a necessary compromise.”
“Well, I’m done compromising,” Skylar declared, standing abruptly. She began to pace, her movements sharp and agitated. “I won’t be ‘Lady Skye’ anymore, curtsying and smiling to every man who deigns to notice me.”
“Skylar,” her mother’s voice was soft but firm. “I understand your frustration. But there are consequences to defying societal norms.”
“I know that,” Skylar snapped, immediately regretting her tone. She closed her eyes briefly, forcing herself to calm down. “I’m sorry, Mother. I just… I feel like I’m suffocating. Like I’m losing myself in this new role.”
Her mother’s gaze softened with understanding. “Oh, my darling. Come here.”
Skylar hesitated before moving to kneel beside her mother’s chair. The Dowager Duchess shifted Conley to one arm, using her free hand to stroke Skylar’s hair.
“You are not losing yourself,” the Dowager Duchess said firmly, her voice brimming with conviction. “You are discovering a new part of yourself. It may be uncomfortable, even painful at times, but it doesn’t erase who you are at your core.”
Before Skylar could respond, her mother reached into a hidden pocket in her gown, producing a folded piece of parchment. She placed it on the small table between them, and Skylar’s breath caught at the sight of the familiar red wax seal—the Clawborne crest.
“Another invitation,” her mother explained, a hint of exasperation in her voice. “To the Crown Prince’s ball. I swear, they arrive daily now. The poor servants are running themselves ragged, returning each one with the Duke’s regrets.”
Skylar’s fingers itched to reach for the letter, to trace the lines of the seal and imagine Arye’s hand pressing it into the wax. She resisted the urge, her voice carefully neutral as she spoke. “But I declined weeks ago.”
The Dowager Duchess laughed, the sound rich and warm. “Oh, my dear. As if that would stop a Clawborne. They’re nothing if not persistent.”
Skylar’s mind raced. The ball. A chance to see Arye again, even if only from afar. The thought both thrilled and terrified her. Would he recognize her? Would she be able to maintain her composure in his presence?
“Do you want to go?” her mother asked gently.
Skylar hesitated, torn between longing and fear. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Marquis Edwards will be there, won’t he?”
The Dowager Duchess nodded. “Most likely. But Skylar,” she leaned forward, her voice earnest, “you have a choice. You could attend as the Duke, if you wish. Or as a lady. Either way, you’ll always be under my protection. Remember, we’re still the highest-ranking family besides the Clawbornes.”
A mischievous glint appeared in the Dowager Duchess’s eye. “You could make them all kneel if you wanted to,” she said with a wink. “If anyone objects, send them my way. Just be yourself.”
Skylar felt laughter bubble up, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For giving me the choice.”
She took a deep breath, steeling herself. “I’ll go,” she decided. “As a lady. It’s time I moved on with my life, isn’t it?”
Her mother’s smile was tinged with sadness. “If that’s what you truly want,” she said. “Though I warn you, this will likely mean even more invitations. That friend of yours can be quite… persistent.”
“You can handle it,” Skylar said, forcing a lightness into her tone. “You’ve faced worse than an annoying prince, I’m sure.”
As her mother laughed, Skylar’s gaze drifted back to the letters on her desk. To Arye’s pleas and demands. For a heartbeat, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to see him again. To stand before him not as Duke Anathemark, but as herself—Skylar, the woman he’d held in the moonlit garden.
It was still thrilling, though. To let Arye see her as she truly was. Let him see what he could never have. Even if he wouldn’t recognize her.
But no. It was time to forge a new path, even if it led her away from everything—and everyone—she’d ever wanted.
She was Skylar Anathemark, and she would bow to no one—not even her own heart.