Chapter 7
CHAPTER
Sabine
Sabine counted her savings for the fifth time, as if sheer repetition might conjure more coins into existence.
Alas, it did not. The stack remained paltry, each recount only underscoring her disappointment.
If her magic were available to her, she could have spun gold from mere rose petals.
But until her blood vow was complete, her affinity was locked away, out of reach and useless—a moot point.
With the money they did have, she’d already ruled out the option of allotting herself a dowry.
By all rights, her affinity would be lure enough for any suitor.
Save, of course, the one who should’ve bonded her, according to the Registry, but no point dwelling on that.
She didn’t want the Hand, anyway, so it was no matter that he didn’t wish for her, either.
The skin under her collarbone itched at the thought.
So the math came down to this: budget for Liora’s dowry, two blood vow celebrations, and the cost of both of them attending the Season.
Not a coin to spare for pride or comfort.
The meager gold sat on her desk, glinting up at her like a taunt.
Sabine closed her eyes, let her forehead thud gently against mahogany, and sighed.
Three deep breaths. That was all she allowed herself before straightening and returning to her calculations.
She’d kept the valenhold’s ledgers balanced for twelve cycles, held things together in the face of bad harvests and large expenses.
Surely the marriage mart could not break her where so much else had failed.
She was only a moment into the next round of figures when a knock sounded at her door, sharp and abrupt.
Ellie appeared with uncharacteristic hesitation. “My lady, the Duchess of Braythar requests an audience.”
Sabine looked up, frowning.
The Duchess of Braythar: head of an Imperial Core duchy, member of the Emperor’s Royal Circle, and by all accounts one of the most powerful women in Ilvarenne.
Sabine could not fathom why such a person would be calling on a household as threadbare as hers.
She and Liora could’ve been commoners by comparison.
There was nothing she could offer a woman like the Duchess. Nothing at all.
“Bring her to the parlor, please, Ellie,” Sabine said, trying to smooth the creases from her dress.
By the time she reached the parlor, her sister was already there, bent over a hoop of cream linen, fingers working steadily at embroidery.
“We have a visitor,” Sabine said.
Liora’s eyes brightened. “Who?”
“The Duchess of Braythar.”
Liora’s needle paused mid-stitch. “What could she possibly want from us?”
Footsteps echoed down the hall. Sabine turned towards the sound. “I have no idea, but we’re about to find out.”
Lady Delarine entered like a ship in full sail, her bronze-gold complexion complemented by robes of deep mulberry.
The Duchess was unapologetically Keshiran, a fact she did not let the Gilt forget; from the rich imported silks to the lack of lighting powder on her dark skin, she did not make apologies if her presence reminded the Gilt of the uncomfortable truths of their own colonialism.
In fact, she seemed to revel in that discomfort.
Each step radiated the assurance of someone who had never doubted her right to be anywhere. Even her gloves were a statement, always present, whatever the weather.
“Miss Almarien,” she acknowledged Sabine with a regal nod before turning to Liora. “And the younger Miss Almarien. How fortunate to find you both at home.”
Her words were all flowing vowels and warm, rolling consonants, as though each sentence was meant to be sung accompanied by music.
“Your Grace.” Sabine and Liora offered their best curtsies, which felt terribly inadequate in the faded parlor.
Sabine resisted the urge to apologize for the patched chairs and chipped teacups, knowing it would only draw more attention to them.
Lady Delarine’s amber eyes missed nothing in their survey of the room, yet her expression revealed neither judgment nor pity.
She lowered herself into the best chair with effortless grace. “I shall come directly to the purpose of my visit. Word travels quickly through the Gilt. The Registry’s private chambers are not nearly as private as they pretend.”
Heat crept up Sabine’s neck. “You’ve heard about the Weighing.”
“Indeed.” Lady Delarine’s mouth curved into something not quite a smile. “Creation affinity. And a mark, I understand. How fascinating.”
Sabine’s hand drifted toward her collarbone before she caught herself, letting it fall to her side. “Your Grace is remarkably well-informed.”
“Information is currency, Miss Almarien. I prefer to maintain a healthy treasury.” Lady Delarine leaned forward. “It would seem magic has decided the Gilt made a grave mistake casting out your family. Lucky for you, I collect mistakes.”
The declaration hung in the air like a physical presence. Liora’s face turned radiant.
“I beg your pardon?” Sabine managed.
“I am offering you my sponsorship for the coming Season,” Lady Delarine clarified, as though speaking to someone particularly slow of understanding.
Sabine did not know how to navigate the offer.
Such a sponsorship meant entrée to the most exclusive events, introduction to the most advantageous connections, and the implied protection of one of the Empire’s mightiest houses.
But it also meant obligations. Debts, spoken and unspoken, that would one day come due.
No one knew what the Duchess expected from those she favored, or how high the price might climb.
Sabine could not afford to accept without question. “May I ask why? House Almarien has little to offer in return for such generosity.”
Lady Delarine’s laugh carried the dry richness of Keshiran spice.
“Not every transaction demands immediate compensation. I have a particular interest in… magical peculiarities like yourself. The Gilt has not matched a Creation affinity in quite a few cycles. Consider it an investment in who you might become.”
And there it was. Sabine found herself relieved rather than offended that the Duchess had a self-serving interest in her sponsorship. Although…
Did the Duchess know Lord Vaelros was her match? Surely, she couldn’t. Nobody had witnessed their marks flare. If the only reason she was offering this sponsorship was to see Sabine’s match, she’d be sorely disappointed to find nobody would come forth to claim that role.
“Your offer is exceedingly generous,” Sabine began, careful with every word. “However—”
“She accepts with profound gratitude,” Liora interjected, stepping forward with a perfect smile that didn’t quite reach her anxious eyes.
“Liora,” Sabine warned.
But her sister pressed on. “The Duchess’s incomparable sponsorship would bring such honor to House Almarien. We could never adequately express our appreciation for—”
“I require an answer from your sister, Miss Liora,” Lady Delarine interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. “It is her future being negotiated, after all.”
Sabine met the Duchess’s steady gaze, finding merely patient assessment, as if Sabine herself were a particularly interesting chess piece whose potential moves required careful consideration.
She thought of the pile of coins on her desk, of the different ways she’d attempted to separate it into neat stacks in hopes of making Liora’s aspirations fit into the shape of their new reality.
In the end, it wouldn’t be Sabine’s fault if her mark’s match was a commoner, or a foreigner, or any other of the myriad of possible reasons why one might not find them during the Season.
The Duchess could not possibly fault Sabine for that.
But with Lady Delarine’s support, on the other hand, Liora could have a splendid Season…
“Your offer honors us deeply,” Sabine said at last. “I would accept with gratitude, under one condition.”
Lady Delarine arched her brow. “A condition? You negotiate with remarkable confidence.”
“Not confidence, Your Grace. Necessity.” Sabine nodded toward her sister, who had gone very still.
“My sister also enters the Season this cycle. Our preparations have focused entirely on her debut, since I did not expect to join the marriage mart myself.” She met the Duchess’s gaze directly.
“I cannot accept your generous offer if it means abandoning those plans. Either we both receive your sponsorship, or I must respectfully decline.”
The parlor went utterly still. Even the afternoon light seemed to hold its breath. Liora’s fingers twisted in the fabric of her skirt.
Lady Delarine studied Sabine as if recalculating the value of a possession she had previously misjudged. “Loyalty,” she finally said, and the word sounded heavy. “How refreshing to find it still exists.”
She rose with fluid grace. “Very well, Miss Almarien. I shall sponsor you both. My gondola will collect you tomorrow morning.” Her gaze swept over their modest surroundings. “Pack whatever personal items you value. You shall reside at Braythar House for the Season.”
Before Sabine could muster a response, the Duchess turned for the door, pausing at the threshold with an unreadable glance back. Then she was gone.
In the hollow silence that followed her exit, Liora stared at Sabine with eyes still wide. “What just happened?”
“I believe we’ve been collected.” Sabine stared at the empty doorway. “Like particularly interesting specimens for Lady Delarine’s curiosities cabinet.”
Freedom and captivity looked remarkably alike when draped in silk.
That was the only thought Sabine could summon as Braythar House towered ahead, pale stucco and ionic columns bathed in sunlight, the entire monolith sealed behind a black-iron gate.
The fountain—a marble beast circled with Keshiran blooms the color of spilled gold and blood—greeted them first, and even the air here was changed, lush with jasmine and marigolds so thick she almost coughed.