Chapter 32 #2
Liora straightened instantly, every muscle snapping to attention. “Yes?”
The footman bowed his head. “Pardon me, ladies. Her Grace requests that the conservatory be made ready for the vow ceremony tomorrow.”
“If you don’t mind, my lady,” Ellie added, “the gardeners will need to know which plants to keep, and which to move out.”
Before Sabine could even utter a word, Liora was already in motion.
“We’ll want the east gallery cleared. The light is best there, and the Duchess prefers guests to have a view of the reflecting pool.
Ellie, make sure the white orchids are brought forward, and the Gloamreach ferns are trimmed. They’re looking a bit wild.”
Ellie looked back at Sabine, a question in her eyes, but Sabine simply shook her head. Let her sister play at lady of the house and plan the ceremony. Sabine had no will left to do it, anyway.
Ellie nodded, scribbling notes on a scrap of paper. “And the seating, miss?”
“Arranged by status, obviously. Lady Delarine will want the guests of honor nearest the altar. And there must be enough space for the Registry officials. They’ll be watching closely, this time.”
Sabine was glad her sister enjoyed this, but truly, she could not bear to watch it.
She stepped away from the bench, only to catch her foot on an uneven stone in the conservatory’s walkway.
Ellie caught her with practiced hands, steadying her before she could fall.
Sabine noted the jutting stone, the way it lifted off the edge of the adjoining one in a way that looked far too precise, too mathematical. Curious, indeed.
She was about to reach for it when Ellie spoke. “Are you all right, my lady?”
Sabine pulled her eyes away from the stone and smiled at her maid. “A bit lightheaded, I think. You all can keep going; I will retire to my rooms for a while.”
With a nod to everyone present, Sabine turned and rushed out of the conservatory.
That night, Sabine counted every breath like footfalls toward execution.
She lay atop her mattress, hands knotted in the sheets, gaze fixed on the ceiling’s coffered beams. The hours after sundown had thickened around her, dread seeping into every hollow, until Sabine felt as if she hovered in it, untethered, powerless, unable to break free.
She’d always prided herself on anticipating danger, but this fear was a many-headed thing, and all her strategies failed her.
The killer still hunted them, almost certainly by the command or at least the indulgence of the Registry.
And their time had run out. Tomorrow, she’d be bound to Azrian; her fate was sealed, bitter as wormwood, made all the more intolerable by how little it actually repulsed her.
That was the sharpest cut: to be drawn to what she’d fled all her life.
She twisted on the mattress, the heat of her own restlessness rising beneath her, sweat prickling along her brow.
Sleep taunted her but never came as her mind ran circles, souring itself with every turn.
Even the familiar comfort of her nightgown felt alien, starchy.
At last, when she could stand it no longer, Sabine flung off the covers and reached for her day-robe, pulling it on with the automatic grace of long habit, tying the sash tight, using the motion to anchor herself.
She crept forward along the corridor, feet bare on the runner, each step soft, attempting not to betray her presence.
Braythar House sprawled around her, all blind corners and endless halls.
She’d memorized its map faster than most would.
The formal rooms—drawing room, library, music salon—clustered at the front, while the servant routes zigzagged invisibly behind.
Tonight, she simply needed to move, to evade the stasis of waiting for dawn.
A cup of milk from the kitchen, maybe, anything to keep her hands busy.
She told herself she only needed the walk, but she couldn’t deny the comfort of the memory of her mother pouring the same drink on nights when Sabine was small and afraid of the dark.
Even now, she resented the need for such a childish ritual, but it was habit, and habits kept her sane.
Halfway down the main staircase, Sabine paused, listening.
A clock chimed the hour—two—and with it came the subtle pop and hiss of a lantern being lit somewhere below.
She hesitated, tempted to turn back, but the pull of curiosity was stronger.
She drifted past the shuttered ballroom and found herself at the intersection where the main corridor bent toward the east wing.
That was when she noticed the light.
It wasn’t the diffuse blue of the moon nor the warm haze of a gas lamp, but the sharp, unwavering wick of a single candle. Sabine crept closer, pressing herself to the wall, listening for the shuffle of footsteps or the murmur of voices. At first, nothing. Then—
“…could compromise everything we’ve built.”
Lady Delarine. Sabine recognized it instantly: crisp, chill, every word a command.
Instinct screamed for her to run, but she held her ground, breath shallow.
She’d survived by knowing what others missed.
So she counted each breath, matching the rhythm of the flicker of candlelight, straining to catch every word.
“The situation demanded immediacy.” The reply was a man’s, sounding cultured and oddly familiar, with a slight drawl to each word. “Have you already realized your people know more than they let on?”
A beat of silence. “I do not know what you mean.”
Footsteps echoed, too thick to be Lady Delarine’s. Sabine pressed herself tighter to the paneling to listen better, careful that her shadow would not creep under the door.
“Such is the risk in sponsoring a match so close to the Empire’s heart, I fear.”
A match close to the Empire? Were they speaking of herself and Azrian?
“Perhaps we should consider accelerating our plans,” the man said, and it raised the fine hairs on Sabine’s arms. “I could take the couple tonight, seeing I am already here.”
Sabine recoiled, pulse thundering. They spoke of them like a problem already solved.
“You will do no such thing,” Lady Delarine answered, sharp, cutting.
Sabine counted ten breaths until her chest no longer heaved.
The man’s reply was almost a sigh: “We cannot guarantee she will not find out more. And if she does, then certainly he—”
“She will not,” Delarine answered, leaving no room for argument. “Not if you stick to the plan.”
Sabine’s mind raced. What plan? She had always known she was a pawn in the hands of greater players, but now, she felt like another game had been afoot the entire time, one she was barely beginning to understand, but where she was already standing in the middle of the board.
She clung to the dark, desperate to hear more.
A floorboard groaned. Sabine shrank back, every muscle tight, hardly daring to breathe. The voices behind the door shifted, as if both had caught the same sound, then resumed, more guarded.
“All is proceeding as expected, the young people’s knowledge notwithstanding. Their blood vow is in but a few hours,” Lady Delarine said. “Nothing they can do will change that, now.”
There was a rustle, as of papers being shuffled. Sabine pictured her name on a list, circled, life weighed and found wanting. Was Azrian’s name there, too? Or Caelen’s, Virelle’s? Liora’s? Had she doomed them all by accepting the Duchess’s sponsorship? The thought made her ill.
“And so you would let—”
“I’d let the threads weave their fate, yes,” Lady Delarine interrupted. “And trust that we have handled the contingencies.”
Bile clawed at Sabine’s throat. She’d always resented the cold logic of power, but to hear it spoken so plainly was a violence in itself. She forced herself to listen, hoping for some hint, some weakness she could exploit.
“We have the upper hand for now,” the Duchess said. “And we will not waste it.”
A long silence, broken only by the crackle of the candle.
“Very well.” A chair slid. A cloak shifted. “I apologize for the breach in protocol. The urgency seemed to warrant it.”
There was a silence, then Lady Delarine’s reply: “In the future, ensure it does not. Use the proper channels.” She sounded tired, not in body but in soul, with the weariness of one who’d already sacrificed too much.
Footsteps neared. Closer. Then closer still. Sabine shrank into the shadows, checking both ends of the corridor, every nerve strung tight, and ran.