Chapter 39
CHAPTER
Sabine
Virelle arrived at the Vaelros estate that morning with her hair swept into a loose knot at the nape, no longer the frothy cloud she’d once favored as a debutante, and a simple dress of slate blue.
She didn’t bother waiting for the footman to announce her.
Three brisk strides, and she crossed directly to Sabine in the morning room, sweeping her in an embrace.
“You look terrible, my friend.” Virelle’s words landed with a flash of laughter and an undercurrent of concern. “Quite the accomplishment, for someone as lovely as you.”
Sabine tried for a smile. It was uncertain, but she managed it. “And you look as though you have not a care in the world.”
Virelle took a seat and helped herself to tea. “I am married now. The world’s cares are my husband’s to manage. I find I quite like the arrangement.”
“You might be the only woman in Ilvarenne who’s found the transition so simple.”
A shrug. “It helps to be madly in love with one’s husband, I rather think.”
The words, meant lightly, burrowed under Sabine’s skin. Cream swirled through her tea, muddying it, then clearing again. “I wish I could report the same, but unfortunately, I have only dissonance and destruction to share.”
“Sabine.” Virelle’s gaze softened. “I’m only here to see my friend. And because your selection of teas is much nicer than my own.”
The laugh that escaped Sabine was real, if a bit shaky. “I’ll let Ellie know to pack some for you to take home.”
“That is most generous of you.” Virelle reached across the arm of the chair to squeeze Sabine’s fingers. “If you wish to sit in silence as we drink our tea, that’s entirely fine with me. We don’t have to talk.”
Sabine blushed. She could feel the heat rising, impossible to mask. “I want to talk. I simply don’t know where to begin.”
“Maybe try the beginning?”
Sabine set her cup aside. “We’ve been attempting to weave, to test the limits of our new bond.”
“And?”
“And—” She searched for the right words. “The magic would not remain in its lanes. It bled over. The only thing that contained it was…” Her voice faltered, the memory sharp and humiliating. “Touch.”
Virelle’s lips quirked. “You held hands with your husband, and the world did not end. Remarkable.”
“Very funny. When we touched, yes, it stabilized. But also…” She knotted her fingers together until her knuckles cracked. “It was as if I could see into him. What he remembered. What he feared.”
The amusement melted from Virelle’s face. “You are certain?”
Sabine nodded once, the motion clipped.
“Describe it.”
“The moment our hands met, I saw… Evara’s death, and Azrian… he blamed himself. The word murderer echoed in his thoughts, over and over.”
Virelle didn’t speak as she refilled her own cup, hands steady.
Sabine pressed on, as if the telling might exorcise the vision. “It felt so real, Virelle. The regret, the rage, the helplessness. And the feelings weren’t mine, but his.”
“I believe you,” Virelle said quietly.
“There’s more.” Sabine’s cheeks burned. “When we tried weaving again, holding hands, it worked, but the moment we summoned our magic together… I saw my own life, moments I had forgotten, but his as well. His childhood, his loneliness, his longing for—we became more than ourselves. A merging.”
Virelle leaned forward as if needing Sabine’s next words more than air. “And then?”
Heat crept up Sabine’s neck. “And… we nearly kissed.”
Virelle laughed, bright as a bell.
“Do not mock me, Virelle! This is a serious matter!”
Virelle covered her mouth, stifling the sound. “Forgive me, it’s just that… you do know what happens between man and wife, yes? That kissing is merely the first step?”
Oh, Sabine didn’t need reminding. She’d pictured it all too vividly, that first night. The memory still sent heat pooling in her core, impossible to banish. “You very well know we’re man and wife in name only.”
Virelle leaned back with a satisfied smirk on her face. “In truth, it seems to me you might fancy your husband, Lady Vaelros.” She laughed. “Do not wear such a long face! There are worse things in life than falling for the man you married.”
Sabine looked down, her tongue heavy. “Except to want him would be to let the Empire win.”
Virelle took a long drink of tea before replying. “Or perhaps wanting him, truly with no artifice, is the purest act of rebellion there is.”
Sabine said nothing. There was nothing to say.
After a time, Virelle spoke again, the conversation shifting like the light on the tablecloth. “On the subject of your weaving, I know something that might help you.”
“Yes?”
“My bond with Caelen brought a sense of completion, certainly, and I love him desperately. But no sharing of mind, no invasion of thought, no bleeding of feeling. Our weaving is as the texts describe: stable, predictable, even dull. What you and Lord Vaelros share is… not that.”
A coldness took root in Sabine’s chest. “Then what do you think might help?”
“As a child, my nanny hailed from the Gloamreach.” Virelle waved. “You know, more fairytales than people.”
The memory of Evara’s face returned to Sabine and caused a ripple of shivers down her spine. She knew exactly what Virelle meant.
“In any case, she used to tell these tales as bedtime stories. She claimed that, long ago, there existed pairs of souls—soul-twins, she called them—who could feel each other across distances, speak without words, even see through the other’s eyes.
I thought it rubbish. But her stories sound… uncomfortably familiar, now.”
Sabine’s first impulse was to dismiss it. But the last few days had destroyed her belief in rational safety. “Do you think the marks did this to us? Or did it begin before?”
Virelle shrugged. “I suspect neither. I suspect it is you. Or perhaps it is him . Or the combination.” She leaned forward. “We’ve been assuming the marks themselves are the old magic that Child you met described, but what if they’re merely a symbol, a beacon, and the magic is more… innate?”
Sabine considered this and found she did not like the taste of it. “If the magic were innate, you and Caelen would be experiencing the same thing we are.”
Virelle’s smile faltered. “That’s possible. Though maybe something needs to happen to awaken said magic? We can’t weave our affinities without a blood vow; why should the old magic be any different?”
The realization struck Sabine like thunder. The memory came in fragments.
Practicing weaving exercises with the Duchess, in that unsanctioned way of hers, all wilderness and freedom. Lady Delarine calling her match truly auspicious.
Sometimes, survival requires tools the Empire would rather keep buried.
Buried.
It couldn’t possibly—
Sabine jumped to her feet. What if it weren’t dead bodies the Duchess was trying to bury?
“Virelle, I might know where answers are hidden.”
Virelle leapt up, clapping her hands. “Marvelous. Glad I could be of assistance.” Then, with a wicked glint, she added, “But if you do decide to kiss your husband, let me know. I am dying to hear if it’s as thrilling as the Gilt rumor mill claims.”
Sabine huffed, half in indignation, half in reluctant delight. “Out,” she commanded, though her smile gave her away.
Virelle complied, pausing only to kiss Sabine’s cheek on her way to the door. The room felt emptier for her absence, but lighter, too.
Sabine walked the halls until she found Azrian in the study, alone. He was rearranging books on the highest shelves, as if order could be imposed by sheer will.
She lingered in the doorway. “May I interrupt your campaign of organization?”
He turned, the ghost of a smile softening the hard lines of his face. “I’m afraid the enemy is winning. These books refuse to obey any logic.” The humor in his words couldn’t quite hide the shadows beneath his eyes.
She shut the door behind her. “I need your help. With something not strictly legal, and almost certainly dangerous.”
Azrian crossed his arms. “You have my undivided attention, wife.”
It’d only taken Sabine a quickly penned note to secure dinner at Braythar House.
After supper, they’d retired to the parlor, she and Azrian occupying the settee nearest the fire, her hem brushing his immaculate boots.
Liora perched on a pouf, arms wrapped around her knees, while Lady Delarine herself commanded the high-backed chair.
The four of them played a game of Bluff and Barter, an old Gilt staple that combined the randomness of drawn cards with the merciless logic of market negotiation.
Sabine had always relished the game’s ruthless mathematics, but tonight she found herself content to play the observer.
She delighted in Azrian’s dry commentary as he lost round after round with the fatalism of a man who expected the world to punish him for any flicker of fortune.
Liora, ever the social tactician, played her hand with the cheerful conviction that her smile would see her through.
Lady Delarine, naturally, played to win, but with such style that her triumphs seemed a gift to the table, not a theft from it.
It was the first evening since her blood vow that Sabine felt at ease in her own skin, as though her bones had been quietly rearranged to fit a shape she had always secretly desired.
Azrian was the first to notice it. He leaned in. “You have not attempted to correct the rules a single time since we began. Should I fear for your health, wife?”
She nudged his knee with her own. “Careful, I could start counting your tells for you.”
“Impossible,” Liora interjected from her pouf, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “Lord Vaelros has never had a tell in his life.”
Azrian inclined his head, accepting the accusation as a compliment. “Miss Almarien, you wound me. I am an open book to those who can read.”
“I have the sneaking suspicion that list begins and ends with my sister, my lord,” Liora shot back, and the table erupted in gentle laughter.