Chapter 48 #2
The Registry woman bristled, but Lady Delarine did not pause. “You have no standing to detain a member of the Gilt without due process. None less than Lady Vaelros, who, as my ward, is de facto a member of my family and benefits from the same rights as any other member of the Royal Circle would.”
The notary stammered. “Your Grace, the charges—”
“I have seen the charges,” Delarine interrupted, plucking the scroll from Sabine’s hands and scanning it with an efficiency that bordered on violence. “Not a single one rises above the level of rumor. If you intend to prosecute, do so under open law, not the shadow of Registry fiat.”
The Inspector’s jaw flexed. “With respect, Your Grace, we act under the direct authority of the High Binder.”
“And I, under the authority of the Royal Circle.” Lady Delarine flashed a smile that looked closer to a snarl.
“If you take Lady Vaelros by force, I will see you dragged before the Emperor’s own advisors for breach of protocol.
You will be stripped of rank, pension, and dignity in a single afternoon. ”
The silence was total. The house itself seemed to lean in, waiting for the standoff to resolve.
After a long moment, the Registry officer inclined her head. “If Lady Vaelros agrees to house arrest, supervised by a Registry warden, I will defer to your authority. For now.”
Lady Delarine smiled, a feline curl of her lips that hinted at cycles of breeding for this very kind of duel. “I accept those terms.” She then offered her arm to Sabine, as if escorting her to a dance rather than a cage. “Come, child. Let us pack.”
Sabine accepted it, letting herself be led out of the room, feeling Azrian’s presence behind her, and followed the Duchess to her private quarters.
Once the doors closed, Lady Delarine turned to face her. “Are you well?”
Sabine nodded. “Thank you. You did not have to—”
“I did.” She touched Sabine’s shoulder, gently. “You are not the first to be accused unjustly. You will not be the last. But if you intend to survive, you must be smarter than those who would destroy you.”
Sabine swallowed the knot in her throat.
Azrian stepped forward, drawing close enough that their arms brushed. He did not speak, but the look he gave Sabine was enough. She felt, in that moment, an anchor drop inside her: a certainty that, whatever else happened, she would not be left alone to drown.
Lady Delarine’s attaché produced a folder from his case. “These are the protocols for house arrest. Read them. Memorize them. Find every loophole.” He handed them over, then stood back, hands folded.
Sabine accepted the papers, but her mind remained fixed on the question of betrayal. Who could want her detained so badly?
As she read the endless legal jargon of the protocols, Lady Delarine spoke. “You will be escorted to my estate. You are not a prisoner, but the rules of house arrest must be observed. If you require anything—books, correspondence, food—my staff is at your disposal.”
Sabine inclined her head. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
The housekeeper cleared her throat. “Your luggage is ready, my lady.”
Sabine looked from Lady Delarine to Azrian. “Our case… if they search the house…”
“Let me worry about it.” Azrian reached for her, swiping his fingers over her knuckles. “I will not give them reason to incriminate you further. Do you trust me?”
There was nothing to do but nod, because she did.
She may not have been able to trust her own feelings, muddled by the threads of this centuries-old magic flowing through their veins, but this, she knew for certain: Azrian did not offer his loyalty lightly.
And she trusted this man more than she trusted her own mind.
When they returned to the parlor, the Registry officials still stood in the same place where they’d found them, engaged in a staring contest with the butler.
One of them attempted to grab Sabine’s bag from the housekeeper, but Azrian stepped in front of him, squaring his shoulders, and took it in his hands instead.
Sabine watched the exchange as though through a soap bubble, blurry and unfocused.
Her mind could not stop running through the last few weeks: the faces, the conversations, the moments of inattention or carelessness.
She thought of every confidant, every enemy, every soul who might benefit from her ruin, and came up painfully short of an answer.
She stood on the doorstep of their home, eyes dry, face a mask of calm, as Azrian and the staff helped Lady Delarine load the gondola.
Once ready to leave, the Registry officials declared they would follow Lady Delarine to her estate in their own boat.
Sabine drew a sigh of relief, knowing she would not have to share a confined space with them.
As she finally climbed into the gondola, she spared one last look back at Azrian.
His jaw was set, his fists shut tight. Through the window, the city glided past. Every bridge and alley held a memory: her childhood walks with Liora, the nights she’d dreamed of escape, the secrets she’d been slowly unraveling.
Arriving at Braythar House felt nothing like coming home. The morning air curled off the canals in threads that clung to the skin, damp and foreboding. Fog lay like a burial shroud along the water, swallowing the trailing Registry boat.
Sabine disembarked, clutching her valise, and the Registry Inspector was immediately at her side. Her subordinates fanned out at a silent gesture, boots slick on the mossy stones. Sabine’s steps were muffled, ghostly, as she followed Lady Delarine through the mirrored hall.
“We will be conducting a sweep of the premises,” the Registry woman announced, “to ensure Lady Vaelros is not afforded any opportunity to abscond or communicate with sympathizers. I trust you will cooperate.”
Lady Delarine merely arched an eyebrow, her serenity unbroken. “As long as your search does not impede my house’s operation, Inspector, you may do as you please.”
Sabine’s breath galloped. What if they stumbled upon what was left of the Duchess’s caches of evidence, or maybe the secret archive in the greenhouse? If the Registry unearthed those documents, it would be not just her own neck, but the Duchess’s, beneath the executioner’s sword.
The Registry officers moved with methodical precision, prying at windows, pressing at the seams of painted paneling, testing doors for hidden latches. Lady Delarine offered them a chillingly polite smile, nothing more.
Sabine struggled for air. She had to count ten breaths before she had enough in her lungs to speak. She grasped the Duchess’s sleeve and brought her closer to her lips. “Your Grace, if they find—”
“Ease your mind, child. I have been outwitting the Empire since before you were born. Every ledger your husband did not take is already hidden in a place not even the Emperor himself could sniff out unless I wished it.”
The words should have comforted, but instead left Sabine jittery, her nerves thrumming like exposed wire. “They are so thorough,” she whispered.
“You will find, my dear, that the more desperate the Registry becomes, the sloppier their methods.” Lady Delarine’s eyes glinted with cold mirth.
“Braythar House is a fortress. To survive in the Gilt, you must not only anticipate the knife in the dark, but invite your would-be murderer in for tea.” She reached over, gloved hand resting briefly atop Sabine’s.
“Rest. If you are to outfox the High Binder, you must keep your wits sharper than theirs.”
Sabine nodded, slightly dazed. The tension in her spine hadn’t fully let go.
Liora stepped into the hall with the briefest whisper of silk against the lacquered wood, followed by the faint perfume of wild violets and delicate powder. She was pale as frost in the predawn, her hair braided perfectly down her back, her dressing gown a confection of soft blush and pearl.
Upon seeing Sabine, she stopped dead, color blanching from her cheeks. “Sabine,” she said, barely more than a breath. “What are you doing here?”
Sabine’s mouth opened, but her mind could not compose a single honest reply.
Threads, she’d practiced for this confrontation since the Registry’s knock at her door, but now the words abandoned her completely.
For a moment, all she could do was take in the sight of her sister—the tightness at the corners of her mouth, the way she kept a careful distance from both herself and Lady Delarine.
Lady Delarine was somehow effortlessly maternal. “Liora, darling, there has been a misunderstanding. The Registry, in its infinite wisdom, believes your sister may have… acted improperly. It is being handled. I saw no reason to worry you with rumors when I knew they would come to nothing.”
Liora’s gaze darted from the Duchess to Sabine, uncertainty gnawing at the arch of her brow. “They brought her here? Instead of the Spire?” She shook her head, as if the answer physically pained her. “This is not what should have happened.”
The words landed like a stone on Sabine’s heart. That precise phrasing— this is not what should have happened —was not the refrain of a shocked innocent. It was the regret of someone whose plan had gone awry.
Sabine’s hands closed on themselves, nails biting her palm.
The images tumbled through her mind in sickening sequence: Liora watching from the hall the night of their secret gathering; her desperation for a titled marriage; the way she’d seemed more frustrated than afraid the last time they’d spoken.
You might not like those cards I have to play. Sabine had clung to the belief that blood was stronger than ambition, that sisterhood outweighed every gilded promise. Now the truth coiled through her veins like ice.
Cold fury rose inside her, threatening to shatter her. She wanted to scream, to strike something.
“What did you do?” Her voice snapped like a whip. “Threads, Liora— what did you do ?”