CHAPTER 1 #2
“Absolutely, Constance, my dear.” My father absently patted her thigh and returned his attention to Lord Ingleton at his other side.
They spoke in low voices throughout the meal, both of their faces alight with eagerness.
As a duke, Lord Ingleton outranked my father only slightly, but he liked to show it in every way.
Unlike my father, who kept his hair short, he wore his in a silver tail at the base of his neck.
Also, unlike my father, he dressed entirely in black from his collar to his short boots, gold embroidery highlighting his long velvet doublet.
My father’s doublets were all short, and he preferred puffed sleeves with no adornments, like the yellow and black one he wore today.
Across the table, Lord Fethersen was forced to lean in to hear.
His serious face mirrored none of the excitement of his companions.
Minus the mustache and girth of a middle-aged man, Tam was his spitting image.
As an earl whose earldom separated Cavendaffe and Ingleton, he was the lowest ranking at the table and, likewise, stood the most to gain from an alliance with my father.
His eyes drifted toward me, offering me a tight smile before returning his attention to the other two lords.
Later, Merria made a show of dabbing a dot of cream off the tip of my nose. “My sweet sister, you do so love your desserts.” The entire table chuckled. The only thing that came on faster than my blush was my scowl. Tam, at least, had the decency to look away.
At one point, our mother felt the need to recount the differences between her daughters for Lady Ingleton in a raised voice.
After hearing that Merria was the slender one, the patient one, and the one devoted to constant improvement—a bald-faced lie—I’d had more than enough.
I made no apologies as I rose from the table and left.
If my footfalls sounded too heavy, or if my clenched fists were unbecoming of a lady, I didn’t care one bit.
My mind was full of petty rage. At twenty-one, I should have grown used to this treatment—from Merria and our mother.
There was no reason for me to be off-kilter about it now. No reason at all. Yet here we were.
“Excuse me, miss.”
I jumped. A stranger blocked my path. He shone bright with the colors of Inra—crimson and gold—not our province of Cavendaffe. A braided gold cord hung across his body, marking him as an officer of the king.
“I beg your pardon. I need the margrave as a matter of urgency.” His eyes flicked down the path behind me as he shifted between his feet.
I took in his uniform again, from his red dragon tabard down to the mud-covered riding boots, and spotted the crossed arrows pinned at his shoulder. A messenger.
“This way.” I hurried back down the path, barely in the lead at a near jog.
When we reached the canopies, the messenger found his mark and outpaced me with ease. With a few short words, he passed my father a note, then a footman led him away to rest.
Father cracked the seal and read. Then he sat. He passed the note wordlessly to Mother, who cried out and slumped in her chair.
In an instant, a flurry of motion engulfed them.
Merria jumped up to fuss over Mother. Lady Fethersen called for smelling salts and a cool rag.
Brig emerged from a bush shouting he was a Rihtlondish savage here to steal our jewels, then began lapping the table with Caper and Caddy, the Fethersen twins, in close chase.
Lord Fethersen called for his wife to sit, while Lord Naton leapt to Merria’s aid, all the while taking care not to upset his sleek black hair.
In all this, the letter lay forgotten on the grass. The world moved in slow motion as I stooped, gathered it up, and read:
Margrave Cavendaffe:
War Report—Fifth Regiment, under command of the late Captain Henedew
With utmost urgency, you are informed that Lord Bale of Cavendaffe is reported missing in action.
Last seen crossing the Inraen-Volaachi channel.
Last report received two weeks prior. Presumed dead along with the rest of his squadron.
Our deepest sympathies extended on behalf of the Crown. Creator keep his soul.
Sent on the order of Crown Prince Hammon of Inra—
The letter crumpled in my fist. Missing.
Presumed dead. Only one enemy killed so ruthlessly and completely.
My eyes flicked to Brig, happily playing at the very thing that had likely killed my brother—Rihtlonders.
I only hoped his death was swift, considering their tendencies toward torture.
Gravel crunched under my feet. I was halfway back to the manor before I realized what I was doing.
My vision blurred, and my cheeks and neck were wet with tears.
The next thing I knew, I was sinking into a mattress face-first, glasses thrown aside, screaming into the down.
Soft hands pulled at my side, rolling me onto my back.
I slapped them away. Then, I screamed and cried until everything hurt, not just my heart.
Eventually, my mind shut off, and I slipped into blissful sleep.
HOURS LATER, I woke to the blurry face of my lady’s maid hovering over mine.
Gerta eased me up. “Come now, you have to go down.”
I shook my head then groaned at the pounding in my skull.
Her soft brown eyes were full of sympathy as she brushed a wet cloth over my face. “I’m so sorry, milady. The margrave demands it.”
Her tight brown bun did nothing to hide the tear stains on her own cheeks. She replaced my glasses and re-pinned my hair.
I moved by rote, letting Gerta tug me along, but I felt nothing. Or rather, I felt the distinct lack of something. I was a tingling limb cut off from blood—screaming in silence as pins and needles stabbed at my soul.
“Breathe, milady. Just breathe.”
I did. In.
Out.
In.
A sob racked through me.
“I know,” Gerta cooed, caressing my back. Though only in her mid-thirties, she had always looked after me in a matronly sort of way, offering support and comfort when my mother did not. She led me down the hallway. “I know, I know. Just hold it in for a little while. Don’t let the margrave see it.”
Fuck the margrave. I didn’t want to see any of them anyway.
We turned toward the family parlor at the base of the grand staircase.
Not the guest parlor? The room was suited well enough for us, but the mantel was plain and unadorned.
A single portrait of my father and grandparents hung above the mantel in an impressive gilt frame.
The furnishings were comfortable, but the velvet of the cushions was worn, and the pillows had long since gone flat.
The rug, at least, was less than a year old and still boasted a brilliant red and gold pattern with intricate dragons woven into the filigree.
The best part of the room was the tapestry depicting the Creator—though at this hour, it was barely visible in the dim firelight.
The entire party, minus the small children, was gathered.
All faces were grim. Merria’s eyes were red, and she stood in the circle of Lord Naton’s arms. The Lords Ingleton and Fethersen sat in identical chairs set before the fireplace.
The three ladies were seated on one of the twin sofas that framed the mantel, separate from their husbands.
My mother had donned a black shawl. They painted quite the picture of mourning.
Thrust into the room, a tempest amidst the gathered calm, I didn’t know how to react. I stood there, trying to force the pieces of myself inward—trying to be small, unnoticed. Gerta ushered me to an open spot on one of the sofas, then retreated through the service door.
Father stood, brandy glass in hand, and paced the room, exuding detached authority that spoke nothing of the man who had just lost his only son.
The other two lords rose from their chairs to flank him, identical glasses of brandy in their hands.
After a moment, the margrave turned and addressed the room.
“We are at war with Volaach,” he announced. The peppery streaks in his black hair glinted like steel in the firelight.
My brow furrowed. Was there more to the missive I hadn’t read? Surely Rihtlond, our rivals dating back hundreds of years, was to blame for Bale’s disappearance, not Volaach, who had not so long ago been our closest allies.
“This new threat makes our old enemy to the north pale in comparison. Today’s news proves it. We’ve been summoned by our king to uphold our duty to our kingdom.” He nodded to Ingleton and Fethersen. “We will answer it. We will each do our part.”
Mother let out a wailing gasp and clutched her chest.
Father shot her a look of reproach, but it didn’t last. For all his faults, he truly loved my mother.
He paced the room, moving behind her and placing a hand on her shoulder.
He cleared his throat. “We”—he nodded to the two lords—“and the king have had a plan in motion for some time now. Our purpose in gathering tonight is to ensure every person in this room understands their part and their obligations. Our alliances could change the tide of the entire war. Rihtlond’s raiding proclivities against our borders are coming to an end.
We must unite in the face of a new threat. ”
Naton and Tam nodded their assent.
“What threat?” Merria asked.
“The same one that’s already claimed the life of your brother.”
Tam’s eyes locked onto mine—darker than I had ever seen them. He clenched his pointed jaw, and his eyes fell to the floor.