Page 26 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

LASCIVIOUS THINGS

KATHERINE

F rom the stone terrace of the North Tower, I peer down over the cliffs.

Below, inside the darkness, the causeway has risen.

A ribbon of stone slices through the ocean, flanked by the slow, phosphorescent shimmer of plankton-lit waters.

It glows a ghostly blue beneath the moonlight, along the tide now peeled back.

And around it, gathered along the shoreline, standing in clusters on ridges and slopes, are the people of Ashwood.

Hundreds of them.

They hold no torches. Their faces are upturned, their cloaks billowing in the salt wind like ghosts themselves. A little girl on her father’s shoulders lifts a hand and points.

Behind them, the first wagons creak forward down the path — guided carefully by rope and call. From this height, they look like toy figures moving across a path of stars. Some carry torches, to better light their paths. They come, at least twenty, riding side-by-side.

Dorian steps beside me, his eyes not on the causeway, but on the people.

“The forest steals. The sea gives. Ashwood survives because her people remember what the crown forgets. The people, are home.”

I press my hand against the cold stone parapet. Below us, the villagers begin to move slowly and reverently. They join the procession, hauling crates, guiding horses, lifting barrels in chains of practised rhythm. They do not wait to be told.

It is a legacy.

And from this high window, I watch the people of Ashwood light their path with memory, walking the bones of the sea beneath a bleeding moon.

A small shape breaks from the crowd — a boy, no older than ten. He wanders to the water’s edge as the tide recedes further, revealing the slick spine of stone beneath the sea. He kneels. And then, slowly, he plunges both hands into the shallows.

The water comes alive.

A ripple of blue light bursts outward, catching on his fingers, trailing like fire through sea-glass. The plankton swirl, a thousand luminescent creatures blooming in response to his touch. For a breathless moment, it looks like he is holding starlight.

The crowd watches in silence — no reprimand, no call to pull him back.

From the tower above, I am unable to look away. Even Dorian’s expression falters, something ancient booms in his gaze.

Recognition .

And I know he remembers, the first time he saw starlight.

Then the tide begins its final retreat and the path now fully bared, the work begins.

Wagons roll forward. Ropes tighten. Goods pass from hand to hand. The villagers of Ashwood don’t wait for orders. They remember. They’ve always known.

It is the hour Ashwood moves.

The hour we survive.

∞∞∞

The invitation arrives on a silver tray just past the hour of ten. The footman says nothing, only offers a slight bow before retreating .

I set aside my correspondence—reports from the Ashwood Town. There are more documents I’ve to sign and items that must be unboxed for the ball.

The invitation is sealed in red wax and made with heavy cream parchment, and the seal is unmistakable. The Ashwood crest.

To Her Grace,

Katherine, Duchess Presumptive of Ashwood,

It would please me to receive you this evening at seven o’clock for a private supper at Vine Court.

I trust you will arrive alone, as the occasion is of a personal and familial nature. Your discretion, as ever, is both expected and appreciated.

Supper shall be served promptly.

Anna Storm

The Dowager Duchess of Ashwood

I fold it once and set it atop the table.

“Nora,” I say.

She looks up from mending my gloves in the corner.

“Ma’am?”

“I’ll need the blue brocade for tonight. And the small jade earrings.

“Yes, Your Grace.” She smooths her apron and rises.

I pause, then add, “And bring Mrs. Grange up from the kitchens. I wish to prepare something.”

Nora tilts her head, puzzled. “For supper?”

“As a gift. Something simple.”

“Yes, Duchess.”

Mrs. Grange arrives twenty minutes later, flour-dusted and stiff-backed, and a wooden spoon clutched in her right hand like a sceptre.

“You wished to speak to me, Your Grace?”

“Yes. I would like to have a small parcel prepared for the Dowager Duchess this evening. They are pastries from China.”

Mrs. Grange’s brows rise. “Jam tarts? Shortbread?”

“No.” I rise and cross to the cupboard, unlocking a tin from my private stores. Inside, wrapped in muslin, are the remnants of a rare shipment: preserved lotus paste, salted duck yolks, and dried orange peel.

“I’ll need flour. Lard. Golden syrup, if any remains.”

Mrs. Grange eyes the ingredients with suspicion. “And what sort of pastry would this be, exactly?”

Nora clears her throat softly. “They’re mooncakes. Her Grace taught me once. From China. For the Mid-Autumn Festival.”

Mrs. Grange’s expression pinches. “Seems heavy for a supper gift. Foreign, too.”

“They’re meant to be shared,” I reply. “Symbolic. Meant to honour family and offer unity. ”

Mrs. Grange gives a short nod. “Very well. The lard is fresh. The syrup’s nearly crystallised but still serviceable. I’ll not be carving any of your eastern symbols into it, though. The Dowager Duchess will have a fit.”

“I’ll carve the moulds myself,” I say.

Mrs. Grange sniffs. “Suit yourself.”

She turns to leave, then pauses. “They’ll be done before five. Nora will have to wrap them.”

“Of course.”

When the door closes, Nora watches me carefully.

“You’re sure, ma’am?” she asks. “It is a bold thing.”

“It’s a true thing,” I answer.

Nora smiles and bows her head. “I’ll ready the box.”

By dusk, I will walk into the Dowager’s parlour not with an apology, but with something older than her lineage. Something made by my hands. And if she intends to remind me of where I stand, then I will remind her of where I came from.

∞∞∞

The streets of Ashwood narrow as we approach Vine Court. Gaslight catches in the mist, and the townhouse becomes illuminated in amber. The windows are lit, but none are open.

Isaac reins in the horses with a pull. He doesn’t speak at first. Then he glances toward me through the half-glass of the carriage door.

“I’ll not be far away,” he says. “I will collect His Grace and then return later.”

I nod. “Thank you, Isaac.”

He steps down and opens the door. I take his hand and descend with an arm curved protectively around a small box, now wrapped in cloth and tied with ribbon. Inside are four imperfect, golden, still-warm, mooncakes.

The house waits, dark-bricked and silent as I near the entrance with Issac.

Before I can lift the knocker, the door opens.

The Dowager stands in the threshold, her lips painted deep carmine, her gown the colour of old wine. Crimson jewels hang from her ears and around her neck.

My back automatically straightens.

She greets me with an elegant smile. Her eyes linger just a moment before she leads me inside.

“My dear Katherine,” she says. “So very prompt.”

I incline my head. “Dowager Duchess.”

She steps aside without offering her hand. “Come in, come in. The hour waits for no one.”

As I cross the threshold, with mooncakes in my hands—offered, without being extended. Visible.

The Dowager’s eyes roam over me .

She does not acknowledge the box. Not a word.

It is as if I’m carrying nothing at all.

My plan remains as I tighten my grip, keeping the ribbon-wrapped parcel steady in my palms.

I will give it to her later, after supper.

The door shuts softly behind me.

The dining room glows warmly by candlelight. The Dowager’s home is impeccable, made with rich tapestries and polished wood floors.

There are only a few guests tonight: a man in a finely tailored coat and a woman whose features remind me of myself. They exchange quiet pleasantries.

“Your Grace,” the man says, bowing slightly. “Lord Ernest Weatherby at your service. I trust Ashwood finds you well?”

“As well as can be expected,” I force a smile. “These troubling times test even the strongest.”

The woman offers a nod. Her voice is gentle but she does not offer me her name.

How rude.

“It’s a delicate balance, maintaining appearances,” the woman says.

I glance at the Dowager, who throws up a hand and laughs. “Appearances are the currency of power in Ashwood. Never underestimate their value.”

The Dowager sits beside me.

“So, my dear,” she says, lightly touching my hand, “tell me, how do you find your new role? It must weigh heavily.”

I give her careful consideration before responding. “It is… an honour, though one I am still learning to bear.”

She smiles knowingly. “Learning is half the battle.”

Wine arrives first and I sip. It has a rich and sweet flavour.

The first course arrives — a plate of creamed leeks and smoked trout. The trout flakes easily, oily and rich, leaving a lingering bitterness on my tongue.

Lord Ernest raises his glass. “To Ashwood — may it endure.”

The Dowager’s eyes meet mine. She smiles as she shares his toast. “Endurance is all we have left.”

The second course follows quickly: braised pigeon and roasted root vegetables, glazed with a dark red wine jus. The meat is tender, faintly bloody. I eat slowly, measuring my words as carefully as each bite, with the box of mooncakes still resting in my lap.

Dessert arrives on multiple plates—sugared fruit and spiced cream.

Then the man in the tailored coat rises.

“Pardon me,” he says, “but some matters require… less formality.”

He begins to unbutton his coat, revealing a scar along his collarbone. The woman stands too, her gown slipping down just so.

I jerk upwards from my chair, startled, skin prickling with unease.

“My lord—”

The Dowager’s smile deepens.

“Quite the performance, isn’t it?” she murmurs. “Why don’t you stay? Nobody will hurt you if you stay…”

Their movements become a silent dance—slow, deliberate, rehearsed. Hands brushing, lips parting in barely concealed desire.

The box becomes crumpled in my lap as I sit frozen, with my scalp burning with shame.

I-I do not understand what is happening…