Page 20

Chapter 20

Rahk

I didn’t want you to die . . . because you are a person.

Those strange words rattle around in my brain. No matter how much I try to distract myself, they keep returning. Along with the image seared into my brain of her, eyes widened, face wreathed in panic, clutching the marble bust she’d used to break through my door.

She looked frightened. As if she genuinely cared whether I lived or died. And she took those injuries without hardly flinching—injuries that were supposed to be for me . She never should have been hurt. I never should have left myself so vulnerable .

I was wrong. Nat is not easy to understand. She must be telling the truth, that she saved me simply out of the goodness of her heart. There are precious few people I would willingly, without ulterior motive, put myself at risk for. Ash, his wife, their heir, and Pavi. That is it.

Does Nat just sacrifice her safety for anyone, then?

Why?

A question for another day. This day has more than enough trouble and work.

“Edvear,” I call through the door of my study when his familiar stride reaches my ears. He pokes his head through my broken door. The bodies are all disposed of, the blood mostly cleaned except for a few stray droplets on the spines of unfortunate books. “Procure the address of the Vandermore estate. I must pay a visit at once.”

Edvear tilts his head to one side. “The Vandermores? Isn’t that the wealthiest family in the city, save the queen?”

“The same. I will call on Lady Vandermore.”

“The mother? Or the heiress?”

“The heiress.”

“Whatever for?”

I smirk at Edvear’s bewilderment. “I think we can help each other, and in the process, give the queen a story.”

“Oh no, oh no,” groans Edvear. “I’m having flashbacks to working for Ash.”

That surprises a chuckle out of me. “Have no fear, my good steward. This hardly compares to his machinations.”

The Vandermore Manor has an enormous shrub trimmed into the shape of a rearing stallion at its entrance.

“The things I do because of Ash,” I mutter under my breath.

Since Edvear was gone and Nat was sick, I had to ask Mrs. Banks for advice on which human clothes I ought to wear.

“What statement do you wish to make?” she had asked.

“I wish to appear unthreatening,” I replied, thinking of how Nat had indicated that I often appear frightening.

She suggested a doublet of lavender, which I did not realize I even owned. I took her advice and wore what she selected, but now I do not feel like myself at all as I step out of the carriage. My shoulders are too wide, my stride too long, my feet too broad for a light shade of purple. The glamour on my wings shudders slightly, but I dare not let it slip. Least of all here.

I spare a singular, smug thought that the queen will be very put out at the failure of her covert attempt to be rid of me.

I am shown to a parlor, fixed with red upholstered chairs with armrests— curse it . These ones look particularly bad, with a very narrow seat and narrow arms. I might have to stand beside the mantle this entire meeting. Then, blessedly, I spot the singular bench, this one a striped, spring green.

The clock on the mantle chimes the hour as someone enters—the woman I observed speaking to the queen at the ball.

“Lord Rahk,” says the woman with only a hint of trepidation in her voice. “We are honored by your presence. And surprised, as we have not had the pleasure of being introduced.”

“Lady Duxbury Vandermore,” I reply, bowing. “Forgive me if I have blundered. I am still learning Harbright culture.”

“Consider it forgotten.” She takes a seat by the fireplace, then gestures for me to sit as well. Behind her, two manservants step into the room and stay by the door like guards.

I take the bench and survey the woman. She must be well into her fifties, a touch of gray streaking away from her temples into her bound-up hair. She holds herself erect, her spine straight, her hands carefully folded on her knees.

The only tell of her fear is that she keeps glancing at her manservants.

Apparently, the purple doublet didn’t do its full duty.

“I came to speak with Lady Vandermore,” I say when the silence stretches. “Is she here?”

“Ah, yes. All the young men wish to speak with her.”

That is a bitter tone. Is the lady angry I do not come for her hand? Or some other reason? I remember to return her smile lest I come across too brooding, as Ash always says. “Is she here?”

“I’m afraid not. She is out calling on one of her friends. But if it is marriage you are considering, I can tell you the process.”

I’d rather speak to the girl. I do not need a wife, neither do I want one. I have no intention of marrying Lady Vandermore. But if we broker a deal between us to feign courtship, where she will help me create a compelling story for the queen and I will return her stolen land to her, then we might be able to help each other.

“There is no shame in desiring to wed the young lady,” says Lady Duxbury Vandermore with a light chuckle that grates down my spine. “All the other young men do.”

She keeps putting me with all the young men, as if I am one of them, and not a fae from another world. Still, I am here. I might as well collect the information. “Please, do tell me the courtship process.”

“Are you familiar with it?”

“Is it similar to Aursailles?” I ask by way of answer.

“Oh dear me, no!” the lady laughs, and it reminds me of the way Pelarusa laughs when she is angling to get something she wants. “Here in Harbright, you sign a contract agreeing to pay the bride price and then she’s yours. It’s all arranged by the parents here.”

Arranged by the parents? A bride price? What nonsense. Does she think me a complete fool? I shift on the bench. “I would like to meet the lady first, before we sign any contracts.”

“Certainly! I can draw up the agreement and you can call again to meet her and sign it. As I said, she’s out now, but we can certainly arrange a meeting. I know she would be delighted to meet you.”

This plan of mine will not work. I’ll have to come up with some other way to get the queen to trust me. I thank the woman anyway.

When I leave, passing between the manservants, they let out a huge exhale. They think I’m out of earshot. I shake my head and stride down the hallway. I scent another human servant, this one female, as I head toward the door. I glance toward it and am just in time to watch a red-haired maid carry a basket of clean laundry upstairs.

I saw her from a distance once, leaving my own estate.

Mary . Nat’s sister.

I cannot remember if I knew she worked here. It should mean nothing. Yet my senses still tingle after that odd meeting with Lady Duxbury Vandermore, so this strikes me as a strange coincidence. I consider informing her of Nat’s condition, but I cannot bring myself to call out to her. My pride is still very wounded that Nat would ever have been in danger at my estate.

I climb into my carriage and set off once more for home. No, no, I set off for my estate. Not for home.

The first place I go when I return is my room. Nat is no longer in the bed. Fresh sheets have been laid and the bed made to look untouched. Quietly, I make my way to Nat’s door and ease it open. She sleeps soundly on her cot, a blanket pulled up to her chin, a cold cup of water beside her. Her short hair is mussed, her freckles standing out in the sunbeam that covers the upper half of her body. Her neck is mottled purple, and the bandage on the side of her face covers her healing wounds. She will have scars on her face. Because of me—because of my incompetence.

I will not be so foolish as to let my guard down again. Neither will I forget her bravery and devotion.

I leave, staying quiet to not disturb her sleep.