“Well,” he said, pulling his gloves free and tucking them in his pocket, “we survived the evening. Only a few thousand left to go.”
“Four years.” Corvin groaned. Pulling one of the sofa pillows from its corner, he pressed his face to it and groaned louder. When Leon brought out a full tray of cucumber sandwiches he’d apparently stashed, the future lord baron inhaled three.
Around his own mouthful of sandwich, Leon said, “Baron, you should write Lady Her Highness and tell her to pick a better steward. Preferably one named ‘Guillaume Reeves.’”
Baron smiled faintly. “I doubt Her Royal Highness concerns herself with decisions of this nature.”
“It’s her fault we got stuck with one at all, so she owes us.”
Corvin tossed the pillow at him. Leon batted it away.
After swallowing, Corvin said, “Honestly, though, are you going to write her? Not about the steward. Just about ... things.”
Baron raised an eyebrow. “Why would I presume to do that?”
Never mind that his encounter with the princess kept sneaking back into his mind. She was aprincess. Even aspiring to be a full member of court, Baron had never pretended he would be on close terms with the royal house itself. It would have been enough simply to be an influence for good. Now ...
He bit into his own sandwich to avoid further thinking down that line.
The twins exchanged a look before Leon said, “Because she’s the only person you’ve Cast for since Dad died.”
Baron felt a shock. It hadn’t been that long since he’d used his magic, had it? He soothed the boys when they were sick. He made calming drinks for himself.
Though perhaps not in recent memory.
“I should see to the hamlet report,” he said at last. “With Huxley’s arrival, it’s been neglected.”
Leon shrugged, darting his hand out faster than Corvin’s to snatch the last sandwich. “Just thought you wanted a voice at court. It’ll be years before the skinny chicken has his, buteveryone sure listened when Lady Highness spoke. Even the king.”
Corvin blinked like he’d not thought of that.
Baron shook his head. “You are far too conniving for your own good, Leon. The sandwiches were delicious.”
“Of course they were. I made them.”
“Good night, boys.”
Baron ducked away and climbed the stairs to his study.
It didn’t take long to lose himself in work. A few men of the hamlet needed supplementary income; Baron could hire them during the upcoming autumn harvest. One family had lost their plough horse to disease and lacked the funds to replace it—a more difficult challenge to tackle. Baron could secure a new horse, but his father had always been careful in his assistance.
“The goal is to help,” he’d said, “but to do so without creating a dependence.”
Perhaps he could secure a discount for the family. He made a note to look into it.
As his quill scratched, his traitorous mind wondered what Princess Aria would think if hedidsend a letter. Would she be pleased to hear from him?
History did not incline him toward that option.
He rubbed his witch’s mark and shook his head, forcing his attention back to the matters at home.
72 days left
Aria split her life into days and nights. By night, she tested the limits of her curse. Could she sleep if she left the castle grounds? Could she speak of the curse at night? Could she recreate a tea with an effect like Baron’s but using herbs instead of magic? The result of every test was disappointing.
Since Widow Morton had used Aria’s blood for the curse, the princess had even tried an administration of leeches on her arm, hoping they might suck out whatever had been applied. Bloodletting was an outdated medical practice, rarely used by reasonable physicians, but she hoped perhaps Casters had discouraged the practice for their own secret purposes.
Like all the others, that experiment failed, leaving her with nothing but a sore arm and three fat, happy leeches.
