I requested the aid of a Caster, something I admit I still require.
Matters in Northglen had grown worse. The king had dispatched soldiers, though no one had yet heard confirmation of arrest. Baron imagined howhewould react if soldiers arrived at his door, and he did not find the options pleasant. Widow Morton could do great damage—not only to the military force, but to every Caster left to face the king’s wrath in the aftermath.
Perhaps the princess could mitigate that. Perhaps it was treason for him to even consider leveraging a correspondence with her to his own personal benefit. Then again, she asked for help. Could they help each other? Could a relationship between a royal and a Caster ever be that innocent?
“You’ll wear grooves in the cup,” Leon said.
Baron realized he was still stirring. He set the spoon aside. The tea did little to ease his thoughts; after all, it was only leaf and lemon.
Leon crushed garlic and stripped herbs. He kneaded pasta dough.
The princess had said other things. Things likecharming and good-hearted.Likethe man behind the mark.Things that stirred Baron’s mind the way he’d stirred tea and left it a hopeless whirlpool of thoughts chasing feelings.
She’d written his name correctly first, then addedBaron. Proper, then personal. He’d never imagined a princess would call him Baron.
He’d never imagined a princess would write. He was a Caster. A magic user. A thing not to be trusted.
Both traits originated in you. Charming and good-hearted.
Baron laughed to himself; she didn’t even know him.
“You’re being creepy, Baron,” grumbled Leon. Tasting his soup, he threw in another clove of garlic.
“Are you properly aerating your dough?” Baron asked.
Leon stiffened. Then he narrowed his eyes as if sizing up a mouse. “It’s aerating flour, and why?”
“The palace cook wants to know.”
At once, the boy brightened. “Yes! Tell her to teach me more secrets.”
“You’re not at all concerned I’m in correspondence with the palace kitchen?”
“While you’re at it, get me one of their weekly menus in writing. I want to see what they serve in that place, and I mean when the whole court isn’t there.”
Shaking his head, Baron lifted his teacup only to find it had gone cold.
Amelia tapped at the door to inform him Mr. Huxley required a tour of the hamlet, so with reluctance, Baron prepared himself for another day of entertaining the court jester. Leon made him wait fifteen minutes for the soup to be ready.
“It’s not like Mr. Peachy can get any crankier with a bit of a wait,” the boy said.
Baron wasn’t so sure.
As soon as Baron explained the purpose of bringing soup along on a hamlet tour, Huxley disparaged the notion.
“More coddling,” he said. “There will be no estate funds spent on this widow, I hope you’re aware.”
“In turn,” Baron said, “I hope you’re aware a nobleman who does not care for those on his lands cannot call himself noble at all.”
Even now, he could hear his father’s voice clearly, as if the man sat beside him in the carriage.In court, we represent not just the interests of our own house but of every person we oversee, every individual given to our care. We are a collection of voices that represent an entire kingdom.
He’d wanted Baron to be the voice for magic. Baron touched his pocket, feeling a concealed letter, a silent offer.
Huxley sniffed but otherwise fell silent. Though Baron usually walked the short distance, the steward insisted on taking a carriage, since his weak leg favored neither walking nor riding. At least that made transporting the soup easy.
The hamlet had a simple layout, just a collection of houses around a central well. The largest house belonged to Mrs. Caldwell, a would-be leader in the community who took it upon herself to care for her neighbors. Baron introduced Huxley to her, then excused himself to see to Widow Fletcher, ignoring Huxley’s scowl.
Widow Fletcher kept a small, well-tended house at the hamlet’s edge. After Baron knocked and admitted himself, she stood to greet him, but she trembled in every limb, so Baron ordered her to bed and ladled soup, waving off her protests.
