That was all he needed to launch into tale after tale of his prowess in hunting. Aoife made appreciative noises at the right moments, but mostly tuned him out.
Halverton had finished telling her of a time he shot a wolf when the butler entered carrying a silver tray. On it lay a thick cream envelope, sealed with wax.
Halverton slit it open with a knife and read, his mouth hardening as his eyes moved over the page. He read it again, slower, then folded it into precise quarters and set it beside his plate.
He rose, crossed to the sideboard, and poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter. The red liquid caught the light like blood.
He took his seat again.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Nothing unexpected,” he said.
“From the lords?”
He nodded. “Their conclusions. The quotas are unchanged.”
It had been a faint hope that the quotas might be reduced, but Aoife felt the disappointment all the same.
“I am already doing everything I can,” he said, voice tightening. “I do not know what more they expect.”
“What happens if you don’t meet them?” she asked.
“There will be an official reprimand,” he said. “It will damage my standing. My father will hear of it, and that will make it harder still to regain his favour. Another failure I will have to erase. And if that happens, I will be stuck here indefinitely.”
He stared at the contents of his glass.
“They set impossible targets and then call us failures for not achieving them.” He finished the wine in one swallow and stood. “I am afraid I must attend to this.”
As he crossed the room, he placed a hand on her shoulder. “I am pleased you did not try to resurrect the conversation of a few nights ago. I assure you, I know what I am doing.”
With that, he left the room.
Aoife sat in silence. The food on her plate went cold. She prodded it with her fork, unable to eat another bite. The waste made her insides contract.
Her thoughts drifted to the ledger, the number she’d changed. Would he notice? Maybe. But she wouldn’t lose sleep over it. If one missing barrel was enough to ruin his precious standing, then that was a small price. The consequences of his failure were nothing compared to the consequences of his success.
Aoife pushed back her chair and stood. She crossed to the window, staring out at the drenched lawn, trying to steady the churn of anger and fear in her chest.
A floorboard creaked behind her.
She turned.
Mrs Harrow was standing by the table.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Aoife said.
“His lordship asked me to check on you.” Mrs Harrow explained. “I must say you do look troubled, miss.”
Aoife hesitated. “I’m fine.”
Mrs Harrow’s gaze dipped to the clenched fist at Aoife’s side. “No. You’re not.”
Aoife swallowed. “It’s nothing.”
Mrs Harrow lifted her chin, the faintest hint of steel entering her voice. “Don’t make light of your worry, miss. Or his.”
Aoife frowned. “His? He’s upset about a letter.”
