“He was barely more than a boy,” the housekeeper went on, “fresh from Bayforth. Dún Maebh was his first posting. He took Alton with him.” She didn’t look at Aoife as she spoke; her eyes were fixed on the grey sky outside the window.
“Rioters set fire to the building they were in. They climbed out of a window onto the next roof, but the fire spread too fast. The roof they were on collapsed, trapping Edward inside.”
Aoife’s hand flew to her mouth. The origin of Halverton’s scars, Alton’s injuries becoming all too clear.
“Alton near tore his hands to shreds dragging Edwa—Lord Halverton out.”
Aoife said nothing. That explained a great deal: their bond, the quiet loyalty. Once you pulled a man from a fire, there was no going back.
“Alton saved him,” Mrs Harrow continued, “but by then the rioters were waiting outside. Alton tried to reason with them, but they didn’t want to listen. They beat him nearly senseless. Broke his hand beyond repair. It was only the reinforcements that saved them.”
It was strange to hear this account of the day. The version she’d been taught centred on the hundreds of Morrans who had been cut down when reinforcements arrived. The Eldrossi didn’t talk about their losses, didn’t show weakness. Messengers had brought word of the rioters, struck down by the might of the empire, but no details. The thatched roofs had been rebuilt. The burn marks on a few of the buildings were the only sign that there had been any altercation there. It was an embarrassment for the Eldrossi Empire that the rebels had come so close. They had wiped almost all record of it. All that was left were the whispers the Morrans spoke in secret.
“They needed someone to blame for the empire’s failure to defend the outpost.”
No wonder they had hidden Lord Halverton away, the face of their shame.
“His father sent me and a few of the others to get things ready. When Edward arrived, he was different. Quieter. Harder. I often think, how things might have been different if it weren’t for that day.”
Mrs Harrow seemed to be getting to the end of her story, but there were still questions Aoife needed answers to. “What about Florence?” she asked in a rush before she could think better of it.
Mrs Harrow sighed.
“He’d poured his whole self into shaping a future in which she’d shine. He’d been promised a posting abroad after they were married. But when he was demoted to Prefect of Briartha… she vanished. Left before the bandages were removed. She wanted the rising man, not the fallen one. It changes a man, discovering that the life he thought was promised was an illusion. He’s never tried again, didn’t risk it, not until now, not until you.”
Mrs Harrow meant it as a compliment, that Aoife was the first person he’d found worthy of his trust. But she didn’t know about the oath. She didn’t know that Halverton wasn’t risking anything.
“So you see,” Mrs Harrow said gently, “he needs someone who can understand him and support him. He’s still ambitious, and with you at his side, I think he might become the man I’ve always known he could be.”
Aoife considered this. She knew all about his ambitions, but her place in them was only just becoming clear.
“What about his family?”
Mrs Harrow shook her head. “His mother said it would’ve been better if he’d died that day. His father was the one who arranged this posting to spare the family embarrassment. I don’t think he’s seen any of them since, and I’ve never seen a single letter.”
The words lingered.
Aoife walked beside her in silence, the echo of footsteps and distant rain filling the space between them.
Halverton had trapped her here with the same cruel precision he used to manage every life under his roof. And nowshe saw the shape beneath it: the loneliness, the rejection, the constant need to prove himself.
But pity, she reminded herself, was a dangerous thing.
Aoife thanked Mrs Harrow for sharing what she had. Armed with this new understanding, she went in search of Lord Halverton.
She found him in his study, the door half open. He sat behind his desk, eyes closed, dictating as Alton wrote; his tone was calm civility edged with hostility. A glass of wine stood beside him, half-empty.
She hesitated on the threshold, then knocked softly.
Halverton opened his eyes and gestured for her to sit without a word. He continued dictating as if she weren’t there.
Aoife took the seat opposite him and waited, taking the opportunity to look around properly now she wasn’t afraid of being caught. Halverton sat behind his heavy oak desk, the pair of ledgers to one side. Maps of the county covered the walls, lines marking quotas and boundaries, the land reduced to numbers. A decanter sat within easy reach, half-empty already. The air smelt of ink and wine, the curtains drawn to control the light.
Alton wrote quickly and precisely with his left hand. Was he naturally left-handed, or had he taught himself to be after his right hand was injured?
After several minutes, Halverton stopped speaking. “That will do, Alton.”
Alton returned the quill to its place beside the inkpot, bowed slightly, and left the room.
