Her mind worked the problem. Fergus’s master was infamously proud, prone to insult, and even more prone to revenge. Convincing him to do anything for Lady Isolde would be like convincing a cat to take a bath. But she had to try.
“You’re locked in contract, so it doesn’t matter what you or your Master wants.” She paused. “But I’ll sweeten the deal anyway.”
“What could you offer…” Fergus started, before she continued unhindered.
“I’ll give you a piece of information—something your Master can use to embarrass Lady Isolde just as much as she humiliated his mistress.”
“And what could you possibly have on her?”
Emmaline smirked, tapping her pen idly against the desk. “Fergus, please. I’m a trusted member of the household. And you know howthese Lords and Ladies are—speaking freely, thinking we’re nothing more than furniture, never once considering who’s listening.” She sighed, all weary martyrdom. “Lady Isolde still doesn’t know my name. She called me Bremmaline or something just as ridiculous earlier today.”
Fergus chuckled. “She didn’t.” Then he went quiet.
Emmaline held her breath, waiting, hoping she’d dangled the right bait.
Finally, he coughed. “All right, dear. I think I can sell that to my master. You swear you’ll follow through?”
“I’ll give you something that’ll make Lady Isolde hide for a week. I swear it.” She checked ice sculptures off her list with a satisfied flick of her wrist. “But Fergus—it has to wait until after the ball. Is that acceptable?”
Another long pause.
Then, a thoughtful, “Hmmm…”
“Let her think she’s won this round,” Emmaline murmured, lowering her voice like she was letting him in on a secret. “Then hit her after the high of the ball. The fall will sting so much worse that way.”
He whistled low. “You’re far more devious than I ever gave you credit for. And willing to throw your own Lady under a Glider.” His tone shifted into something silkier, intrigued. “I like it.”
Emmaline blinked.Wait a minute.
“Ah, well,” she hedged, suddenly uncomfortable. “It’s not like you know me, so…”
“So let’s change that.”
Shechoked. “What?”
First Deyric, and now Fergus? What was going on today? Did murder make one more attractive? Or was it something else? Could they tell she was destined for something greater?
“Thank you, but no,” she said flatly. “I’m not available.”
“Really?” He sounded surprised.
“Yes, now I have to go.” She lowered the speak-easy, ready to end the call.
“Very well.” The man exhaled low and slow. “We’ll talk again after the solstice.”
“Whatever,” she muttered before switching the speak-easy off.
The apprentices to Master Artists and other high-ranking magical trades were little better than Lords and Ladies, in Emmaline’s opinion—puffed-up, self-important, and always convinced of their own brilliance.
She stretched, arching her back as she rose from her small desk, careful not to snag her dress on the table’s worn-down wood finish. The last thing she needed was to ruin her mother’s gown on a splinter.
Fergus was probably still puzzling over why someone who had chosen the meticulous world of numbers and contracts over a more prestigious apprenticeship had so easily turned him down. A sly grin slipped across her face. Let him wonder.
Business was simple. You applied pressure to the right places, offered the right incentives, and the situation bent accordingly. But Caelith wasn’t so easy. And no matter how carefully she planned, she couldn’t seem to make him see her.
The small flicker of satisfaction curdled as she glanced at the window. The light was fading, and she was running out of time.
Her foot tapped softly against the floor. He usually checked in with his mother before leaving for the night. It was an exhausting habit, she imagined, but one that gave her a slim opportunity. If she timed it right, she could intercept him as he exited the Lady’s private salon. Isolde liked to lounge each evening, flipping through the latest city gossip rags over a crystal goblet of moonfire nectar.
