A voice. It was low and muffled. Close.
She stiffened, glancing at the door that connected her office to Lord Greymane’s study. Another voice followed, and her pulse quickened. The papers on her desk slid as she stood too quickly, knocking a book to the floor. It hit with a heavy thud, but the voices continued, oblivious.
Biting her lip, she carefully stepped over the fallen book, creeping toward the connecting door. Every instinct screamed at her to ignore it, to go back to her desk, but her feet betrayed her, drawing her closer.
Another step. Then another, and she pressed her ear against the wood.
“It’s been taken care of, Mother.”
Caelith.His bored tone carried easily through the door as if the subject of conversation wasn’t important enough to warrant concern.
Lady Isolde’s response was harsh with irritation. “Caelith, this isn’t like the other times.”
Emmaline’s stomach clenched.Other times?
Lady Isolde sighed. “A missing Lady of the Vale will be more difficult to sweep under the rug than your other… distractions.”
Emmaline bit her lip so hard she nearly drew blood.Other distractions?
No. That wasn’t—that couldn’t be what she meant. It had to mean something else. But then she remembered that night. The blood. Thebody. And the way neither Caelith nor Deyric had looked particularly disturbed.
Her fingers dug into the wood of the door, breath shallow.
“At least she’s gone, I suppose,” Lady Isolde continued, her voice shifting to something thoughtful. “If the witch you mentioned truly did clean the scene, this mistake might be easier to keep quiet than the others.”
Ursula.
Caelith exhaled impatiently. “This one was not my fault, Mother. The cow tripped and killed herself. And the others—” He hesitated. “Well, they were simply misunderstandings.”
Silence stretched between them before he added, “Really. I’m the victim here more than anyone else.”
Misunderstandings?
A chill ran down Emmaline’s spine, Margo’s warning flashing through her mind, how he takes what isn’t given. That had to mean something else. It had to.Caelith would never—
A chair scraped against the floor, the abrupt sound making her jolt.
“Assuredly, my dear,” Lady Isolde murmured.
Emmaline imagined her standing now, pressing out the pristine folds of whatever gown she was wearing, speaking as if they were discussing the weather rather than the murder of a noblewoman.
“And the servants who saw it? Deyric and the one who called the witch. You’re sure they will stay silent?”
Emmaline held her breath.
Caelith’s response came without hesitation. “Yes, Mother. Deyric is loyal. We’re funding his sister’s very expensive education at the School of Light, after all.”
Emmaline’s stomach churned.
“Another one of your misunderstandings, if I remember correctly.” Her tone suggested she had been cleaning up his messes for years. “And the other one? She seems to have an unhealthy fixation on you, my dear. I don’t like it.”
Emmaline gasped, jerking back from the door, nearly stumbling over the book she had knocked over earlier.
She—they were talking about her. She raised both hands against her mouth, missing whatever Caelith said in response. For a single, horrible moment, fear tangled with something dangerously close to doubt. She shoved it down, scrambling to put her ear back against the door.
Just in time to hear Caelith’s smooth, unbothered voice. “Leave her to me, Mother. Everything will be fine.”
Emmaline swallowed. Was he defending her? Standing up to his mother on her behalf? Or was he simply handling her like another problem to be swept away?
