Then, the sound of a heavy wooden door creaked open.
“They’re here.” Lord Greymane’s voice.
“Perhaps it’d be best if you found yourself somewhere else, Caelith. No need to make this easier for those hopped-up—” Lady Isolde broke off, but the disdain in her voice filled in the missing insult well enough.
“Yes, Mother.” Footsteps retreated, fading into the distance.
A brief silence. Then—
“One of these days, he’s—” Lord Greymane started.
Lady Isolde cut him off. “He’ll marry a woman who will keep him in line and out of trouble.” There was a pause, then she continued. “If we’re lucky, Lord Dormir will agree to the marriage contract I proposed, and we can announce it at the solstice ball.”
Emmaline’s breath stilled.
“If you’re the one negotiating, I have no doubt Caelith will be married to the Lady of your choice by the end of the month.”
Emmaline snorted under her breath. He wasn’t wrong. Lady Isolde had a talent for bending people to her will, especially those within her social circle. When she wanted something, she got it.
“I had hoped for an Allistair… but alas.” Silence stretched, then, “Where is the Patrol going first?”
The sound of Lord Greymane settling into his favorite chair creaked through the door. “They want to speak with the staff first. Apparently, they caught the scent of some magic they weren’t expecting out near the residence he uses for… you know.”
Lady Isolde hummed. “Really? Well, that is interesting.”
Emmaline’s stomach dropped. “Shite!” She scrambled back from the door.
If the Patrol was sniffing around for magic—her magic—they could compare whatever they found to the traces that remained on her. If they saw her, they would know she had been there.
She needed to get out.Now.
Heart pounding into her ribs, she moved toward the door, ready to bolt. Then she froze.
“Calm down!” she whispered harshly to herself, hands gripping her dress. “You’ll draw attention!”
Forcing a slow breath through her nose, she pivoted and rushed back to her desk. With quick, practiced movements, she grabbeda sheaf of papers, stacking them neatly to maintain the illusion of order.
“Yes, yes, just taking these contracts out for signature,” she muttered, voice tight.
The walls were closing in. She needed to disappear, at least for a little while. Steeling herself, Emmaline squared her shoulders, willed her expression into something neutral, and stepped into the hallway.
The castle was quieter than usual, the midday lull settling over its stone corridors, but every sound felt too loud. Her own footsteps, the rustling of papers in her arms, the distant murmur of conversations behind closed doors. She kept her pace even, purposeful, doing her best impression of someone who had absolutely nothing to hide.
Then, there were voices—unfamiliar ones.
She barely caught the cadence of clipped, professional tones before her body reacted on instinct. Turning, she veered down a side corridor.
Patrol officers. They were already questioning the staff. Sweat gathered on her brow as she hurried along the unfamiliar passageway. Had she just circled back toward the west wing? She wasn’t sure. She had spent so much time avoiding attention in the past few years that she rarely strayed beyond her usual routes.
The air thickened, carrying the distinct scents of yeast, smoke, and slow-roasted meat. Somewhere close, copper pots clattered, followed by the sharp reprimand of an overworked assistant.
The kitchens. She had wandered farther off course than she thought.
Voices rose ahead. “I’ve never met or even seen any Lady like you describe on these grounds.”
Emmaline froze, the unyielding stone of the wall biting into her back.
More footsteps. Louder now, coming from where she had just been.
