Margo turned, and the internal dining room door eased open as Caelith stepped inside, his cane tapping lightly against the floor. His hair—pale gold, perfectly combed back—caught the chandelier’s light like freshly struck coin. His coat, a deep midnight trimmed in silver, fit precisely with not a thread out of place, every detail meant to impress.
“My Lady.” Caelith crossed the room, lifting Margo’s hand without hesitation. His lips brushed her knuckles, a feather-light touch meant to disarm, not seduce. “It’s been too long.”
Margo’s fingers lingered in his for half a breath before she drew back, her voice gentle. “Far too long, my friend.”
Emmaline pressed her back harder against the stone wall of the cellar as she watched.
Caelith placed Margo’s hand on his arm, and together, they glided to the table like a dance they both remembered, Margo’s pale blue skirts whispering over the floor. The Lord’s face filled the projection for a moment, sharp cheekbones and that deceptively kind mouth filling the frame, before the view tilted back toward the dining room.
The table itself gleamed, polished stone bare except for a single candle flickering at its center. Caelith snapped his fingers, and the air shimmered, plates and platters blooming into existence—roasted meats still steaming, jeweled fruit glistening under sugared frost, pastry towers stacked high and dusted in gold leaf.
Margo clapped her hands, leaning into his side with a laugh.
“Only for you, sweet Margo.” His smile softened at the edges as he pulled out her chair, stepping smoothly behind her to guide her into the seat before taking the place directly across. The glow of the chandelier above shone in his hair again, turning it almost white in the flickering candlelight.
“He must’ve brought a crew in earlier to stage all this.” Ursula squinted at the feast glittering in the projection.
“Should we be concerned?” Aeren stepped closer.
Ursula shook her head, scanning the room again before cutting her gaze to Emmaline. “No. They’re gone. Only the players we accounted for are left.”
“We stick to the plan, then.” Emmaline did not look away from Margo and Caelith. “Just watch.”
“Well.” His cane settled beside his chair with a soft clink. “I must admit, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you again, Lady Margo. What’s it been—fifty years? Seventy?”
“Long enough.” Margo’s voice quivered, as though the numbers pained her. “I heard about Lady Allistair’s disappearance. People said you and she were... close.”
Caelith’s fingers drummed once on the tabletop, a single tap. “Ah.” He leaned back. “So you came all this way for gossip?”
“You know me better than that.” The warmth in her voice seemed genuine now. “We grew up together, Caelith. I know it’s been years, but I still care about what happens to you.”
Down in the cellar, Emmaline glanced at Ursula, both of them raising brows. “Does he actually love her?”
“It would explain a lot. How quickly he accepted the dinner invitation for one. How easily he swallowed the flimsy excuse.”
Aeren exhaled through her nose. “He doesn’t love her. Caelith only wants what he can’t have, and Lady Margo never let him have her.”
On the projection, the Lord’s expression eased into something almost sincere. “My apologies, my Lady. It’s been some time since I’ve entertained anyone of your caliber.” He exhaled. “There’s no Lady in all the Vale quite like you.”
Margo’s laugh rang sweet, her fingers grazing absently over the pendant around her neck. “Do you still grow frostberries here? I used to love them whenever I visited.” She gestured towards a crystal dish piled with sliced fruit.
“I’m not sure.” A faint crease formed between his brows. “I’ll have Deyric check the kitchen—or if not, I’ll send him to the fields to fetch the ripest ones we have.”
“That’s not necessary. But if there are any already here, I’d love a taste.”
Caelith stood, pushing his chair back, and the bow he gave her was graceful, almost courtly. “Anything for you.”
He turned, footsteps soft as he left the room, the door closing behind him without a sound.
Emmaline blew out a breath, shaking her head. “Watching him fawn over Margo is like watching a snake try to cuddle.”
“Shhhh.” Ursula cut her off. “This is the part that matters.”
In the projection, Margo shot to her feet, fingers disappearing into a hidden pocket sewn into the folds of her gown. The vial she pulled free caught the candlelight, liquid shimmering inside as she darted around the table, her slippers barely making a sound on the stone floor.
“Just a few drops, Margo,” Ursula muttered, as if the woman could hear her.
“Just a drop,” Margo murmured, but her hands trembled so badly that the vial clinked against the glass decanter as she tugged out the stopper. The cork slipped, bounced across the table, and in her scramble to catch it, half the potion sloshed into the wine.
