Page 72 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Genefra barked out a laugh. “She is a clever one. Do you pamper your duke as well?”

Kora smiled. “Only when he is not being sour and stingy.”

“Dukes are always sour and stingy,” Seraphine murmured, stirring her tea without glancing up. “It is how one knows they are dukes.”

“Moons help us, it is how one knows they are men,” Genefra corrected, delighted. Then, without warning, she turned to Kora and said, loud enough to rattle the porcelain, “Tell us. Has he stopped your bleeding yet?”

A maid nearby nearly dropped her tray.

“I did not bleed for ten years after my wedding night,” Genefra continued, entirely oblivious to Kora’s shock. “Nine children in a decade. The moons had to cork me like a wine bottle, or I would have filled the duchy myself.”

Kora set down her cup before she risked breaking it. “I have been married barely three months. If the moons are already counting children, they are much quicker than I am.” The answer slid neatly past the question, though warmth climbed her neck all the same.

Genefra slapped her knee. “Better the moons mind your coffers than your bed anyway.”

Seraphine’s lips curved slightly. “And affection?” She narrowed her eyes. “Does he meet you with warmth… or duty alone?”

Kora straightened, careful not to rush. She understood plainly enough that Seraphine was probing the nature of her marriage. “I am content,” she said, though her heart had begun to hammer. “We hold regard for one another.”

“Regard,” Seraphine echoed, tasting the word. “A strong foundation, certainly. But foundations alone do not make a dwelling. Some men look elsewhere when the walls are not to their liking.”

Genefra waved a sugared hand. “Moons above, men build wherever they find timber to nail. It is their nature. No sense wasting good years wondering where they have wandered. Once children arrive, you will think of little else.”

Seraphine looked faintly irritated by the digression.

Kora, however, felt suddenly grateful for the chaos Genefra left in her wake. “Nine is a formidable number,” she said, steering the conversation back to safer ground.

“Eight daughters at that,” Genefra declared, thumping her chest. “A lineage even Ernst cannot drink or gamble away. And alliances besides. Every one a bargain well struck. Our youngest, Violleta—you’ve surely heard—will be Empress one day. She is to wed Prince Rotger at the start of court season. Imagine it. My blood seated where all Oraith must bow.”

“It must be strange,” Kora said, “to see one’s children leave and go so far.”

Genefra snorted. “Nonsense. My children stand where they belong, ensuring the name derStrom is spoken from Netherfen Hallows to Vaelstrom.” She took a pleased sip. “Besides, my halls are never empty. There is always a guest, a rumor, or one of Ernst’s bastards to trip over.”

Kora smiled politely. It was impossible to tell whether Genefra’s triumph was genuine or simply loud enough to drown out the life she had been made to endure.

“Have you heard the latest?” Genefra asked, already moving on. She reached for the cake, scattering crumbs. “Lady Ansel of Arkanstad has taken her husband’s falconer to bed. Or perhaps her sister’s falcon. Rumor cannot decide which. Either way, feathers everywhere.”

The maids hid their smiles, and Kora found herself laughing too.

But when the laughter faded, she became keenly aware that Seraphine’s attention had remained intently on her. There was nothing overtly cruel in it. Only quiet curiosity—the way a jeweler studies a gemstone, not to admire its brilliance, but to understand where it might crack.

Chapter 36

Koraleise

“Excellent sport,” Ernst announced before anyone else could speak, claiming the moment as they took their places at the table. “We brought down two pheasants, a hare, a stag, and,” he added with a short bark of laughter, “only one near mishap. Not poor work for half a day’s ride.”

Genefra tore a loaf in half and reached for the butter, paying her husband little mind as the servants set down the last dishes.

“Near mishap?” Seraphine asked, lifting her wine. Her slender fingers rested lightly on the stem as she drank, lips brushing the rim as though tasting a secret. “What occurred?”

“A stray arrow,” Duncan said evenly, cutting Ernst off before his account could swell. “One of the men loosed too soon. It passed close, but no harm came of it.”

Kora turned to him at once, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “You?”

Duncan inclined his head.

He looked calm, almost dismissive. But the harm that might have been struck Kora like an arrow to the chest. Her mind supplied it too easily: the hiss of an arrow through the trees, the violent jolt of impact, Duncan falling from the saddle, blood darkening his cloak. “You were almost…” She set her fork down before it slipped from her fingers. “Are you hurt?”