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Charlotte smoothed down the front of her borrowed dress. “Do you have an idea when my things will be delivered to my rooms?”
His grin vanished. “They weren’t delivered? They’ve been inspected and cleared.”
“I’m afraid not.” She wanted to complain about the ill-fitting dress she found in the wardrobe that she was forced to wear but couldn’t think of a way to bring it up politely. Instead, she settled on, “It’s most inconvenient.”
“Why don’t you have a drink and I’ll sort out your luggage,” he said, motioning to a drinks cabinet. He poured her a small glass of brandy and left with the promise to have her things delivered to her room.
Before long, she was seated at the table. Her host never arrived.
When servants delivered the bowls of soup, she hesitated to pick up her spoon. Should she wait?
No. If she were meant to wait, the meal would have been held.
At least the soup was warm. It was savory with vegetables and lentils. She wondered about the logistics of provisions for the fortress. They were perched on a mountain, so available pasture for farming and grazing animals was nil. The nearest town for trading was days away. How did Draven feed everyone? Was there a greenhouse hidden somewhere in the depths of the Aerie? Lentils would keep for ages, as would other dry goods. But other proteins? Did they hunt or was there a chicken coop hidden along with the greenhouse?
Building a fortress on top of a mountain and living there seemed immensely impractical. She read in the original settler accounts that they had machines that could create food from a raw protein mixture, as incredible as that sounded.
And a touch inedible.
Clearly, the people who built the fortress were not concerned about how to feed a literal army.
Such thoughts kept her too busy to worry about the prickly sensation of being watched.
“This place is odd,” she said to no one in particular. A human voice, even her own, was better than listening to the wind howl.
She tried to formulate what it was exactly that bothered her. The lighting. The lack of windows in her room. The outright hostility. Her host snubbing her.
The candlelight reflected against the darkness outside the windows. She couldn’t see the snowstorm, but occasionally a strong gust of wind rattled the glass. She was warm and safe—hopefully—while Luis and Miles were trudging down the mountain.
“They should have stayed,” she muttered.
The doors burst open and a tall pale man strode through dressed in a finely tailored coat of deep wine. Unbound, his pale, nearly white hair flew behind him. He exuded confidence bordering on arrogance.
Charlotte gasped. Him. The grumpy man who made her take his coat. Draven.
“The Aerie is very old,” Draven said, speaking as if they were in the midst of conversation and not as if he just strode into the room. “We still have working technology from the original colonists. Electricity creates a low hum. That is the source of your unease,” he said, answering a question she had yet to voice. He sat down at the head of the table and gave Charlotte a sharp-toothed grin. “You’ll grow used to it.”
“You—” she started.
“Indeed, me,” he agreed, turning his attention away from her. He picked up a spoon but made no motion to eat his soup. Instead, he spoke with his gaze fixed on the spoon. “I trust your companions have already left.”
“Yes, they have.”
“Marechal has some sense, at least. They’d be stuck here all winter if they stayed the night, and no one wants that.” Draven gave her a smile that could only be described as toothy.
“Now they’re out in this storm.” The journey up had been miserable. She could only imagine the journey down would be miserable and dangerous.
“No offense, Madame Wodehouse, but I want them out of my territory as soon as possible. I’d throw them off the mountain if need be,” he said in a perfectly amiable tone, like they were discussing the weather. “After you’ve finished your meal, we’ll discuss terms. I believe you owe me a kiss.”
Draven
Charlotte Wodehouse, his latest bride, positively glowed with satisfaction from a warm meal. Perhaps it was the candlelight on her delicate complexion or the way she flushed when she recognized him from Sweetwater, but Draven felt himself charmed, which was unfortunate. He was certain that she was a mistake. She was far too curious about her surroundings and, frustratingly, far too polite to ask.
She would explore, and that never ended well.
Better to get this over with as quickly as possible.
Draven gestured, and the door opened. Lemoine entered, carrying a wooden box. Smug satisfaction rolled off the woman as she set the box down on the table and opened the lid. Silver weapons designed to maim and kill his kind gleamed in the candlelight. Lemoine stood, her hands folded behind her back.
