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King Bartholomew laid his sword on Rowan’s shoulder and spoke, his voice strong and masterful. “By the power vested in me, I knight thee, Rowan Dietrich. Rise, Sir Rowan, and serve your king and kingdom with honor and courage.”
As Rowan stood, the king placed his hand on Rowan’s shoulder and said, “Repeat after me. I, Rowan Dietrich, solemnly do swear to serve my king and kingdom, crush the enemies of the crown, and uphold the honor of knighthood. I shall be loyal to my word, king, and country until death parts us.”
Rowan repeated the oath, his voice filled with conviction. King Bartholomew smiled tightly and finally said, “Welcome to the Order of the Knights, Sir Rowan. May your sword always be sharp and your heart be filled with courage to serve the realm.”
The king moved on to the next soldier, his sword already touching the man’s bloodied shoulder. He had no time for sentimentality or ceremony, his mind only focusing on the next step in his plan.
He has no time or no room for love.
Only for blood and victory.
Coursers whinnied and stomped, their armor and trappings bloodied from the fight. Men tended to the wounded, binding the injuries and administering what little medicine they had. Rowan could see the defeated enemy soldiers guarded by the king’s men. Hatred and fear filled their dirty faces.
They had good reason to be afraid. King Bartholomew rarely left survivors.
Rowan peered at the king, who gave him a backward glance—a warning glance—before moving on to the next soldier. He should have been filled with pride, yet a dark foreboding twisted in him. He glanced at the battlefield, staring at his banner whipping against a red-and-gold horizon: the gray wolf of House Dietrich.
Why, Rowan inwardly despaired, does this feel so much like the beginning of the end?
Nine
The following evening, Blanchette stood before her chamber’s looking glass as Governess Agnes fastened the ties of her dress. The silk shimmered, a deep sapphire with a lattice of gold threads and embroidered vines. Delicate lace and small woven roses decorated the bodice.
Who is that girl? she wondered, assessing herself as if meeting a stranger. She looked like an impostor of her former self. All the lines and angles appeared correct, but on deeper inspection, they rang false. She still held herself with a proud and regal posture—her shoulders elegantly rolled back, her back straight as an arrow, her chin tipped upward—yet her skin had lost its lively flush, and her eyes were absent of their usual brightness. They looked tired too. And why not? She still cried herself to sleep most nights.
Who am I?
She lifted a hand to the scar on her cheek and traced the ridge. In her gaze she saw the horrors from which she’d never recover. A dark truth lurked in their depths, a new awareness and knowledge that filtered her every glance.
She’d told Governess Agnes all about the chapel and rookery—about the letter she’d sent to her sister, Isadora, and the irrational guilt that filled her afterward.
“The world isn’t so black and white as the Good Book might have us believe,” Governess Agnes had said while she helped Blanchette step into her dress. “And perhaps the Black Wolf isn’t as well… black… as he seems.”
A Gray Wolf, Blanchette had thought, like the banner his father had flown.
That brought her thoughts full circle. “My father’s eyes,” Blanchette spoke to her reflection in the looking glass. Governess Agnes’s hands paused in midair. She stepped beside Blanchette and wrapped her arm around her. Standing together, side by side, they studied their reflections as if looking for some epiphany. Or a secret that could set things right again.
“Yes, my dear,” Governess Agnes said through a smile that flashed her gapped teeth. “Your father was regally handsome if nothing else, and you do have his eyes.”
“Is… is that all I have?”
Governess Agnes ran her fingers through Blanchette’s long curls. The movements gently pulled at her scalp in a rhythmic, soothing way. They reminded Blanchette of her dream in the chapel… of fingers running through her hair in a sweet caress.
Had it been a dream?
It was a strange thing—feeling so homesick while at her home.
Home isn’t a place or a castle or even a kingdom, she inwardly mused. Home was my family.
“You have your father’s eyes. Perhaps his fair skin too,” she continued in a slow, careful voice. “You have your mother’s enchanting hair and smile, certainly. But most important, you inherited this from her.” She placed her palm against the beat of Blanchette’s heart.
Blanchette smoothed down the front of her dress, her blue gaze darting from her own to Governess Agnes’s. Finally, Governess Agnes set the wimple over Blanchette’s gold curls and artfully adjusted the flowing silk. Delicate woven roses adorned the fabric, which was inlaid with small pears and gold silk.
“Why would he want to sup with him?”
Men like Rowan Dietrich rarely did anything without measured incentive. Usually one of personal gain. Edrick had delivered the summons that morning. Blanchette’s thoughts traveled to when Rowan had taken her into the heart of her city. She’d never felt so connected to Norland than when she knelt before those two children and beheld the suffering in their eyes.
She recalled the letter she’d sent, too, and the help that may or may not be coming.
