Gravel crunched beneath the carriage wheels as they entered the estate drive. Baron flicked the curtain aside and grimaced at the number of carriages already in line. Lord and Lady Bennett did not do things by halves; their daughter’s party would be no modest affair.
Lowering his cane, he adjusted his gloves once again. Rather than the black armband the twins wore for their residual mourning, Baron had opted for full black attire—pants, gloves, tailcoat. Leon had been quick to tell him he looked like a crow, one of the boy’s favorite insults.
Leon bounced his leg. “A court appearance, I get, but Baron’s not looking to get married, so going to a girl’s coming-of-age party is pointless.”
With a scowl, Corvin grabbed his twin’s knee. Leon bounced the other leg.
Baron said, “More important than the reasons for going would be the reasons for abstaining.That’swhat would be gossiped about. Though this is not a royal function, it’s still attended by members of court, and support of court society is support of the king himself. If I failed to make an appearance without theexcuse of mourning, everyone would connect me in their minds to Widow Morton.”
Both twins fell still at that. Baron wished they didn’t have to worry about such things—wishedhedidn’t have to worry about such things.
“Can I trust you both to be on your best behavior?”
“Yes,” said Corvin. Leon grimaced.
“If there’s any concern at all—any—find me at once.”
“If there’s time for that,” Leon muttered. Beside him, Corvin tensed, absently scratching the back of his wrist.
“I have full faith in you,” Baron said, nudging Corvin with his cane so the boy looked up. “Remember, their focus will be on me. I wear the brand.”
Things had been simpler when the boys could stay home, but after turning twelve and passing their Caster tests—proving, supposedly, that they had no magic—they were expected to enter society like anyone else from a titled family. Perhaps Baron could have come up with an excuse for their absence, but at the moment, he couldn’t afford scrutiny of any kind. Greater safety lay in blending in.
“Don’t worry about us.” Corvin smiled, curling his hand into a fist and resting it on his knee.
After a moment of silence, the carriage pulled into place outside the manor entrance.
Before exiting, Baron said, “This is a quick social appearance, nothing more. We’re to be seen by the right people, I’ll give my regards to Miss Margaret, and then we return home.”
Leon snorted. “It’s hilarious you think it’s that simple, Baron.”
The wind howled against the frosted mountainside. Aria shivered, urging her horse forward. With her free hand, she pulled her cloak more tightly around her but found the black wool lacking. At the palace, it was barely autumn, with a whisper of chill in the air painting the leaf edges gold. But up the mountain in Northglen, winter had come early, reaching fingers like icicles inside every hem of her clothing and raising goose bumps on her neck, her wrists, her ankles.
Perhaps the chill was not entirely from the wind.
She looked up at the towering structure before her, taking in its looming pillars and pointed façade. The cream stone looked pale in the frigid air, like a woman staring down a storm, her cheeks colorless in the cold.
Morton Manor, home to Dowager Countess Morton, potentially the most dangerous woman in the kingdom and one her father insisted couldn’t be reasoned with.
Aria had never before hoped her father was wrong.
She swung down from the saddle, then adjusted her silk vest and thick trousers. Had the countess agreed to meet at the palace, Aria would have worn a proper gown, but she’d done the best she could with a meeting in Northglen. She’d worn a deep purple shirt that hid the grime of travel, along with a pale-yellow vest. An embroidered falcon rose across her left shoulder—anartistic representation of the royal crest. She’d secured her tiara by braiding her hair directly over it; she didn’t envy her maid, Jenny, the task of untangling later.
Aria gave care of her horse to a Morton stablehand and approached the manor. A footman met her at the door, bowing low, and she heard herself announced in the echoing hallway as “Her Royal Highness, Princess Aria de Loegria.”
The two burly guards behind her shifted. It must have felt strange for hired mercenaries to serve as personal guards to a princess, but she couldn’t very well have brought members of the royal guard. They would have told her father what she was doing.
Willful disobedience. Mark.
That shouldn’t have earned a mark; after shesucceeded, she would prove this meeting wasn’t a mistake. But the quill in Aria’s mind did not obey her commands. It hadn’t for a long time.
The warmth of the manor’s interior made her chilled skin tingle. A servant stepped forward to take her heavy cloak, and she gave a brief nod of thanks, walking forward with purpose.
Halfway down the hall, she met her hostess.
“Your Royal Highness, you truly came.”
Dowager Countess Morton stood a few inches shy of Aria’s height, though her slimming black dress gave her the appearance of a taller frame. She wore her light brown hair bundled in a knot on her head, held in place by a cylindrical hat bearing a slanted black veil that shadowed her eyes without concealing them. From the moment Aria had entered the hall, those pale blue eyes had watched her like a falcon observing a field mouse, and considering the falcon’s royal symbolism, Aria clearly heard the countess’s silent message:I am queen here.
