But it was Corvin who spoke.
“I’m going to Fairfax.”
Though the boy often shrank in Huxley’s presence, this he said with conviction. The corner of Baron’s lips tugged upward, and when Corvin caught his eyes, he gave a nod.
Huxley frowned. “Fairfax? Prestigious, to be sure, but expensive. Since you’re not the son of an Upper Court seat, there’s no need to overreach with accolades. It’s enough to beschooled at a reputable institution. You may choose between Luton or Burnley.”
“Baron went to Fairfax.”
“A waste of estate funds, how unsurprising. We won’t make the same mistake.”
Leon gave Huxley the side-eye. “Falcon-head said he’s going to Fairfax.”
“Ah.” Huxley dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “We’ll need to address your schooling as well. While I doubt either Luton or Burnley are equipped with a strict enough etiquette program to save you, we will nevertheless make the effort. Whichever school your brother turns down is the one you may attend.”
Silence reigned at the table, broken only by the scrape of Huxley’s fork as he continued eating.
“You’ll split us up?” Corvin’s voice had gone small.
Huxley chewed, swallowed, then took a drink from the hip flask he always kept on his person, out of Baron’s reach.
“It must be done,” the steward said. “We can’t afford broken vases or other accidents to reflect on the barony. Now, with regard to the estate finances, there’s simply no allotment for six years of schooling, so the expected three will be given to Corvin, as future lord baron. Leon will attend a single year. It’s not ideal, but twins aren’t ideal for financial budgets.”
Leon looked away from the steward—which was good, because his pupils had narrowed to vertical slits. Corvin seemed not to have absorbed the situation enough, sitting paralyzed, and Baron didn’t dare wait for the boy’s emotions to fully catch up.
“Enough,” Baron said. “Boys, leave us, please.”
Leon’s chair tipped backward as he stood, and the twins slipped away in a rush.
Huxley returned to his food. With a tone of forced calm, he said, “I’ll remind you I’m in the direct employ of the king. He’ll be informed of any threats you make.”
“Threats are not my intention, Mr. Huxley. No matter what you believe, I am not out to curse you the moment your back is turned. I do not spend my waking hours plotting how I might transform your drinks to poisons. I have better things to do with my time and attention—like care for the safety of my brothers.”
Huxley opened his mouth.
“I’m not finished,” said Baron. “Youwill notseparate them, for school or any other reason. Youwill notimply they are a burden, financially or otherwise. They did not arrange to be born twins, nor did they arrange to be orphaned at such a young age. They do not need more grief in their life. They need safety, and they need each other.
“Additionally, I realize your attention as steward is focused on Corvin, but your position gives you no right nor excuse to belittle Leon. You cannot demand respect and proper manners without displaying any yourself.”
Huxley wouldn’t meet Baron’s eyes. He took another sip from his flask. “You play the part well, my lord.”
“The part of a concerned brother?”
“The part of a baron.” Huxley’s eyes flickered toward Baron’s throat. “Then again, perhaps the confidence and authority come from somethingotherthan the family title.” He stood. “I’ll consider your suggestions, my lord, but in the end, I will do what my stewardship requires.”
It was always the same.
50 days left
Aria’s mental quill had never been so active, constantly marking her growing list of faults. It was all the secrets; they consumed her.
Baron told her of magic, and with each explanation, she felt a renewed surge of hope that her cursecouldbe defeated. He told her of Artifacts, and she made a list of items Widow Morton may have used to anchor her curse: the broken teacup, the towel with Aria’s blood, the false peace agreement.
She hoped it was not that last option, because she’d thrown it in a fire.
Foolish. Mark.
The other items could be recovered from Widow Morton, if Aria only had a way. In the daytime, she forced herself to walk upright with her journal, murmuring plans aloud to keep the exhaustion at bay. Ironic how fighting exhaustion created more of it, like battling a hydra with continuous heads.
