“No,” the woman said softly, her fingers falling still. “There is no easy path forward for me, and it is not my desire to spread more death.”
A surge of hope rose within Aria, nearly lifting her off her chair. “Then let us reconcile! Please.”
Slight though it was, the widow’s shoulders slumped. “It appears I have no choice. My path forward will be through you.”
Leon’s dismal prediction about the party turned out to be right.
No sooner had Baron stepped foot in the Bennett Manor ballroom than he realized it was a hive of wasps, filled with all the sharpest gossips of society. He’d denied them a good swarming for three months, and they certainly made up for lost time.
“My Lord Baron!” said one such wasp, buzzing too close and truly looking the part in her bright yellow gown tied with a black sash. “It must be so bittersweet, taking the title. On the one hand, you’ve lost your father, yet on the other, you may be the first Caster to hold a court seat in three generations. Morton doesn’t count, of course, marrying in as she did.”
Baron gave a relaxed smile over a tight jaw. “There’s no ‘may’ about it, madam. I am Lord Baron of the Reeves estate.”
“You’ve not yet presented yourself to the king. Inherited title or not, nothing’s official until His Majesty approves it.”
“Which is exactly what he’ll do at the next court event. If you’ll excuse me.”
Rather than allowing him escape, the woman hooked her arm through his and steered him directly into a hive of her buzzing compatriots. Baron gave an inward groan. Hopefully the twinsfared better. They’d joined a group of other young teenagers, and he’d lost sight of them in the crush.
“We were discussing Lord Reeves’s possible seat at court!” the woman beside him announced.
All five of the gossips they’d joined were happy to swarm around that topic. From all around Baron came expressions of false concern—what a tragedy for his house if the king did not give his approval, he must prepare himself for the worst, and oh dear, what stress he must be under directly after the loss of his father.
“Listen here, Guillaume—Guillaume, isn’t it? Gwee-yahm.” Lord Stanley clapped Baron on the shoulder. “These Patrian pronunciations really are hopeless, Reeves. Your mother should have gone with a sensible ‘William’ rather than this Grillam nonsense. As if you don’t have enough working against you with that witch’s brand!”
His wife swatted his arm. “Dear, you’ll embarrass the poor chap. It’s Gillan. Not so hard at all.”
It was actuallyGhee-yum,as Leon liked to say—the boy enjoyed any reference to food—or Corvin’s more correctGEE-yohm, but Baron did not volunteer a pronunciation. Some people speculated that he hid behind a nickname out of shame for his half-Patrian heritage, but that was not true. Baron’s name was the final remnant of his birth mother, and he would never allow others to tarnish it.
Resting one hand on the dress sword at his side, Baron spoke with a tone as hardened as the steel within the sheath.
“Lord Reeves”—he held Lord Stanley’s gaze until the man’s eyes retreated into the depths of his wine cup—“is the correct pronunciation.”
Sweeping his eyes over the group silenced the rest. Perhaps he should have remained as nonthreatening as possible, because he knew the truth: behind the mocking laughter lay fear.
One woman’s eyes darted to the witch’s mark on the side of his neck, and Baron clenched his jaw, feeling a phantom pain against his throat. The brand couldn’t be missed, reaching as it did from beneath the left side of his jaw nearly to his collarbone. When the mark had first been given, it had nearly resembled an S, but time and growing had stretched it out of shape until it was barely more than an impression of curved wings in opposition to a central point.
No matter how it looked, the message was clear:Beware.
“If you’ll excuse me.” Baron bowed and turned away.
Dodging a few more groups, he reached Margaret Bennett at last. The girl stood with her father while her mother made rounds of conversation through the room. Since Baron had previously met Silas’s sister, no formal introductions were required. He merely bowed.
“Miss Margaret, congratulations on—”
“Baron!” Margaret gave a genuine smile at his appearance, the first to do so. “Has my brother sent word from Pravusat?”
“It’s ‘Lord Reeves,’” her father corrected gruffly. “That distasteful nickname has always been a blight, and Marcus was a fool to encourage it.”
Baron inclined his head. “Lord Bennett.”
Silas’s father was a stern man in all things but especially in social hierarchies. Despite being only a viscount—a single step above Baron’s own position—he conducted himself with the superiority of a duke. Luckily, his children hadn’t inherited the ailment.
“I’m afraid I’ve not heard from Silas recently,” Baron said. As Margaret’s face fell, he added, “His last letter indicated the university is quite spectacular. Almost another world.”
It was a small deception to say “last letter” as if Silas had sent more than one. Honestly, Baron had been surprised to receive anything from him—Silas was not one for writing unless keepingresearch notes. In that spirit, his entire letter had been exactly three lines long, including the signature:
It’s a different world in this country, Gilly.
