“Did she use a secure line?” I asked.
I had been communicating primarily through letters, enchanted to be opened only by the intended recipient and hand-delivered by messengers to avoid the rebels from intercepting communications. While phone or electronic messaging systems were more convenient, neither were completely secure. Not the way magic was.
“No,” Adamantia growled.
I was silent. It was a foolish mistake on Lydia’s part. She was announcing her location to any who may be listening. That was unless she was actively working with the Vouna rebel group, which I highly suspected, given how raged her most recent letters had been.
“Do you have nothing to comment?” Adamantia asked.
“No. Have her sent to me, when she arrives. Split the two apart. Distract Elliot—you know how he fancies himself—while I speak with Lydia alone,” I replied.
“I will do no such thing. He makes my skin crawl,” she shivered dramatically and made a disgusted face. I smiled.
“Why do you look so amused?” she asked, perturbed.
“Your complete disgust with the male species is what amuses me, aunt,” I told her.
“Yes, well. I don’t see the appeal. Most are mindless, good for little more than cannon fodder,” she said.
“That may be. But I would appreciate if you could keep one mindless man under your watch for a short time, while I uncover Lydia’s purpose for her visit.”
“It is of course to try and squeeze a higher position for the two. They believe that with all the upheaval of the northern Houses, that there are titles and lands up for the grab,” Adamantia said, as she moved towards the door. “Such a shame that you took it all for yourself,” she laughed as she exited.
I frowned with a stirring of disquiet at Adamantia’s parting words.
Everything felt wrong this morning. Perhaps it was simply down to an accumulation of stress and worry for Percy’s sake since the Academy. It was only a matter of time before news of her novel ability spread throughout the kingdom. It may be a whisper now, but soon it would be a roar.
22. Hot Stew
Persephone Flores
The kitchen was busy—not busy like the kitchens at the castle, but it was the most servants I had seen at any other time during my short stay at the Ardens Estate. The noisy room grew quiet when I entered, the loud voices trailing off as it felt like everyone turned to look at me. Not to acknowledge me, but stare.
After what felt like an eternity, where I might have died from the levels of awkwardness, I turned to leave. I didn’t need to eat. Not really. I could survive until the evening.
“Wait,” an older man called, and I grimaced as I turned back to him.
“Get back to work,” he angrily told the others, and soon a murmur of voices cushioned the embarrassment I felt.
“You’re the Princess’s flower girl,” he stated.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“What you doing here?” he asked.
“I was hungry,” I told him. “I thought I could make myself something.”
“You can’t just walk in here and do what you please. Not today. I’ve got meals to prepare,” he told me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling small. “I can wait.”
He shook his head aggressively.
“No, no. You’re here now and I can’t let you go hungry, but servant lunch was served over an hour ago,” he told me.
“Really, it’s fine,” I protested.
“Listen I won’t have it. The stew is ready. Keeping it warm on the stove. I’ll get you a bowl. You eat meat?” he asked a little aggressively, walking over to a large pot on the stove and pulling a blue checkered towel from his apron and using it to lift the lid of the pot.
