Turnstone.I’d heard that name before, when I’d eavesdropped on Tigo and Rhianne in the tower. He was the one Emment owed money to. But this hardly seemed an appropriate occasion to talk debt.
I didn’t expect anyone else to come in, but abruptly a group of figures appeared. I blinked. Four of them were done up in livery like ours, but in fire orange, with a different House crest. They fairly shone, their postures impeccable as they trailed close behind Brigantess Osprey. The next four, far more sedate in livery of dark green, were no less stiff and grave of expression, though one—a solid man with a scar on one cheek—was sporting a nasty-looking black eye.
“Damona,” said Rexim, briefly standing. He gestured to the couches. “Madox. You’re very welcome.”
“I’m sorry my father couldn’t make it,” said Madox Turnstone, throwing himself onto the plump blue velvet. “You know how he is. Hates to travel these days.”
Damona Osprey settled in a chair, accepting the welcome with only a nod. Their sets of Orha collected behind them, framing their mistress and master like a painting.
“Of course,” came Rexim’s smooth reply. “I only hope you’ll convey my warmest wishes and the salient points of our discussion today. But first—” He tilted his head at Miss Haney, who hurried to the doors and disappeared through them. A moment later, footmen trooped in, bearing silver trays crowded with china and teapots.
“Come on, then,” said Turnstone, leaning back on the couch. For a man so young, he was confident with his elders. “You know my father’s always been a hard-liner, whereasI’mmore inclined to vote for you. So we’ll cancel each other out, unless you can help me persuade him.”
Rexim’s lip quirked. “Well, let me begin by—”
A scrape from the doorway made us all look around.
Miss Haney was back, her face pale as linen. Her thin lips opened and closed a few times. Rexim blinked once and narrowed his eyes. “Yes?” he said softly, with simmering anger.
“My lord,” she breathed, “you—you have another visitor.Visitors,I should say, as there are in fact two of them.”
Rexim froze. The siblings frowned. Catua stretched, trying to peer out of the tall windows. I looked, too—they offered a view of the inner ward—and saw guards bristling under the barbican’s arch.
“Your father?” Rexim said, flashing a glance at Turnstone.
The boy looked horrified. “Surely not—he was abed—”
Miss Haney hurried across the polished marble floor and bent to whisper in Rexim’s ear.
It was the first time I’d seen the Shearwater patriarch look anything less than supremely assured. He flicked a glance at his offspring, then us Orha, and then at Osprey and Turnstone, hesitating. His tension, the wound-tight stiffness of his shoulders, spoke of rage he was fighting to hide from his guests, while his darting gaze betrayed uncertainty. Eventually he waved Miss Haney away. “Well,” he said, his voice now smooth, “send them in. No reason why they can’t join our party.”
Miss Haney retreated, soles clacking on the floor, leaving silence as thick as a winter muffler.
“A pleasant surprise,” Rexim said through his teeth. “One I shan’t spoil.” He sat back and waited.
A moment later, the doors again opened, admitting, this time, only two individuals.
Though the younger towered over the older, I saw clear similarity in their features. A father and a son, the older squat and heavy. Sixty, perhaps—a little older than Rexim—but fit and strong looking despite his years. He was pale, with reddish hair graying all over. Plain looking—none of the regalness of the Shearwaters—but as his watery blue eyes raked over the room, I almost shrank away. There was something daunting about him.
And that was magnified tenfold in his son.
A bear of a man, surely six and a half feet, he had deep-black hair cascading to broad shoulders. I suspected his mother might be very beautiful indeed, as although he’d inherited some of his father’s unevenness, his features were arresting. He stared only at Rexim.
“Uirbrig,” Rexim said to the older man. I noted that, this time, he didn’t stand. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”
Damona Osprey’s lips pursed in a tiny smile, while Turnstone’s mouth had dropped right open. Despite still reclining, Emment clenched his jaw, and Catua’s curiosity had turned to bare shock. Llir and Vercha exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable, though Vercha had paled.
“My goodness,” the man called Uirbrig said, narrow lips quirking. “We didn’t realize you had guests.” He nodded an easy greeting at the siblings, at Osprey and Turnstone; he ignored us Orha.
“Did you not?” Rexim grated, shifting in his chair. “And how do you all do, down at Castle Crake?”
Beside me, Rhianne stiffened, a hitch in her breath.
Crake.
I forced my face to remain neutral.
“We are not quite where we would want to be,” said Crake with a slow smile. “But I think you know that. And yourselves?” He looked at the siblings again. “A handsome family, I’ve always thought so. We do miss your company out there on the mainland.”
