She couldn’t very well go waltzing around Unity asking for someone to help her translate incriminating documents concerning Yarrow Graves. Ready to be done with this conversation and salvage what meager sleep she could before her full morning tomorrow, Miranda left Lydia to her midnight research and returned to her room.
She had expected to sleep soundly knowing she was that much closer to saving her sister from a disastrous engagement. Instead she tossed and turned, haunted by looping, unfamiliar letters and the most aggravating set of blue eyes.
-
Miranda awoke three hours later, bleary-eyed and fatigued. Her maid threw open the curtains to let in the first rays of morning. All her life Miranda had started her day with the sun. It allowed her to fit training into her schedule of studies, social engagements, and etiquette lessons. Even though she had outgrown most of her studies, Miranda could continue training until marriage.
“I’m not feeling well.” Miranda groaned, turning over and pulling her pillow over her head.
Her maid, Yara, started making the bed around her. “Your parents will never believe that you are ill. Up you get. You’ve got training then tea with your mother and sister.”
Miranda sat up. The only time she had missed a training session was when she’d been unconscious with fever. Perhaps she should have feigned oblivion.
A guardian must keep their skills sharp and practiced, it is the greatest honor and should not be fooled away.
She heard her father in her head, willing her upright. Not everyone was gifted with the Divine’s blood so she must never be ungrateful. In truth, she favored training more than her other studies, just not when she’d spent all night sneaking around the Fells.
She shuffled from her bed and freshened up. Yara helped her into her training uniform and did her hair before sending her down. Her training uniform was form fitting and traded skirts for pants to aid maneuverability. Navy blue with white accents and gold filigree were sewn into the shoulders and lapels. It was one of the few exceptions to lady’s fashion of heavy, layered dresses and corsets.
The training room was in the basement. A large space with no furniture, just cushioned flooring for rolls and melee. The walls held weapons for practice, though most guardians settled on one type for their proficiency. Since the end of the war, her father had taken to adding weapons from the other races to their arsenal. Faery daggers and broadswords. Demonic maces. They were crafted in unique materials, unlike the steel of human weapons. Moonstone. Tempered obsidian. Silver.
Miranda enjoyed practicing with them, learning their weight and balance. But she was partial to a sword. It was her father’s choice of weapon and, as a child, she had longed to be as strong as her father. Her father was not there today, however, and only Master Thorn awaited her.
A no-nonsense teacher, Thorn ran her through her drills and stretches with barely a good morning. His only comment had been that she was tardy.
“In a hurry today, Miss Wilde?” Master Thorn asked as she fumbled through her stances. Training ended with a sparring match, and while Miranda had no trouble keeping up with her instructor at this stage of her life, today she was not herself. Hermind was adrift with the prospect of a reunion with a certain roguish asshole.
Miranda caught her breath. Thorn’s sword hovered inches from her nose. “Yes, sorry, Master Thorn. I have tea with my mother later and got a late start. I…I slept poorly.” Not a total lie.
He returned to a neutral stance. They bowed and he dismissed her for the day with a sharp reprimand that she get some proper sleep for next week. Miranda rushed to clean off the sweat and get dressed for tea, pants not permitted. It was nearly an hour before she headed into the parlor swaddled in layers of pale blue skirts. Her mother and sister were already sitting, but the tea and sandwiches had not yet been served.
She only had to get through tea before her time was her own. If Drake had inherited his father’s estate, then the house was in the Garrison. She merely had to sneak into her mother’s office and find the almanac that contained a list of the current peerage and their addresses. So long as she stayed in the Garrison, she needn’t wait until nightfall. Though, she couldn’t be certain that Drake would be home, there was no harm in checking.
But first…tea.
“Miranda,” her mother addressed primly while Miranda offered apologies for her tardiness. “Sit,” her mother instructed. “We were just discussing flower arrangements.”
Miranda looked past her mother to her younger sister. They shared the same face shape, but her hair and eye color matched their mother’s soft, pretty shades of brown, while Miranda took after father. Cordelia was only younger by a few years, but their lives had been invariably different. Cordelia was not a guardian.
Having the gift of the Divine’s blood was considered a great honor. Not every human was born with the gifts it bestowed. Agility. Speed. Strength. It was said that they were gifted the Divine’s blood millennia ago so that humans could compete in a world of magical creatures. The gift tended to run in families,passed from parent to child, but could manifest in any human no matter their lineage. Both Miranda’s parents were guardians, even her mother, the prim and proper lady sipping tea with the utmost decorum could face an immortal in combat. But the Accords saw those days long buried. Now, there was peace and very little need for defenders.
“We picked out a lovely arrangement of everblooms and night lilies. I think it’ll really highlight your sister’s features and coloring,” her mother commented. A servant brought fresh dewbaine tea and lunaleaf sandwiches, fae ingredients that they had started to explore after Cordelia’s betrothal to a Night Fae.
Miranda wasn’t partial to tea of any variety. She preferred the coffee that the watchmen drank at crime scenes or on patrols. Miranda pictured her mother’s face if she asked for coffee. She smirked to herself and took one of the sandwiches, then piled a heap of them onto her plate. She forgot to eat in the haste of the morning.
Were this a marriage of love, Miranda would have been happy to share in the planning. She may not see herself at an altar, her personality had kept suitors at bay for years and was unlikely to change, she would have been happy for Cordelia. However, it was clear to Miranda that her sister held no regard for Graves and Miranda’s own past with the monster soured her to talk of wedding planning. As their mother continued to comment on flowers and colors and arrangements, Cordelia wrinkled her nose.
“I saw that, young lady.” Their mother sipped her tea. Cordelia straightened and shared a glance at Miranda that said,mom is so annoying.
“Aren’t orchids out of season?” Miranda asked, sending a silent wince of apology to Cordelia who opened her mouth in silent betrayal. “I do agree, they are the perfect flower for Delia, we may have to push the wedding back a month to make sure wereceive the best possible arrangement.” It was hard pretending, forcing herself to be the model daughter, but it was never without purpose. Pushing the wedding back would buy her more time to ensure it never happened at all.
Lady Wilde smiled. “I’m so glad this wedding has had such a positive influence on you, Miri. It makes me hopeful that one day you may find your match.”
Miranda fought the urge to roll her eyes. She wished her mother could see the change this wedding had had on Cordelia. Miranda had always been the overtly rebellious, troublesome daughter. Cordelia was a ray of sunshine, brightening any room she entered. No one else was as possessed of laughter and light.
None of that was evident now. It had been ages since Cordelia tried to sneak into Miranda’s room late at night so they could giggle together or creep into the kitchens to swipe a sweet from the storeroom. Miranda had never been good at hiding her misdeeds, but Cordelia was a professional. Mother and father never suspected their sunny, sweet Delia. Only Miranda and a few servants knew that the sunny disposition masked mischief and deviance. Many a broken vase had been blamed on Miranda when Cordelia had been the true culprit.
“My lady, you have a visitor,” announced their butler, Martin. With any luck this new visitor would distract her mother enough that she would be dismissed. Miranda swiped a few more sandwiches, holding out her top skirt to create a basket.
