“To my… father’s house,” Thalia replied, though she did not see what business it was of his.
The butler moved closer, his shoes making barely a sound upon the parquet. “With regret, Your Grace, I cannot do that. The duke has given strict instructions that you are to remain hereat Holdridge until you are well again.” He offered his arm. “Perhaps, I might escort you back to your chambers? I can have some warm milk fetched up to you? Tea, perhaps?”
“I am not a child!” Thalia snapped, backing away from the unnerving man. “If I wish to go to my father’s house, I have every right to do so. And, as the mistress of this house, you must… obey me.”
She wished her voice held more authority, but she doubted she had ever truly commanded a member of staff to do anything before. It was not in her nature to throw her status around, even as a pretense.
Mr. Baxter shook his head solemnly. “I am employed by His Grace, Your Grace. The only orders Imustheed are his, and he has been very clear that you are not to leave this manor.” He paused for a moment, his tone softening as he continued, “And do not think to circumvent his wishes by asking the housekeeper or one of your maids. They, too, have received the same instructions.”
The butler had clearly tried not to make it sound like a threat but to Thalia’s feverish, frustrated mind, there was no difference; he might as well have said it with a blade to her throat or a pistol to her head.
Yet, it did not have the effect of sending a rush of fear through her. Rather, it opened the floodgates to a torrent of pure fury, feeling like an animal cornered, ready to fight even if it was her last fight.
“So, when the duke said that this was, in essence, my manor, that was a lie?” she barked, glancing at the front door, wondering how far she would make it on foot before someone caught her.
The butler sighed as if he wished he was not the one who had to deal with this. “It was not a lie, but, for the time being, you cannot leave. Please, allow me to escort you back to your chambers. Or, I could wake Mrs. Fisher and have her take you, if you prefer? I realize I am a stranger to you.”
“Where is he?” Thalia snapped.
Mr. Baxter raised an eyebrow. “His Grace?”
“Yes, His Grace! Where is he? I will not be a prisoner in my own home, I willneverbe that, so if you will not let me leave then you will take me to him. I do not care where he is; you will deliver me there at once,” she commanded, surprised by the ferocity in her voice.
The butler seemed to relax. “He is in his chambers.”
“Then, lead me there!” Thalia’s heart began to race wildly, for though she had promised herself that she would visit the North tower, where all of this nonsense had started, she had not yet.
After the tour, she had been too confused and angry and exhausted to make it up so many steps. But now, she would make the ascent, even if she had to crawl, even if she had to climb with the power of pure spite.
Mr. Baxter hesitated. “Perhaps, Your Grace, tomorrow would be more fitting? I could arrange for the two of you to speak in the drawing room or at breakfast?”
“I will speak to him now,” Thalia insisted, breathless with the exertion.
As much as she kept trying to deny it, the accidenthadtaken a lot out of her. She was tired in a way she had never been tired before, her limbs leaden, her mind foggy, but she wouldnotbe dissuaded from meeting with her husband while her anger was white-hot.
“As you wish,” the butler replied, moving toward the staircase. “This way, Your Grace.”
Sweating and wheezing, quite certain that her lungs were about to burst and her legs might shatter at any moment, Thalia made it to the narrow landing at the base of the North tower’s steps. A hexagon that suggested the shape of the tower above.
There, she clung to the banister for a moment, wondering if she would ever catch her breath again.
“Might I fetch you some water, Your Grace?” Mr. Baxter asked, not even out of breath.
Thalia shook her head and pointed upward. “This is… where I was found?”
“You would have to ask His Grace,” the butler replied.
Just then, soft light spilled down the steep staircase, a shadow silhouetted at the very top. “What is all this—” Henry’s sharp voice began, before it quietened in surprise. “Thalia? Baxter? What on earth are you doing up here?”
“Her Grace wished to speak to you immediately,” the butler explained, for Thalia could not have hoped to conjure a single word from her lips. “I tried to suggest a more reasonable hour and a more reasonable meeting place, but she was rather adamant.”
Thalia wanted to tell the man not to talk about her as if she were not there, but dizziness crested through her skull, sloshing about like a cold wave that threatened to send her careening back into unconsciousness.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Henry descend. “Leave us, Baxter.” He paused. “Actually, bring some of that medicinal tea that my wife usually favors.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Baxter bowed his head and bounded off down the stairs, somehow possessing more vitality going down than he had coming up.
Slowly, Henry came closer, the contours of his unfairly handsome face jumping about in the shadows cast by the landing’s meager torchlight. He was, once again, in a state of undress that made Thalia’s cheeks burn: his shirt loose and open at the collar, his trousers stopping at the middle of his calf, barefoot on the cold stone floor, his dark brown hair tousled as if he had been resting.
