“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she muttered, voice light, melodic. She stared at him as if I weren’t even in the room. “There seems to be… an issue in the stables.”
Something cold threaded through my spine. My husband’s tone remained even, yet his eyes fixed on hers too intently, searching, perhaps for something unsaid.
Nelly’s earlier words came back to me.
He favors her.
“Thank you, Lydia,” he said finally. “I’ll be right there.”
She lingered. Just long enough to be noticed. When she did leave, her skirts whispered across the floor like the brush of a secret being carried away.
I tried to steady my voice. “What’s happened in the stables? The new foal?”
Sylum hesitated. The expression that crossed his face was brief but telling—a shadow of surprise, confusion, maybe guilt—before he schooled it smooth again.
“Yes,” he answered quickly, standing now and circling the desk. “Or perhaps the mare. She’s been struggling since the birth.”
He reached out, brushing his knuckles over my cheek before pressing a chaste kiss to my forehead. The gesture was tender, but his eyes refused to meet mine.
“I won’t be long,” he murmured.
The door closed behind him with a muted click that sounded far too final.
“Come, Poe,” I sighed, rising from the chair. “Let us go to bed then.”
The bird ruffled his feathers, murmuring something unintelligible before soaring across the room to land on my shoulder.
The corridor was dark and still, and my bedroom waited like a shadowed cocoon, the hearth smoldering low, casting faint golden light across the room. I reached to closethe door behind me when Poe gave a sudden flutter and darted toward the nightstand.
I followed his path with a puzzled frown, then froze.
A tray sat there.
I was certain it hadn’t been there when I’d gone downstairs.
The teapot still steamed faintly, as though poured mere minutes before. Two delicate cups sat beside it, a folded napkin, and a slip of paper beside the porcelain.
Poe tilted his head, then gently tapped his beak against the folded note resting beside the cup.
My skin prickled. Slowly, I reached for it.
“For your nerves.
—Mrs. Ashby”
My brows drew together as I read the note over again.
Had Mrs. Ashby brought this to my room after I’d gone?
Poe cawed softly.
I opened the teapot lid, peering suspiciously inside, fearing what I might find, only to scold myself for beingso foolish.
No bugs.
No sludge.
Just warm, golden liquid with a soothing floral aroma—honey and lemon, maybe chamomile or something softer.
