Mrs. Ashby glanced toward the bird again, frowning. “Couldn’t say, Your Grace. As I’ve said, I didn’t make it.”
Silence stretched between us.
Poe bobbed, then shook out his feathers. “The silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token…” he muttered, letting out a low whistle as if he too were uncomfortable.
I shifted, taking a deep breath. “Very well, where might I find Lydia?”
Mrs. Ashby paused her work again, resting her sheers in her lap before looking up at me with a sigh so soft, I almost missed it. “Forgive me,” she mused calmly, “but what is it that you need with Lydia, Your Grace?”
“With all due respect,” I replied, voice clipped, “I am the lady of this house. If I wish to speak to a servant, I hardly think I require permission.”
Her lips twitched, whether in amusement or disapproval, I couldn’t say. “Of course, Your Grace,” she said coolly. “However… Lydia is not one of your servants. She is part of his lordship’s staff.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
Mrs. Ashby sighed. “There are two households under this roof. Yours… and his. Lydia, his valet, the footman, Levi, Tanner the stablemaster. They answer only to Lord Blackthorn. It’s not uncommon inuppernoble houses.”
I felt the words lodge like splinters in my chest. The separation. The secrecy.
Poe whistled deep in his throat again, as if he too felt the sting. I shot him a look.
“I see,” I murmured quietly.
She nodded. “I realize you didn’t grow up in such circles. It can take some adjustment.”
The sting was undeniable, but I kept my expression composed. “Well then,” I offered with a polite smile, “I suppose I shall speak to my husband instead.”
“I suppose you should.”
I turned to leave, but her voice stopped me.
“Are you feeling better today, Your Grace?” she asked.
I hesitated. “Yes. Quite,” I said, recalling the day before in the drawing room with Isolde… the chaos, the fear.
She nodded. “Good. Lady Havenshire will return shortly from her ride. She’s in a mood to play. If you wish to avoid her, I’d suggest staying far away from the music room.”
I stared at her for a moment, uncertain what to make of her sudden return to civility. Kindness or calculation?
“Thank you,” I said simply, turning to go.
Poe fluttered his wings once as we passed through the misted threshold. Then, almost absently, he cautioned, “and his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming.”
I frowned, meeting his intense onyx gaze.
“What are you trying to tell me, Poe?” I whispered with a sigh, lifting my hand to scratch beneath his chin as we moved through the manor.
I wasn’t sure where I was going, but my feet kept moving until I ended up in the kitchen.
It was a sprawling chamber of brick and stone, where copper pans hung from every beam like dulled suns, and dried herbs crinkled softly in the draft from the open windows. The fire crackled beneath a great black stove, and the air was heavy with the comforting smells of flour, sweet cream, and a bubbling concoction I couldn’t place.
At the center of it all stood the cook, Mrs. Griggs.
She was stout and round, her grey-streaked hair tied in a haphazard knot at the nape of her neck. Her apron was already dusted with flour, and a worn ladle poked from the string tied about her waist like a soldier’s saber. One of her eyes was clouded white, like frosted glass, while the other sparkled a lively amber. She hummed as she stirred a pot, the tune low and mournful.
Mrs. Griggs turned suddenly, catching sight of me. “Oh!” she gasped, then dipped into an elaborate curtsy so low I feared she might lose her balance. “Your Grace! Begging your pardon, I didn’t hear ye come in!”
She straightened, beaming. Her smile was toothy and strange but not unkind. “What can I do for you this morning? Something to settle your fast? A bit of toast? Or jam perhaps? I have a rose hip blend this morning that sings on the tongue.”
