She arrived with the afternoon supply wagon—a golden-haired girl with cornflower eyes and a figure that made every man in the courtyard suddenly forget what they’d been doing. The wind whipped brown leaves across the cobblestones, but Cecily seemed untouched by the chill, her torn dress artfully revealing a creamy shoulder despite the cold.
Elodie was helping distribute bread to the refugees, whose numbers had swelled as the weather turned, families seeking shelter before winter’s bite, when the commotion started. She looked up to see a young woman half-tumbling from the wagon seat, her perfectly arranged curtain of hair cascading down her back in a waterfall of sunshine and honey.
“Please!” The girl’s voice carried across the bailey, high and clear and trembling with just the right amount of fear. “I must speak with Lord Gareth! I have information, vital information, about the raids!”
She collapsed dramatically against the wagon wheel, one delicate hand pressed to her heaving bosom. It took everything Elodie had not to roll her eyes.
“Someone fetch the lord,” Sir Miles ordered, though he too seemed somewhat distracted by the newcomer’s distress. Or possibly by her neckline. “You there—get the lady some water.”
By the time Gareth arrived, the girl was settled on a bench with a cup of wine, a blanket, and an audience of at least a dozen fascinated onlookers. She’d managed to cry prettily—actual tears tracking delicately down porcelain cheeks—and was now clutching the blanket around her shoulders in a way that somehow emphasized her figure rather than concealing it.
Professional actress, Elodie thought, and immediately felt guilty for the cattiness.
The girl looked up as Gareth approached, and her blue eyes went wide with something that might have been awe or might have been calculation. “My lord!” She started to rise, wobbled, and caught herself on his arm. “Forgive me, I’m so weak. The journey was dreadful and I’ve been walking for days?—”
Gareth steadied her with one hand and signed to Miles with the other.Who is she?
“Says her name’s Cecily, my lord. Claims she escaped from Dunharrow Keep. Says she has information about Lord Alaric’s plans.”
Cecily’s face crumpled beautifully. “They’re monsters. All of them. I was in his household, a maidservant, and I overheard things. Terrible things.” She pressed closer to Gareth, her hand sliding up his arm. “When I realized what they were planning, I knew I had to warn you. It was the only decent thing to do.”
Elodie watched Gareth’s expression carefully. His face remained impassive, but there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before—the rigid discomfort of a man who didn’t know what to do with an armful of a beautiful, crying woman.
Take her inside,he signed to Miles.Give her food and a room. I will speak with her shortly.
“Oh, thank you!” Cecily threw her arms around his neck before he could step back. “Thank you, my lord! I knew you would help me. Everyone says you’re different from him, that you’re kind?—”
She had to be physically extracted by two uncomfortable-looking guards. As they led her toward the keep, she cast one last look over her shoulder at Gareth—a look filled with gratitude and admiration and something else that made Elodie’s jaw tighten.
“Well,” she said, stepping up beside Gareth once Cecily was out of earshot. “That was quite a performance.”
He turned to face her, and she caught a flicker of something in his expression, relief, maybe, at her dry tone. He signed.You do not trust her.
“Do you?”
No.A pause.But her information may be useful.
“And if it’s a trap?”
Then I will learn what Alaric wants me to believe.His mouth quirked in what might have been dark humor.Sometimes lies tell more truth than honesty.
He strode toward the keep, and Elodie followed, refusing to examine why her stomach had knotted at the sight of Cecily’s hands on his arm.
The information, as it turned out, was distressingly plausible.
Elodie stood in the corner of Gareth’s solar, doing her best to fade into the tapestry while Cecily held court from a chair by the fire. A proper fire now—the autumn chill had crept into the castle’s bones, and every hearth blazed from dawn to dusk. The girl had been given fresh clothes. Someone’s second-best gown, slightly too large, which somehow only made her look more delicate and vulnerable, and she’d arranged herself with casual precision, every gesture designed to draw the eye.
“The raids are only the beginning,” Cecily said, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. “Lord Alaric means to take Greywatch for himself. He’s been planning it for years.”
Gareth signed, and Bertram translated. “How many men does he have at Dunharrow?”
“Hundreds. Maybe more. They’ve been training in secret, building weapons, stockpiling supplies.” Cecily shuddered prettily. “I used to hear them practicing at night. The sound of swords...” She pressed a hand to her throat. “Forgive me. It’s difficult to speak of.”
“Take your time,” Bertram said kindly.
Elodie bit the inside of her cheek.
The interrogation continued. Cecily provided numbers, locations, timelines—all of it just vague enough to be unverifiable, just specific enough to seem credible. She described Alaric’s hatred for Gareth in vivid terms, painting a picture of obsessive rage that made the hairs on Elodie’s arms stand up.
