The Manor, sensing the appreciation, gave a low, self-satisfied rumble beneath the floorboards. Fenrik sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, but he didn’t move an inch away from me.
“Drink,” Maren commanded, shoving a cup into my hand. The tea she forced into my hands was scald-hot perfect, grounding me in the present while the room bustled with an energy this manor hadn’t known in decades. But the true shift in the world’s axis arrived with the silver tureen.
Mrs. Crane swept in, her usual formidable march replaced by a stately glide. She bypassed Fenrik, ignored the tea service, and set the steaming vessel on the nightstand with the care reserved for crowning monarchs. The aroma of bone broth, roasted root vegetables, and savoury herbs punched through the scent of Maren’s floral tea.
“Restorative broth,” Mrs. Crane said, clasping her hands over her immaculate apron. She turned her gaze on me, and dipped into a low curtsey. “My lady.”
I fumbled with my cup. “Mrs. Crane, you don’t have to—“
“I believe I do,” she interrupted, her mouth softening into a smile that took ten years off her face. “I promised Lord Stormgarde’s parents I would protect this house until its heart was restored. You’ve relieved me of a long watch.”
Briony made a delighted little noise from the foot of the bed, snatching a scone from Maren’s abandoned tray. “See? Even Mrs. Crane is on the wedding planning committee.”
“I am on the ‘keep the mistress alive’ committee,” Mrs. Crane said dryly, ladling soup into a bowl. “The wedding committee meets on Tuesday.”
Laughter bubbled up in my chest, but it cut short when a shadow fell across the open doorway. The cheerful clatter of spoons and chatter died.
Councilman Pembroke stood there, twisting his tricorn hat. Behind him, Councilwoman Holt looked as though she’d swallowed a lemon whole. They hovered on the threshold, unsure if the wards would incinerate them for crossing the line.
Fenrik didn’t shift from his spot beside me on the mattress. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression sharpening. “Well. The welcoming committee has arrived. Don’t crowd the door, Pembroke. You’re blocking the light.”
Pembroke shuffled forward, his boots squeaking on the stone. “Lord Stormgarde. We... er. We heard the noise. Or rather, the cessation of noise.”
“The silence,” Holt clarified, her voice tight. She couldn’t stop looking at my hands, at the white lightning-scars mapping my skin. “The valley... it’s stopped shaking. The glass in the Town Hall windows hasn’t rattled in three days.”
“Standard structural integrity,” Fenrik drawled, sounding bored. “Amazing what happens when you don’t try to banish the only person preventing a magical apocalypse. Speaking ofwhich...” He tilted his head, eyes flashing with a hint of that old silver. “I seem to recall a quarantine order? Something about ‘unnatural practices’ and ‘public safety’?”
Pembroke flushed a darker shade of crimson than I thought humanly possible. “We were... misinformed. The panic... the creatures dying...”
“And naturally, your solution was to isolate the cure,” Fenrik said. He reached out, casually adjusting the blanket over my legs, a gesture of intimacy that made Holt look away. “Tell me, Pembroke, in your vast administrative wisdom, what is the fine for unlawful interference with a sanctioned Stormgarde Magi? I believe the 1642 statutes are quite specific.”
“We came to apologize,” Holt blurted out, stepping past Pembroke. She looked at me, her pragmatic face crumbled. “We were afraid, Miss Emberlin. We thought you were the cause. We see now... we see everything now.”
“That’s ‘Lady Stormgarde’ to you,” Mrs. Crane said from the corner.
Holt flinched, then nodded deeply. “My Lady. The town... we owe you a debt we cannot pay. The silence is yours.”
“It wasn’t just me,” I said, my voice rough. I looked at Fenrik. “We did it together.”
“Yes, yes, a beautiful partnership,” Fenrik agreed, his gaze fixed on the council members. “But back to the debt. Since you cannot pay it, perhaps we can discuss the tax rates for the upcoming harvest? I feel a sudden need for civic restructuring. Call it an ‘apology taxdeduction’.”
Pembroke looked like he might faint. “My Lord?”
“And a public apology,” Fenrik added, ticking points off on his fingers. “Written, posted in the square, preferably framed. And perhaps a permanent endowment for the Emberlin Infirmary? To ensure no further... misunderstandings... regarding competent arcane medicine.”
My father let out a choked sound that might have been a laugh.
“Done,” Holt said. “Whatever you ask.”
Fenrik smirked, a wicked, beautiful expression that made my heart hammer against my ribs. “Careful, Beatrice. My wife has expensive tastes. She likes her tea hot, her books rare, and her council members thoroughly humbled.”
“Coming through. Mind your toes, Councilman. Those boots look expensive, and I’ve been wading through dragon dung.”
The room, already bursting at the seams with the sudden influx of well-wishers and bureaucratic penitents, somehow found space for Thorven. The groundskeeper squeezed past Pembroke. He was missing a chunk of his ear and had a smudge of soot across his forehead, but he looked happier than I’d ever seen him.
“Thorven,” Fenrik said, his tone sharpening. “The Sanctuary?”
“Quiet as a library on a Sunday,” Thorven said, nodding to me. “Sanctuary’s clear, Sir. Those nasty black threads? Dissolved into sludge about ten minutes ago. The Sentinel Beastsstopped trying to eat the stonework and went back to their plinths. Even the Garden Drakes are back in the greenhouse, roosting in the rafters like nothing happened. Though they have stripped the prize begonias.”
