He pauses, breath rising and falling, searching for the next words like they physically pain him.
“After what you did for me this morning at breakfast, you deserved better.”
Another tight swallow. A visible struggle.
“I am sorry, Neve Devlin.”
I blink.
Did I die in the mines?
Am I a ghost haunting Castle Frostwyn?
Did Lord Luceran just… apologize? To his servant? To me?
My mind empties. I don’t know what to say. I barely remember how words work. I just stare at him, open-mouthed, stunned, the emotional equivalent of a fish yanked from the sea.
Luceran’s eyes narrow. “Did you hear me?”
Gods. What am I supposed to say?Thank you?I accept?Fae don’t apologize. They don’tneedto. We exist to serve, not to be apologizedto. But he waits. He expects something.
“Yes, my lord,” I manage. “I heard you. I… um… accept your apology.”
He nods. Another bargain settled.
“I will not send you to the mines to work the tunnels again,” he says. “Only to handle the paperwork required of you. I assume you have learned your lesson.”
Relief floods me so quickly I nearly sag in the chair. “Yes, my lord.”
All the while, the smell of Atilia’s cooking curls through the air, warm and rich and savory, and my stomach reacts before I do. It growls so loudly I’m surprised my chair doesn’t vibrate.
Luceran notices instantly.
“You’re hungry.”
Not a question.
He pulls his half-finished plate toward himself, then refills it from the platters around him. Steaming greens, sliced meats, buttered bread, piled high.
When he sets the plate in front of me, I don’t argue. I don’t even attempt dignity. I grab a fork.Hisfork. That earns a sharply lifted eyebrow from him. I spear the nearest bite like I’m starving, because I am, and shovel it into my mouth, barely chewing, barely breathing.
I have never tasted anything so perfect, and after a shift in the mines, I don’t plan on stopping until the plate is scrubbed clean.
Luceran watches me in utter silence. Between mouthfuls, I notice his jaw ticking.
Is he holding back a smirk?
Impossible.
He simply sits, quiet and composed, while I devour his dinner.
9
Afew days pass, and the rhythm of life in Castle Frostwyn settles into something that, gods help me, almost feels normal.
On the days Atilia is present, I’m allowed the rare indulgence of sleeping past dawn. But on the days she is not, I rise before the first pale glimmer of morning touches the sky. I prepare Luceran’s breakfast, set the table just the way he prefers, tidy the halls he never walks, and then climb to the tower to begin the work that has quietly, steadily become mine.
The mountain of paperwork that once swallowed the desk shrinks piece by piece. Each day the piles of deeds, ledgers, tax demands, and debt records diminish. Each afternoon I file away another sheaf of documents. Each evening I bring Luceran a final report, neatly written and complete.
