Basil froze. Lucy wondered why Basil froze—and why Brom seemed so excited. Even the Baroness stopped judging the decor long enough to squint at the strange interaction unfolding.
Lucy trusted Basil’s instincts more than his temper. If he didn’t want Sylva involved, there was a reason—and Lucy filed that reason underimportant.
“Sylva?” Basil repeated, voice tight.
“Yes, Sylva.” Brom drummed his fingers on the chair. “He’s our expert in wild goose chases.”
“We are not chasing geese,” Lucy muttered.
“You are,” Brom said. “You just don’t know it yet.”
Lucy disliked people who spoke as if inevitability were a favor.
Basil drew a slow, deep breath—the kind usually reserved for his magic lessons with Esther. “We don’t need Sylva,” he said.
“Oh, you really do,” Brom corrected. “And to get Sylva, you’ll need to talk to Rhea.”
Basil’s eyelid twitched. Lucy had never seen anyone besides Esther—or herself—make his eye twitch.
The Baroness gasped. “Rhea?”
“Wait.” Lucy blinked. “You know her?”
“Of course I know her,” the Baroness hissed. “She is—”
But she didn’t finish.
Because the door at the far end of the hall flew open, and a woman with warm brown skin and a smile bright enough to light all of Stonehaven crashed in like a summer storm.
“Basil!”
The room tilted. Not magically—emotionally. Lucy had learned to recognize the sound of history entering a space.
Lucy had never seen Basil look startled. Annoyed? Yes. Irritated? Always. But startled? Never. Yet there it was—the exact expression when Rhea barreled into him, wrapping him in a hug that sounded like it cracked at least one of his ribs.
“Oh,” Lucy whispered. “She’s pretty.”
“And familiar...” the Baroness hissed sharply.
Rhea released Basil and turned, beaming at the group with the warmth of a hearth.
“Come in, come in! Basil, you should have written ahead. I would’ve made tea.”
Lucy blinked. She talked like she knew him well. Suspiciously well.
“Explain,” the Baroness demanded, poking Basil with her fan as if trying to provoke a confession.
Basil inhaled. Rhea beat him to it.
“Oh! You must be Irene. It’s been so long!”
The Baroness went sheet-white. Lucy nearly dropped her satchel.
“You know—” Lucy pointed at the Baroness, “—her?”
“Oh, yes.” Rhea laughed lightly. “She used to frequent the same social circles as me before the Queen helped me choose my real path.” She waved a hand vaguely.
Lucy did not miss the Baroness's rigidity. That kind of stillness only came from old choices and older debts.
