Rescue this life. Make her safe.
A task. A tiny, quivering task. Something for me to focus on.
A faint beacon in this shadowy pall.
“Idon’t care if you have to go out there and slaughter the beasts yourself, Grimsley. We’re down to the dregs,” I say, staring at him from beneath my brows—exuding an air of nonchalance when I feel the fucking opposite.
Grimsley’s perched on the edge of his seat before my desk, not one strand of hair out of place, features so long and sharp he looks like a well-tended rat kid scooped from the gutter, then dressed up real nice.
“I’m aware, High Master.” Sweat dapples his brow, the pungent waft of it curdling my guts. “We’re doing everything we can.”
“If you were, we wouldn’t be in this predicament.”
His gaze drops, and mine spears over his shoulder to the clock on the mantle.
It’s almost time.
I cross my ankles, bouncing my foot to the frantic beat of his heart. “If our oil stores don’t return to a healthy level soon, I’ll be forced to make an example of somebody. Now get the fuck out,” I say, scrunching my nose.
He shoves up, bows, and strides toward the door—every step stiff, as though he’s trying not to run.
“Oh, and Grimsley?”
He turns, those beady eyes latching onto me. “Yes, Master?”
“If we run out of oil, your family will be the first to lose their rations.”
His face takes on a sickly pall before he dips his head, shuffles backward toward the exit, and leaves, clicking the door shut behind him.
My rage boils, gaze drifting to the pile of scrolls stacked on a tray on the edge of my desk. I whip my arm out, sending them flying, the tray clattering to the floor.
I stare at the mess and sigh.
A knock echoes through the spacious room.
“Enter.”
A string of servants trail through my office, heads bowed, each carrying various delicacies I ordered for the morning tea: a stack of scones, fruit drizzled in honey, mulberry tea, asparagus rolls. Only the best ingredients—imported from all over the continent.
The servants step onto the balcony where a table has been prepared, and I stand and charge around the desk, intercepting the woman carrying a bowl of clotted cream. “Clean up that mess over there,” I mutter, dragging my finger through the cream and shoving it in my mouth—the hint of vanilla instantly warming my mood.
The cook addedjustthe right amount. At least somebody can do their fucking job right.
The girl scurries off to gather the scrolls while I step out onto the balcony, bowl in hand. “Leave it,” I holler at the servants trying to find places for all the plates, bowls, and utensils, and failing miserably.
They scatter, pouring inside, out of my sight.
I set down the cream, rearranging everything until it’s presented just right. Nodding to myself, I move toward the balustrade, my fifth-floor vantage point providing a panoramic view of the city.
I watch a stout barge emerge from the Norse, stacked with cubes of glass, sitting so low it’s a miracle water doesn’t slosh over the sides. It drifts past a whaling ship that’s the opposite; perched much higher than it should be for a returning vessel, despite its filthy patchwork sail—tribute to a long and tiresome journey.
Fucking hell.
Casting my gaze on Parith glittering in the morning sunlight, I scour the square buildings like I’m walking the streets.
Searching them.
I tap my finger against the rail to ease my fraying patience.
