“No.” I laugh under my breath. “But anyone else would’ve left me to figure things out.”
“That’s not how I operate.”
As a matter of fact, I already knew that. But even if I didn’t, every binder, every highlighted section, every color-coded spreadsheet confirms it. And the thought of him walking out at noon leaves me unsettled more than I care to admit.
Afternoon light slantsacross the sitting room, gilding the piles of binders Alex left behind.
I open one binder and stare at the neat columns of numbers with every margin annotated in his handwriting. My eyes skim the words, but nothing sticks. My brain just skids off.
“Tomorrow,” I mutter, snapping the binder shut.
I’ll tackle this tomorrow morning, with coffee and a fresh mind.
But what can I do now with my head buzzing? Something without numbers…The press release.
I pull a fresh notepad toward me. The local press will expect an official statement soon. And then there are the social media pages—Millie’s, Fort Vauclairt’s, my own. It shouldn’t be hardto write something like, “We are delighted to announce that the Royal Court of Mount Evor recognizes Millicent Brigitte Castellane as the twenty-ninth Duchess of Rohinn.” No fluff. Short and sweet.
I manage half a sentence before my pen stills.
My leg bounces under the table. I press it down, only for my fingers to start tapping the page. I’m restless, unfocused. Too scattered even for this simple task. I keep seeing Alex at this table, face closed, explaining the files, and telling me he’d be gone by noon.
And now he is.
The house feels hollow this afternoon, and not just to me. Millie tried to hide it at lunch, but she barely ate. She was so much quieter than usual, poking at her favorite tandoori chicken, that I had to reassure Stéphanie afterward that nothing was wrong with her cooking.
“It’s Alex’s sudden departure that threw Millie off-balance,” I told her.
She was relieved at first, but then she squinted at me. “You served yourself a wartime ration, Your Grace. And even that you couldn’t finish.”
Both statements being true, I had no line of defense.
“Did Monsieur Alex’s departure unsettle you, too?” she asked. “Or did I really mess up that chicken?”
How was I supposed to answer that?
I shove the notepad away and start pacing. I fold my arms across my chest, but then I unfold them just as quickly. My thoughts are a jumble.
Valerian root?A walk?
Or maybe I should call the bishop’s office, and schedule Millie’s anointment. The sooner it’s on the calendar, the better. The title doesn’t need the church’s blessing to be official, but it’s a tradition. And I need something productive to focus on.
But as I reach for my phone, Brigitte’s words drift back to me.Poetic justice… Geoffroy’s sin… Alex’s due…I’d brushed them off yesterday, telling myself it was wine-soaked nonsense. But the words won’t leave me alone.
Before my mind registers what I’m doing, I rush to the key drawer, and then downstairs to the archives.
I unlock the door, flick on the light, and scan the rows of boxes until I find what I came here for. I pull down the box marked “Rodolphe Castellane—Deceased”. My palms sweat as I set it on the table and lift the lid. Newspaper clippings, funeral-related receipts, letters of condolences…
It won’t be here,I tell myself. Then I find it—a copy of the coroner’s report.
My heart thumping, I read it. The report says the death was consistent with an accidental fall down the main staircase. No blunt force trauma, no defensive wounds. Severe head trauma. Broken neck. Bruising on both wrists and forearms.
Wait, what? How’s that consistent with an accidental fall?
I reread that part. The coroner dismissed the bruising as “likely caused by impact during the fall.”
I guess it could be, right?
Or someone grabbed him.
