The house had become a sequence of substitutions. Less coal. Fewer hands. One carriage horse sold. Flower vases left empty. Silver polished so fiercely the mismatched pieces looked almost deliberate.
Sabine crossed the small gallery and entered the back drawing room.
Lady Mirelle had chosen the round supper table near the windows instead of the dining hall. The tea service had been laid with painful care: one pot from the old family silver, two cups from another set, a sugar bowl that belonged to neither. All of it shone under the lamps.
Mirelle sat already composed, in dark silk altered cleverly enough to conceal the age of the gown. Her posture remained flawless. Cassian stood near the fire with a glass in hand, not drinking from it.
“You’ve been hidden in there half the evening,” he said. “Junor nearly sent a search party.”
“I was in the study, not the marshes.”
“That was not my point.”
Mirelle looked up. “Sit down, Sabine.”
Sabine took the empty chair. Her plate waited under a silver cover. The meat had cooled. She set the crown notice beside her knife.
Cassian stayed standing another moment, then said, “I had a letter from Deren this morning. They may still host a midsummer gathering if the roads clear early. There will be half the district there. Halven’s second son. The Vale cousins. Perhaps even someone from Esth Court if the season improves.”
Sabine looked at him. “And what do you imagine improves with the season.”
His jaw shifted. “Introductions. Terms. People remember themselves in summer.”
“Creditors remember themselves year-round.”
“That is not all anyone thinks about.”
“It is the first thing they think about where we are concerned.”
Mirelle poured tea before either of them could continue. Her hand never shook. “Your brother is attempting to be constructive.”
“He is attempting to remain sixteen.”
Cassian’s head came up. “That is low.”
“It is accurate.”
He set the untouched glass down on the mantel with more force than necessary. “You think because you sit with ledgers you alone are permitted realism. Some of us are trying to keep the house from sounding finished every time its name is spoken.”
Sabine unfolded the notice and passed it across the table.
He read the first lines. The color in his face altered. He handed it back too quickly.
“The council has made exceptions before,” he said. “There could be an extension.”
“There is no extension noted.”
“Then we petition.”
“With what leverage.”
“With name. With history. With allies still willing to behave like allies.”
Sabine said nothing.
Cassian crossed toward the windows and back again. He always paced when he felt cornered. “A good summer could still change matters. If the orchard holds and the southern road claim is settled and we get through one proper season without another damned blight or tax adjustment—”
Sabine almost smiled then, though there was no humor in it.
