I took the box because I had no choice. Not really.
It was heavier than it looked.
Caswell’s gaze moved to my sleeves.
The cuffs I wore today were plain. School issue. Buttoned, because some habits survived rebellion by pretending they were unrelated to it.
I’d ruined the family cuffs I’d brought with me to Zenith with spilled ink and jealousy.
At least I wouldn’t have to explain that to my father.
“There is a note,” he said.
“I assumed.”
“Lord Ashford’s steward conveyed that he wished for you to read it before your father’s arrival.”
“Did he.”
“Yes.”
Caswell inclined his head and left.
I closed the door behind him.
For a moment I stood with the box in both hands and the basin dark behind me.
Then I set the box on the desk.
I didn’t open it.
I knew what was inside. Knowing was different from touching.
Knowing could still be disobeyed.
Touching made a thing harder to refuse.
My Mark moved under my sleeve.
Not toward the box.
Toward wherever Astra Verita had been sent now.
In the dining hall, my name had become a threat without anyone needing to say it. Marsh had stood. I had stood. Her Mark had answered both of us, and pain had crossed her face before either of us remembered the room.
Evidence.
That was what Quill would call it.
My father would arrive before night’s last bell to make me the most elegant and sanitized version of Astra’s future.
To make me the heir I’d been born to be.
I opened the box.
The cuffs lay in black velvet.
Silk and silver. Ashford silver. The family line stamped inside each band in letters so small only the wearer would know they were there.
