I believe it’s none of our business,” Jesstin said, suppressing a yawn. He usually turned up around three or four in the morning, but by then, he’d have hit his second wind. Coming in closer to the midnight hour was throwing him off completely. Other than Sesto, everyone assumed he was simply up to his elbows in cunt and dice every night, plundering through life’s indulgences with wild abandon. No one else knew he’d invested all his gold into the Azure, or that, other than for the necessary show on his throne—which was getting harder and harder to pretend he enjoyed—he partook in none of it. It had been over a year since he’d had anything but watered-down mead in his flask, but he preferred they all think of him as a drunken disappointment. He couldn’t decide whether he was relieved or disappointed at how well the pretense had held up.
Sesto folded his hands with a soft, patient sigh. “Did you know Elloven was one of Castien’s victims when she was younger? It was that man, the stable hand, who first soiled her reputation, but then she was sent to the Reliquary, and Castien... She was precisely the type he pursued.”
Jesstin pulled out a chair and sank onto it. His family tree was a quagmire. He was Skylark and Edevane, which made him half sibling to both Rhiain and her husband, Asterin. Castien, Asterin’s twin, was the moral mirror of their soulless father, Sestinn, and had abused his power and authority to coerce young women for years, often without gaining their consent. Those young women were shunned by their families, while Castien only moved his nefariousness elsewhere. Asterin did as much as he could to support the women and their families financially, but the stain was not so easily scrubbed away. Not one had made a good marriage, except Elloven, and he doubted she’d call being married to a twisted sadist “good,” lord or no.
The only thing worse than the sting of bastardry, for Jesstin, was sharing blood with monsters. “No,” he said after a beat.
“Everyone knew Lord Quinlanden’s youngest son was a letch, but no one had the power to stop the lunatic from taking Elloven to Whitechurch. Certainly not the baroness. Baron Hawthorne did his family no service, in life or death.” Sesto threw the paper down. “It never ends for some.”
Jesstin prepared himself for a diatribe.
“They found the baron’s body outside a tavern just like the Azure, Jess.”
“I already know this story. Everyone does. That was well over a decade ago.” And was another reason Rhiain and Asterin couldn’t find out the extent of Jesstin’s involvement in the village.
“Everyone also thinks the baroness lives off of the kindness of the Quinlandens, but the lord wouldn’t even respond to her pleas. It’s Asterin who pays her taxes so they don’t take Nightwood, Asterin who ensures she eats,” Sesto said. He watched Jesstin, waiting for it to sink in.
“All right, I did not know that,” he conceded, “but who feeds the Hawthornes has nothing to do with me, and I don’t know what you’re trying to say here or why you look so damned concerned. Or why you’re awake at all.” Jesstin scoffed. “It may be early for me, but it’s bloody late for you.”
Sesto craned back to check the door. He leaned in again. “I overhead Rhiain and As talking tonight. They’re worried about you.”
Jesstin flopped back with a drained laugh. “Is the sky also still blue?”
“I know how much the university placement meant to you, even if you didn’t want me, or others, to know that.”
“Then you know better than to bring it up,” Jesstin answered tersely. His acceptance to the great universities of Oldcastle had been all but certain. His birth father had been the steward of the town, and though that designation now belonged to Theocratin, the oldest Edevane son, Sestinn still had his hands deep in Oldcastle business. His other father was the political face of the Reliquary. They were two of the most powerful men in the entire realm.
It had been his one chance to leave and become something other than society’s punching bag.
“They’ve been light-handed with your inclinations because they thought you’d turn your life around when you had something productive to focus on. Now that you’re not leaving, I expect they’ll start looking deeper into what you’re doing in Mythgarde.”
“I’m old enough to own land, I’m old enough to take a wife, and I’m old enough to make my own fucking choices.”
“Your choice tonight made them proud, standing tall for Lady Elloven.” Sesto’s shoulders lifted with a long, deep breath. He’d finally worked up to what he really wanted to say, wavering the way he did when he felt Jesstin was likely to ignore his advice. “Darling boy, you are challenging the flames going anywhere near the Hawthornes. The baroness may be too deep in her cups to read you, but her daughter just dealt with five terrible men without even being in the same area. People are notoriously more vengeful about wrongs done to those they love than themselves, so what will she do to you, Jess, when she learns you’re the one who murdered her beloved brother?”
The old cottage was ominously unchanged. Dust lined the mantle, the tables. Moonlight lit the cobwebs trailing down from the ceiling beams. There was a mug, half full of something indiscernible beneath a layer of mold. A mouse scampered from underneath a chair she bumped, disappearing into the murky corner.
All of that Elloven could understand if her mother were living alone with her poor spirits, but how had Taven let it get so bad?
He wanted me to see it this way, she realized. He’d known, probably for longer than she had, that she’d planned to send Fabrien and his friends the nightmare, that she’d be coming home. He’d had plenty of time to tidy up and cover the shame of the past years. But he hadn’t.
“You’ll find her in bed,” Taven said, coming up so softly behind her, she yelped. His hands rolled over both of her shoulders with a grip that was far from comforting. “She rarely leaves, not since Gen’s accident. Perhaps you’ll inspire her in ways I could not.”
Gennady’s death was no accident, and neither had been leaving Nightwood in such stale disarray. Elloven twisted away from him. Her exhaustion tamped the fire in her, but she’d had plenty of long hours in the carriage to think about his assertion to marry her. He hadn’t even bothered to pose it as a question.
Taven slipped a hand through one of hers and dipped into a theatrical bow.
“No.” Her heart sank. “Taven, no.”
“My lady, would you not do this humble gentleman the honor?” Taven remained on his knees, like he was addressing his liege lord. He’d always sprung the request on her when he sensed her withdrawing. Dance with me, he used to say, and we’ll leave the world behind.
“I said no. It’s late. It’s been an awfully long?—”
“Just one,” he said, insistent, turning his begging eyes upward. “Just one, and I’ll retire a content man.”
“Is contentment so easy for you?”
“El.”
