Page 62 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“So it seems.”

Unease threaded through Kora. Silence of that sort often proved worse than alarm. At the same time, she became aware of a faint lightheadedness, as though the heat and talk together had tipped her balance.

“And no word from His Majesty about Oorlon’s demand?” Cairon asked.

Duncan shook his head again. “Nothing yet. Wolmer is consumed by the royal wedding. I expect he will leave the matter untouched until the vows are spoken.”

The mention of weddings worsened Kora’s dizziness.

Cairon grunted, a sound laced with dry humor. “A wedding before diplomacy. An Empire mistaking celebration for stability.”

The glance the two men exchanged confirmed what neither said aloud. Kora understood the implication beneath it from Duncan’s careful lessons during the ride to Norrelia: the unspoken arithmetic of an emperor stretched thin in too many directions at once.

“Duchess,” Lyra called from the doorway, a welcome interruption. “Iron and empty stomachs make poor companions. Come join us in the kitchen before the men weary you.”

Kora needed little encouragement.

The kitchen greeted her with kettles whispering on the hearth and loaves swelling beneath linen cloths. She drew in the scent of yeast and smoke, grateful. For the first time since entering the forge, breathing came easily again.

Lyra’s daughters chattered while trying to plait their loaves into elaborate braids. They coaxed Kora to attempt it as well. Her fingers stumbled and flour dusted her skirts, but she laughed with them, letting talk of weapons and war fade behind the warmth of the room.

“You are gentle with them,” Lyra said quietly once the girls moved on to their next distraction. “They will remember that longer than crowns or pretty gowns.”

“They remind me of Cairon,” Kora said shyly.

“His flair, you mean?” Lyra laughed, brushing loose auburn hair from her face. “Aye, my Ronnie has always loved a stage and a story. That is how he tricked me into loving him.”

Kora smiled at the softness that came into Lyra’s brown eyes when she spoke of him. “How did Cairon come to serve the derWhittes?”

“Some fifteen years ago,” Lyra said, settling into the memory, “during a Duskmerri raid that reached Emberglade, Cairon turned mill gears into siegeworks and held the line until Lemierre soldiers could rally. This was before Garric and his watchers, so no warning reached us.” She pressed the dough beneath her palms. “Alaric derWhitte saw his quick thinking, saw a man with ideas too large for a small forge, and called him to court.”

“Cairon has a gift for lifting spirits as well,” Kora noted. “That flourish of his is heartening.”

“Aye.” Lyra studied her thoughtfully. “It speaks well of House derWhitte that they favor worth over birth. Few lords make room at their table for commonborn men.” Her smile warmed. “Or women, mind you.” She rested a hand briefly on the dough. “And His Grace would not have taken you for his wife if he had not seen something worth choosing.”

Kora shook her head lightly, though her cheeks colored. “Our marriage was born of necessity, as most noble marriages are.” She brushed a finger along a plait. “Still, he has shown me kindness. I have little cause to complain.”

Duncan had not fully invited her into his inner life, nor into matters beyond what custom required of a duchess. But since Goldfire, he had been making an effort to be mindful of her comfort.

“Do not be so certain,” Lyra said with gentle mischief, laying a hand on Kora’s shoulder. “I have spoken with you long enough to know that is not the whole of it. And I have seen the way he looks at you. That is not the gaze of a man bound to something he wishes away.” She withdrew her hand. “Only remember to tell him you are content here as well. Men need encouragement as much as women do, though they pretend otherwise.”

That very night, Kora decided she would no longer lie wakeful in the dark, counting heartbeats and distance, wondering whether this would be the night the duke came to her bed. With her skirts still carrying faint traces of smoke and flour from her clumsy attempts at baking, she began the ritual of bringing oat crumble pie and tea to Duncan’s private study before retiring.

At first it was nothing more than a modest kindness to repay his own. She would set the tray beside his elbow, exchange a few words, then slip away, content simply to lay her unease aside after confirming he had no plans to come.

But as the weeks passed, the visits stretched. Tea was poured, pie shared, conversation followed—incidental at first, then easy with habit—until the custom became an unspoken accord between them and her favorite hour of the day.

She arrived with her offerings and her readings; he remained with his ledgers and his worries. Together they sat with the hearth’s steady crackle between them, wrapped in the quiet relief of finding a book that asks nothing but to be kept open a little longer.

Chapter 32

Koraleise

It was a fine midsummer day. Bright in every way that ran counter to Kora’s mood, as she walked the streets of Emberglade returning to the castle. The city itself rang with clatter and cheer, throwing her thoughts into harsher relief.

Isander matched her pace, an unobtrusive escort. At the eastern market, they passed Nelayne’s home, where she knelt in her garden beside Styfan. The boy chased a wooden hoop across the cobblestones, shrieking with delight while his mother called after him to mind the steps. He spotted them and waved both arms, the hoop skittering into a patch of mint. Nelayne looked up, smiling in that brisk, unsentimental way of hers, and lifted a hand in greeting.

Kora raised her own in return, then let it fall heavier than she intended.