Chapter 15

I'd tried many wines. Most of them tasted like black, unsweetened tea diluted with some kind of sour tincture. Some made my head spin and brought on nausea; others plunged me into a gloom that left me sleeping for days. There was one kind I had gifted the count a few days ago during the hunt — a wine usually kept deep in the cellars, and only brought out by Philipp when someone needed to be impressed.

Sipping the spiced drink, I stared at the rain trailing down the windowpanes in thick, warped streams. The weather had turned almost instantly. Clouds had swept over the sky, blotting out the pale May sun.

Margarita was still in the study. Philipp was pacing between rooms, preparing everything for breakfast. He walked across the carpet with brisk steps, like a soldier marching to deliver a report to his general, and occasionally stopped by my side to offer snacks I hadn't asked for. Cheese cubes with wine were the perfect pairing, so I didn't complain about being so thoroughly fed.

The gravel path leading to the estate gates blurred as the downpour intensified. I grew uneasy. If the fields flooded, the flowers would be ruined.

I frowned, leaning closer to the window. Through the rain-streaked glass, I saw a black carriage without any heraldry, growing larger with each turn of its wheels. It stopped at the base of the stairs and remained still.

Guests, in this weather? What sort of madmen..?

I pressed my lips together, turned, and called out to the butler:

"Philipp! Come here."

The old man's head poked around the corridor, then the rest of him followed as he shuffled over, dragging his feet. He held a bundle of silk-wrapped silverware. Polishing it, most likely.

"Yes, Your Grace?"

I gestured toward the carriage with my wineglass.

"Who is that?"

Philipp paused beside me, peering past my arm. His grey brows shot up, and his wrinkled, tired face smoothed out slightly.

"New staff, milord. You approved the hire last week. Because of the incident last month, the previous ones had to be replaced."

"Incident? What—" I cut myself off, lips snapping shut before I could say something too suspicious.

What incident? A theft? I couldn't quite recall, and the System Assistant was silent.

Three figures emerged from the carriage. Their long grey cloaks were instantly soaked by the rain, and their heads were covered in black veils and large square hats that looked almost absurd. The carriage door slammed shut, and they moved in eerie unison toward the main entrance. They walked in perfect sync, even their swinging arms matching pace.

They looked like cultists to me. I didn't hide the caution in my voice as I asked Philipp:

"Where are they from?"

He replied softly:

"From the Bamont Monastery, the one out west, near Larkspur. Recommended by the Archpriest. You approved it. I asked them to come as quickly as possible, but the roads were too muddy, so they've only just arrived."

A monastery.

"Nuns?"

"Lay servants, I was told. Skilled in household management. The Archpriest assured me they would be discreet and highly loyal."

Hiring staff with close ties to the Church was a bad idea. Take the Cathedral of Saint Agatha — though it technically operated under the Archbishop, every person who had ever set foot inside it obeyed the King's will without question.

Even though power was split between Parliament and the Crown, the King was still the ultimate law.

I drained the glass and set it on the windowsill, continuing to observe the new maids. The tallest of them was carrying a leather bag. One of the trio suddenly stopped and raised her head. Her veil shifted just enough to reveal a strip of her eyes. The rain was thick, so I couldn't make out her face in detail, but the feeling of her heavy, alien gaze left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Right then, I made up my mind — one mistake, and they'd be sent back.

The maids entered the house, and soon the first floor was filled with sound. Plucking a black grape from the cluster, I slipped it into my mouth and stepped away from the window.

"I'll be in the study."

Philipp nodded, placing the empty glass on a tray.

I hurried back to check on my sister's work.

***

Margarita had moved from her chair to the rug by the fireplace and was sifting through a stack of letters, occasionally blushing or squinting in horror at whatever was written inside. I knocked my knuckles against the wooden cabinet, and my sister quickly turned toward me with a startled yelp.

"Why so sudden?" she muttered, crumpling a letter in her fingers.

"What are you doing?"

She sprawled out like a cat and shrugged.

"Sorting letters. I brought them from my room."

"So, you're doing everything except dealing with the registry?"

Margarita shot me a sidelong look, her lips curling slyly.

"Exactly. Want to join me?"

I rolled my neck, shut the door behind me, and walked in, landing beside her. The logs in the fireplace crackled loudly, spitting sparks onto the floor.

Picking a letter from the pile, I felt the paper — expensive, perfumed with some floral scent. Breaking the seal, I skimmed the text and was hit by the wave of melodrama it carried.

"Rose of Vaukh Ton, your eyes haunt me..."

"God, what nonsense."

She leaned in, poked her nose into the letter, and burst out laughing.

"That's the third letter that starts with that exact line. I wonder if their sender is the same person," she snatched the paper from my hands and tossed it carelessly onto the growing pile of opened letters. "Or maybe they're all in the same room, writing to me and swapping tips."

I chuckled, briefly imagining the absurdity of such a scene.

Some envelopes, Margarita hadn't even opened. One look at the design was enough for her to decide they weren't worth her attention. I was surprised by her sharp judgment, but inwardly praised it. Fortunately, my sister wasn't foolish enough to entertain suitors who hadn't touched her soul.

She pulled another envelope from the pile, then froze. Her smile faded as she turned it over in her hands.

"This one's odd. No seal, no name."

I looked up. The paper was plain, unsigned.

"Toss it. If they can't be bothered to sign it, it's not worth your time."

But she had already opened it, smoothing the folds. Her eyes scanned the lines. Her brow furrowed.

"This is...strange. Listen. 'Lady Margarita Alder. The roses in your grace's garden are not as red as the thorns guarding them. We both bloom in pots that stifle our growth. The thorns will bleed, but the garden will flourish. You need not fear the pruning.'"

The words hung in the air. I held out my hand, and Margarita passed the letter to me, letting me examine it. The handwriting was unrecognizable. The letters were ornate, sharp — clearly written in a rush. I brought the paper closer to my nose and inhaled.

It smelled of moss.

"I don't understand a thing," Margarita said thoughtfully, watching me for a reaction.

I didn't either. A threat? 'Pots that stifle growth'? A cage? But no one was holding Margarita here, much less restricting her. Another tortured soul spilling out chaotic, stupid thoughts?

I looked back at my sister and said, "Burn it." The words came out harsher than I intended.

Margarita flinched, her smile vanishing. I softened my tone.

"Please. It's not worth your worry. Just another half-baked poet."

She studied my face, then nodded. The usual mischief in her eyes gave way to quiet puzzlement. Gently pulling the letter from my fingers, she brought it to the fire and tossed it in without mercy. The edges curled and blackened, folding in like a dead spider. The flames devoured the words, and soon the paper had shriveled into a scrap of ash.

Margarita poked the remains with a fire iron until nothing was left but smoke.

"Happy?" she asked, leaning her side against my shoulder.

"Thrilled," I said, standing up and brushing invisible dust from my trousers. "Now let's get back to work. We need to finish before breakfast is served."

Margarita stuck out her tongue but obediently returned to the table with me. I cracked open a window, letting fresh air into the study.

But something stayed uneasy inside me. Letters like that often came to our house, and most of the time the subtext was clear — they admired Margarita. But this one unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.

It felt as if the person who wrote it wasn't speaking to her, but to me.

As if I was the unnecessary thorn they meant to cut off.