Chapter Eleven: The Duke’s Summon

Chapter Eleven: The Duke's Summon

Eva closed the door behind her, the heavy latch clicking into place as Lady Valerie's sharp dismissal still echoed in her ears. The corridor stretched long and silent, lit only by the guttering flame of wall sconces. A hush had settled over the household—the kind of quiet that was too deliberate to be comforting.

She made her way down toward the servants' wing, her feet moving from habit. Mira would still be in the linen room. Likely elbows-deep in bedsheets, humming off-key and cursing folded corners. Eva found herself drawn there, not by duty but something softer—steadier.

She turned the corner and found Mira precisely as expected, sleeves rolled and a lopsided stack of sheets before her.

"You look like you've been bested," Eva said gently, stepping through the doorway.

Mira looked up, a grin already blooming. "They struck first. I simply retaliated."

Eva smiled and moved to join her. She picked up a sheet and began folding without being asked.

"You're off duty," Mira observed. "Shouldn't you be sulking somewhere poetic?"

"Lady Valerie released me early," Eva murmured. "Said my presence felt like 'an echo behind her eyes.'"

"Saints," Mira muttered, blinking. "That's dramatic. Even for her."

"She does prefer the theatrical."

Mira squinted. "I should write a collection. 'Things Noblewomen Say in a Fit of Brooding.' Volume one: The Echo Behind Her Eyes."

They laughed quietly, the sound muffled by linen and the closeness of the room. It was a warm sort of silence after that, punctuated only by the rustle of cloth and the creak of floorboards.

Then came the bell.

A sharp, singular clang rang through the manor—shrill and immediate.

Mira stilled. "That's the great hall bell."

Eva didn't reply.

A second clang.

The hallway beyond the door stirred to life. Footsteps echoed on the stone, voices rose in confused whispers.

"All servants to the main hall!" came the head maid's voice, clipped and commanding. "At once!"

Mira looked at Eva. There was no time to speak. They moved.

By the time they reached the hall, it was already filling. Half-dressed footmen, chambermaids in their night aprons, kitchen hands still dusted with flour. A quiet murmur ran through them all, questions without answers.

Eva stood beside Mira near the back staircase, her breath tight in her chest.

Then Lord Blackthorn entered.

He was as precise as ever—coat fastened, hair combed, expression carved from stone. He moved with purpose, but there was something in his bearing that suggested urgency—urgency, or unease.

"The Duke has issued a summon," he announced. "The Elders are to appear before him without delay."

A quiet gasp ran through the hall. Even the youngest maids understood what that meant.

Lord Blackthorn's voice did not waver. "A retinue of servants will accompany us. The head maid will now read the names."

He turned on his heel and left the hall without another word.The head maid stepped forward with a parchment in hand. Her eyes swept the room once before she read aloud:

"Mira Elstead."

Mira inhaled, barely moving otherwise.

"Lira Thorne."

A rustle from the left as Lira stepped forward, chin lifted, her black skirts swishing like she owned the floor.

"Eva Harrow."

No one turned. No eyes found her. The name passed without remark, and yet Eva felt the weight of it settle.

Others were called—a scullery boy, two footmen, a cook's apprentice. Then the list ended.

"Those named, prepare your things," the head maid said. "We depart before the midnight bell."

The crowd dispersed in a hushed flurry.

Mira turned to Eva with a half-smile. "Well," she said, "I suppose the linens shall win tonight."

Eva exhaled a soft breath. "It appears so."

They returned briefly to Mira's room, but parted soon after. Mira went to pack her own things; Eva, as Valerie's handmaid, was expected elsewhere.She made her way back to the lady's wing, the hush of the halls disturbed only by the far-off rattle of trunks and scurrying steps. The Duke's summons had roused something in the walls of Blackthorn Manor.

When she entered the chamber, Lady Valerie was already standing beside her armoire, pulling gowns with a practiced calm. She didn't look surprised to see Eva.

"The duke's summon," Valerie said without turning. "I was informed."

"Yes, my lady."

"Then you'll help me first."

Eva moved wordlessly to the wardrobe and began folding the velvet bodices Lady Valerie laid aside. Their movements fell into a rhythm, the silence between them not cold, but tight. Focused.

Valerie's gloved hand lingered over a bottle of perfume. Her brows were slightly drawn. "He does not summon the Elders lightly," she murmured, almost to herself.

A beat passed.

Valerie met her gaze, and for a fleeting moment, the mask slipped. There was something fragile behind the steel—a shadow of unease, quickly hidden.

"Bring the traveling cloak," she said, voice sharper.

Eva obeyed.

They packed quickly but meticulously—an art Lady Valerie had perfected. By the end, her trunk sat near the door, gleaming in polished leather and silver clasps.Eva retreated to her own chamber, a much smaller room tucked at the edge of the wing. She didn't have much. A spare uniform, a comb, a pair of gloves with the fingers slightly frayed. A ribbon from her mother, tucked into the lining of her coat. She wrapped it all in a linen bundle and fastened it with string.

By the time the bell tolled again—low, deep, and ominous—they were ready.

The courtyard shimmered with torchlight, smoke curling in the cold midnight air. Coaches stood like great beasts in the fog, their polished sides catching the flicker of flame. Horses shifted restlessly in harness, breath steaming in the night.

Lady Valerie swept out first, gloved hand resting lightly on the arm of a footman. Her cloak billowed like ink in water. Eva followed, walking a pace behind, carrying the smaller trunk.Servants and the guards moved like shadows, loading the coaches with quiet efficiency. Lord Blackthorn stood near the lead carriage, speaking softly with a cloaked figure whose face remained hidden beneath the cloak.

Valerie's carriage was near the front—sleek, dark, and finer than the rest. As she stepped up, she looked once over her shoulder.

"Be quick, Harrow."

Eva bowed her head. "Yes, my lady."

Then Valerie was gone, swallowed into the velvet interior.

Eva turned toward the second coach, where a few servants lingered.

"Mira!" she called softly.

A familiar face emerged from the shadows, hair pinned up in a rush, coat buttoned wrong.

"There you are," Mira said, breath misting. "Thought they'd snuck you off to the nobility's traveling circus."

"They tried," Eva replied. "But I escaped."

Mira smiled and helped her climb in.

Inside the coach, the seats were worn but dry. Lira sat across from them, her gaze pinned to the window, lips curled faintly.

"Finally," she muttered. "Some of us do not enjoy the chill."

Eva said nothing. Mira offered a subtle roll of her eyes and leaned close as the coach rocked into motion.Outside, wheels cracked against stone. Hooves struck rhythm on the road. The gates of Blackthorn Manor creaked open.

They rode into the mist, torches flickering behind them.

And ahead, where the road bent into shadow, the Duke's Manor awaited—its summons sharp as a blade in the dark.