Page 34 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

“I am so sorry,” she whispered, regretting having dragged the Rusan’s brother into her web of lies.

When Violet’s tears eased, she stepped back with a grim smile. “Thank you, Miss.”

“Please call me Emillie,” she said. She tired of the distance between Caersans and Rusans. The social hierarchy had never sat well with her, and between her short stint at the Drifter’s Inn and Bistro with Kyra and Azriel’s status as a half-dhemon, it only muddled more. No Rusan she met had ever been as cruel or unjust as some Caersans.

“I can’t…”

“Even if it is only in private,” Emillie added in a rush. If her father heard a servant call her anything other than her title, he would have a fit.

Violet scanned her face for a long moment before giving her a quick nod. “Alright…Emillie. I believe Misses Dodd and Ives will be along shortly. I’ll show them to the drawing room.”

“Thank you, Violet.” Emillie smiled weakly. “Truly. For everything.”

By the time she reached the bright drawing room, Revelie and Camilla had indeed arrived. Both sat on a couch facing away from the door, whispering between themselves. They turned when she entered before leaping to their feet.

Revelie reached her first, throwing her arms around Emillie and pulling her close. The gardenia fragrance that always lingered around her friend filled her nose as Revelie said, “By the gods, Em! What has happened?”

Next, Camilla held her tight. “There have been rumors, doll, but no one seems to know. When your father kept intervening at the celebration last night, we were not certain what to think.”

The engagement celebration had been a blur all the way up to the moment the door closed behind Alek and her father’s hand collided with her face. She had remained glued to her fiancé’s side for fear of her father’s rage, and each time her friends attempted to pull her away, the Princeps had been there to tell them no.

“He has gone to the Court House for the night,” Emillie reassured them, and they settled into their seats. Lavender black tea and small cucumber and dill sandwiches spread out across the low table. “So much has happened.”

“Do tell,” Camilla pressed as she plucked up a sandwich and chewed politely.

Emillie shook her head. “First, tell me what you know.”

With a scoff, Revelie sat forward. Gossip and rumors were her specialty as the leading Caersan seamstress in Laeton. She picked up her teacup, dark eyes sparkling with interest as she silently collected her thoughts. After a quiet sip, she dove in, “Some have said Lord Caldwell has run away. Others say he has died. Still more have combined both rumors, saying he left Ariadne and the Princeps killed him for being a rake.”

Emillie’s jaw dropped. “Absolutely none of that is true.”

But Revelie held up a finger. “The official word from the Council is that the Lord Governor died protecting Ari from dhemons on their way out of the Central Province. According to this missive, his widow has been sent to Monsumbra to see that Madan is placed as the new Lord Governor and to collect her things.”

None of that made sense. Caersan women of the Society had no control over anything political and would never be expected to pack their own trunks for something as simple as a move. That Ariadne was, in fact, gone did nothing to help matters. Only one thing was remotely true: her sister was in Monsumbra.

At least…Emillie prayed nightly to Keon that she had made it there safely.

“So?” Camilla asked, looking between them. “What is the truth?”

She opened her mouth to speak and froze. Her gaze flickered to the door, beyond which Sul no doubt stood. It had been weeks since her first suspicion that the personal guard’s allegiance was with the General, so she had not risked speaking to him about anything of import. As though his demeanor gave her reason to relax enough to do so.

Emillie beckoned her friends closer and leaned in herself. In a whisper, she told them everything.

Loren glared at the family portrait hung at the end of the gallery leading to the dining room at the Gard Estate. His father stood stoic, one hand on his mother’s shoulder. She looked out at Loren with sad eyes—the same sad eyes he had known all his life, as though she already knew the horrible fate of her younger son, seated on her lap. His brother, Darien, with round cheeks and bright, sapphire eyes, appeared to be the only one with a foolish glint of hope on his face. And to his mother’s left, Loren’s younger self glared right back at him, his jaw set tight.

Not much had changed for any of them, it seemed, aside from Darien’s untimely death.

Even as his mother called his name from behind, Loren knew what he would see upon turning: a woman with half the life left in her after losing her son. He did so and was met with her warm embrace—the one and only place he had ever felt at home. Her vibrant red curls cascaded down her back, not a hint of gray in any of it. She was still young, possibly too young for his father upon their marriage six and a half centuries ago.

“My son.” She cupped his face and smiled up at him, though it did not quite meet her eyes. It had not for over a year now. “I am glad you came.”

“Of course, Mother,” he said and kissed her cheek.

“General Gard.” His father’s voice rumbled from down the gallery, and Loren turned to him. “I admit I had been concerned you would never again hold the title.”

The corner of Loren’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “The Princeps saw the errors of his ways, it would seem.”

“And yet it took you over a week to grace our doorstep in that uniform again?”

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