Page 67 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

A question for another day. This day has more than enough trouble and work.

“Edvear,” I call through the door of my study when his familiar stride reaches my ears. He pokes his head through my broken door. The bodies are all disposed of, the blood mostly cleaned except for a few stray droplets on the spines of unfortunate books. “Procure the address of the Vandermore estate. I must pay a visit at once.”

Edvear tilts his head to one side. “The Vandermores? Isn’t that the wealthiest family in the city, save the queen?”

“The same. I will call on Lady Vandermore.”

“The mother? Or the heiress?”

“The heiress.”

“Whatever for?”

I smirk at Edvear’s bewilderment. “I think we can help each other, and in the process, give the queen a story.”

“Oh no, oh no,” groans Edvear. “I’m having flashbacks to working for Ash.”

That surprises a chuckle out of me. “Have no fear, my good steward. This hardly compares to his machinations.”

TheVandermoreManorhasan enormous shrub trimmed into the shape of a rearing stallion at its entrance.

“The things I do because of Ash,” I mutter under my breath.

Since Edvear was gone and Nat was sick, I had to ask Mrs. Banks for advice on which human clothes I ought to wear.

“What statement do you wish to make?” she had asked.

“I wish to appear unthreatening,” I replied, thinking of how Nat had indicated that I often appear frightening.

She suggested a doublet of lavender, which I did not realize I even owned. I took her advice and wore what she selected, but now I do not feel like myself at all as I step out of the carriage. My shoulders are too wide, my stride too long, my feet too broad for a light shade of purple. The glamour on my wings shudders slightly, but I dare not let it slip. Least of all here.

I spare a singular, smug thought that the queen will be very put out at the failure of her covert attempt to be rid of me.

I am shown to a parlor, fixed with red upholstered chairs with armrests—curse it. These ones look particularly bad, with a very narrow seat and narrow arms. I might have to stand beside the mantle this entire meeting. Then, blessedly, I spot the singular bench, this one a striped, spring green.

The clock on the mantle chimes the hour as someone enters—the woman I observed speaking to the queen at the ball.

“Lord Rahk,” says the woman with only a hint of trepidation in her voice. “We are honored by your presence. And surprised, as we have not had the pleasure of being introduced.”

“Lady Duxbury Vandermore,” I reply, bowing. “Forgive me if I have blundered. I am still learning Harbright culture.”

“Consider it forgotten.” She takes a seat by the fireplace, then gestures for me to sit as well. Behind her, two manservants step into the room and stay by the door like guards.

I take the bench and survey the woman. She must be well into her fifties, a touch of gray streaking away from her temples into her bound-up hair. She holds herself erect, her spine straight, her hands carefully folded on her knees.

The only tell of her fear is that she keeps glancing at her manservants.

Apparently, the purple doublet didn’t do its full duty.

“I came to speak with Lady Vandermore,” I say when the silence stretches. “Is she here?”

“Ah, yes. All the young men wish to speak with her.”

That is a bitter tone. Is the lady angry I do not come for her hand? Or some other reason? I remember to return her smile lest I come across toobrooding,as Ash always says. “Is she here?”

“I’m afraid not. She is out calling on one of her friends. But if it is marriage you are considering, I can tell you the process.”

I’d rather speak to the girl. I do not need a wife, neither do I want one. I have no intention of marrying Lady Vandermore. But if we broker a deal between us to feign courtship, where she will help me create a compelling story for the queen and I will return her stolen land to her, then we might be able to help each other.

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