Page 12 of Blood of Wolves

That was too far, she thought, with an inner twist of regret. Not for the words themselves, nor for the looks on the Sutcliffes’ faces, matching masks of anger and wounded pride. But Katherine had just told her they needed to be flattered, and here she was, letting her temper get the best of her, as usual.

But Katherine took a breath beside her and said, “Really, Phineas. Isadora. There are larger issues at hand.” She extended a hand. “Won’t you be seated?”

The Lord and Lady of Norbury stared a moment, shocked. Then Isadora flounced down into her chair with a huff, and her husband folded into his own a beat later.

Across from them sat the tall, strong-shouldered Lord Edward of Nede, his steward beside him. He regarded her with inscrutable calm – but not with disdain, nor with doubt. She hadn’t seen him in more than a year, but he was as calm and unphased as ever.

He’d been born in Nede, but his father, the last duke, hadn’t been. Had come instead from much farther south, beyond Aquitainia’s borders, in Kolos’kel. A small kingdom dominated by rivers, wide, and plentiful, that were full of snarling, snapping crocodiles by day, and hippopotami at night, the latter even deadlier than the first. Edward’s father, a young prince, fifth in line for the crown, had struck north. Had gotten tangled up in a war he had no reason to care about, but one in which his sailing experience had proved invaluable. Amelia’s grandfather had granted him land on the coast, and the king had raised him up as a duke.

Edward had proved even more impressive than his father, and bore his dark skin, and wore his black hair braided and twisted up in the Kolos fashion, jet beads clinking as he turned his head to regard her.

She nodded to him, before she moved to stand behind the chair that had been placed at the head of the table: a high-backed, ornately carved chair with green velvet padding. Her father’s old chair. This table, and the seats around it, had been a staple all her life, shifting from ballroom, to study, to veranda depending upon the mood and season of each meeting. She’d sat in this chair only when there’d been no adults present; when she and her siblings and Oliver had been playing at grown-ups. Oliver, the oldest by far, had stood off to the side, smiling sadly, going along with their games; and when John grew bored of playing Father, and slipped off the chair, Amelia had scrambled up into it, and declared herself the Duchess of Drakewell.

All those old, fond memories washed over her now, tainted by the rattle in her lungs, and the prickling of nervous sweat on her palms. She took a deep breath, and lowered herself down to green velvet, heart thudding in her chest.

Not her father’s chair anymore.

Hers.

She exhaled, slow and measured, by force, and lifted her gaze to survey the table, as Katherine settled beside her, and Connor and Reginald took their chairs. What would Father say? How would he begin?

She knew…but that wasn’t of much help, because she wasn’t him, and wouldn’t – couldn’t – ever be. So… “Thank you all for coming to Drakewell. I know that travel is difficult, what with the season, and with the war.”

“Travel isdangerousright now,” Lord Phineas said, unhappily.

“Yes,” his wife said. “There’s all sorts of riff-raff and bandits on the road.” She cut a sharp look toward Connor, who smirked back at her, lazily. “And that’s not even counting the Sels!”

Lord Edward slanted the pair the subtlest of unimpressed glances, and then looked to Amelia. “Your sister and cousin sailed out of my harbor months ago. Heading north.” The slight lift of a single brow probed for information.

Amelia nodded. “They did, and until recently, we’ve been in close contact with her. She’s engaged to the prince of Aeretoll: King Erik’s nephew.”

Edward nodded, as if he’d expected as much.

But Isadora’s mouth dropped open.

And Phineas said, “Gods, are you joking?”

“The prince?” Isadora asked.

Amelia bit the inside of her lip to keep from grinning, and glanced toward her mother.Should I tell them?

Katherine sighed, but nodded. They would all find out eventually, and it could only help them – and further legitimize the future – to be upfront about it.

“We’ve formed an alliance with Aeretoll, one that’s two-fold. Tessa is betrothed to the prince, and Oliver is now titled: he’s officially Lord Oliver, Consort of the King.”

Reginald already knew this, and she’d told Connor a few days ago, while the three of them talked strategy over cold tea and leftover biscuits. But the news hit the Sutcliffes like a physical blow, and it was all she could do not to laugh in their faces.

“He’s–”

“Your–”

“Surely, you’re–”

“Aconsort?”

They stuttered over one another, mouths working like goldfish, until Edward, in his deep baritone, said, “Oliver seduced the king?” It was impossible to tell, given his impassive expression, how he felt about that.

Phineas shoved roughly to his feet, chair legs screeching over the parquet floor. His face flushed, and his nostrils flared; his whole body quivered with indignation. “I’ve been to some useless councils, and some wasted councils, but never – never in my life – have I been called to a council for a practical joke! One that is in very poor taste, might I add,” he continued, ramping up, voice getting higher, and louder, while his wife glared daggers at Amelia beside him. “If you expect us to sit here like and fools, and–”

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