“A rule your father and I tried to impose on you and your brother, with little success until you were old enough to see the wisdom in not eating yourself sick with sweets.”
“We didn’t get sick that often,” Kieran muttered.
“Often enough.”
Kieran sighed.
Eileen rose from her desk, then kissed his cheek and smoothed his hair the way she had when he was young. “You can tell Prince Sadi that his daughter is thriving.”
“Mother.” Kieran took her hand in his. “You see it as well as I do. Saetien isn’t just thriving; she’s putting down roots.”
“Yes.” Eileen sobered. “Talk to Butler. The course he’s laid out for the girl wasn’t idly laid out.”
She hesitated, even seemed a little flustered.
“Mother? Is something wrong?”
“Wrong? Oh, no. It’s just that Brenda’s last letter mentioned that she had helped with the preparations for Lady Jillian’s Virgin Night.”
Kieran felt the blood drain out of his head. “Oh, Hell’s fire.”
“Aye. Well, Brenda did have some strong and . . . individual . . . thoughts about that rite of passage.”
“And Prince Sadi?”
“It’s a subject that is noticeably absent from the Prince’s correspondence with me.”
Butler opened the door. This late-night visit from the Warlord of Maghre wasn’t scheduled, but it wasn’t unexpected.
“Lord Kieran.” Butler stepped aside to give the man room to enter.
“Prince Butler.”
Butler led Kieran to the sitting room. “Would you like a whiskey? Or some brandy?”
“Whiskey is fine, thanks.”
He poured a generous amount of whiskey into a glass before warming a glass of yarbarah for himself. “You’re worried about Saetien.”
Kieran stared into the whiskey. “Not worried exactly, but concerned, yes.” He looked up. “She’s putting down roots. I can see it. You must see it.”
“Putting down roots and thriving—and learning who she is when she has a chance to step out of the shadow of the SaDiablo family.”
“This was meant to be a visit to find out about Wilhelmina Benedict.”
“Are you sure? I’ve begun to wonder if Wilhelmina was simply the signpost that indicated a choice to take a different path. I think living with your family was meant to be temporary. Living in Maghre?” He shrugged.
“She’s too young to live on her own.”
“She’s already lived centuries, Kieran. Yes, emotionally she’s an adolescent in a great many ways, but the young woman who is emerging is sharply intelligent and ready to use that intelligence to work—and to grow up in the process.”
“Sadi won’t agree to this.”
“You can remind him that Lady Jillian was around the same age when she went to Little Weeble for her first apprenticeship in a court.”
Kieran downed the whiskey and shook his head. “Sadi won’t agree to this.”
“What makes you think he’ll be the one to decide?” Butler asked softly.
Kieran stared at him.
“The Queen’s will is his life, Kieran—as it is mine.”
Kieran stood. “Thanks for the whiskey. I’ll let Prince Sadi know that we’ll host Saetien for as long as she wants to stay in Maghre.”
“If it helps you, I’ll send a report to the Prince providing more details about specific things his daughter is learning.”
“Thank you.”
Butler waited until Kieran had mounted the Warlord who gave both humans a disapproving look for requiring him to leave his comfy stall so late at night. Then Butler closed the door and leaned against it.
He’d have to get the stables repaired and purchase a new pony cart. And find a horse or two before he left Scelt.
It’s time, Butler.
Was it time, when, quite unexpectedly, he was no longer certain he wanted to go?
SEVENTY-FOUR
Surreal read the letter from Sadi twice, admiring the exquisite way he made his expectations clear without actually saying what he wanted from her. Of course, the thick packet of gold marks, which just happened to match her fee as an assassin, said all that needed to be said.
Very well. She would visit a particular town in Dhemlan, take the measure of a servant named Ida, and then decide what needed to be done. Well, how it needed to be done.
She’d visit a few towns and villages. That wouldn’t be unusual for Sadi’s second-in-command. Just passing through that part of Dhemlan to see if there was anything the District Queens needed to report to the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.
She’d also visit Jillian and see how the young lovers were doing now that they could . . . enjoy . . . each other without Lucivar bouncing off the ceiling.
By the time she circled back around to that one Dhemlan town, she’d have a plan for how to make Ida’s death look accidental.
Smiling, Surreal went upstairs to pack some clothes—and sharpen her knives.
SEVENTY-FIVE
Saetien followed Butler into his study and wondered why they were going to have the lesson in that room. For the past couple of weeks, they’d been in either the kitchen or the sitting room—or outside if she was trying a bit of Craft that had the potential to blow up.
“For tonight’s lesson, I thought—” she began.
“You would help me with this paperwork,” Butler finished. “I’ve already contacted Lady Eileen and told her we’d be working for several hours and she shouldn’t hold supper for you.”
Saetien blinked. “I’m not getting any supper?”
“There is a casserole in the cold box, along with fruits and cheeses. When you get hungry, you can heat up a piece of the casserole, either using a warming spell or putting it in the oven.”
“All right.” She hadn’t been invited into the study before, so she looked around, interested to discover what Butler might keep in a room seen by few visitors. The picture of a girl, set in an oval frame, caught—and held—her attention. Where had she seen . . . ?
She must have made some movement that drew Butler’s gaze, had him focusing on what had caught her attention.
The picture vanished. The look in Butler’s eyes warned her that whatever connection he had to the girl was painful and private—and she remembered him saying he and someone else had been unwanted children. Was the girl the someone else?
She wanted to ask, wanted to know. But her curiosity was smothered by his pain. Whatever had happened, it must have been long ago. And yet he still grieved for the girl.
She approached the table stacked with papers and said briskly, “What are those?”
Butler gave her a long look, as if trying to measure something. “When Lady Fiona’s health began to fail, she needed some help around the cottage. Specifically, she needed someone to handle the business side of her writing so that she could spend her time writing her stories. Since I was looking to settle down, I was offered the assignment. When Fiona’s body died and she made the transition to demon-dead, she still had a couple of Tracker and Shadow books she wanted to write. She remained in the cottage and wrote after sundown while I took care of the daylight tasks. When she’d completed the second book, she went to Hell and resided there for several more years before becoming a whisper in the Darkness. I was given use of the cottage as part of my wages for being her business manager. Fiona thought people would lose interest in the Tracker and Shadow stories, and the assignment wouldn’t last more than a few years.”