Chapter 54

Angharad rose shortly after dawn, washed and came down to break her fast with the Eirenos.

Her back ached, as much from last night’s exertions as the fact that she’d burned an entire candle translating the secret correspondence. It had gone into the empty pages of the cyphered journal she’d obtained from the carriage, secrets added to secrets in a turn that stirred an ember of exhausted amusement. It was better than asking the servants for fresh paper in the middle of the night, anyway.

The spread waiting for her downstairs was impressive. Figs and apricots, bread and cheese and cold meats from the previous night’s dinner. There were even layered honey-and-nut pastries, still warm from the oven and deliciously juicy in the mouth. Between the food and a pot of mint tea, Angharad found herself presented with what should have been a delicious feast. She was, however, hardly able to savor it.

“You’ve a bit of honey on your lip, dear,” Lady Penelope innocently smiled, leaning across the table to wipe the corner of Angharad’s mouth with her thumb.

Body warring with the contrary impulses to both nip at the thumb teasingly and freeze like a scared rabbit, Angharad compromised and choked on the last of her pastry instead. She coughed into her fist and backed away, Lady Penelope’s lips quirking even higher at the sight as she withdrew that artful hand.

“Mother,” Cleon reproached. “She can dab her lips without your help.”

But he was smiling, quietly pleased. He must be taking the physical closeness as approval for a courtship, rather than seeing a spirit of temptation trying to drive Angharad wild at a breakfast table. It was all made all the more unfair by the fact that the older beauty had made it clear the previous evening that there would be no repeat of the tryst, meaning that Lady Penelope was winding her up with no intention of offering restitution for it.

Angharad forced herself to set aside all thoughts of trying to convince her otherwise, as dallying last night had been unwise enough already. Not that Penelope made it easy, constantly leaning forward in that flattering loose sleeping robe and once stretching as so enticing an angle that Angharad almost dropped her fork. Between the teasing, the little terms of endearment and the touching it was mortified and thoroughly flustered that Angharad retired to her room.

She twice doused her face in water, told herself in the mirror that no amount of full curves and limberness should so bedevil her, and returned downstairs only when composed.

Mercifully, Lady Penelope had retired. Cleon offered to show her to the eastern grounds of the estate, which he explained contained the family mausoleum and further out a small shrine to the spirit known as the Odyssean. She immediately agreed, eager to flee the manor and its teasing mistress.

It was a pleasant enough walk, Asphodelian mornings becoming the country estate. The light made the near-wild woods and paths enchanting, birds singing as they passed, and on their way to the mausoleum Cleon was just as careful of the pace as he had been the previous day. He really was quite caring, Angharad thought, which made her feel all the more guilty about having grabbed his beautiful mother by the hair and-

She coughed into her fist.

“It is not so old as it looks,” Cleon was telling her, gesturing at the square, pillared tomb of fine stone. “Built in my great-grandfather’s day, after the old one fell into disrepair.”

It was not a large mausoleum, Angharad saw, but it was finely made in pale gray stone and elegant in structure. The gates were reinforced with copper gone slightly green, but the grounds were well taken care of. Thick with Asphodelian crowns, those pale flowers Maryam was so curious about.

“The bodies had to be exhumed?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“We do not keep to the Oar but to the Sickle,” he said. “Eirenos burn their dead, lest the flesh be devoured by an ancient god of the earth.”

“The Oar,” Angharad slowly said, “being a reference to the spirit known as the Sculler?”

The most powerful carrion spirit of the isle, said to boast few temples but to keep a shrine and priests in every graveyard. Along with Oduromai and the Awn-Dam, it was one of the most broadly worshipped spirits. Unlike the arrogant frauds of Tianxia and the Someshwar the spirit only claimed to ferry souls to the Circle Perpetual, not guide reincarnation. Angharad thus found it more tolerable than most of its kind. Not so her host.

“It is the favored death god of the age,” Cleon sourly acknowledged. “He who ferries souls to the Circle. My line, however, can be traced back to the days of the Archeleans. We keep to older ways, though they are no longer spoken of in polite company.”

He cleared his throat.

“There were gods on this land before the Lierganen came, and though they are buried so deep as to have become nameless they yet remain,” he told her. “The day will come when the One Who Bears The Sickle wakes, and all the bodies given to the earth of Asphodel will be cut up and devoured whole.”

“A grim patron,” Angharad noted.

“Death is not meant to be pretty,” Cleon shrugged.

True enough, she conceded.

The pair had brought a waterskin and walked under enough fruit trees to take a few oranges, so they sat on the mausoleum steps to eat and drink before resuming the walk towards the shrine. Angharad inquired about these purported ancient roots of the Eirenos, learning that a distant ancestor had been a war captain under one of the first Archeleans to rise to throne, and found herself quite engaged with the tale when interruption reached them.

One of the manor servants arrived, flushed from hurrying to them, and after a bow and apologies was urged to speak by Lord Cleon.

“Word has come from Chalcia, my lord,” he said. “The first guest has arrived in town, and after a meal there intends to come to the manor.”

“Already?” Cleon frowned. “What time is it, Georgios?”

The man produced a small silver watch.

“Shortly before eleven, my lord.”

“Three hours early,” he grunted. “Unseemly.”

His expression darkened, as if another thought occurred, but he said nothing. The young lord apologized, telling Angharad they would have to cut their walk short and head back to the manor, but she waved the words away.

“Duty needs no apology,” she told him.

He seemed quite pleased with her at that, and even dark-haired Georgios looked approving until he noticed her noticing him and wiped the expression off his face. Ancestors, every compliment paid to her by this household burned shamefully. If any of them knew of the night she had spent with the lady of the house, they would be chasing her off with pitchforks instead of smiling so.

Tonight, she firmly decided, she would try to find Lord Cleon a woman to his tastes. He’d forcefully avoided looking at certain parts of her well enough for Angharad to have a decent idea of his tastes when it came to the physical, and she had suspicions as to his preferences in character. He was not a bad prospect at all for a husband, and it should not be too hard to find him someone suitable.

That this would go some way in allaying her guilt at having fucked his mother was not coincidental, but it was fortunate.

The servant made transparent excuses to let them return alone, and by the time they returned to the manor Cleon was told by one of his household riders that a carriage had already been sighted. Angharad, curious, accompanied him to the top of a rise close to the manor from which there was a fine view of the path leading to the Eirenos estate. A single carriage, she noted, but large. Pulled by four horses. Cleon sighed at the sight.

“Of course she arrived early,” he deplored. “Why would she not?”

“You recognize the carriage?” Angharad asked.

“I do,” he said.

Waiting until it turned at a curb, the nobleman pointed at the doors.

“See the blue and green paint?” he asked. “They are the colors of House Varochas.”

Blue and green… no, finish the talk first else her reaction would seem suspicious. Angharad paused, mentally sifting through the pages she had committed to memory at the palace.

“A house from the north of the valley, known for its fine timber,” she said, then frowned. “I thought their colors to be blue and brown, however.”

With a sleeping bear sprawled at the center of the heraldry, which she had thought rather charming. Cleon shot her a surprised, almost admiring look.

“The main house keeps to these,” he confirmed. “Only this particular visitor is a Varochas of Meda’s Rock, their kin. They’ve grand ambitions, so they chose colors of their own.”

Blue and green, she now let herself consider. The same hues the poacher had mentioned his accomplice to have glimpsed on the pouch that had paid for their services. After a day in Cleon’s company Angharad had largely dismissed any notion of him having arranged that ambush so she might be fixed to his kindness for the duration of her stay. He was too fine a man for that, and too proud. Which left her to look for another as the culprit.

“Ambitions?” she lightly encouraged.

Cleon snorted.

“They think to become the preeminent branch of their line,” he said. “Their lands are not particularly wealthy, but they do border hills that would be suitable for a very lucrative marble quarry.”

Ah, a familiar refrain. While the Duchy of Peredur was not so infamous for its border disputes as the isle of Uthukile, squabbles over water and grazing rights were commonplace. The sometimes extraordinarily petty means to which rival houses went to deny each other were favored seasonal gossip. When the Cawder had changed a small river’s course by exactly thirty feet to deny their hated Aberafan neighbors an enshrined right to sail down it, they’d become the toast of society for years.

“Am I to understand,” Angharad said, “that these hills sport an Eirenos hunting lodge?”

He nodded, lips quirking before the good humor faded.

“During the regency, a ruling was made that Eirenos hunting rights over these hills mean no quarry can be built without our consent as to build one would ruin the hunting and cross into our land,” Lord Cleon said. “The Varochas spent a fortune trying to buy a different verdict when Lord Rector Evander took the throne, but he laughed them out so their stratagem of choice changed.”

He coughed into his fist, side-eyeing her all the while.

“Theofania Varochas has made plain her intentions to wed me, and frequently stretches the bounds of propriety in seeking to achieve the match.”

His gaze on her was hopeful. Desiring, perhaps, of jealousy. That Angharad could not provide, but sympathy was within her means.

“I take it you do not welcome the pursuit,” she said.

“I would rather wed a viper,” Cleon Eirenos bit out. “The venom would be the same, but the conversation significantly more tolerable.”

She choked on a startled laugh. He was not usually so sharp in his words, but it suited him. The young lord’s fingers clenched into fists.

“I’ve no intention of taking a wife who will be her kin’s spy under my own roof, forever grasping at my property in their name.”

The tale, Angharad thought, told itself. The Varochas wanted that wedding, and lacking means to force it they were resorting to chasing off anyone who Lord Cleon might take a shine to – such as some upstart Malani noble exile with hardly a silver to her name. A family friend must have been at Lord Menander’s green party and heard the invitation, leading to the ambush she encountered on the road.

The poachers might actually have been speaking the truth when they said they were not to harm either Angharad or Mistress Katina. A death would have been a line too far, tainted the Varochas reputation. It would have been a blow to Lord Cleon’s reputation to twine his line with a family that so offended him, too, a sign of weakness. But Angharad arriving at Chalcia in nothing but her underthings, robbed blind and humiliated?

Oh, that would have been well within the bounds of acceptable and ruined her reputation thoroughly enough she could no longer be considered a suitable marriage prospect for a lord. An impoverished foreigner and embroiled in a scandal? No, Lady Penelope would have been forced to put her foot down even if her son persisted. It would have been too grave a mismarriage even if Angharad were interested in Cleon’s hand.

“I am surprised you would invite her to an evening at your manor, given your poor opinion of her,” Angharad noted.

“She is staying with House Pisenor, just to the east of my estate,” Lord Cleon darkly said. “Given our shared custody of a temple, it would be unwise to slight them by withholding an invitation – and Lady Theofania has not yet acted wildly enough for me to forbid her presence.”

His jaw clenched.

“Meanwhile I’ve not yet found a way to teach the Pisenor a lesson in the dangers of continuing to try my patience, though one day I assure you I will.”

That look in his eyes was even darker than his tone, so Angharad thought it best to move the conversation.

“A temple, you say,” she repeated, arm brushing against his. “To which spirit?”

“The Twin-Mother,” Lord Cleon said, then reddened and coughed into his fist again. “She is the lady of clandestine births, so it is custom that none seek to learn the face of those who visit the shrine for good health. As a token of appreciation, visitors then leave gifts in coin or goods.”

Coin would be easy enough to split two ways, Angharad thought, but goods? Those would get contentious, even if they were merely sold at market and the profits then split. No wonder Cleon preferred to suffer a riotous suitor rather than break with House Pisenor. The temple incomes would be significant revenue for a recovering house like his.

“Clandestine births,” she repeated, tone teasing. “How very gently put, Lord Cleon.”

“There is no need for discourtesy,” he replied, attempting dignity even though he was visibly embarrassed. “These things happen.”

Bastard children? More than anyone would like to admit. In Malan either siring or birthing such a child from a noble would see you elevated as consort, lawful status for yourself and the child, but such practices were not common among Lierganen peoples. Such arrangements were no doubt had regardless, but they were regarded as shameful and kept secret. Angharad rolled her shoulder, watching the Varochas carriage roll down the road to the manor.

“If guests are now arriving, I should ready myself,” she said. “By your leave, my lord?”

Cleon looked a little disappointed, but then he glanced at the carriage and must also have divined that Angharad standing by him while he welcomed his guest – as if the mistress of the house – was unlikely to result in anything pleasant.

“Of course,” he said. “I already look forward to your return.”

Angharad half-smiled at the gallantry, leaning on her cane as she spared the arriving carriage one last glance. Though no bloodshed had been intended, Theofania Varochas and her kin had sought to harm her.

Now she must decide what she was to do about that.

—

It made Angharad feel like a poor relation to wear the same dress among society twice in a row, but then nowadays she was a poor relation.

She was helped into her pink gown by one of the Eirenos maids, who after helping her adjust the embroidered cuffs told her that Lord Cleon had set aside jewelry for her use: an elegant gold chain necklace bearing an emerald the size of a fingernail. It had been in the family for some generations, the middle-aged maid told her. To accept that would be tacitly accepting his courtship, Angharad knew, even if it was merely a loan. Therefore, she could not.

Lady Penelope had a small pearl necklace sent up, along with a note that it came from her dowry and was not Eirenos property. She added, too, that she had not worn it in years and it was a fitting gift for a lovely guest. A sendoff present for a one-night lover, reading between the lines.

That one was rather more tempting to accept, Angharad would admit, but she declined it just as she had declined Lord Cleon’s offer. She would not take more from this mother and son when she had already taken too much. In every sense. Let her appear as exactly what she was: a lackland noble whose sole income was the kindness of benefactors. It would not do to get drunk on the trappings of a life she must learn to accept was no longer hers.

She was to be a watchwoman, now. Perhaps in many years it might be she was able to set down the black cloak and become a peer of Peredur once more, but until her oaths had run their course she must bind her pride to what she had sworn and not what she grieved. To keep an exile’s means only strengthens the trick being played, Angharad reminded herself. Let her feel pride in being a dutiful watchwoman, then, rather shame at being lackluster noble.

Though she had washed her body and hair, then redone her braids with the maid’s help, eventually Angharad ran out of reasons to dither upstairs and had to join the Eirenos in attending to the unwelcome guest. She found the three seated outside, in a garden pavilion that overlooked the dancing square.

Lady Theofania Varochas was, to her surprise, quite small. Shorter than Shalini, and slender in a way the gunslinger most definitely was not. She was darker in tan than most Asphodelians, with long black hair and thick eyelashes framing a strong bridge nose. Not a great beauty, Angharad thought, but hardly uncomely. Around the corner of slender black eyebrows touches of blue cosmetics evoked a butterfly’s wings, matching her long blue-and-white gown whose stripes all the way down.

Lord Cleon did not consider the Varochas all that wealthy, but they had sent their daughter into society bearing long earrings of gold and lapis with matching bangle bracelets and a splendid necklace made of polished, rectangular gold stripes. Either she had been sent with the family jewels, Angharad thought, or the Varochas had spent a fortune on adorning her to impress. Either way, it was a decision implying that the full weight of her house stood behind her.

Such a weight could be a great support, Angharad thought, but also a crushing burden. She wondered which one it was for Lady Theofania.

“And who would this be?” said Lady Theofania called out, a glass of wine in hand.

Cleon had pointedly sat as far as he could from her while still being at the same table, Lady Penelope settling between them to make the small slight less noticeable. Neither of them had a cup in hand, much less of wine, a subtle rebuke to their early guest.

“I present you Lady Angharad Tredegar, of Peredur,” Lady Penelope said.

She was radiant in a simple green grown, though there was hardly a thing on Vesper that would not suit such a beauty.

“Is she now?” Theofania said. “I had assumed otherwise, as my cousin described her wearing a similar gown at Lord Menander’s green party.”

The dark-haired lady offered a sharp little smile.

“You must believe it suits you very well, to favor it so.”

And just like that any half-formed consideration of sympathy evaporated. In Peredur, Angharad would have put a nasty cut on her champion’s nose for such words. Or Theofania’s own, if she wore duelist’s straps. But matters were not settled that way on Asphodel, and even if they had been she was not fit to be her own champion. She must, thus, match wind to wind.

“I do,” she directly replied, pushing down embarrassment. “Do you disagree?”

Surprise on Lady Theofania’s face, and an amused chuckle from Lady Penelope – who Angharad could not help but notice was appreciating the generous cut of the gown. Her ears reddened.

“It is not to the taste of the season,” Lady Theofania recovered. “But then I do not recall hearing of Peredur spoken as a great seat of fashion.”

Angharad cocked her head to the side, raising a faintly skeptical eyebrow.

“Have you heard much of Peredur, then, Lady Theofania?” she asked.

Most foreigners this far south thought it part of the same island as Malan, when they knew the name at all, so she had doubts. Theofania’s lips thinned and she looked away, eyes back on Lord Cleon.

“I see the lemons have ripened since I last visited,” she said. “Will you help me pick one, my lord? I am told the fruits of the valley are always sweetest.”

Subtle. After rubbing elbows with the intriguing children of izinduna and even their distant kin on Tolomontera, such blunt maneuvering felt rather elementary.

“Lemons are sour, Lady Theofania,” Cleon replied, rising to his feet. “And while I apologize, I must take my leave. There is much to see to before the guests begin arriving.”

He hardly even let Theofania nod at him before stalking off. Lady Penelope eased the following frustrated silence, telling Lady Theofania she would have lemons picked, pressed and sweetened for her in a drink, but then she also took her leave.

“I am to show Lady Angharad to the annex,” Lady Penelope told the other woman. “Unlike you she has had little occasion to see the Eirenos heirlooms.”

“Of course,” Lady Theofania replied, almost through gritted teeth.

And so Angharad found herself whisked away, leaning on her cane. She had, she realized with some amusement, never even sat down. Both Eirenos had found in her an excuse to escape and seized it with aplomb.

“Her mother taught her poorly,” Lady Penelope sighed.

She’d waited for them to be far enough their voices would not carry across the grass but Angharad still felt mildly uncomfortable.

“She does not seem to have found favor with your son,” she neutrally said.

“That,” Lady Penelope said, “and she’s yet to realize that the Pisenor are using her as a stalking horse.”

Angharad’s brow rose. House Pisenor, she had learned that very morning, were the eastern neighbors of the Eirenos. That and the hosts of Lady Theofania, who used them as a means attend events here at the manor.”

Presumably coin or favors were involved in the trade, given that in doing this the Pisenor were quite blatantly souring their relationship with the lord of the Eirenos.

“How so?” she asked.

“Their daughter is only twelve,” Lady Penelope said. “They are helping poor Theofania only because it keeps other candidates away from Cleon until their own girl comes of age.”

“And that same help is angering the man whose hand they would seek afterwards,” Angharad pointed out.

She got an amused look from the beauty, as if she were a little slow.

“That is how they will approach him,” Lady Penelope said. “Offering pretty young Aspasia and a healthy sum as reparations – likely dowering her with the Pisenor rights to the temple of the Twice-Mother. Lord Pisenor has been trying to become a patron of the temple to Oduromai near the mountains for a decade, but he will not be allowed to buy a seat so long as his house already has rights to another god’s temple.”

Angharad would have liked to call these Asphodelian intrigues pointless and labyrinthine, but the words would have been hypocritical. The country peers of Peredur were just as prone to plots and squabbles, one of the many reasons Mother had so praised her father’s stewardship. While Gywdion Tredegar ran Llanw Hall, there had been peace and amity with every other nearby house for nearly two decades.

No, all that it was fair to feel was lost. A stranger in this valley of cousins and old secrets, each speaking with an undertone she was the only one not to hear. Perhaps sensing her mood, Lady Penelope patted her arm.

“Cleon hasn’t noticed either,” the older beauty said. “And for all that schemes in Tratheke are more vicious, in some ways they are also simpler – I am sure you will find a place there when you return.”

Green eyes slid down the curve of Angharad’s neck to swell of her curves, leaving a trail of flushed skin as they did.

“You are certainly comely enough to draw someone’s eye,” Lady Penelope said, tone gone sultry.

Angharad cleared her throat and precipitously changed the subject.

“You favor a Pisenor match, then?” she asked.

“Materially, it is the most favorable offer Cleon is likely to get,” the lady of the house said. “Yet their approach is underhanded and there is no guarantee the girl would please him, so I withhold judgment.”

Meaning that if Angharad found a suitable prospect tonight and made introductions, she would not be stepping on Lady Penelope’s plans. Good. She was somewhat relieved when their walk to the annex ended not in the door upstairs being locked and the older beauty pressing her against the wall but instead in a servant being sent to fetch tea while they sat and chatted in Lady Penelope’s private sanctum.

Relieved and, perhaps, a little disappointed. But only a little.

Provided an excuse to avoid the no doubt fuming Lady Theofania, the two of them took it. Angharad could see through the open window that the uninvited guest was being attended to thoroughly by the servants, a green-liveried valet standing by her at all times waiting for orders, so she would not even be able to complain of neglect. Yet her face was dark, as she sat alone under the pavilion sipping at freshly pressed lemon water.

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Why would it not be, when she had gotten nothing of what she came for?

When the other guests began arriving the hiding ended. First came House Saon, disgorging two large carriages packed to the brim, and the Iphine were not far behind. House Pisenor arrived a little later, at the same time Lord Arkol’s carriage came up the road. A few other families sent people, but none so many as the triumvirate of the Saon, Iphine and Pisenor. The three were, Angharad gathered, some of the leading houses of the lands between the central grainlands of Tratheke Valley and the capital itself.

Certainly the talk turned to complaints about the ‘wheat lords’ of the middle plains often enough.

That helped Angharad grasp why Phaedros Arkol, an eastern noble owning large grain fields, had attended tonight beyond his business ties to Lord Cleon’s late father. Not only had that Arkol bought the last of the Eirenos lands on the eastern coast two generations back, Lord Arkol was currently courting the natural opponents of his rivals in the grain trade.

No doubt the point was to support the lords closest to Tratheke so they might try to bleed the valley’s grain lords with tolls and force the price at market to rise. Which would in turn keep his own grain competitive despite the need to carry it to the Lordsport markets from much further away.

Lady Penelope was the mistress of the house, and thus swiftly attended to by a circle of the local matriarchs. Unsurprisingly, she was also approached by a parade of lords of myriad ages – including Lord Arkol, whom she deemed a goat and chased away laughingly. Lord Cleon was the host and thus constantly in demand. Angharad deftly avoided a suggestion he accompany her for introductions, as that would have been something of a statement, instead fending for herself.

Cleon made a point of regularly returning to speak with her, however, which did not go unnoticed. She could use that.

Avoiding the Pisenor, she tried to approach the Iphine but found them haughty and uninterested. They were all richly dressed and sought after in conversation, which let her deduce they were the most powerful of the attending nobles – or at least the wealthiest. Among them she’d noticed twins bearing swords, though rapiers in the Sacromontan style rather proper blades, which made that haughtiness unfortunate given that one of the said twins was a handsome blue-eyed woman.

She turned to the Saon, next, who seemed a jollier lot. The man she approached, a bearded sort in his twenties and stockily built, not only took to her company but was more than willing to make introductions. That everyone seemed to have heard the wild tales from Chalcia served to make her a figure of interest, which helped even if it involved denying flat untruths so repeatedly her tongue was growing tired.

Castor Saon, who insisted on being called Castor, was introducing her to a girl from one of the smaller houses when Lord Gule arrived. The great Malani lord made a ripple simply by entering, his manservant trailing behind, but given the importance of her task Angharad could only spare him a nod. He returned it with a smile, which impressed both the Asphodelians with her.

Lady Irida was a slender woman of eighteen with callouses on her hand that turned out to be from her great interest in archery. Angharad lingered in her company, long enough that when Cleon came to visit they spoke. Unfortunately, the lack of interest on his part was quite evident. She hardly got a second look, and in truth did not seem all that interested either.

A wash. Next.

Lady Selene would be rather more to Cleon’s tastes, Angharad was confident of it. Tall and lushly figured, with a scar on her neck that turned out to be from a fall instead of something more adventurous. Still, she liked riding. That was a start. Unfortunately Lady Selene began flirting rather outrageously with Castor within moments of their introduction, her guide being an admittedly a good-looking man of genial disposition. They barely slowed down when Cleon came to visit, and Angharad would not be surprised should the pair disappear at some point in the evening and reappear slightly disheveled.

Her guide gallantly kept ferrying her around afterwards through introducing Cleon to Lady Danai, who as quite pretty but uninterested in marriage, and Lady Agape whom the young lord did not get on with at all. It had, by then, become rather clear to Castor what it was she was attempting.

“Good effort,” he whispered, “but it won’t keep Lady Theofania from coming for your scalp.”

Ah. Angharad supposed it was a likelier guess that she was trying to avoid a well-connected noblewoman’s wrath rather than acting in guilt at having bedded Lady Penelope. Castor still offered a solution, though unsurprisingly the woman in question was a relative. Lady Koralia was his cousin from a different Saon side branch, and though unflattering dressed – her gown was not well fitted and she moved awkwardly in it – the clothes and ungainly haircut were hiding what Angharad found to be good looks.

Though quite shy, after a bit of talk she grew in confidence and revealed she was mad for bird hunting. Lady Koralia proudly expounded on her three hunting dogs, which she had raised herself, and on minute differences in the fowler guns available in Asphodel. From the glazed look in Castor’s eyes, this was not the first time he heard this speech. Even more promisingly, when Lord Cleon came by to visit she blushed and fumbled her curtsy – which he laughed off, coming off rather charming.

Hmmm. That one had potential, perhaps.

Instead of continuing the hunt, she decided to stick with this particular prospect. This saw her enfolded by a gaggle of Saon youths, of which there were a dozen within years of her own age. Resolute to make a good impression, Angharad traded with them stories of Malan for gossip about previous gatherings. Lord Iasos Saon, oldest man from the main line at nineteen, had the clout and presence to lead the conversation on the Saon side and no qualms in doing so.

“It was a sight to see,” Iasos assured her. “Twenty graybeards, drunks as skunks and brandishing muskets older than them, haring off after a downed pegasus – and when they finally shot it dead, trampling half a thicket, they found it was just a stag with large fern leaves stuck in his antlers.”

“No,” Angharad grinned.

“It only looked like wings because they scared him off at a run,” Iasos laughed. “To this day, my uncle insists the real pegasus simply got away.”

His little sister, Maria, waved the long bell sleeves of her dress in an attempt to convey beating wings. As she was a bright eyed eight-year-old, it was most adorable.

“Look sharp, Iasos,” Castor suddenly muttered. “The moura is headed our way.”

The older Saon grimaced. Angharad tried to discreetly eye what they were being warned about, leaning on her cane, but there were too many Saons in the way.

“The moura?” she murmured.

“It is a kind of lemure,” Iasos said. “It takes the appearance of a beautiful woman drowning in a river, and when one approaches…”

“It hugs you tight and drowns you,” Maria theatrically said, bell sleeves flying as sinisterly as they could.

Angharad resisted the urge to pinch her cheek.

A moment later Lady Theofania arrived, flanked by the fair-haired twins Angharad had learned were the eldest Iphine children, and she suppressed a spurt of laughter. Ah. The Saon were not particularly fond of Lady Theofania either, then. Odd that Theofania would be with that pair when her hosts were rival to that house, but then she’d arrived long before the Pisenor had. That relationship might be more distant than believed.

It had been a given that Lady Theofania would come for her ‘scalp’, as Castor had put it, but the sheer bluntness of the attack still startled her.

After pointedly greeting only Lord Iasos and his sister, the two Saon of the main line – the Iphine did not even bother with little Maria – Lady Theofania addressed Angharad without having first greeted her. That was already quite rude, and promised to get worse.

“I am surprised to find you in company, Lady Angharad,” the other woman smiled.

“If you are to insult me,” the Pereduri suggested, “try not require my collaboration in doing so. I find myself disinclined to help you.”

She heard Castor hastily turn a snort into a coughing fit.

“Mouthy,” the woman of the Iphine twins noted.

Tall and elegant with long blonde hair, she would have been a beauty if not for that carved sneer.

“One assumes,” Lady Theofania tittered, “given how I am told she went into the woods with Lord Cleon without a chaperone for… hours.”

She fanned herself.

“If you cannot afford a second dress, you must have had to pay for the hospitality somehow.”

What had she just said?

Angharad’s hand reached for a blade that was not at her side. While it was nonchalant of her to have taken a walk with an unmarried man without someone to look after his virtue, Theofania had gone quite a bit further than simply insinuating a sort of general impropriety. To so attaint someone’s honor was well worth a death on the dueling field. Perhaps smelling the black fury off her, Lord Iasos slid into the conversation.

“Ah, yes, Cleon Eirenos,” he sardonically said. “That famous libertine, seducing maidens left and right.”

“One does not need to seduce a whore, Iasos,” Lady Theofania blandly said.

Her fingers gripped her cane until the wood creaked.

“Would you care to repeat the word you just used, girl?” Angharad coldly asked.