65 – Family

Eight Months Earlier

Isabella Caldimore had a plan. Or more specifically, she had a goal, and any goal worth pursuing deserved a sufficiently foolproof plan. Working toward something without a guiding strategy was nothing short of idiocy; Father had taught her that. And he wasn’t one of the most important people in the Kingdoms without reason.

Still. Having a plan and working up the nerve to execute it were two different things. Father had also taught her to always account for the human element. In this case, her. Well. Her, and Father himself.

Which was why she was so nervous. Yes, Father had been less prone to his…swings of mood as of late. These past few months, with frequent dinners, were the most she’d seen of him…probably ever. But that didn’t mean she was looking forward to broaching a topic he might not approve of. She could never really tell when she would accidentally set him off.

Still, she refused to not try. Because it wasn’t that outrageous, what she wanted. If she’d convinced herself, how hard could convincing Father be?

Sitting straight-backed at the long dining table, Isabella idly shifted the remnants of her plate around with her fork. She needed to force the words out before dinner came to a close. He might disappear on another of his trips any day now. Best to take advantage of his good mood while she could.

“So. I’ve been thinking about the upcoming summer expedition,” she announced tentatively.

“Is that right?” Father returned absentmindedly. His meal lay to the side, half-eaten. He’d gotten distracted with a stack of papers, tapping the edge of his pen on the table as he looked down at whatever accounts lay within. Father would normally never breach etiquette by working while eating, but he’d been more lax recently.

She needed to sound casual. If she acted like her request was insignificant, then Father might not think much of it either. Framing was everything. Take a vagrant from the streets and throw him in king’s finery; everyone would treat him as he seemed. Father had impressed upon her many times how much power stemmed from appearances. And not even just social power, but in combat, too. Presenting oneself as either weak or strong could be the difference between a victory and a loss.

“Nothing too important,” Isabella said, voice sounding pleasingly unbothered to her ears. “This year’s will be at the Pinehollow Plains, as I believe I mentioned, and we’ll be working in pairs. I think you recommended Vincent Blackmoor?” She wrinkled her nose, though Father didn’t glance over to see it, so the performance was pointless. She recalculated her plans and voiced the complaint, even if it was more blunt than she’d have preferred. “He isn’t the best mage I’ve ever seen, is all.” She hoped her tone conveyed how much of an understatement that was.

She didn’t actually have anything against Vincent. But if she wanted to change Father’s mind, then step one was tearing down his initial suggestion. Implying that the Blackmoors weren’t worth their time. Father had no doubt made the suggestion idly, which was the only reason she dared go against him in the first place. He’d been in a better mood recently, perhaps related to whatever business was keeping him in Meridian, but that didn’t mean she was foolish enough to outright contradict him. Not with how he might react. How he had reacted in the past, often to comments Isabella had thought were totally innocuous.

“The Blackmoors have always been unimpressive,” Father snorted in response. “That their scion follows in their footsteps is a surprise to no one. But they are useful through their connections nevertheless.”

“That’s true,” she said hesitantly. “Hm. I just worry it’ll slow my own progress, having him as an anchor during such an important event. Especially with how many promising students there are this year. I wouldn’t want to sully the Caldimore name with anything less than a stellar performance. There are even a few commoners who might take first place.”

“Hardly unusual,” Father replied in a surprisingly bland manner. “A commoner would only gain entry to the Institute to begin with if they showed significant talent.” He paused, and finally seemed to become aware of the conversation, tearing his attention away from the stack of papers. “Wait. Is this about that girl again?”

Isabella froze. “That…girl?”

“That beastkin. You mention her every other week, it seems.”

Father frowned, and Isabella was too disconcerted to regather her thoughts and respond right away. She didn’t mention Saffra every other week. Did she? This had to be…well, not the first time, but she’d hardly made a pattern out of it.

“Is this what’s had you twisting around in your seat all dinner?” Father continued, his frown deepening. “You want to partner with her instead of the Blackmoor boy?”

Had Father seen through her that easily? Her plan to remain cool and aloof was severely faltering. She forced herself to rally. It wasn’t like she had a choice; it was now or never. She just wished she hadn’t bungled things so quickly.

“Not her in specific,” Isabella said airily. “Simply not the Blackmoor; he really is lacking, and I don’t want to place too low in the rankings. Though, now that you mention it, Saffra’s scores are impressive. Especially when you consider her late entry. She’s nearly as good as me.”

Father’s eyes narrowed, and Isabella knew instantly that she shouldn’t have phrased it like that. But rather than exploding, Father only shook his head slightly in annoyance.

“Perhaps she scores similarly, but that does not make her your equal, Isabella. Your great-great-grandfather was a commoner, and established the Caldimore line through earning a Title. It is not wrong to acknowledge the talent of another, regardless of their station, and perhaps the day will come in which this girl earns similar acclaim. I would acknowledge her for that. But potential counts for nothing, and one’s strength is not the sum of a person. You are the daughter of a duke; she a commoner. Do not refer to her as your equal so glibly.”

“Yes, Father.”

Her heart slammed in her chest. But—that was it. From his initial reaction, she’d expected much worse than a simple lecture. He really was in an unprecedented mood.

Did she dare keep pushing her luck?

She didn’t want to. But now was the best chance she would get, maybe ever. Though she was moderating her expectations, she really would prefer to partner with Saffra over Vincent. The girl was so…unlike all of Isabella’s other acquaintances. Saffra could be quite irritating at times, to be completely honest, but she found the girl’s blunt, principled, and unyielding attitude rather refreshing.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it’s taken without the author’s consent. Report it.

“I apologize for misspeaking. I meant my equal in magecraft, only, of course.” She cleared her throat. “She really does seem talented, in that regard. And a diligent worker. Perhaps it’s worth my time—our house’s time—to allow her to accompany me on the summer expedition. She might be useful to the family, a decade from now. Seeds are best planted early, as you’ve always said.”

“Your plotting is as clumsy as always, Isabella,” Father said dismissively. “But I do not disagree. Do as you please.” Slightly irritated, he muttered under his breath, “It’s not like it will matter, come a year’s time.”

Isabella paused. That was…rather cryptic. She didn’t understand what he meant by the statement. Maybe she’d misheard?

More importantly—she’d gotten permission? To drop Vincent and instead team with Saffra? Had it really been that easy?

“Well,” Isabella said, briefly at a loss for words. Interactions never went this smoothly with Father. “Excellent. I’m pleased you also see the sensibility of separating myself from the Blackmoor.”

Father grunted, no longer paying even half attention to her.

She considered her options. She was playing a dangerous game. Her main goal had been achieved. Should she disengage? Accept her victory? But when else would she have a better opportunity to lay the groundwork for other, greater hopes? As she had just quoted to Father, seeds were best planted early.

She decided to take her chances. “She clearly intends to become an adventurer, rather than a full Institute mage,” she added as off-handedly as she could. “I’ve been wondering about what that would be like myself. Toying with the idea only, of course. Following in your or Lydia’s footsteps.”

Her intention had been to use Lydia’s name to cast the concept in a favorable light. Father talked about Lydia often…though usually to allude to how completely Isabella failed to measure up to the older half-sister she’d never known.

But clearly, where Father was allowed to make that comparison, to use Lydia’s name, she wasn’t. Even in a respectful manner. Because Father froze. His gaze turned slowly to Isabella, and her skin went cold in response to the anger that appeared, as suddenly as it always did, in his eyes.

It seemed Father was not, in fact, in a good enough mood to save her from too large a blunder.

She had been hoping so desperately to navigate this conversation without incident. Why hadn’t she stopped while she’d been ahead?

She opened her mouth to correct herself, but faltered, unsure how.