First message
The third course will be ruined. That was my first, clearest thought as I excused myself from the table, the Baroness's simpering questions about Henri hanging in the air like a bad smell. Rudeness was a luxury we could not afford, not with the trade vote looming. I found the silence in the west corridor, then the muffled, wet sounds from behind the cellar door—not the tidy punishment I’d ordered, but something messier. Drunken, no doubt. Disappointing.
I took the stairs slowly, letting my shadow announce me. The scene was sordid: Henri, sleeves damp with wine or worse, his breath ragged; and the girl, a pale, broken doll against the barrels. That hair, always that damned hair, a ghostly banner in the gloom. My own fist tightened around the newel post, a memory flashing—a different cellar, a different pain, the scent of lilacs and blood. Not now.
“Henri.” My voice was low, a steel cable in the damp air. He flinched, the good son surfaced beneath the brute. “The Baroness requires the heir’s charm, not the stable hand’s labor. Clean yourself.” I did not look at the girl. To look was to acknowledge the echo, the failure. “See that this is cleared away. We have guests.”