Chapter 12

T ruthfully, I'd hoped to ask you to dance.

Of everything the princess had said, why did that keep echoing in his mind?

"My lord?"

Baron shook himself. "Sorry, Martin. Say again?"

"I said you should leave things to a carpenter. A servant, at the very least."

With a smile, Baron tightened the final screw. "I'm perfectly capable of fastening a hinge."

He finished his work, wiped his hands, and tested the door to the loose box. It swung freely and silently. If only the stable roof were such an easy fix. Luckily, the leak was over an empty stall, but it would still need to be repaired before the damage increased.

Martin gave an exasperated sigh. "It isn't about ‘capable.' It's about what others think seeing a titled lord repairing his own fences and doors."

"How fortunate, then, that I am no titled lord."

The air turned frosty, and Baron forced himself to relax, if only to set Martin at ease.

"My lord," the man said after a moment, "you'll always be our baron."

Baron swallowed hard. "Thank you, Martin."

Shortly after the ball, he'd received word that a steward had been appointed, as promised, and would arrive within the week. He'd thought the worst outcome of his presentation would be losing the Reeves title. He'd never thought to imagine a nightmare where a member of the king's staff came to live at his estate.

For the next four years.

What chance did he have of keeping the twins undiscovered for years from a spy within his own household?

Corvin had grown so stressed, he'd begun scratching red trails across the backs of both wrists, a nervous habit he adopted whenever resisting his magic. Baron hadn't seen him transform once in the week since the ball, as if he were practicing for what he anticipated to be the rest of his life.

That morning, Baron had asked for the boy's help with the stables, hoping it might be a worthy distraction, which was why Corvin currently stood in the rafters above the newly repaired loose box.

"How does our roof look?" Baron called out.

Corvin strode along a beam, crouched slightly to avoid brushing his head on the ceiling. He never glanced at his feet, never faltered. "That storm really took its toll. I found another three leaks."

Baron grimaced. "Very well. Come down, if you please. At least until we've done the repairs. For all I know, the rafters have taken damage as well."

Corvin stepped off the beam, catching its edge with his fingers before swinging down to the divider between two stalls, then to the floor. Baron's gray stallion snorted, unimpressed, though Martin paled as he always did witnessing the boy's acrobatics. Corvin was in the air more than he was ever on the ground.

"Thank you for the help," said Baron. "Tell Mr. Shaw I'm sorry to have kept you."

Corvin rolled his shoulders like a bird settling its wings after flight. "We finished training Ash, so Mr. Shaw's delivering him to the earl. No work for the next two days."

The three of them exited the stables into fresh air that was crisp but not cold, the sun shining brightly overhead.

I'd hoped to ask you to dance.

Even the sunlight somehow reminded him of her.

"Has Mrs. Caldwell been by?" Baron asked.

"Yes, my lord. I was trying to tell you earlier. She delivered a hamlet report, as requested. My written transcription is on the desk in your study."

"Excellent. Thank you, Martin."

With a bow, Martin excused himself to confer with Walter about the orchard's progress.

A small hamlet bordered the western edge of the estate, and Baron's father had always cared for the people there like his own family. He'd balanced his books well, kept estate staff to a minimum, and performed as many tasks as he could do himself, all in the interest of devoting the reserved funds and resources to the support of others. Baron intended to keep the tradition alive, even if he had to strong-arm a palace steward into doing so until Corvin could assume the title.

As if he'd summoned bad luck by the very thought, a bird warbled somewhere on the estate grounds, and Corvin paled.

"Carriage approaching," the boy rasped.

That would be the steward. Baron took a deep breath and gripped his brother's shoulder.

"If you need to fly," he said, "do it now."

He'd already discussed additional precautions with the twins in private, though there wasn't much they could do that wasn't already being practiced. They only ever transformed in Baron's room, which he kept locked and forbidden to all staff, even Martin. No one was surprised to see a Caster keeping secrets or maintaining his own space.

The biggest danger remained, as always, in loss of control. If Baron grew too scared, frantic, or angry, his magic closed off to him. For Affiliates, the effect was inverted—a flood of emotion caused their magic to ignite, and they transformed. The twins had never suffered a full loss of control in public, but there had been many close calls through the years.

"I should be there with you," Corvin said, though his eyes had gone wide. "To greet him. It's my ... my responsibility now."

"Can you do that without transforming?" Pointedly, Baron looked down at Corvin's arm, where the boy's nails had dug into the line of red scabs.

Without another word, Corvin took off running toward the manor.

Baron followed at a slower pace, and by the time he reached his room, a black crow sat on his windowsill, pacing with jagged energy. Baron gave his brother an encouraging smile, and the boy took flight at last.

Baron quickly washed his face and changed his shirt, and by the time the carriage pulled up to the house, he stood on the front step to greet it, gloved hands resting on his cane.

The man who descended from the carriage used his own cane for support more than fashion, stooping to the left. It must have been injury rather than age, because his dark hair bore only a touch of gray at the temples. He introduced himself as Auden Huxley.

"You must be William Reeves," he said, consulting a folded parchment in his hand. "Former lord of this estate?"

Baron kept his smile pleasant. "Guillaume Reeves, Mr. Huxley."

"Give us a tour then, William. I'll need to examine the condition of the manor house promptly." Mr. Huxley gestured to his manservant, who unloaded a trunk from the carriage.

Even having expected it, Baron found the blatant disregard irksome. But he'd dealt with irksome all his life.

Calmly, he said, "Mr. Huxley, we are going to be in one another's close company for a number of years. It's best we start things on a respectful foundation. I'd be happy to give you a tour of the house, but not until you address me properly. A simple ‘my lord' will do. I am, after all, still a member of the Reeves household."

The man sized him up and read correctly whatever he saw. "Lead on, my lord."

With a nod, Baron opened his home to a court-appointed stranger.

Acquainting Mr. Huxley with the house took the rest of the day. The man was alarmingly thorough, prodding at every portrait and cabinet, kneeling to examine floorboards, pausing to write a greater number of notes than Baron thought necessary. The house was old but in good repair.

In Baron's bedroom, the man even found the hidden compartment in the floor.

"What's this for?" he grunted, sweeping one hand through the hollow space, as if more suspicious to find it empty than filled with contraband.

"Whatever I wish to keep secret."

"Got no secrets?" The man huffed in disbelief.

"Not at the moment, it seems."

Baron tried not to think of the books that used to reside there—his one inheritance from his birth mother, destroyed by his stepmother.

At long last, the dinner bell rang. Mr. Huxley's trunk had been moved into a guest suite by his manservant, so he excused himself to ready for supper. Baron took the opportunity to duck into the kitchen. The boys had been briefly introduced to the steward, but he'd made it clear he expected more thorough introductions over dinner.

"Leon, you'll have to dine with us."

The blond boy angled his shoulder toward Baron, turning pointedly away as he bent over a pot of lentils.

Baron waited.

"He only needs birdbrain," Leon said at last.

"Well, your birdbrain twin needs you. Let's go. Apron off, vest on."

Leon hissed over his shoulder, showing pointed canines. He snapped his jaw closed, lips moving like he'd run his tongue over his teeth.

"It goes without saying"—Baron smirked to soften the words—"but don't hiss at dinner."

The boy grumbled, but he did it as himself, leaving Baron to search out Corvin and give him a few words of encouragement.

Then it was time for dinner.

Despite Baron's protest, Huxley insisted on taking the seat at the head of the table. The man gave a curt reminder that Baron was no longer head of the estate and holdings, and the sooner he accepted such facts, the better.

It wasn't that Baron had meant to claim the seat himself.

It was that no one had sat in it for months.

With both twins looking at him, Baron forced his expression to remain impassive as he took his seat, forcing back a rush of memories with his father. He could not afford distraction.

Amelia brought plates first, then drinks.

"No," said Huxley sharply as the maid moved to pour him wine. He covered his goblet with one hand. "I'll prepare and serve all my own drinks while I reside here. It's the only way to be safe."

Amelia glanced at Baron, and at his nod, she retreated, having already filled everyone else's cups.

Huxley cut into his roasted squash, chewing with vigor, as if the awkward atmosphere didn't bother him. Perhaps he thrived upon it. Corvin shifted food around his plate, and even Leon seemed hard-pressed to find his appetite.

"Leon Reeves first, then." Huxley swallowed. "Tell me about yourself, boy."

"So you can criticize it all?" Leon snorted. "No thanks."

"I'd heard things about your dismal social manners. Seems it's all true."

"You're no peach either, Huxley."

Baron cleared his throat.

"Right," said Leon. "You're no peach either, Mr. Huxley. Better?"

It was going to be a long night.

"You enjoy common chores, it seems, including cooking. An activity far beneath the son of a lord."

"If it's so common, how come everyone can't do it? And you seem to be enjoying my squash just fine."

Mr. Huxley shifted focus to the other side of his plate, taking a spoonful of spiced lentils.

Leon smirked. "Made those too," the boy muttered.

"Corvin Reeves," Huxley said, speaking over Leon. "I hope you are more impressive than your twin."

Baron could see Corvin tempted toward sarcasm, but he generally had better control of his tongue than Leon, or at least more inclination to try controlling it. In the end, he listed a few hobbies—falconry, reading.

"Baron's teaching me dueling," he said.

"There's no need for that. We'll find a proper sword master to teach you."

Corvin frowned. "Baron's the best swordsman at court. He's won every melee he's ever participated in."

"I have never seen him compete."

"Well, not everyone invites him, but that's not—"

"A proper sword master, then. I'll find one at once. You'll also need to be proficient in jousting and other sports. Hunting, of course. Have you ever been pheasant hunting, future lord baron?"

Corvin's face paled. He almost dropped his knife.

"I don't kill birds," he choked out.

"You'll have to. A proper lord of court must be able to hunt with the king whenever His Majesty invites."

Baron said, "If Corvin has no interest in hunting for sport, he's free to abstain. Last I checked, there was no list of hobbies required to hold a title."

"You would know so very much," Huxley said scathingly, "having lost your title before you even held it."

Baron smiled. "And how many titles have you held, Mr. Huxley?"

Leon snickered into his squash.

Huxley fell quiet for a time, but he soon recovered and continued interrogating Corvin. The boy never ate, only fidgeting in his chair and answering a barrage of pointless questions. Baron called for dessert early and, after that, a swift end to dinner, but even so, it was a torturous hour. When Huxley retired at last, it was to everyone's relief.

The three Reeves boys collapsed in the sitting room, Baron in his favorite chair and the twins on the sofa.

"Well," he said, pulling his gloves free and tucking them in his pocket, "we survived the evening. Only a few thousand left to go."

" Four years ." Corvin groaned. Pulling one of the sofa pillows from its corner, he pressed his face to it and groaned louder. When Leon brought out a full tray of cucumber sandwiches he'd apparently stashed, the future lord baron inhaled three.

Around his own mouthful of sandwich, Leon said, "Baron, you should write Lady Her Highness and tell her to pick a better steward. Preferably one named ‘Guillaume Reeves.'"

Baron smiled faintly. "I doubt Her Royal Highness concerns herself with decisions of this nature."

"It's her fault we got stuck with one at all, so she owes us."

Corvin tossed the pillow at him. Leon batted it away.

After swallowing, Corvin said, "Honestly, though, are you going to write her? Not about the steward. Just about ... things."

Baron raised an eyebrow. "Why would I presume to do that?"

Never mind that his encounter with the princess kept sneaking back into his mind. She was a princess . Even aspiring to be a full member of court, Baron had never pretended he would be on close terms with the royal house itself. It would have been enough simply to be an influence for good. Now ...

He bit into his own sandwich to avoid further thinking down that line.

The twins exchanged a look before Leon said, "Because she's the only person you've Cast for since Dad died."

Baron felt a shock. It hadn't been that long since he'd used his magic, had it? He soothed the boys when they were sick. He made calming drinks for himself.

Though perhaps not in recent memory.

"I should see to the hamlet report," he said at last. "With Huxley's arrival, it's been neglected."

Leon shrugged, darting his hand out faster than Corvin's to snatch the last sandwich. "Just thought you wanted a voice at court. It'll be years before the skinny chicken has his, but everyone sure listened when Lady Highness spoke. Even the king."

Corvin blinked like he'd not thought of that.

Baron shook his head. "You are far too conniving for your own good, Leon. The sandwiches were delicious."

"Of course they were. I made them."

"Good night, boys."

Baron ducked away and climbed the stairs to his study.

It didn't take long to lose himself in work. A few men of the hamlet needed supplementary income; Baron could hire them during the upcoming autumn harvest. One family had lost their plough horse to disease and lacked the funds to replace it—a more difficult challenge to tackle. Baron could secure a new horse, but his father had always been careful in his assistance.

"The goal is to help," he'd said, "but to do so without creating a dependence."

Perhaps he could secure a discount for the family. He made a note to look into it.

As his quill scratched, his traitorous mind wondered what Princess Aria would think if he did send a letter. Would she be pleased to hear from him?

History did not incline him toward that option.

He rubbed his witch's mark and shook his head, forcing his attention back to the matters at home.