Chapter 18

I t was early morning when the falcon tapped at his bedroom window. Baron had never seen the bird before, but Corvin trained dozens under Mr. Shaw, and he always tested them first with deliveries to the Reeves estate, though he usually sent them to badger Leon.

When Baron opened the window, the falcon walked gracefully inside, turning to present her message canister. She was a sleek thing, certainly expensive. Corvin must be training her for a duke's household. Baron expected a scrap of parchment at most, marked with a few words on how next to guide her. But it was a fully bound message.

One addressed to Guillaume Reeves.

He stood there for a full minute, frowning, before he shook himself. He fastened the canister's top before touching the falcon's head. She took the signal for flight. Fully trained, then. A real message, not practice.

It wasn't from Sarah. He'd not forgotten her handwriting. An invitation from Widow Morton? He should have considered ahead of time how to diplomatically reject that inevitable message.

He tugged the string loose, carefully unrolling the tight bundle.

And his heart began to pound.

He read the letter. Twice. He stared at the princess's name on the parchment for a long time, and then, realizing it was not going to disappear, he tucked it in a pocket and carefully readied for the day. After reviewing the hiring list for the harvest—and reluctantly surrendering it to Huxley—Baron read the letter again. He fidgeted with his gloves.

He went to the kitchen to make tea. As soon as he settled a kettle over the fire, Leon eyed him.

"Brewing it long-hand? What's wrong?"

The boy was the only one in the kitchen. Helen had left to visit her daughter and grandchild, a luxury she could often afford since Leon ran the kitchen anyway.

"Trouble in the hamlet," Baron said. The kettle's whistle screamed at his deflection; he removed it from the heat. "Widow Fletcher's taken ill."

Leon wiped his floured hands across his apron. "I'll make leek soup."

Baron touched his pocket, ensuring the letter was still real. He checked the cupboards and pantry for tea bundles.

"What are you doing, idiot? You won't find anything better than what you can make."

I should like to know your thoughts , she'd written. To what end? And why him? She could write to anyone in the kingdom, so why him ?

Baron finally set a bundle of tea leaves to steep with vanilla bean. Leon re-sorted the cupboards to his liking—glaring at Baron as he did so—then returned to chopping leeks and gathering ingredients in a soup pot.

Once the tea had steeped, Baron poured himself a cup, not bothering to ask if Leon wanted any since the boy always preferred straight milk. Baron stirred in a generous helping of lemon and cream.

I requested the aid of a Caster, something I admit I still require.

Matters in Northglen had grown worse. The king had dispatched soldiers, though no one had yet heard confirmation of arrest. Baron imagined how he would react if soldiers arrived at his door, and he did not find the options pleasant. Widow Morton could do great damage—not only to the military force, but to every Caster left to face the king's wrath in the aftermath.

Perhaps the princess could mitigate that. Perhaps it was treason for him to even consider leveraging a correspondence with her to his own personal benefit. Then again, she asked for help. Could they help each other? Could a relationship between a royal and a Caster ever be that innocent?

"You'll wear grooves in the cup," Leon said.

Baron realized he was still stirring. He set the spoon aside. The tea did little to ease his thoughts; after all, it was only leaf and lemon.

Leon crushed garlic and stripped herbs. He kneaded pasta dough.

The princess had said other things. Things like charming and good-hearted. Like the man behind the mark. Things that stirred Baron's mind the way he'd stirred tea and left it a hopeless whirlpool of thoughts chasing feelings.

She'd written his name correctly first, then added Baron . Proper, then personal. He'd never imagined a princess would call him Baron.

He'd never imagined a princess would write. He was a Caster. A magic user. A thing not to be trusted.

Both traits originated in you. Charming and good-hearted.

Baron laughed to himself; she didn't even know him.

"You're being creepy, Baron," grumbled Leon. Tasting his soup, he threw in another clove of garlic.

"Are you properly aerating your dough?" Baron asked.

Leon stiffened. Then he narrowed his eyes as if sizing up a mouse. "It's aerating flour, and why?"

"The palace cook wants to know."

At once, the boy brightened. "Yes! Tell her to teach me more secrets."

"You're not at all concerned I'm in correspondence with the palace kitchen?"

"While you're at it, get me one of their weekly menus in writing. I want to see what they serve in that place, and I mean when the whole court isn't there."

Shaking his head, Baron lifted his teacup only to find it had gone cold.

Amelia tapped at the door to inform him Mr. Huxley required a tour of the hamlet, so with reluctance, Baron prepared himself for another day of entertaining the court jester. Leon made him wait fifteen minutes for the soup to be ready.

"It's not like Mr. Peachy can get any crankier with a bit of a wait," the boy said.

Baron wasn't so sure.

As soon as Baron explained the purpose of bringing soup along on a hamlet tour, Huxley disparaged the notion.

"More coddling," he said. "There will be no estate funds spent on this widow, I hope you're aware."

"In turn," Baron said, "I hope you're aware a nobleman who does not care for those on his lands cannot call himself noble at all."

Even now, he could hear his father's voice clearly, as if the man sat beside him in the carriage. In court, we represent not just the interests of our own house but of every person we oversee, every individual given to our care. We are a collection of voices that represent an entire kingdom.

He'd wanted Baron to be the voice for magic. Baron touched his pocket, feeling a concealed letter, a silent offer.

Huxley sniffed but otherwise fell silent. Though Baron usually walked the short distance, the steward insisted on taking a carriage, since his weak leg favored neither walking nor riding. At least that made transporting the soup easy.

The hamlet had a simple layout, just a collection of houses around a central well. The largest house belonged to Mrs. Caldwell, a would-be leader in the community who took it upon herself to care for her neighbors. Baron introduced Huxley to her, then excused himself to see to Widow Fletcher, ignoring Huxley's scowl.

Widow Fletcher kept a small, well-tended house at the hamlet's edge. After Baron knocked and admitted himself, she stood to greet him, but she trembled in every limb, so Baron ordered her to bed and ladled soup, waving off her protests.

"I've sent for a physician from Stonewall," he said. "He'll arrive this evening."

She insisted there was no need for a physician, but the hacking cough betrayed her. No doubt she was concerned with cost.

"The cost is covered, widow. Worry only about your health."

If Baron had to pay from his own pocket, so be it. In the back of his mind, he heard voices: Your father's collapsed!

Baron forced the dark memories away.

"I've heard the steward ... he doesn't approve ..." The widow fell to a coughing fit, and when she spoke again, her voice could barely be heard. "Surely milord can ... can just sort me right."

Widow Fletcher managed a weak smile, her eyes glassy with fever.

Baron stopped himself from rubbing his witch's mark. Listening to her struggle for breath, he said, "I'll see what I can do."

The widow's small house held an even smaller kitchen. She was almost out of fresh water; he would draw more for her after Mrs. Caldwell arrived. He filled a wooden cup and gently traced his fingertip around the smooth edge, like coaxing crystal to sing. He heard that song in his mind, but it wavered. Fractured.

He saw his father thrashing in bed.

Heard the physician. There's nothing I can do—

Nothing I can do.

Baron blinked, looking down at the cup now filled with sour milk. Useless. He opened the window and emptied the cup, slopping milk curdles across a bed of dried brown leaves. Though his head pounded with an ache, he filled the cup for another attempt. Usually, magic was an instinctive thing, and he could perform a Cast with hardly a thought, but when he overexerted himself or tried to force it, his own mind retaliated with spikes of pain.

After two additional attempts, he finally silenced the memories enough to make a honeyed tea, though it was far from his best work.

After drinking it, Widow Fletcher dozed fitfully, her cough eased but her sickness lingering. Baron couldn't cure her, just as he'd been unable to cure his father. He could only ease the symptoms.

Baron's fingers trembled. He interlaced and clenched them.

Mrs. Caldwell arrived after the widow finally slipped into a deep, restful sleep. Once he'd finished informing her of the remaining soup and coming physician, the matron stopped Baron at the door.

"You do this hamlet good, my lord," Mrs. Caldwell said quietly. "The former baron, rest his soul, he would be fiercely proud."

Baron nodded his thanks, but he did not tell her how much better he could do if he were worth his salt as a Caster. The books Sarah had burned had contained incredible stories of Stone Casters who constructed castles, of Fluid Casters who redirected blood flow in the human body. Even purified it.

A Caster like that could have cleansed his father's infection. Could have saved his life.

Before he left, Baron remembered to draw water. It was the only thing he could do.

When he returned to the manor, he sat in his armchair by the fireplace and read Princess Aria's letter once more. Of all the remarkable details in it—one after another—perhaps the most remarkable was the closing signature.

With hope.

What, exactly, was she hoping for?

And more important still—

If Baron sent a response, what was he hoping for?

She'd seen joy in his magic, that was something. But Sarah had also seemed accepting at first. His father had trusted her, loved her, and lost her. Baron had no intention of loving a princess, but he did not know if he could even take the first step to trusting one.

And yet . . .

Promise me, son.

Even had he obtained his seat at court, he would have been one voice in a sea of dissention. There had always been slim chance of him affecting real change; he had simply agreed with his father that any chance was worth the effort.

Princess Aria was not one voice in a sea. Hers was the voice of the future monarch, the woman who would, in a matter of years, lead the entire kingdom. If there was any chance, no matter how slim, that Baron could convince her that Casters deserved an equal place within that kingdom, it was certainly worth the effort.

If he failed . . .

Well, at least Leon could get his palace menu.