Seleste, Then

SELESTE

R ain gently pattered against a window in the drawing room. Ordinarily, sun and sand were preferable to Seleste, though she didn't particularly mind a Summer shower on her isle. The way the droplets cascaded down the palm leaves or filled the waterfall to overflowing was soothing. She could almost feel the sun breaking through the clouds on Isle Tiamat, the mist floating up from the falls' lagoon. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, conjuring the faintest scent of coconuts and hibiscus, sea salt and sand.

Alas, the acrid scents of her oil lamp and damp dusting cloth overpowered it. She opened her eyes, taking one last look at the showers beyond the window before she must return to her cleaning. The fog obscured the rolling green hills from view, its depths so opaque that she couldn't help but be reminded of Aggie again. Sister Autumn had arrived at the Summer Solstice with her eyes nearly vacant. They'd been that way since she'd returned on the previous Winter Solstice to hand the Grimoire to Winnie. Aggie hadn't told any of them what happened—what her Orders were—past one mumbled word: monastery . She'd not returned correspondence since that Autumn and had not uttered a word to any of them at the Spring Equinox, either.

That one word had been enough for Seleste, though. Following the Winter Solstice, she returned to her isle and scoured every newspaper. She had nearly every paper on the continent delivered to her Seagovian post box. Magically, she retrieved them multiple times a day from her hut—save for The Spectre, the circular amongst witches and magical folk that was delivered daily to her hut's woven doormat via its enchantment.

Seven papers and forty-one articles later, she'd found it.

Arson! Monastery in Litur set ablaze!

Arsonist at large.

Seleste peered out the window, determined to write to her little Sister again before crawling into bed at the end of the day. Surely, the earl and his family had correspondence leaving Whitehall at some point, and she could slip her letter in. The Sisters were not strictly supposed to have any contact at all. Sorscha and Aggie openly defied this on numerous occasions by sending courier ravens to one another. Seleste only did so when something was urgent. It was unlikely Aggie would reply at all. She hadn't to the last two letters. Therefore, this letter would not constitute as raven-worthy. Mind made up, Seleste nodded resolutely to the rain-slicked window and turned to resume her cleaning.

Perfect timing. She smiled to herself as she moved to dust a lamp. The young Lord Bardot was headed toward the drawing room. He always came in the mornings before his sisters had risen. That was unless he'd taken a longer ride through the grounds. With the rain, he would have been shuttered indoors and missed his morning ride. His schedule aside, Seleste knew his gait like all the others in the family.

The young Ladies Bardot ran everywhere unless accompanied by their au pair. Lady Della had a nearly imperceptible swish to her walk, due mostly to her prim upbringing, only outweighed by the voluminous fashion she kept herself in. The earl, however, was still quite ill and had not left his room in several days. In his limited wanderings, she'd learned his gait was easy. The bearing of a man who'd never struggled a day in his life, save for his current illness.

Seleste had memorised the other household gaits as well. Leonard with one leg that dragged ever so slightly, Becky with her swift tattoo along the floorboards, Frances with her quick, quiet steps…

The young lord of the house, though—his steps were sharp, purposeful, and never quiet. He had no reason to go unheard or tamp down his dignity. Despite him effectively sneaking up on her twice, it had not happened since she'd made a point to learn his movements. He was her target, after all. That was if he was the future earl and not his father. Though, since Lord Bardot—if that did turn out to be the family name they'd been hiding—had fallen ill and mostly been sequestered to his room, Seleste couldn't see that the Grimoire would Order her to befriend him. That led her to deduce he was the Earl of Bellvary, and his son, Lord Bardot the younger, was her quarry.

Today, Lord Bardot had a bit more of an edge to his gait than usual as he headed down the corridor toward the drawing room. He turned the corner into the room with a scowl on his face and his hair damp. Seleste was momentarily struck by how handsome he was despite his glower. Alas, her decision, made the afternoon the Grimoire instructed her to befriend him, had been not to give any credence to such thoughts.

In the span between his entrance within the doorway and his first step inside the room, she took note of the dampness of his jacket, as well as traces of mud on his boots. Obviously, he would have traversed through the rain to arrive at the house from his chalet , but it was more than wet shoulders and droplets here or there—the result of a mad dash. No, he was soaked through to the bone.

Surely, he had not been riding since before the rain began, only to be caught in its downpour. It was already coming down quite hard by the time she'd risen, and that was well before the sun.

Lord Bardot paid her no mind and set his book down with a solid thunk on the desk situated in the corner of the room. Lips in a thin line, he dropped into the chair and uncorked the inkwell. As he set to taking notes, Seleste cautiously approached.

"My lord," she said evenly, "it appears you were caught out in this nasty weather. Would you like for me to build up the fire?"

He looked up at her briefly through his wet lashes, not bothering to lift his head from his notes. Droplets from his sleeve were plopping onto the parchment, much to Seleste's dismay.

"I was not caught in the rain."

Clearly, he had been. She could even see stray horse hairs at his wrist, snagged in the buttons there. Was this his attempt to save face as much as it was her attempt to get him to speak to her? "But you are soaked through, milord."

Lord Bardot never stopped writing but sighed heavily. "Not that it makes any difference to you, but I enjoy riding in the rain."

A small tremor of surprise went through Seleste. It was a pleasant feeling and one she did not often feel. There was very little that truly surprised her. It was simply too easy to make out all the information beforehand. Often, it was overwhelming. It was the reason she sequestered herself on her isle where there was nothing to observe about other people.

But she'd been wrong about Lord Bardot. He hadn't misjudged the weather or gone out in the wee hours of the morning before his usual time. He'd kept his schedule and gone out to ride in the rain because he enjoyed it . When she only stood there dumbfounded, he looked at her first with just his eyes again before finally turning in his seat to peer up at her fully, a bewildered look on his face.

"A fire would be nice. Thank you," he finally said, presumably in an attempt to stop her staring.

He returned to his notes, his brows crinkled together in the middle, while Seleste built up the fire to a nice, steady heat. Rising from in front of the hearth, she gathered her supply basket and decided to return to the drawing room later to complete her dusting. Lord Bardot was clearly in a foul temper, and she would rather observe why that might be prior to attempting an actual conversation again.

Just fucking ask him why he's such a crotchety arse , Sorscha would say. And Seleste had to suppress a laugh at the thought of her brash Sister Spring. Perhaps she ought to take the phantom advice…

"Are you all right, milord?" She let the words tumble out before she could stop herself.

"Pardon?" He eyed her briefly with a quizzical look before returning his gaze back to his work again.

"It is only that…you always seem to be in a foul temper, and I wanted to ask if you are all right."

He'd set his quill down in the middle of her sentence and was regarding her with enough intensity to make her want to squirm, though she did not.

"I'm fine." His tone was even, if not a bit annoyed. "I merely have little tolerance for chit-chat and dull conversation." Their particular dull conversation was clearly over in his mind, as he took up his quill yet again.

"Very well." Seleste let her perpetually sunny smile drip into her words, determined not to take the man's insult. "If you ever have the need to discuss existentialism or something of the like, I'd be happy to oblige."

His hand stilled over his notes. Slowly, he sat back in his chair. "Existentialism?"

Seleste shrugged, the low knot of her braids tickling the back of her neck with the movement. "I take special interest in the value of mortal existence and the hold that free will has on that value." Lord Bardot regarded her silently with narrowed, curious eyes. "Enjoy your studies, milord."

She walked away, wondering if she should have chosen a topic more corporeal, as the textbooks she'd seen in his chalet had all been anatomical in nature, as were the notes he'd been penning. When she reached the door and turned to dip into a curtsy, he was still watching her carefully, but one side of his lips twitched before she left the room.