Seraphyne's words were a stiletto of ice, sliding between Isadora's ribs and piercing her heart. A gift. A pet. The images that flooded her mind were monstrous: Clara, her kind, brave Clara, in the clutches of the cruel, blood-eyed Lady Valestra. A plaything. A source of food. The grief was so sudden and sharp it threatened to buckle her knees.
But she would not collapse. Not here. Not in front of this creature who fed on the pain of others as surely as she fed on blood.
Isadora straightened her spine, her face becoming a mask of cool, professional detachment. She forced the horror down, packing it away into a cold, hard knot in the pit of her stomach. Later. She would allow herself to break later. Right now, breaking was a luxury she could not afford. Right now, she needed to survive.
"An interesting solution to settling noble disputes," Isadora said, her voice unnervingly calm. She met Seraphyne's surprised violet eyes. "If you are finished with me, my lady, I will take my leave. I have sketches to begin."
Seraphyne's smile faltered for a fraction of a second, a flicker of disappointment that Isadora had not dissolved into hysterics. "Of course, little flame," she purred, recovering quickly. "But you are not leaving just yet. I have a luncheon to attend. You will remain here until I return. I have so many more ideas for my new wardrobe."
It was an order. She was a prisoner.
The rest of the day passed in a surreal, waking nightmare. Isadora was a doll, a plaything for Seraphyne's amusement. She was paraded through the west wing of the manor, a labyrinth of opulent, dust-covered rooms. She was made to sketch designs for gowns in a cavernous, cold ballroom, the silence broken only by Seraphyne's incessant, witty monologue about the failings of her peers.
She endured it all. With every sketch she drew, every nod of acknowledgement she gave, the cold knot of resolve in her stomach grew harder. Every moment was a piece of information. She studied the layout of the halls, the placement of the servants, the contemptuous look on Mirabel's face when Seraphyne wasn't looking. She was no longer just a seamstress. She was a spy in the house of her enemy.
The letter she had stolen was a dangerous weight in her pocket. Viregate Prison. The name echoed in her mind. It was a secret. A vulnerability. A weapon she did not yet know how to wield.
Her primary objective, however, remained the silver cufflink. It was the source of this nightmare, the token that tied her to this house, to its master. Her plan was painfully simple, perhaps naively so. She would find the Duke. She would return his property. She would make it clear, in no uncertain terms, that their association was over. She would sever the tie, cauterize the wound, and then, free from his orbit, she would find a way to get Clara back.
It had to work. It was the only plan she had.
As evening bled into the sky, painting the stained-glass windows in hues of orange and violet, Seraphyne finally grew bored of her new toy.
"You may wait in the solar," she announced with a theatrical yawn. "I find your quiet determination has become rather tiresome. Do try to look more miserable. It is so much more entertaining."
Dismissed, Isadora was led back to the sun-dusted room by Mrs. Blight. The housekeeper said nothing, but as she closed the doors, she gave Isadora a long, strange look—a look that held a century of weary resignation.
The waiting was a special kind of hell. The sun set, and the solar, once bright, became a cage of long, creeping shadows. Isadora paced, her silk slippers whispering on the marble. With every minute that passed, the cold knot in her stomach tightened. She would not be summoned. She would not wait for his convenience while Clara suffered. The passive part of her, the girl who endured, had died in Seraphyne's wardrobe.
Her decision was a spark in the darkness. She would not wait. She would act.
She pulled open the heavy doors of the solar and stepped into the dim, torch-lit corridor. The house was quieter now, the silence deeper, more profound. She walked, her senses on high alert, navigating the labyrinthine halls by memory and instinct. She needed to find Mrs. Blight. A terrified maid would only flee. Only the house's grim matriarch would have the authority, and perhaps the nerve, to grant her request.
She found her in the cavernous kitchens, a world away from the opulent front of the house. Here, the air was hot and smelled of roasting meat and metallic tang. Mrs. Blight was overseeing the polishing of a mountain of silver, her sharp eyes missing nothing.
Isadora stepped out of the shadows. The kitchen staff froze, staring at her as if she were an apparition.
Mrs. Blight looked up, her expression unchanging. "You are lost, girl."
"No," Isadora said, her voice clear and firm, cutting through the sudden silence. "I am not. I need to see the Duke."
The housekeeper's thin eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch. "His Grace does not receive unannounced visitors," she said, her voice a dry rasp. "Especially not at this hour."
"This is not a social call," Isadora insisted, taking a step forward. Her hand went to her pocket, to the hard shape of the cufflink. "I have property of his. It must be returned to him directly. Tonight."
Mrs. Blight studied her for a long moment. Isadora didn't flinch. She held the old woman's gaze, letting her see the iron resolve in her eyes. This was not a request.
A flicker of something unreadable passed through the housekeeper's flinty eyes—annoyance, respect, perhaps a ghost of a memory. With a long, weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of ages, she set down the candlestick she was inspecting.
"Very well," she said, much to the astonishment of the kitchen staff. "The folly of the young is a tide that cannot be turned. Come."
She led Isadora from the kitchens, through a maze of service corridors and up a narrow, winding staircase, emerging once again into the opulent, silent world of the masters. She stopped before a heavy door of dark, polished oak.
"The Duke's study," Mrs. Blight announced, her voice flat. Then, without another word, she turned and melted back into the shadows from whence she came.
Isadora took a deep breath, her hand closing around the cufflink in her pocket. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room was the heart of the house's ancient, dark power. It was lined from floor to ceiling with books, thousands of them, their leather spines gleaming like dark jewels in the soft glow of the lamplight. A fire roared in a massive stone hearth, casting a warm, flickering light over a large desk littered with papers, maps, and strange, arcane-looking objects. The air smelled of old paper, woodsmoke, and winter.
He was there.
He stood by the tall, arched window, a silhouette against the moonlit grounds of his estate. He did not turn as she entered. He simply stood there, a figure of absolute stillness, waiting. He had known she was coming.
The sight of him, so calm, so powerful, while her own world was burning to the ground, ignited a fresh wave of fury in her. The grief for Clara, the pain of her father's words, the humiliation of her day with Seraphyne—it all coalesced into a single, sharp point of rage.
She would not wait for him to speak. She would not be his pawn.
She marched across the thick Persian rug, her footsteps silenced by the plush wool. She stopped before his massive desk, pulled the snarling silver wolf's head from her pocket, and placed it on the polished wood with a soft, definitive click.
"This is yours, Your Grace," she said, her voice as cold and steady as she could make it. "Our business is concluded."
He turned then, slowly, deliberately. The firelight played over the sharp, aristocratic planes of his face, leaving his eyes in shadow. He looked at the cufflink lying on his desk, then he looked at her. His expression was unreadable, a mask of cool indifference.
"It was a gift," he said, his voice a low, quiet rumble that vibrated in the heavy silence of the room.
"It was a mistake," she retorted. "One I am now correcting."
"I do not take back my gifts," he said simply, as if discussing the weather. He made no move to touch the cufflink. He was refusing it. He was refusing to let her go.
The audacity of it, the sheer, arrogant power of his dismissal, shattered her carefully constructed composure.
"You will take it back," she said, her voice trembling with repressed fury. "You will take it back, and you will leave me and my family alone. I want no part of you, or your world, or your cursed gifts."
"And yet, here you are," he murmured, taking a step toward the desk, toward her. "In the heart of my world. In my private study. Long after the sun has set." He stopped, leaving the desk between them like a barrier. "You say you want no part of me, Miss Wren, but your actions suggest otherwise."
"Your sister brought me here against my will!"
"Did she?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft. "Or did she simply provide an opportunity you were too proud, or perhaps too curious, to refuse?"
He knew. He knew her, and he was using it against her.
"I am here to end this," she insisted, gesturing at the cufflink. "Take it."
"No," he said again, the word soft but absolute. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the desk. The firelight caught his eyes, and she saw the cold, wintery fire blazing within them. "That cufflink is a symbol, Miss Wren. A reminder. It is a piece of my world that now belongs in yours. A testament to a single night when the rules were broken."
He paused, his gaze so intense it felt as if he were touching her. "Tell me, do you regret it? Do you regret the dance?"
The question was a trap, and she walked right into it. The image of Clara being dragged away, of her father's heartbroken face, flashed in her mind.
"Yes," she choked out, the word tasting like ash. "More than you could ever know."
A flicker of something—disappointment? pain?—crossed his features before it was locked away behind his mask of cold control. He straightened up, his face once again an unreadable sculpture of aristocratic indifference.
"A pity," he said, his voice devoid of all emotion. "Because I do not."