The summons came in the form of Mirabel, Seraphyne's personal maid, whose beauty was matched only by the perpetual storm cloud of resentment that followed her. Finnian was in his small, comfortable rooms in the secret wing of Mirewood Hall—a gilded cage he rarely left—when she appeared at his door without knocking.
"Get dressed," she said, her voice clipped. She tossed a bundled cloak of dark, plain wool onto a chair. "You're going on an outing."
Finnian, who had been sketching the patterns of frost on his windowpane, looked up with a lazy grin. "An outing? My dear Mirabel, are we finally eloping? I must confess, I had always hoped for a carriage, not a cloak that smells faintly of horse."
Mirabel's glare could have curdled milk. "Do not be an imbecile. Her Ladyship has… need of you. At the Aurelion estate."
