The voice sliced through the Steamworks' dank air like a scalpel – cultured, serene, and bearing the effortless weight of imperial displeasure. It turned the stinking chaos to instant frost.
Consort De. Friend to Viola Vane. Shadowed power.
Her arrival sparked fresh wails from the pitiful figures still half-submerged in the filthy water. "Your Grace! Mercy!"
"Your Grace! Justice for your humble servants!"
The collective shrieking of a dozen drenched washerwomen was an assault. Consort De's gaze barely flickered towards the source. A glance at her senior lady-in-waiting sufficed.
"Silence this squawking!" the lady snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. "Out of that filth and into dry clothes! Linger and court illness? Delay the palace's work? Ten heads wouldn't pay for such negligence!"
The threat, direct and lethal, cut through the hysteria. Like rats fleeing smoke, the women scrambled from the vats, slinking towards their crowded dormitory. Consort De's calm attention finally settled on Cedric Vane. Her gaze traced the heavy rinsing pole still clenched in his white-knuckled fist, then lifted to his face.
"Well, Lord Vane?" Her tone remained velvet, but beneath it ran frost-hard steel. "Does your wrath stretch wide enough to claim even a Consort as prey today?"
The pole clattered onto the damp cobbles. Cedric swept a deep, rigid bow. "Your Grace… I dared not."
"Did you not?" A thread of ice entered the velvet. "Storming the Royal Steamworks? Hurling the Crown's servants like refuse into their own vats? Tell me, Lord Vane, what boundary dare you recognize?" Her calm was terrifying.
The reckless heat of his fury finally met its match. The Steamworks was Imperial domain. A fly caught beating its wings here could crush an entire noble house beneath its shadow if handled wrongly. Cedric knew his father's deepest fear – King's scrutiny. His visit to retrieve Joanna three winters prior had been a test of Vane loyalty. The family's silent abandonment of Joanna had been the price paid to appease the throne.
And now he'd kicked down the gates he was sworn to avoid. The image – Joanna held under murky water while her tormentors cackled – burned behind his eyes again, stoking the embers Consort De's presence had momentarily banked.
He dropped to one knee on the grimy stones, head bowed. "My recklessness demands Your Grace's judgment. I have no shield."
The Consort regarded the proud, defiantly bowed head. The boy she'd seen run riot in the Palace orchards years past was now a simmering storm trapped by his own fire. Viola's tearful pleas echoed in her mind.
"Rise," she commanded, her voice softening a fraction. "Return to Silverwood. This… eruption… will be contained. By me." Her gaze sharpened. "But hear this: the Steamworks gates remain forbidden to you henceforth. Cross this threshold again, Lord Vane, and not even royal favor will spare Silverwood the whirlwind." It was dismissal, but wrapped in a shield.
Cedric rose, bowed again, and turned. He walked past the filthy vats, the lingering stench of wet wool and fear clinging to him. His victory tasted like ash. He'd struck a blow against Joanna's tormentors, yet the hollowness beneath his ribs remained.
——
The closed carriage smelled faintly of beeswax and the lingering scent of his sister – jasmine and nervous sweat. The bronze hand-warmer sat cold on the seat opposite. Cedric had ordered it filled that dawn, commissioned specially months ago. Exquisitely shaped metal flowers chased over its surface – crimson plum blossoms, Joanna's long-ago favorite. A gesture frozen in time. She'd never seen it.
Would she even touch it now? Thorne's words echoed: The hand-warmer… cold. Untouched. Joanna hadn't accepted even Thorne's offering. Why would she accept his? Bitterness, as sharp as the hangover beginning to gnaw at his temples, rose. She was harder, colder. Less yielding than Elena, who instinctively sought the comfort of kinship. If only Joanna had offered a fraction of that warmth yesterday… a single word. 'Brother'. Even without Elena's soft grace. Then his boot wouldn't have lashed out, driving her onto the cruel stones.
The silent hand-warmer suddenly seemed to mock him. A monument to failure. With a violent shove, he pushed open the carriage window and hurled the ornate thing out into the swirling roadside snowdrift. Better vanished. Better forgotten.
He didn't return to Silverwood. Instead, he sought the thick oak doors of The Gilded Tankard tavern. By the time his father's manservant dragged him from a haze of sour ale and regret, twilight painted the manor towers in purple shadows.
His legs threatened rebellion as he entered the Grand Hall. Cold fury slammed into him like a physical blow. The entire family had been summoned – a tribunal awaiting the condemned. Lord Arthur Vane sat enthroned in the high-backed lord's chair, his face a mask of carved granite. Viola stood nearby, wringing her hands, her gaze flitting between her husband and son like a panicked sparrow.
Joanna stood apart, near the tall, cold hearth. She'd been commanded here too. He caught the pale glint of her face as he stumbled in. She'd been here a while. Had her presence been part of the lecture? Had Arthur finally acknowledged her existence only to weaponize her silence? Their eyes met for a split second – his bloodshot and bleary, hers distant, glacial. Recognition, then a shutter slamming down. She looked away. Three years dissolved in that glance. Nothing remained.
Good, he thought savagely, swaying slightly. Let her hate fuel the fire. His father's stony silence was worse than shouts. He dropped to his knees before the dais, the movement graceless. "My recklessness stains Silverwood," he ground out, the words thick on his tongue. "Punish me as you will, Father."
The heavy crystal goblet flew. It struck his temple with a sickening thud. Stars exploded. Hot blood, coppery and thick, streamed down into his eyebrow. Viola screamed, rushing forward.
"Arthur! Would you kill him?!" She clutched at her husband's arm.
Arthur shoved her aside, rising like a storm swell. "Kill him? He courts death for us all! Storming the Imperial Steamworks! Do you grasp its implication? Is Silverwood's security a game to you?!" His bellow rattled the silver plate on the sideboard. "You seek ruin!"
Cedric pressed a hand against the sticky flow at his temple. "Mistakes bear my name," he countered, bull-headed pride wrestling with the alcohol haze. "The laundresses… they earned their dunking. None drowned. My blood settles the Crown's grievance if demanded!" It was defiance, reckless and hollow.
Laundresses? The word pierced Joanna's icy detachment. Her gaze flickered towards the kneeling Cedric, the blood staining his collar. Understanding dawned – cold, sharp, dangerous. Consort De's intervention. The summons here. It wasn't just his recklessness being judged.
"Fool!" Arthur thundered. "You think your life alone buys Silverwood's safety? Your grandmother's bones… Your sister's future… Shall they burn alongside your foolish pride?!"
"It won't go that far!" Viola cried, clinging to Cedric's shoulder. Her gaze shot towards Joanna, desperate, beseeching. "Consort De has smoothed the path! His Majesty is merciful…"
Joanna felt the Consort's gaze land on her. She raised her eyes. Viola's were wide, filled with a tangled, terrified apology. It wasn't an apology for Cedric. It was an apology for the sacrifice they were preparing.
A familiar, sickening dread coiled in Joanna's stomach. The compromise Consort De offered. The price Silverwood must pay to shield its heir from his own storm of vengeance. And the payment… It seemed she was the coin. Again. The weight of those frantic, pleading eyes settled upon her, heavier than the lye buckets she'd hauled for three winters. The chill in the Grand Hall seeped deeper into her bones.