Page 71 of The Vespertine Treaty
— A concerned friend, Malathor
I dropped the paper onto the duvet, heedless now. My hands were shaking, not with fear, but with a devastating mixture of hope and strategic fury.
“He is lying about being a friend,” I whispered, staring at the invisible stamp of the seal—a heart breaking a bone. “But he is not lying about Caspian’s instability. I saw his eyes in that chamber, Poppy. He was broken. He didn't look like a boy who was going to accept a goodbye; he looked like a boy who had nothing left to lose.”
The thought of Caspian bleeding out on the black stones of the Alistair estate—either by his own hand or because he foolishly tried to fight Cain—was a terror that eclipsed everything else. Seeing him so defeated on the floor moments ago, his golden falcon crushed beneath Rhana's paw, made the threat in the letter feel sickeningly plausible.
Malathor wasn't just threatening his future; he was weaponising my own conscience against me. He was playing the elegant diplomat, offering me a chance to talk Caspian down from the ledge before he forced Cain to slaughter him.
Cain would destroy the intruder without hesitation. Malathor was claiming he could stop the intrusion before it began.
"This is a trap, Poppy. A perfect, malicious trap," I murmured, my eyes fixed on the darkening window. Midnight was only a few hours away.
“Then we don't go, Oph! We burn the paper.”
I stood up, pacing the room. “He knows I hate Cain. He knows I cherish Caspian’s memory. And he knows that if I don't go, and Caspian dies tonight, the guilt will destroy me.”
I had to know how Malathor planned to override the wards.
“We are going, Poppy,” I stated, my voice low and final. “We are going to give Caspian his goodbye, and we are going to find out exactly why Consul Malathor is so desperate to meet alone with the Prince of Death’s new wife.”
CHAPTER 27
OPHELIA
Morning in the Alistair estate did not break gently; it intruded brutally.
I was buried beneath the heavy duvet, trying to cling to the remnants of a dream where the world wasn't made of obsidian and the cold, when the heavy door to my chambers was thrown open. There was no knock, no polite request for entry—only the sharp, efficient sound of invasion.
Light flooded the room as the heavy drapes were ripped back by unseen hands. I sat up, blinking against the sudden glare, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm. Two Cenite maids, their faces masks of terrifying, blank efficiency, were already moving through the room. They didn't look at me. They simply began pulling dresses from my armoire—heavy, dark silks in deep emerald, midnight blue, and black.
“What is going on?” I demanded, my voice raspy with sleep. “Who told you to enter?”
They ignored me completely, laying out a gown of severe black velvet on the chaise. One of them moved to the vanity, arrangingbrushes and pins with the precision of a executioner sharpening a blade.
“Get out!” I snapped, grabbing a pillow and hurling it at the nearest maid. It struck her shoulder with a soft thud. She didn't even flinch. She simply picked it up, dusted it off, and placed it back on the bed.
I groaned, a sound of pure frustration, and pulled the covers back over my head."Poppy,"I hissed mentally."Wake up. We are being besieged by cleaning supplies."
Poppy let out a muffled, grumpy chitter from the foot of the bed.“Tell them to go away. It’s too early for tyranny.”
“Little Ophie,” a voice boomed from the doorway, echoing with stone-grinding amusement.
I lowered the duvet just enough to glare at Friedrik, the gargoyle perched casually on the doorframe. “Make them leave, Friddi.”
“I’m afraid I cannot, my dear,” he said, examining his claws. “You know the master has issued his decree. The staff are forbidden from speaking to you—likely to preserve everyone’s sanity—and you are required downstairs immediately.”
“Required?” I scoffed, throwing the covers off. “I am not a soldier in his army.”
“No, dear, you are the wife in his house. And apparently, the Master requires his wife’s presence at breakfast.” Friedrik’s stone eyes twinkled. “Something about maintaining the facade of a functional union. Or perhaps he just enjoys watching you seethe over toast.”
I allowed the silent maids to dress me, if only because fighting them was like fighting shadows. They laced me into the gownwith bruising efficiency; the fabric heavy and constricting. They brushed my hair until my scalp tingled, leaving it in a severe, cascading curtain of crimson down my back.
I stomped down the grand staircase, the heavy skirts rustling like angry whispers, Poppy clinging to my shoulder, radiating a sour mood that matched my own.
The dining hall was a cavernous space of stone and vaulted ceilings. At the far end of a table long enough to seat a small army, sat theabsolute ray of sunshine, the Prince of Perpetual Gloom himself, Cain bloody Alistair.
He didn't look up as I entered. He was reading a thick document, a cup of black coffee steaming untouched beside him. He was clad in the dark tunic and breeches I’d seen before, the terrifying ceremonial armour finally discarded. It was jarring to see him like this—stripped of the obsidian shell, looking merely like a male rather than a monster. Though nothing about my husband ever looked trulynormal. Without the bulk of the plating, he looked leaner, sharper. He just seemed exhausted, immaculate, and utterly infuriating.
