Page 100 of Demon’s Snack

Sable steps closer on my other side. “Then next time, we make him regret expecting the same result.”

The bond warms.

The hunger stays quiet.

And behind us, the district keeps whispering.

14

ISOLDE

Vaerith’s estate does not panic loudly after public humiliation. It tightens.

By the time I return through the servants’ side corridor under the pretense of damage assessment, the house has turned every hallway into a vein carrying fear back toward the heart of it. Ward-scribes hurry past with brass cases clutched to their chests, their dark robes dusted with ash from the courtyard. Guards speak in sharp murmurs near intersections, glancing toward mirrors, polished doorplates, and every pane of glass as though any of them might suddenly betray a superior’s displeasure. Servants scrub soot from the threshold stones with brushes too small for the task, and the bitter smell of burned rune-work hangs in the air beneath wax polish and cold floral oil.

I walk through it with my ledger satchel against my hip and my face arranged into professional severity. That expression has saved me more times than prayer ever has. People see a human woman with ink on her cuffs and assume she belongs to work, not rebellion.

Mira catches sight of me near the east staircase and nearly drops the tray she is carrying. The cups rattle against one another, sharp little notes of alarm disguised as clumsiness.

“You came back,” she whispers when I pass close enough.

“I work here.”

“That is a terrible defense against common sense.”

“I need the damage accounts before Vaerith revises them.”

She shifts the tray against her waist and lowers her voice until it barely reaches me. “You stood beside him in front of everyone.”

“Yes.”

“You contradicted Vaerith in front of everyone.”

“Yes.”

“You are answering like a woman who has decided to make me age six years before supper.”

“I am attempting to remain efficient.”

“I would prefer alive and inefficient.”

I almost smile, but the corridor has too many ears. “Damage assessment. Ledger chamber. If anyone asks, you saw me carrying scorched ward fragments and looking insufferably useful.”

“You always look insufferably useful.”

“Then no acting will be required.”

Mira’s gaze drops to my hands. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Is he?”

“Wounded, unstable, furious, and walking.”

“That sounds like every man I have ever regretted meeting, minus the walking.”

“Mira.”