Inside the Sallow Mansion, in a private room meant for relaxing, the Duchess lounged, languishing. She was getting in an afternoon cry before going about official duties. The knowledge that the King forcibly sent her only son to fight a war even though he bested Klein Raiden in an official duel had a lasting effect.
She groaned, taking a large bite into a carrot, her preferred depression food.
Parcy pursed her lips. The sound of crunching food.
"Don't look at me like that."
Trisha Sallow was also half-drowned in a glass of BlueMountain Wine. It was non-alcoholic, but that didn't stop Trisha from getting pseudo-drunk and waving a finger at her most trusted employee and friend.
"I had no choice. My little boy..."
Parcy wasn't one to say much at the best of times and now clearly wasn't one of those moments. Still, she let her words subside in the private parlor.
"The girl was difficult to catch the first time."
Parcy was one of those types who said everything that needed to be with as few words as possible. Trisha appreciated Parcy's ability to carry multiple meanings within single phrases. It made her one of the meanest politicians and the most useful spy she'd ever employed. Trisha took pointers most days, dishing out the brutal tongue lashings to some of the more unsavory women in her tea circles.
Today? Today Trisha was woefully morose and maternally hormonal.
"Why did I believe that lying wench over my little boy?"
Trisha sniffed. Parcy handed her some tissues.
"Thank you."
Parcy answered the open question.
"It was the other Duchal houses, Duchess."
Trisha sniffed again before blowing her nose in an unladylike fashion. She held out the tissue. Parcy reluctantly used a pair of tongs to grab it before throwing it into a trash bin. The contents of said trash bin then burst into a puff of smoke. Then an incense stick was cracked by a pair of tiny mechanical arms. Something Bellavarn tinkered with in-between his main project and gifted to her as an early birthday present. And as a baby shower gift.
Lately, the Duchess could be seen carrying it around like it was a bag of chips.
"It... It was so more than that."
Her body didn't move much, but her arms sure did. Parcy was ready with a towel in case she spilled the wine.
"Why would both Duchal families suddenly pass on their power to their heirs when they were in peak health? And then they retire off in the countryside? Whoever heard of such an absurd notion, Parcy!"
Trisha bit into a carrot. The loud crunch punctuated her rhetoric.
"It was... odd."
Trisha began nodding enthusiastically as if all her points and theories had suddenly been proven correct.
"Braster suspected foul, of the most terrible variety. What happened to the heirs? The changes in Klein and Daven aside. What of Klein's older brother, and Daven had four sisters. None to be found."
No answers came. Visiting the retired Dukes without forcing their way into their compounds proved impossible. Her first time speaking with Astor after the incident left her heartbroken. Klein was even less helpful. Their staff. Their former employees. No one mentioned it. There wasn't so much as a word of gossip.
She was just beginning to suspect her house would be targeted next. And she was right in a way.
"That little twerp thought she'd take advantage of my family? My little boy... "
"Hm."
"I offered her a chance to fix things, you remember, don't you? Just meet him under the tree, and everything will be fixed. But she ran off with Braster's bribe instead. And, and then! Then all the hate. The lies. The rumors and the poison. They hurt my boy! What did he do, Parcy? What did my innocent, precious boy do? That tyrannical spit stain sent my boy to his death! Oh~ But Parcy."
Trisha's leaping thoughts finally slowed down as her head laid in her arms. Her teary eyes glistened as she whispered.
"I've never been more proud of him."
Parcy listened to it all. She knew the stress the Duchess had been under at the time of the incident. Under duress, the Duchess offered the traitorous maid a chance to return to the household if she confronted Bellavarn. The maid decided to trust in Braster's bribe to leave forever rather than the goodwill of the Duchess. It was an unfortunate moment of miscommunication, but not the end of the world.
When the rumors started, the only logical conclusion was that the maid was spreading them. So Parcy was directed to track Melody down and eliminate her when found. It was admittedly harder than expected.
The reason it all went tits-up was that Parcy found the maid in that same rickety abode that the Young Master Bellavarn visited. The same one the Duchess and the Duke both visited shortly after with their offers. The former maid was lying underneath the floorboards, comatose, the pouch of gold resting neatly on her chest.
Parcy checked that building three times, top to bottom and even underneath. Nothing was out of place or noticeable—no magic spells or runes. There shouldn't have been any room under the floorboards to begin with. On the fourth sweep-through, Parcy decided to tear up the floorboards anyway. There she was, sleeping beauty. She never left. Not a coin touched. Not a hair out of place. Not even frozen toes from the lack of heat in the winter.
It was one of the few things that stumped Parcy. She first suspected Henry managed to get to her first and enacted some poetic justice. But the evidence made no sense. Less so when the girl woke up immediately and started thrashing about like a newborn chick. The girl didn't remember a thing. At a loss and missing the majority of a puzzle, all Parcy could do was notify the Duchess.
The plan from there was to keep her secluded until they figured out what happened, keeping her away from the still grieving and confused Bellavarn, and then tear the young girl apart. Figuratively, of course.
The act of giving the girl everything she could wish for would slowly give way to apathy and lack of desire. Then the only thing she would desire from then on would be the one thing she callously traded away.
Young Master Bellavarn.
It was incredibly cruel. Or heartwarming in a twisted sense of the word.
Trisha could be that way.
But the plan had failed. The King sent Bellavarn off to die. The pregnant Duchess could not join him, weakened as she was. Duke Braster was left to choose between personally protecting his only son or his unborn child. That didn't stop them from sending help, but anyone with half a brain knew that Bellavarn was doomed. He would die a dog's death out there.
"Why her?"
Parcy couldn't understand why Trisha would trust her son's life to a traitor. Why not someone who knew how to use those artifacts? They were wasted in the hands of a commoner.
Trisha, her head clearing from her brief hysteria and pseudo-inebriation, leaned back in her chair, swirling the clear glass of BlueMountain Wine and peering into her distorted reflection. The color of her eyes matched the color of the wine. The usual vibrancy seemed subdued and tired—a glacier of sleeping power.
"Because it is working. Not as slow as I thought, but it's not quite ready yet."
A single eyebrow moved to question.
"The seed I planted managed to sprout without any sunlight. I'm curious to see if it withers when exposed or if it grows stronger."
"A risky bet."
"She will succeed."
There was a knock at the locked parlor door. With permission, Parcy opened it. The man standing patiently outside was Oslo, the head butler. He bowed
"Pardon the intrusion, but Lady Wyre is here to see you."
"Guinevere? I assumed she wouldn't come."
"She has arrived in her usual fashion. Unannounced and royally peeved. I suggest seeing her shortly in order to keep relations minimally pleasant."
"Noted. Thank you, Oslo. Is there something else? Any news of Bellavarn?"
Oslo's portly figure sagged as his posture lessened from its usual perfection.
"No news, yet. Though he should be reaching the edges of the desert within the next few days."
"I see."
She looked back into her glass, tempted. Oslo interrupted her musing conveniently.
"Ah. The Duke wishes to see you before the meeting Lady Wyre"
"He is supposed to join us. Is he occupied with someone else?"
Oslo allowed himself to smirk.
"He's stuck in the kitchen."