Between Adrian's sudden departure for the capital and the chaos Lady Beatrice had unleashed in her self-appointed role as wedding planner, Blackthorn Manor had become a hive of frantic activity.
The upcoming wedding loomed over everything, and though Isla wanted nothing more than to focus on the mysterious letters she'd received, Lady Beatrice had other plans.
By mid-morning, Isla found herself once more trapped in the grand dining room with Lady Beatrice, who had commandeered most of the table for her "preparatory materials." These included dozens of fabric swatches, towering stacks of invitation mock-ups, and an absurdly large seating chart that seemed to span the length of the table.
"Lady Evangeline," Lady Beatrice said, her voice sharp as a knife, "you cannot delay these decisions any longer. The seamstresses are waiting on your approval for the bridesmaids' gowns." She held up two swatches of fabric—one a pale gold, the other a soft lavender. "Which will it be?"
Isla blinked at the swatches, her mind completely blank. "Um… they both look fine?"
Lady Beatrice gasped, clutching her chest as if Isla had struck her. "Fine? Fine?! My dear, this is your wedding we're discussing! Every detail must be perfect."
"Does it really matter?" Isla muttered under her breath. "It's not like I'm actually looking forward to—"
"What was that, my lady?" Lady Beatrice interrupted, her tone dangerous.
"Nothing!" Isla said quickly. "Gold. Let's go with gold."
Lady Beatrice beamed, as though Isla had just solved a great riddle. "Excellent choice. Gold symbolizes prosperity and unity. Very fitting for a duchess."
As Lady Beatrice turned her attention to the next item on her list, Isla let out a quiet sigh. She glanced at Clara, who sat across the room sipping tea and doing her best to stifle her laughter.
"Don't you dare," Isla mouthed at her friend.
Clara grinned innocently. "I have no idea what you mean."
Lady Beatrice, oblivious to their exchange, began lecturing one of the servants about the importance of floral arrangements. Isla took the opportunity to slip away, motioning for Clara to follow her.
---
The two of them retreated to the kitchens, where the air was warm and fragrant with the scent of baking bread. The staff bustled about, preparing for the evening meal, but they greeted Isla and Clara with friendly smiles.
"Lady Evangeline!" called a stout woman with flour-dusted hands. This was Mrs. Thatcher, the head cook and one of Isla's favorite people in the manor. "Come to steal a pastry, have you?"
"Maybe," Isla admitted with a grin. "But only if you're offering."
Mrs. Thatcher laughed and handed her a small tart filled with spiced apples. "Here, then. And one for you, Lady Clara."
"Thank you, Mrs. Thatcher," Clara said, taking the tart eagerly. "You're the best."
As they ate, Isla leaned against the counter and let out a long breath. "I don't know how much more of Lady Beatrice I can take."
"She's… intense," Clara said diplomatically.
"She's a tyrant," Isla corrected. "I've never seen someone get so worked up over tablecloths."
Clara snorted. "To be fair, this *is* a big event. Your wedding will be the talk of the kingdom."
"That's exactly the problem," Isla said, rubbing her temples. "I'm not ready for this. I don't even know if Adrian and I…" She trailed off, unsure how to finish the thought.
Clara gave her a sympathetic look. "You've got a lot on your plate right now. But you'll figure it out. You always do."
Isla wasn't so sure, but before she could dwell on it, the door to the kitchens swung open, and Thomas strode in, looking uncharacteristically flustered.
"Lady Evangeline," he said, bowing slightly. "There's… a situation."
"What kind of situation?" Isla asked, straightening up.
Thomas hesitated, glancing around the room as though to ensure they wouldn't be overheard. "It's about the letters."
Isla's stomach dropped. "What about them?"
"We found another one," Thomas said. "It was left on the doorstep this morning."
---
The letter was waiting for her in the library, carefully sealed and placed on the desk where no one else could tamper with it. Isla approached it cautiously, her heart pounding as she broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.
The writing was the same as before—neat, precise, and utterly unfamiliar.
*"The game is already in motion. Trust no one, not even the king. Look for the whispers in the shadows. They will lead you to the truth."*
Isla read the letter twice, then a third time, but the words refused to make sense. She handed it to Clara, who frowned as she scanned the page.
"'Trust no one, not even the king,'" Clara repeated. "That's… ominous."
"Do you think it's a warning?" Isla asked. "Or a threat?"
"Maybe both," Clara said. "Whoever's sending these clearly knows something. But why send them to you?"
"I don't know," Isla admitted. She turned to Thomas, who stood by the door with his arms crossed. "Has anyone seen anything suspicious? Strangers near the manor? Unfamiliar faces?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary," Thomas said. "Whoever's leaving these letters is careful. They're not making mistakes."
Isla sighed, sinking into one of the armchairs. The letters were starting to feel like pieces of a puzzle she didn't have all the pieces for, and she wasn't sure how much longer she could afford to wait for answers.
---
Far from the relative safety of Blackthorn Manor, Adrian rode into the capital under the cover of dusk. The city of Elenora was a sprawling maze of cobblestone streets and towering spires, its grandeur marred by the undercurrent of tension that seemed to hum in the air. The king's summons had been urgent, but as Adrian approached the royal palace, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking into a trap.
The ambush on the road still lingered in his mind. The riders had been well-trained—too well-trained to be simple bandits. And their words… *"Your loyalty. Or lack thereof."* What had they meant?
As he dismounted and handed the reins to a stable hand, Adrian's gaze swept over the palace grounds. Guards stood at every entrance, their expressions impassive, but Adrian noticed the subtle way their hands hovered near their weapons. It was as if they were expecting trouble.
Inside the palace, he was escorted to the king's chambers, where he found King Leopold seated by the fire, his face lined with weariness. The king looked up as Adrian entered, his expression unreadable.
"Your Grace," the king said, gesturing for Adrian to sit. "Thank you for coming."
"Your Majesty," Adrian replied, inclining his head. "Your summons sounded urgent."
"It is," the king said, his voice low. "There are… troubling developments. Whispers of rebellion. I need someone I can trust."
Adrian's jaw tightened. *Trust.* The word felt like a blade against his throat. "Of course, Your Majesty. What would you have me do?"
The king leaned forward, his eyes dark. "I need you to root out the traitors. Find them before they tear this kingdom apart."
---
Back at Blackthorn Manor, the chaos continued. Lady Beatrice had discovered that the flower arrangements were behind schedule, and her fury was enough to send even the bravest servants scurrying for cover. Isla, determined to escape the madness, decided to take a walk in the gardens.
She was halfway down the path when she spotted Rosaline sitting on a bench, her hands folded in her lap. Isla hesitated, then approached cautiously.
"Mind if I join you?" Isla asked.
Rosaline glanced up, her expression unreadable. "Suit yourself."
Isla sat beside her, the silence stretching between them. Finally, she said, "How are you feeling?"
"Well enough," Rosaline said curtly. "Though I doubt that's what you really want to ask."
Isla bit her lip. "I heard Crown Prince Louis was here yesterday."
Rosaline's gaze sharpened, but she said nothing.
"Did he… say anything?" Isla pressed.
"He said plenty," Rosaline replied, her voice cold. "Most of it irrelevant."
"Rosaline," Isla said gently, "if there's something going on—"
"It's none of your concern," Rosaline snapped, cutting her off. "Focus on your wedding, Lady Evangeline. Leave the rest to me."
Isla opened her mouth to argue, but Rosaline stood abruptly and walked away, leaving her alone with her thoughts.