DYPIOOP Chapter 4

Just Want To Date

The words about being unable to let her go proved equally hollow.

The baron and baroness made no move to stop Elonia as she gathered her things. She packed what little remained after everything else had been sold—a few dresses, barely a wardrobe—and walked out of the estate where she'd spent her entire life, feeling considerably lighter than she had in years.

Clop, clop. The large Haelton carriage, bearing the ducal house crest, rolled toward the estate carrying precisely one worn bag rattling around inside it. The carriage was noticeably larger than the one that had brought her from Metika Prison—presumably sized to accommodate whatever luggage she might be bringing. Carvel looked at the bag.

"You're really taking just that?"

"There wasn't much of mine left in the house to begin with."

"No. I only meant—you won't have occasion to wear those dresses going forward."

Right. He was Haelton. She'd considered arguing, but the fabric of his coat—visible from directly across the carriage—was of a quality that made comparison feel unkind. Elonia smiled at him with professional composure, and he, with equally professional composure, changed the subject.

"You handled that performance rather well, considering."

"I'm relieved! I was worried you wouldn't play along when I called you 'honeybee.'"

"Everything was fine. Except the honeybee part."

"What's wrong with honeybee? They're sweet, small, and adorable."

The blatant distaste on his face only made her more cheerful about the choice. But Carvel was not a man who could be managed easily. He turned the angle of attack back on her with surgical precision.

"Then you'll call me honeybee in public from this point forward."

"...Pardon?"

"You said you liked it. I gave my permission to use it. Is there a problem?"

His tone was perfectly even. His enunciation was perfect. The word permission was doing extraordinary work to signal a firm and absolute rejection without technically being one. He gave a small, deliberate nod, prompting her to go ahead.

"You'd do well to brace yourself if you use my name again."

Elonia rubbed the goosebumps off her arm and corrected course at once.

"I'm sorry. Please let me just use your name."

The carriage had barely stopped in front of the Haelton estate before the household staff poured out in a wave. It seemed like the entire staff had turned out—or close to it. This was not quite the welcoming energy one associated with greeting a new guest; every face bore some version of beleaguered as they watched Elonia descend on Carvel's arm.

The head steward's voice wavered.

"Your Grace..."

"The way you're saying that tells me there's a visitor inside."

"I did send word ahead, but they insisted on a personal audience..."

The minute slump of the steward's shoulders communicated exactly how much of his afternoon this had consumed. Elonia felt a flicker of anxiety—she hoped no one was already planning to redistribute the duties of the Haelton duchess in her direction. She wouldn't refuse if asked, given that she'd already left the family, but there was no reason to volunteer for extra complications.

Carvel summoned one of the maids with a glance and turned to Elonia.

"Go ahead with Amy. I'll deal with the guest and speak with you afterward."

"Of course!"

The maid in question—freckled and pleasantly energetic—immediately launched into cheerful conversation as Carvel disappeared into the estate.

"I'll show you to your room, my lady."

"I'm not married yet..."

"His Grace said you'd be his intended? Was I misinformed?"

News traveled fast in this household—or rather, the duke had apparently informed everyone already. Being called my lady before the ceremony had even been scheduled. Elonia hadn't quite processed what to say before Amy, apparently interpreting her silence as approval, launched forward as they crossed the garden.

"We were all so surprised when His Grace said someone would be coming to be his bride! He's turned down so many matches over the years—I suppose it all made sense in the end!"

Elonia was, if she were honest with herself, genuinely curious. The House of Haelton—with its prestige, its military authority, its finances—would have attracted exceptional marriage proposals from families who'd have jumped at the opportunity. She asked without thinking.

"I had wondered. Why had he never married before?"

"Oh, that... hm, well." Amy's pace increased noticeably—almost to a march. "He does spend so much time at the front and among the knights. Perhaps that put ladies off?"

There was something Amy was decidedly not saying. Elonia kept up—it was nearly a foot race now—and gave up asking.

By the time they reached the long corridor of the estate, they'd settled into an awkward shared silence. It was nothing like the Devney barony—clean lines, refined taste, a sweetness drifting through the air that had nothing to do with the garden flowers outside.

The scent was, in truth, too sweet. For someone who apparently showed no preference for anything particularly pleasant, Carvel's choice of household fragrance seemed surprisingly heady.

"Is there some kind of incense burning in the estate?"

"Not at all. His Grace dislikes scent specifically—nothing is burned unless there's a particular instruction."

"Then what is that smell?"

"A smell? I... I'm not sure what you mean..."

But the further they walked, the stronger it became. Elonia recognized it from somewhere she couldn't quite place—familiar and yet not.

Nyx materialized beside her while she was still casting about for the source. Even he looked mildly pained, his small brow furrowed.

[What is that smell?]

He fell into step at her elbow and began orbiting her slowly. She noticed, almost incidentally, that the dull ache behind her eyes eased the moment he appeared. After a full circuit, he reached his verdict.

[Lyatico blossoms? This concentration is enough to give me a headache.]

"I don't think it's usually this strong..."

[Some wizard with too much time and too few hobbies has probably been tinkering with it again.]

Nyx pulled a face of intense disapproval. Lyatico was a magically-altered plant, known—reputedly—for producing a scent with faint seductive properties. As a magical cultivar, the price was considerable. The actual effect, however, was almost negligible in practice, which meant the primary market had settled firmly on ambiance: high-end establishments, aristocratic perfumeries, the sort of gesture made by people who believed atmosphere was a personality.

A thought struck Elonia with the clean, sudden clarity of a well-struck accounting ledger.

'Eventually, there'll come a day when I'm formally recognized as a genuine spirit mage. When I get divorced, I'll need money.'

She'd brought nothing in the way of a dowry, which meant divorcing with nothing—no assets to claim on her way out. It would be prudent to begin quietly accumulating funds now, in preparation for the day she'd need to support herself.

She glanced sideways at Nyx with an air of casual inquiry.

"Do you suppose Lyatico this concentrated would be worth more than usual?"

[Don't know. Would have to see it to say anything definitive. If it actually exists at this potency, though—extraordinary.]

A few steps ahead, Amy's gaze drifted backward with a somewhat anxious look. When their eyes met, Elonia asked without a moment's hesitation.

"Amy—the estate doesn't happen to cultivate Lyatico, does it?"

"Well, that's true, but..."

"In which case it wouldn't technically be part of the duke's personal assets..."

A slow, satisfied smile spread across her face as gold coins glimmered in her imagination.

Click.

The door to the Haelton receiving room swung open, and a wave of cloying sweetness swept in. Carvel's expression didn't change, but something around his eyes tightened fractionally.

The woman by the window, perfectly aware he'd entered, continued gazing out at the garden without turning. Carvel let his attention settle on the tea tray. The porcelain cup sat untouched—the tea going cold where it stood.

"The tea doesn't seem to have agreed with you, Your Imperial Highness."

A sweep of brilliant gold hair as she finally turned. Her violet eyes carried unmistakable displeasure, though her mouth curved in a perfectly pleasant smile.

Carvel took a seat on the sofa and leaned back with unhurried ease.

"An unannounced visit is rather impolite."

"I heard an interesting rumor," Aselir said, smiling through his pointed non-greeting without a flicker of discomfort.

"Which rumor would that be."

The flat response made something minute and involuntary pass across her face—a brief contraction, quickly controlled. Princess Aselir Espidia's violet eyes sharpened on him. Her voice remained perfectly agreeable.

"Is that all you have to say to me?"

"If Your Highness could be more specific about what she'd like to hear, I could offer a more useful response."

Aselir crossed the room toward him slowly. With each step, the scent thickened and expanded. Carvel filed the gathering headache away under not worth addressing and kept his attention steady. He was well-acquainted with the effort she'd invested in him—the haste with which she'd appeared the moment word of the marriage spread through the nobility was evidence enough of that. She settled herself in the chair across from him, her tone taking on a note of gracious inquiry.

"I had rather thought things between us were proceeding on... favorable terms. Was that my misunderstanding?"

"It's generally not referred to as 'proceeding' when the communication has been entirely one-directional."

Aselir Espidia. First Imperial Princess. The kind of face that made grown nobles compose poetry against their better judgment. She was the single most recognized figure in the Espidia Empire—the sole imperial princess, the beauty of the court, what people called a gift of the gods. And she had exactly one deficit in an otherwise impressive portfolio: bloodline.

The empress—ill and long since dead—had been succeeded by a former dancer who'd entered the palace already carrying Aselir. The princess was the only available imperial heir, but her mother's origins made her legitimacy a contested topic among the sort of nobles who went to their graves over family trees. The former crown prince, born of the proper empress, had died as a boy in the great fire at the imperial archive. With no clear successor of unimpeachable lineage, the military authority concentrated in the Haelton family made Carvel an extraordinarily attractive acquisition for anyone hoping to shore up their claim.

But that was Aselir's assessment of the situation. Not his.

'She knows perfectly well that the former empress came from the Haelton line. And yet here she sits.'

Carvel regarded her steadily across the table. Shortly after Aselir's mother had arrived at the palace, the empress had taken her final decline. The timing made attribution complicated—the empress had been frail since the crown prince's birth—but the circumstances were what they were. He felt approximately nothing about a great-aunt he'd never met, beyond a vague and abstract sympathy. His objection to Aselir was rather more specific.

She continued to maintain that pleasant smile, turning the cooling tea cup idly between her fingers.

"Did I really have to learn about your engagement to a spirit mage through someone else?"

"There was no particular reason to inform you."

"I understand the spirit mage hasn't yet received formal imperial recognition."

"She will. I don't believe that requires Your Highness's attention."

Whether it was the scent or Aselir's particular talent for behaving as though she'd already won an arrangement she'd constructed entirely in her own head, his patience was wearing thinner than usual. Any girl from a reputable family with genuine standing, and Aselir would have neutralized the situation quietly. An unknown variable—no family, no name, no traceable origin—and here she was in person, visibly irritated.

Aselir didn't hedge.

"I'd sooner trust the power of the imperial court than believe in spirits I've never once seen."

Carvel could have said the same. He held his tongue.

She'd apparently accomplished what she'd come to accomplish—verifying the situation in person—because she rose with unhurried elegance and added, with easy candor:

"I'd hope we needn't be so guarded with each other. Given our... similar circumstances."

Carvel laughed once, short and flat.

There it was. She used that angle every time. She saw him as clearly beneath her—and she was entirely straightforward about it in the moments she forgot to be charming. Still standing with that perfect posture, Aselir looked down at him and continued:

"I wonder if the others know. That the great Haelton Duke they hold in such esteem is actually—an adopted commoner-born orphan, the very thing they'd despise—"

"Allegations without evidence tend to undermine the credibility of the person making them."

"And the fact that no one ever witnessed the late duchess's pregnancy..."

"She spent those months at the Latiae family seat. Her homeland."

He cut through it cleanly.

Ten years ago, the imperial family archive had burned. With it, the family registry—or so Aselir claimed. She maintained she'd seen the registry before the fire, and that it had documented his adoption by the previous Duke of Haelton: a commoner orphan, formally taken in. Only two people had reportedly seen that book: Crown Prince Roel, who had perished in the same fire, and Aselir herself.

Whether she had actually read it was unknowable. What was not unknowable was that Aselir was the only survivor of that fire.

After a brief pause, she smiled—bright and easy, as though none of it had happened.

"What a pity. That I'm the only one left alive who saw that book."

She intended to keep him close and use him as background scenery for the rest of his natural life. That was not something he was prepared to accommodate.

Carvel smiled back with courteous professionalism.

"Now that a spirit mage has appeared, the contents of that book may soon come to light through other means."

The mention of a spirit mage erased the smile from Aselir's lips. A flicker of real displeasure surfaced in her red eyes before she turned away—smooth and swift as a page turning. She pulled the receiving room door open with the expression of someone who knew exactly how striking they looked doing it.

"Then I shall look forward to a formal introduction. In due time."

Bang.

The door shut.

Carvel pressed his thumb against his temple and held it there.

The scent Aselir left behind clung to the room long after she was gone—thick, expensive, and entirely unwelcome. He held the pressure against the headache that had been building with particular persistence lately and muttered to no one in particular:

"Carrying on as though she has everything, when she has nothing."

He let out a slow breath and stood.

Aselir's suspicion about the spirit mage meant there could be no margin for error going forward. There was a great deal to prepare before the formal imperial appointment—material Elonia would need to memorize, protocols to run through, a great deal of background to cover—but the cloying sweetness saturating the receiving room, and now most of the estate, was making it difficult to organize a single coherent thought. Aselir's visits had never grown easier; they only produced longer headaches.

Carvel made his way to the room that had been prepared for Elonia. He signaled, and the attendant relayed his presence.

"His Grace requests an audience."

"Coming!"

CRASH. Through the thick door came an explosion of cheerful commotion—the sound of someone making excellent use of every available surface. A beat later, the door swung open with great enthusiasm.

"Your Grace, I've been waiting!"

A rush of cool, clear air swept through the corridor.

And just like that, the thick cloying weight that had followed him all afternoon lifted. The headache that had been drilling steadily into his skull went quiet.

As though it had never been there at all.