Chapter 5: Terms

At nine o'clock exactly, a footman in Vaelhart green opened the study door and announced Ravielle.

She had found one dark thing in her wardrobe, a black riding habit shoved behind the oatmeal velvet.

The young lady had never worn it.

Ravielle had put it on and felt like herself for the first time in two days.

Kyrian Vaelhart stood by the fire with a glass in his hand.

He didn't turn around.

"Lady Ravielle."

"Vaelhart."

The footman shut the door.

She had been in this room a dozen times, years ago.

The maps on the walls were the same, and so was the ugly stag over the mantel that his grandfather had shot and nobody had the nerve to take down.

So was the chair by the fire, which she took without being asked.

His decanter sat on the table at her elbow.

She poured herself a glass of his brandy.

That made him turn.

He looked at the glass in her hand, then at her face, for a long moment.

"You don't drink brandy," he said.

"I've always drunk brandy. I drank half of that decanter the night your mother died. You held my hair."

Something moved behind his eyes and went still again.

"You said there were terms," Ravielle said. "I'd like to hear them before I owe you anything else."

"Three." He set his glass on the mantel. "You don't leave the capital. Not for a day, not for a drive."

"I wasn't planning a holiday."

"Whatever you learn about the raid on my fort at Wolfsgate, you bring to me first. Not to your father. Not to your cousin."

"Especially not to my cousin."

His brows lifted a fraction.

"And on Sunday you dine at my table," he said. "In front of whoever matters in this city, so they all see I meant what I said yesterday."

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