Lysara woke to the sound of shouting.
For a few confused seconds she lay perfectly still beneath unfamiliar linen, staring at the carved canopy overhead while sleep reluctantly surrendered its hold upon her. The room was dark save for the pale wash of moonlight spilling through the tall windows, and beside her Daevyn slept deeply, his back to her, one arm folded beneath his pillow, his breathing slow and even.
The shouting came again.
A woman's voice.
The effect upon him was immediate.
He was awake before the echo had died, sitting upright in a single fluid movement, his head turned towards the bedroom door. Every trace of warmth that sleep had left upon his face disappeared as he listened.
"What is it?" Lysara asked, pushing herself up on one elbow.
"Stay here."
His answer was sharp, his attention already elsewhere. He swung his legs from the bed and reached for the jeans lying discarded across the chair. There was none of the lazy confidence she had seen the previous evening. Every movement possessed a quiet urgency.
Another cry drifted up through the house.
This one dissolved into sobbing.
Daevyn dragged his shirt over his shoulders without troubling to fasten it. He crossed the room, one hand already upon the door.
"Daevyn—"
He paused only long enough to glance back at her. "This isn't anything you need to worry about."
The words ought to have reassured her.
Instead they did precisely the opposite.
He disappeared into the corridor, the bedroom door closing softly behind him.
Lysara sat motionless for only a heartbeat before throwing back the covers.
She pulled a robe hurriedly around herself, knotting the sash with clumsy fingers as another burst of raised voices echoed faintly through the sleeping house.
She slipped into the corridor.
The old manor seemed strangely different at night. Moonlight pooled across polished floorboards while the silence of the upper hall magnified every distant sound rising from below.
She reached the landing just as the voices stopped.
The entrance hall lay directly beneath her.
Two of House Vale's guards stood beside the open front doors, broad shoulders filling the entrance as though attempting to contain whatever chaos had arrived beyond them. They stepped aside as Daevyn descended the final stairs.
Aurora stood in the doorway.
For a moment Lysara scarcely recognised her.
The glamorous singer from the afternoon had vanished. Dark hair hung in tangled disarray around her face, mascara streaked black tracks down her cheeks, and one sleeve of her coat had slipped almost entirely from her shoulder. She swayed where she stood, struggling to remain upright.
Even from the landing Lysara could tell she was very drunk.
Aurora saw Daevyn and lurched towards him. "This is wrong." Her finger struck his chest hard enough that Lysara heard the dull thud of the blow. "You know it's wrong."
Daevyn neither flinched nor stepped back. "Aurora." His voice was astonishingly gentle. "We've already talked about this."
"No." She shook her head violently. "No, you talked." The anger vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Her face crumpled.
Great, helpless sobs tore from her chest until she seemed scarcely able to breathe. “You can’t do this!”
Without hesitation Daevyn gathered her into his arms. He held her quietly while she cried, one hand moving slowly across her back with absent familiarity.
"It's alright," he murmured. "I've got you."
Lysara felt something tighten painfully inside her. She told herself anyone would have comforted a woman in such obvious distress.
She believed it.
Yet it did not lessen the ache.
"You've had too much to drink," Daevyn said softly once Aurora's sobs had eased enough for her to hear him. "Let's get you home."
She made some broken protest that Lysara couldn't distinguish.
"I know." His answer was patient. "I know." He bent and lifted Aurora effortlessly into his arms.
One of the guards was already moving towards the carriage house.
Daevyn adjusted Aurora against his shoulder before carrying her out into the night, speaking to her so quietly that the words were lost before they reached the staircase.
The great front doors closed behind them.
Silence settled over House Vale once more.
Lysara remained standing alone upon the landing, her hand resting lightly against the smooth banister.
She told herself there had been nothing else he could have done. He was simply being kind and that kindness was one of the reasons she had fallen in love with him.
Even so...
Watching her fiancé carry another woman into the darkness left a quiet, inexplicable heaviness in her chest that refused to be reasoned away.
“Well, girl? Are you just going to stand there?” The voice cut cleanly through her thoughts.
She looked up.
A woman stood in the doorway at the far end of the gallery, watching her with quiet expectation.
For one startled moment Lysara simply stared.
The resemblance was unmistakable. Time had softened the sharpness of youth, but the bones of her face were Daevyn's. The same pale gold hair, though hers had faded almost to silver. The same striking green eyes. Even the proud set of her shoulders reminded Lysara of him.
His mother.
The artist within her saw the portrait immediately. Daevyn seated before a dark background, his mother standing behind him, one elegant hand resting lightly upon his shoulder. Rich fabrics. Dramatic light. The quiet dignity of an Old Master's painting.
Lady Vale wore a sweeping silk dressing gown trimmed with ivory feathers over a lace-edged satin nightdress, the sort of effortless glamour that belonged to another era. She looked as though she had stepped from an old Hollywood film.
She was also the woman who had watched them arrive from the kitchen windows.
One finely arched eyebrow lifted.
"Well?"
Lysara realised she had been standing in stunned silence.
"What are you going to do?"
Lysara swallowed. "Daevyn never mentioned that you were here. I feel rather rude, standing in your house without having been introduced."
A faint smile touched Lady Vale's lips before disappearing almost immediately. "I do not concern myself with my son's passing attachments."
The words stung, though Lysara knew they were not intended as an insult. "But if he intends to marry..." Lady Vale inclined her head almost imperceptibly. "That becomes my concern." Her eyes flickered briefly towards the floor below. "So I ask you again. What are you going to do?"
Lysara followed her gaze towards the staircase.
She could no longer hear voices. Had Daevyn gone with the carriage? When would he return.
"I don't know precisely what's happened," she admitted quietly. "Not really."
"No?"
"No."
She folded her arms more tightly around herself. "But whatever it is..." She searched for the words. "It seems to me that Daevyn is trying to do the right thing." She paused. "I don't think she's making that easy."
Lady Vale said nothing.
"I don't want to become another problem he has to solve." The admission surprised even her. "I also don't think..." Her voice faltered before she steadied it again. "I don't think I should remain in his bed while he comforts another woman."
The words hung quietly between them.
"Many women would already be downstairs demanding an explanation. They would have begun the argument before my son reached the front door. And others," Lady Vale continued thoughtfully, "would simply remind him exactly where his loyalties ought to lie."
"I think..." Lysara drew a careful breath. "I think I should go home."
"When my son discovers you are no longer where he left you..." Lady Vale's eyebrows lifted by the smallest degree. "I suspect he will find himself with rather more to think about than he anticipated."
She turned towards her room.
"When you return to House Vale..." There was quiet certainty in the words. "...have him bring you to me for a formal invitation."
Without waiting for an answer, she disappeared into her bedchamber, closing the door gently behind her.
Lysara remained standing exactly where she was.
Only when the corridor had fallen silent once more did she realise she had been holding her breath.
Slowly she released it.
Lady Vale, she decided, was unlike anyone she had ever met.
Then again...
She could suddenly see exactly where Daevyn had inherited both his confidence and his unnerving ability to read people.
Returning quietly to the bedroom, she dressed hastily. Her engagement ring caught the light as she fastened the clasp, the emerald seeming suddenly much heavier than it had only hours before.
The guards at the door looked confused as she crossed the entrance hall. "My lady?"
He wore the discreet dark suit of House Vale's security staff rather than a servant's livery, and his posture carried the easy alertness of someone accustomed to long night watches.
Lysara managed a small smile. "I don’t suppose there is another carriage?"
His expression shifted almost imperceptibly. "Does Lord Vale know you're leaving?"
"I had intended to return home this evening." It was close enough to the truth that she could say it without lowering her eyes. "He'll understand."
The guard hesitated.
"I've spoken with Lady Vale," she added gently. "Upstairs."
His eyes flicked upwards. “I will fetch a public carriage.”
“Thank you.”
Stepping out into the cool darkness, she crossed to stand in the shadow of the overgrown ivy whilst he sent for a public carriage. She had dressed for the picnic and not for the Winter Court, and her breath steamed the air as she shivered in the cold.
She just hoped the carriage would arrive before Daevyn returned… or did she? She didn’t want a confrontation. She was slightly hungover, tired, and emotionally on edge for that to go well.
But, if he did not return soon… She did not want to think about what that might mean.
She was profoundly grateful when a slightly shabby carriage and a bleary eyed driver pulled up, and she was able to disappear into the shadows of the cabriolet hood. Only once the carriage had begun its slow journey away from House Vale did she allow herself a final glance through the rear window.
The old manor stood quietly beneath the stars, every window glowing with warm golden light.
For the first time since she had crossed its threshold, it no longer felt like the beginning of something.
It felt like somewhere she was leaving behind.