Blythe had never been summoned by an empress—or any royalty, for that matter—but Tarn assured her it was just like being summoned by any busybody with too much money. Only this time, with the added bonus of potential treason charges.
Blythe, however, was no stranger to the delicate art of social manoeuvring. She and her sister had endured five years at the Rose Spiritualist Academy for Girls in the capital, learning how to navigate the treacherous waters of high society. After all, a respected spiritualist’s livelihood depended on cultivating the favour of wealthy patrons. Blythe’s own career, tragically cut short, had shown promise, with several lucrative patronage offers on the horizon.
“I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” Tarn announced suddenly, his voice echoing far too loudly in the grand hallway. “I think it was stale bread.”
The royal guards, as impassive as decorative statues, continued their march. They were, Blythe suspected, trained to ignore any and all eccentricities, be they esteemed guests or rogue dust bunnies. Lady Barnes, meanwhile, emitted a sigh so subtle it was practically a masterclass in restrained exasperation.
“It wasn’t stale,” Blythe hissed, keeping her voice low. “I gave it to you. I made that blackberry jam myself, so you’d better remember it, Madcap.” She rarely used his nickname, reserving it for moments when his behaviour veered into the truly absurd.
“Ah, yes, your famous blackberry jam.”
“It’s not famous. You’re the only one who eats it.”
“And your friend Nora,” he said, still too loudly. “She came over for tea once. Why only once?”
“Because you’re strange and intimidating,” Blythe whispered, edging closer to him, her voice a tightrope walk between frustration and fear. “Now, channel that blue blood of yours and your years of tutelage to face the Empress with some semblance of decorum.”
“And what will I get in return? Stale bread with blackberry jam?”
“Isn’t good manners its own reward?”
He rolled his eyes, a gesture that somehow managed to be both dramatic and dismissive. “Not in my experience. How about you clean up the library? I’ve lost a few more books than usual—”
“Every time I organize your library, you desolate it within a month.”
“The desolation is part of the fun. Besides, I know you enjoy showcasing your superior organizational skills—one of the few things you think you do better than I.”
She frowned, but a hint of amusement tugged at the corners of her lips. “Fine. Don’t embarrass me, and I’ll clean up the library again.”
He smirked, a flash of mischief in his eyes. Gently, he linked his arm with hers as Lady Barnes halted before a set of imposing double doors.
“You have nothing to worry about,” he promised, his voice a low murmur.
The double doors, inlaid with delicate floral marquetry, swung inward with a hushed sigh, revealing a chamber that seemed to hum with quiet power. Blythe’s chest tightened. It wasn’t the sheer opulence that intimidated her, though the room was undeniably grand, but the refined elegance that spoke of a woman who needed no gaudy display. A woman, she suspected, who could see right through any pretense. And Blythe, despite her best efforts, was always pretending.
Sunlight, filtered through tall, draped windows of pale, almost translucent silk, cast a warm, golden glow over the room. The air, cool and faintly scented with sandalwood and something sharper, perhaps the queen’s own perfume, settled on Blythe’s goosemarked skin.
The furniture was contemporary, finely made, but devoid of the fussy ornamentation Blythe had expected for a royal. Instead, clean lines prevailed: a long, mahogany writing desk with a single, unblemished sheet of parchment, a cluster of plush, velvet armchairs in muted shades of emerald (perfect for plotting in comfort), and a low, intricately carved tea table holding a simple porcelain set (presumably for plotting over tea). It was a room designed for quiet contemplation, for the weight of decisions, not for frivolous gatherings.
Blythe’s gaze was drawn to the far wall, where a single, grand tapestry depicted a golden stag in a dense, shadowed forest. The threads, though aged, still shimmered with a subtle, metallic sheen, a testament to the quality of the craftsmanship and, probably, the royal budget. The silence was profound, broken only by the faint crackle of a fire burning low in the hearth, a comforting counterpoint to the chill that clung to her skin.
Empress Isabella was a figure of striking, almost unsettling beauty, her red hair a fiery halo against the pale silk of her gown. She stood by the window, her profile sharp and defined, her gaze fixed on something beyond the glass. There was a stillness about her, an almost predatory grace. Yet, beyond the authority, Blythe couldn’t help but notice how young she was—no more than thirty, and already bearing the weight of an empire like it was a particularly heavy hat.
“Lord Tarn Madcap Carriger,” the Empress began, her voice resonant with authority. Tarn bowed, but somehow, he managed to make the due deference seem like a farce. “The evidence against you is damning. A magical device containing an alchemical formula you created and patented was discovered at the scene of the failed regicide of your Empress.”
Tarn smiled coyly, rising from his bow and placing a hand over his heart. “And yet it could never be my doing, Your Majesty, as I have never failed.”
The Empress’s eyes widened ever so slightly, a fleeting moment of surprise quickly replaced by something akin to amused exasperation. Lady Barnes, meanwhile, gave Tarn an impatient look, a silent reprimand for his lack of decorum.
“Evidence can be forged, Most Magnanimous Majesty,” Tarn continued. “And your Minister of Defence, a woman of impeccable judgment, has already come to that conclusion. Which is why you summoned me to your private chambers. If anyone is to measure the quality of a copy, it is the original.”
The Empress’s gaze flickered between Blythe and Tarn, as if deciding whether his audacity was a form of entertainment or grounds for immediate execution. She nodded at Lady Barnes, a silent command to let the Madcap continue his theatrical display.
Lady Barnes obediently approached a plain wooden chest on the Empress’s desk. She produced a key from the leather chatelaine bag attached to her waistband. True to her reputation, Lady Barnes relied on a mechanical lock rather than a magical one, a symbol of her pragmatic nature. She opened the chest, pausing to glance back over her shoulder.
“The anti-Empress faction has been growing bolder,” she stated, her voice thick with obvious disdain. “Whispering discontent about a foreign woman on the throne.” Lady Barnes’s scowl deepened with each word, as if the mere mention of such insolence was a personal affront.
Empress Isabella, after all, had not been named her father’s heir. Her half-brother had been called, only to refuse the crown. It had never been a secret that the prince despised his position and had publicly promised to pass his right to his half-sister immediately—a prince of his word, it seemed. Yet, the anti-Empress faction continued to clamour for him to reclaim his title or support their cousin, the so-called last pure-blooded royal of the Rose Crag Isles—as the Empress’s mother had the bloodline of foreign royalty.
“My mother’s heritage is but an excuse. And my gender is another,” the Empress stated, her chin held high. “In truth, I suspect it is my policies toward the dark arts that earn their ire. They want to be free to profit in any way possible, but I have seen how immoral magic punishes the vulnerable and rewards the cruel.”
The Empress was well-known for her progressive views. Some called her anti-magic, but many of her policies simply introduced fairer regulations on how magic was used—particularly on how it was kept from the lower classes.
The Empress turned back to Tarn. “I believe you are innocent, Lord Carriger. Your contributions to my empire are too valuable to be silenced.”
Tarn had earned a reputation for his alchemical creations. His Ophelia potion, a marvel of modern medicine, had single-handedly decimated outbreaks of Hamlet’s plague, a feat that once required months of expensive and often ineffective treatment. It was for this, and other such marvels, that he’d received his honourary title—a replacement for the one he’d lost after a rather dramatic falling out with his traditional family.
Lady Barnes opened the chest and stepped aside. Tarn, with a carefully cultivated air of nonchalance, stepped forward, though Blythe could see the hint of irritation and genuine curiosity in his eyes. He reached into the deep chest, his forearm disappearing into its depths.
“When you said this device bore my signature, I hadn’t imagined this.”
The inside of the box began to glow, like sunlight reflecting off the ocean on a summer’s day. A wave of brine, sharp and overwhelming, made Blythe’s throat tighten. She clenched her hands, struggling to remember the simple act of breathing.
“This is an unstable alchemical formula. It may be based on my work, but I created a tool to aid in surgery—not this poison.” Tarn’s jaw clenched, his voice tight. He mumbled a quick, low spell—a sealing incantation to stabilize the device, which still emitted noxious fumes. “It was intended to be used as anaesthesia—to offer a more comfortable experience and reduce grogginess. But this would do the opposite. It would—”
He stopped abruptly. He’d noticed Blythe’s struggle, the way she’d frozen, her breath caught in her throat. The dizzying scent of brine, a phantom memory, had rendered her momentarily paralyzed.
Tarn swiftly shut the chest, the glow fading. He snapped his fingers, and a candle on the Empress’s desk ignited. He crossed the room, his movements surprisingly gentle, and took Blythe’s hands, helping her cradle the flame. “Breathe with the flame, my dear,” he whispered, his voice a low, soothing murmur.
The warmth of the flame, the gentle cadence of his voice, pulled her back to the present. She focused on the flickering wick, inhaling and exhaling slowly, making the flame dance.
“As much as it wounds my pride to admit it, your assassin has some small measure of genius,” Tarn said, his voice regaining its usual sardonic edge, drawing the Empress and Lady Barnes’s attention back to him. “And, it’s clear this is as much directed at me as it was Your Majesty. There are easier ways to murder a monarch than deliberately bastardize one of my formulas and twist it to an alternative purpose. A rather theatrical, and frankly, wasteful display.”
“Agreed,” Lady Barnes said, her eyes watching the candle flame and Blythe’s steady breathing for a moment, then pointedly ignoring the intimate exchange. She was, Blythe noted gratefully, a master of selective blindness.
“I charge you with finding the true assassin, Lord Carriger,” Empress Isabella commanded, her voice firm. “Prove your innocence and uncover the traitors within our midst.”
Tarn bowed his head, a spark of determined heat in his eyes. “With pleasure, Your Majesty. As always, I shall not disappoint.”
Blythe blew out the candle, the room feeling strangely chilled without its warmth, and returned it to the Empress’s desk with a graceful curtsy. She couldn’t help but notice the lingering warmth of Tarn’s touch on her hands, a sensation that had nothing to do with the extinguished flame.
Blythe had been involved in some truly bizarre escapades since meeting Tarn two years ago—from rescuing sentient teacups to mediating a dispute between a blood feud between hedge witches—but this, this had dire consequences, for Tarn, for her, and for the entire Rose Crag Isles empire. This was madness—the kind of glorious, chaotic madness that would lead Tarn to dive in head-first, laughing all the way, while she, inevitably, cleaned up the wreckage.
As Tarn turned to leave, he reached out a hand. Blythe eyed the gesture, her emotions warring between shyness and a sudden, undeniable urge to take it. Normally, she would be hesitant to display such casual intimacy in front of strangers—it was considered terribly gauche, and frankly, a bit embarrassing. But she needed the strength now, a grounding force against the swirling chaos. She took his hand. He gave a tight, reassuring squeeze, a silent promise. A warmth crept up her neck.
She executed a flawless bow before the Empress. “Thank you, Your Majesty, for this chance to prove ourselves.”
The Empress’ expression softened. “So the doll does have a voice. I had wondered.”
Blythe’s carefully neutral expression remained fixed, though her jaw tightened. Years of training had prepared her for moments like this, for the casual dismissal that felt like a well-aimed paper cut, delivered with royal indifference.
“If I may educate Your Majesty,” Tarn said, his tone deceptively mild, his grip on Blythe’s hand tightening slightly, “the woman has a voice.”
“Of course,” the Empress agreed, her tone suggesting she was humouring a favoured pet. “Thank you, Lord Carriger. I was too focused on the miracle of the magic instead of my good subjects involved. I shall remember that when we meet again.” She paused, letting them both contemplate her subtle, slightly ominous promise.
Lady Barnes handed the chest to Tarn. He whispered a quick weight-altering spell, making it light as a feather in his free hand.
The Empress sat at the desk and gestured towards the door. “You both may leave.”
Tarn nodded sharply and tugged Blythe’s arm gently, a silent invitation. She followed hollowly, the Empress’s words weighing her. She too often forgot who knew, who saw the truth of her existence. Spending her days with Tarn, in their little bubble of eccentric normalcy, made her forget.
Lady Barnes opened the left door for them and then closed it behind them with a low but final thump.
“No time to bask in the mystery and elegance of the Great Ruler herself, Blythe,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “We have a mystery to solve.”