The Vampire & Her Witch

”My father sends his regards and his regrets,” Tulori said smoothly, as if the pressure Owain’s gaze exerted rolled off the young lord like water off a duck.

”My mother and I only just arrived to join him last night, and he wanted to accompany her to pay respects to your late father,” he said, continuing in the same polished tone that had been drilled into him through years of practice with some of the best teachers in Keating Duchy. ”Mother brought several offerings for the pyre from the days when our fathers fought together in the last war,” he added thoughtfully.

By tradition, a number of treasured items would be burned along with a lord’s body. Over the years, Bors Lothian and Valeri Leufroy had exchanged countless tokens and mementos of their years together as comrades in arms.

When they received word from Baron Leufroy that Bors had finally succumbed to his illness, Tulori had his mother had spent an entire day sorting through those treasures to select things that his father might want to offer up to help light the way for Bors journey to the Heavenly Shores, but ultimately, it would be Valeri himself who needed to decide which treasures mattered enough to be worth adding to the pyre.

”They’re planning to bring things to the temple this morning to receive the Church’s blessings,” Tulor continued. ”Since my sister wanted to accompany Lady Jocelynn to the memorial this morning,” he said, allowing his voice to trail off without finishing the statement, giving a helpless shrug as if his father’s absence couldn’t be helped. Too many social obligations, too little time.

For Owain, however, the last line struck him like a slap to the face. There it was again. The memorial. The one that Jocelynn had insisted would be small, attended only by the people from Blackwell County who had actually known Ashlynn.

Once again, Ashlynn was still causing him problems, even months after he’d killed her. Would he never be free of her spectre?

”Your sister,” Owain said, keeping his charming smile fixed on his face and his voice pleasant despite the strain. ”Of course. Lady Adala is known for her piety. I’m sure she and Lady Jocelynn will find great comfort in each other’s company.”

Tulori inclined his head in acknowledgment, and if the young man sensed the edge buried beneath Owain’s courtesy, he gave no sign of it.

”My father also asked me to convey that he looks forward to presenting you with a gift from our orchards at the Grand Ceremony’s feast, my lord,” Tulori added. ”He has been overseeing the preparations for an exceptional batch of cider from our late harvest, and he wanted to ensure that it arrived in perfect condition.”

”I look forward to it,” Owain said, rising from the bench with a warmth that didn’t reach his eyes.

He didn’t bother sitting down with Serge Otker. The Otker heir had been drinking wine since before the food arrived, and whatever excuse Baron Serle had concocted for splitting his household’s knights would be delivered with the same blithe self-interest that characterized everything the Otkers did.

Owain could guess the answer without asking, and the effort of maintaining his composure through one more diplomatic exchange wasn’t worth whatever intelligence Serge might accidentally let slip.

Instead, he returned to the high table and took his seat beside Gilander, who had been watching the circuit with the professionally blank expression of a man who had witnessed a great many lords navigate the treacherous waters of a pre-hunt breakfast.

”The memorial,” Owain said quietly, reaching for a roll and tearing it apart with more force than the bread warranted.

Gilander said nothing, because he didn’t need to. The old knight had advised against restricting the hunt to men when Owain first suggested it, and Owain had overruled him. It was one of the last pieces of unsolicited counsel Gilander had offered before learning to keep his suggestions to himself.

Owain chewed the bread without tasting it, his thoughts turning over the implications with the cold precision that served him best when circumstances demanded adaptation rather than anger.

The memorial for Ashlynn had drawn away knights and family members from every attending household. Each lord had been forced to split his retinue between the hunt and the protection of wives, daughters, and mothers who couldn’t attend a hunt that didn’t allow women and wouldn’t dream of spending a day in Lothian City without armed escort.

In the end, it had been his attempt to cover for Jocelynn’s blunder that had thinned the attendance at his hunt. His attempt to nullify the impact of her absence had created the very spectacle of weakness he’d been trying to avoid.

And the worst part, the part that settled into his stomach like a coal, was that Jocelynn’s memorial for Ashlynn had given every household the perfect excuse. His bride-to-be had unwittingly provided cover for every lord who wanted to send fewer men without appearing disloyal.

All they had to do was send their women to weep for a dead lady they’d barely known, assign a few knights to escort them, and arrive at the hunt with half their strength while claiming devotion rather than defiance.

He was certain that some people, like Lady Adala and perhaps Baron Erling’s mother, were trying to befriend the future Marchioness while others, like Barons LeGleau and Rundle, were deliberately snubbing him, but with the cover of the memorial for Ashlynn, it was much, much harder to know for sure.

He didn’t think Jocelynn had done it deliberately. She wasn’t clever enough for that kind of maneuvering. But the result was the same, and it left Owain sitting at the head of a half-empty hall, surrounded by the echo of what should have been.

He took a long breath and let the anger settle into something useful.

The memorial was Jocelynn’s. The hunt was his. And before the day was done, every man in this lodge would carry back a story about what their next Marquis was capable of, memorial or no memorial.