The Duchess of Nortlivale buckled at the knees and collapsed into the chair.
All around her, nobles exchanged bewildered glances, uncertainty flickering behind painted smaller and jeweled masks.
Then came a sharp laugh–high, clear, and laced with venom.
Isolde.
“Why, I practically watched Elowen grow up,” she said sweetly, dabbing her eyes with a silken handkerchief. “Ms. Rowan guarded her more fiercely than a miser guards his coin purse. I often wondered if they were kin by blood.”
Another noblewoman added with a smirk, “A daughter of House Hawthorne is meant to be untouched gold. Who would welcome a brothel girl–and her bastard–into a noble family’s bloodline?”
Sir Alaric Storme chuckled along with the crowd, though a shadow of irritation passed over his face.
“Elowen, I know you long to protect your daughter,” he said, “but do you even remember who you are?”
The Duchess of Northvale was still watching me. The longer she looked, the more her face paled. She gestured for her maid to bring clean cloths, but Alaric stepped in first, snatching them
mid–motion and tossing them to the ground.
“Her station?” he sneered, grinding one boot over the discarded linen. “Who better to know than I, who once lay beside her? Had I not lost my wits and kept her in a private suite for eight years, she’d have been no different from any other Jewel in The Gilded Swan–used and discarded like coin.”
The words hit like a whipcrack. Even Isolde’s expression soured.
Alaric hesitated, regret flashing in his eyes, but Mother didn’t flinch.
She took my hand back from Isolde’s grip, lifting her chin.
Her gown clung to her skin, soaked and torn–but she didn’t seem ashamed. More queen than courtesan, even soaked to the bone.
It wasn’t just pride. She had born to this.
The night before the banquet, Grandmother had stayed up with her until dawn.
And in the quiet hours of morning, she’d told me, “You don’t need to call him ‘father‘ anymore,
Chapter 5
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Elinor. He never earned it.”
So now, I said what only a child would dare say out loud.
“Mama, when are we going home? I want Uncle Cedric to beat them all up.”
Alaric’s face twisted.
“Uncle? What uncle?”
Right then, a steward’s voice rang out through the gatehouse. “Make way for Lord Cedric Hawthorne–heir to Hawthorne Hall!”
No one believed my mother still had a place in House Hawthorne.
But everyone knew its heir–Lord Cedric.
Cedric had ridden to war with Lord Hawthorne when he was just nine, returned draped in blood and glory. They called him the Hawk of the West.
Cold. Unyielding. Unbreakable.
His arrival at this spring banquet was like frost cutting through morning dew.
Girls on the terrace gasped. Even the most polished debutantes stared.
Next to him, Alaric Storme looked like a boy dressing up in his father’s armor.
Cedric took one look at Mother–her torn sleeves, her scorched back–and nearly stumbled.
Only the carved railing kept him upright.
Then he ran.
His cloak came off in a heartbeat, wrapping around both of us, shielding our bruises and burns from the watching eyes.
“Elowen, gods forgive me,” he murmured, guilt raw in his voice. “I should have never let you come
here alone.”
Gasps echoed.
Isolde twisted her handkerchief until it tore in two.
Alaric stiffened, forcing a bow.
Mother leaned against Cedric’s chest, too weak to stand.
Alaric’s jaw clenched, fury flushing up his neck.
“Lord Cedric,” he said, his voice falsely righteous. “Do you even know who this woman is? Eight years of shared affection, and now–barely a week after parting–she flaunts herself on your arm. And that girl?” He pointed at me. “She’s my blood. Don’t let yourself be fooled.”
Cedric’s eyes darkened like a storm rolling in over the cliffs.
Alaric faltered beneath the weight of it.
Isolde stepped forward, her tone trembling.
“I… I can speak to that, my lord. Just now, Elowen tried to harm the child inside me. Sir Alaric punished her as any nobleman would. It was justice–nothing more.”
She bowed her head, lowering herself demurely, letting her bodice shift just enough to hint at skin.
Cedric’s face went rigid. “Is that what you tell yourself? That your child is so fragile you’d trade an innocent life to keep it safe?”
Isolde froze.
Before she could lie, Cedric struck. A single boot to her abdomen sent her crashing to the cobbles.
“Dare to whisper foul sorcery in my sister’s name,” he snarled, “and I’ll make damn sure that child never sees daylight.”
No one spoke.
Not even the birds dared.
