Page 6 of On Broken Bonds

“Nyx—” Ivor says, his voice low as the pounding comes again. In moments, they’ll move to the sides, start to peer in through the heavy, moth-eaten curtains. And I can’t have them thinking there’s anyone here but myself.

“Go, Lyra,” I order, trying to command the voice of an adult far older than my years, trying to seem like the lady of the house that I’m meant to be. My skirts go still around my ankles, the movement of our dance finally gone. “Out the back⁠—”

“I’ll go with Lyra,” Hilda says, her hand already on my sister’s back as Lyra’s wheezes grow louder, more bone-rattling. It’s the beginning of what I’m sure will be one of her attacks, the coughs violent, crumpling her body like a fist around her middle.

They must get to the stables, out of earshot. In just minutes, Lyra won’t be able to think of anything but the lack of breath in her lungs. It was stupid of us to dance, to spend her precious strength celebrating.

A voice booms on the other side of the door, though the wood is thick enough that I can’t quite make out what it says. Time is already running out, slipping away from me the longer it takes for me to get the three of them out of here.

Hilda finally manages to convince Lyra, turning and moving her along through the long, dark hallway and toward one of the servant’s doors in the back. If Lyra wasn’t already struggling to breathe, she might fight to stay here with me. A lack of oxygen can do such damage to the fighting spirit.

It’s something I’ve never been glad of for my sister, until now.

The sound of wood groaning beside me reminds me that there are others here. I turn to see Ivor shrugging back into his dinner coat, stashing his lute in the bench seat along the windows.

“Ivor—” I start, glancing down the hallway, hearing the soft click of the servant’s door closing after Hilda and my sister.

“Don’t waste your time arguing with me,” he says, his voice rough, marbled through with a feeble, lingering sense of youth. Of strength existing beyond the wrinkles of his skin, the slight bend of his posture. When he glances at the door, it’s with the sort of defiance I feel deep within my bones, and I wonder if it’s possible for one to inherit traits from their servants.

“Fine,” I whisper, though I’m secretly, shamefully, glad to have him here with me.

Together, he and I walk away from the fireplace and toward the front door. If we don’t open it, they’ll come in another way. Or break the thing down completely. The last thing we need is another repair to pay for.

“Coming!” I call, clearing my throat, hand shaking as I reach out to turn each of the locks on the front door. My palm itches as I pass it over the one on the bottom, the one I added myself, and my magic gently turns the thing.

A lock that only I can undo. A sort of charm on the mechanism, endearing it to me.

I can practically feel the waves of disapproval rolling off Ivor behind me. He hates when I use my magic, thinks it foolish. But when it became my job to look over the house, I liked the idea of adding a lock that answered only to me.

The moment the metal is disengaged, and I reach for the handle, the massive wooden doors swing inward with the force of several men.

There are four of them, all stinking of mead and sweat. One is large and meaty, two are thinner men who might be twins, and the lead one has lank black hair and a slightly crooked nose.

Shaw.

“La-dy Nocturne,” Shaw drawls, popping his hat from his head as though he’s here for the holiday, and waiting for a servant to take his coat and hat. His tall, dark boots track mud onto the carpet, and I can already feel the ache of my back as I scrub it out, desperately trying to preserve what I can of this home.

I swallow and take a step back. Though the air was thick with heat hours ago, it’s cooled now as it drifts into the foyer. A single firefly buzzes into the house through the open door, like a confused and uninvited party guest, blinking merrily.

The last dregs of summer, slipping away.

“We have more time.” I try to say this with authority. Perhaps I’m the world’s greatest actress. Or perhaps they see right through my performance. I have no idea, but I have to do what I can. “I was told—you said⁠—”

“Wrong,” Shaw says, smirking cruelly at me. It’s not wrong, but his eyes are already roaming the room, and I know it doesn’t matter what he said. He and his boss are not the kind of men who keep their word. “We’re here to collect on your debt. Now, will you bring us what’s of value, or force us to look for ourselves?”

“We have more time.” It’s pointless to argue, but I have no idea what else to do. Maybe I should beg upon the holiday, ask them to come back when it’s over. “I was told we had until Tharwynn, at least⁠—”

“Alright,” Shaw laughs, shrugging and pushing back a lock of his greasy black hair from his forehead. “Suppose we’ll find it ourselves.”

With that, the four of them spread out, their boots stomping through the house. One goes into the sitting room, where I hear the harsh trill of his hand sliding sloppily over my mother’s piano. Another goes into the kitchen, grunting with happiness when he finds our leftovers.

The meaty one goes up the stairs, his boots thunderously loud. I stare after him and wish for the wood to splinter under his step, to catapult him into the dim cellar below.

Shaw circles me with the lazy manner of a cat just beginning to toy with its mouse. He pauses, slides a decorative vase from a side table into his burlap sack. The thing doesn’t break, but it surely will when he throws more inside.

It’s not just about repaying the debt. It’s about humiliating me.

When we were first cursed by Valtor, at first it seemed nothing would really go wrong. Then, slowly, our crops failed. Our land suffered a drought. By the time the godfire came, sweeping through all the lands and killing people unlike any plague in history, we were defenseless. My parents had already accrued debt in the hopes of helping our people and avoiding starvation.