Page 28 of Maid For The Dark Elf

My fist clenches involuntarily, knuckles whitening against the dark leather of the chair's armrest. The gesture feels petulant, childish, but I cannot stop the frustration from building in my gut like pressure behind a dam.

"So we have nothing." The words taste bitter. "All these weeks of investigation, all these carefully orchestrated gatherings, all the secrets we've uncovered—and none of it brings us closer to finding Aethan."

Asterion shifts uncomfortably beside the window, his research suddenly seeming less significant under our collective failure. Aurelia maintains her diplomatic composure, but I catch the flicker of concern in her eyes.

"King Grymlock entrusted this investigation to House Vaerith," I continue, rising from my chair to pace behind the desk. "To me specifically. He's depending on us to solve this crisis before House Ardyn collapses into civil war."

The silence stretches uncomfortably. Each second that passes without answers feels like another step toward complete failure. I think of Aethan's calm violet eyes, his quiet wisdom, his protection of Rosalie when no other noble would have shown such compassion. Then I think of Rosalie herself, trusting me to find the man who gave her hope.

"I'm going to fail him," I mutter, more to myself than to my family. "Fail the King. Fail Aethan. Fail⁠—"

Rosalie.

Aurelia's hand settles on my shoulder with gentle firmness, interrupting my spiral into self-recrimination. "Actually, there is one detail worth pursuing."

I turn to face her, grasping for any thread of hope. "What detail?"

"Among all these financial records, one payment stands out." She produces another document from the folds of her gown, this one covered in her precise handwriting. "A consistent monthly transfer that's been occurring for over one hundred and eighty years."

"One hundred and eighty years?" Asterion straightens, his academic curiosity overriding his earlier defensiveness. "That predates most of the family members we've been investigating."

Aurelia nods, spreading the document across my desk beside the genealogies. "The amount never varies, the timing never changes, and the recipient has remained constant despite multiple changes in House Ardyn's leadership."

I study the careful columns of dates and figures, searching for patterns in the meticulous record-keeping. "It's still a weak lead. One mysterious payment among dozens of legitimate family expenses."

Father's voice cuts through my skepticism with quiet authority. "It's the only lead we have."

14

ROSALIE

The silver tea service gleams mockingly in the light streaming through the solar's tall windows. I arrange the delicate porcelain cups for the third time, ensuring each handle points at precisely the same angle. Lady Ardyn inspects my work with the critical eye of someone desperate to find fault.

"The sugar bowl is too close to Velryssa's seat," she declares, her lavender eyes sharp with manufactured displeasure. "Move it to the center. No—further left. Actually, return it to where it was."

I bite back the urge to remind her that Velryssa abhors sugar in her tea and hasn't touched the bowl in years. Instead, I adjust the offending vessel with the patience of someone who's learned that arguing only prolongs the torment.

"Perfect." Lady Ardyn smooths her emerald silk gown, the embroidered silver birds across the bodice catching the light as she moves. "Now dust the mantelpiece again. I noticed a speck this morning."

The mantelpiece I polished twice before breakfast. The mantelpiece that's been spotless for hours. I retrieve the cloth from my apron pocket and begin wiping surfaces that gleam like mirrors.

"Rosalie, you're moving too slowly," she continues, settling into her favorite chair in a perfectly fluid flounce. "Our guests will arrive shortly, and I refuse to have them think House Ardyn employs slovenly servants."

Slovenly. The word stings more than it should. Before Aethan's disappearance, I moved through this house with purpose, carrying messages, organizing his correspondence, accompanying him to meetings where my presence went unnoticed but my ears remained sharp. Now I dust furniture that doesn't need dusting while Lady Ardyn invents tasks to keep me busy and visible—a constant reminder of her newfound authority over the household.

The brass door chimes announce the arrival of guests, their melodic tones echoing through the corridors. Lady Ardyn straightens, transforming from petty tormentor into gracious hostess with the speed of someone who's perfected the art of noble performance.

"Remember," she whispers as footsteps approach, "you are to remain silent unless directly addressed. Pour tea, serve cakes, and otherwise make yourself invisible."

Invisible. If only she knew how much I've learned by being precisely that.

Velryssa enters first, her steel-gray hair swept into an elaborate style that adds inches to her already imposing height. Behind her follows Darion, Aethan's nephew, whose ambitious eyes survey the solar like a merchant appraising inventory. Lord Aldric, Aethan's younger brother, brings up the rear, his movements carrying the careful precision of someone perpetually calculating angles.

"Sylvareth, darling." Velryssa's voice drips with false warmth as she embraces Lady Ardyn. "You look remarkably well, considering the circumstances."

"What circumstances?" Lady Ardyn's laugh sounds forced, brittle as autumn leaves. "Aethan is simply away on Crown business. Hardly unusual for a man of his position."

I pour tea while they settle into their chairs, the familiar ritual allowing my hands to work automatically while my attention focuses on the undercurrents flowing beneath their polite conversation.