Page 194 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Terrice entered with her usual light tread and set to work with reassuring competence. She helped Kora into a morning gown, corrected a cuff, smoothed a crease visible only to her, and pinned a few strands of Kora’s hair back with silver clasps. “Better,” she said, smiling softly. “You look ready to face the duchess’s humor.”

Kora answered with a smile of her own. “Thank you.”

“That is why I am here,” Terrice replied.

As they walked through the palace, Kora focused on placing one foot before the other. Each turn tightened her chest, and she found herself glancing back, half expecting Sabine to emerge from shadow—or a murderer with a dagger.

Seraphine stepped from the doorway of the Duskmere apartment as they approached, wrapped in a pale winter cloak that framed her with careful elegance. She paused when she saw them, inspecting Kora with a slow, appraising smile.

She did not curtsy.

Kora felt irritation stir, overriding her fear. She met Seraphine’s dark eyes. “I believe,” Kora said evenly, “as I stand two ranks above you, Countess, I am owed a curtsy.”

Seraphine’s eyes moved over her at cutting leisure before she curtsied slowly, graceful but edged with mockery. When she rose, her lashes lowered in feigned softness. “Lady Terrice,” she said lightly, “would you grant me a moment with Her Grace?”

Terrice hesitated, looking to Kora. Kora gave a small nod, despite instinct warning her not to be left alone with the woman.

Seraphine’s smile cooled as Terrice withdrew. “You have managed to keep Duncan’s attention longer than I expected,” she said, voice edged with disdain.

Kora held her gaze and her tongue, refusing to yield.

“Men are predictable,” Seraphine continued, a faint smirk touching her lips. “Young brides shine brightly at first. A season, perhaps two. Then novelty fades, and they seek women of experience. Women who know how to satisfy them.”

For a heartbeat, Seraphine’s words blended with Elysande’s taunts on her wedding day. Kora forced the echoes aside. “Then you do not know Duncan as well as you believed.”

Seraphine arched an elegant brow. “You mistake my meaning. Duncan and I shared an understanding once. That does not vanish simply because a wedding occurred.”

“Whatever understanding you imagine existed long ago, Duncan chose me.”

“Chose?” Seraphine’s laugh was soft, laced with pity. “Oh, sweetling. Men often confuse convenience with choice. He married you because Wolmer required it.”

“You were no less convenient,” Kora said. “Yet you are not his wife.”

Fury flickered across Seraphine’s face. She stepped closer. “Tell yourself whatever sweet lies you must. But Duncan will outgrow you. Men always outgrow naïveté.”

Kora’s nails pressed into her palms. “If you believe that, then you misjudge me as well.” A biting remark she would have never before dared.

“We shall see,” Seraphine said, sweeping her cloak as she stepped past. At Kora’s shoulder she paused and murmured, “Do take care. This palace has sharp corners.”

Anger and pride moved through Kora, leaving her unsettled but steadier than she expected. She watched Seraphine disappear around the bend and let her thoughts sharpen. If Seraphine was not attending Genefra’s breakfast, then her chambers in the Duskmere apartments would be empty—and Kora intended to take advantage of it.

With confidence she did not entirely feel, she crossed the corridor and entered the suite. The Duskmere sitting room was lively in contrast to the halls outside. Deep blue carpets threaded with silver caught the winter sun. A sideboard sagged beneath fresh fruit, honeyed oatcakes, and a tureen that sent fragrant steam curling upward. Ladies perched on cushioned benches with steaming cups of spiced tea, plates of pastries balanced on their knees.

Genefra, occupying the largest armchair near the hearth, waved a cream-filled bun at Kora in greeting, scattering crumbs across her lap with cheerful indifference. Violleta sat nearby with a tidier plate and the tolerant expression of someone immune to her mother’s exuberance.

“Koraleise,” Heleine said warmly. “You brighten a room even in mourning.”

Kora arranged her face into something pleasant and stepped further inside. “You are as gracious as ever, Heleine.”

“How is your husband, Prince Rotger, faring?” Kora heard Ansel ask Violleta.

Heleine tucked her hand in the crook of Kora’s arm and steered them toward the hearth and the chatter.

Violleta’s composure thinned. “My husband is shattered,” she said softly, wiping the corner of her eyes with a handkerchief. “He scarcely leaves his chambers.”

“Poor child,” Heleine murmured sympathetically. “To lose a mother at twenty-four. And poor Wolmer, caught between grief and governance.”

“Palace whispers say he has not slept,” Ansel added.