Page 52 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Mathilde moved briskly about the room, letting in air, straightening a chair, working with the easy confidence of someone who understood how the castle liked to be kept.

When she finished, she opened a walnut press carved with vines and river reeds, revealing a row of gowns: dusky blues, deep greens, dresses for court and summer, their embroidery fine and restrained. “Shall we choose something for you to wear?”

Kora stepped beside her and felt her breath catch. Ardor was renowned for its ateliers, and her father had always ensured she owned fine things. But these belonged to a life far above the one she had known. “Where are these from?” she asked softly. “They’re beautiful.”

“They belonged to the duke’s mother,” Mathilde said quietly, “and his sister-in-law.” She hesitated. “They died ten years ago. A fever swept through Emberglade.” Another pause, then gently, “Sadness finds the derWhittes more often than it should.”

After a beat, she brightened again. “Of course, new gowns will be made to your liking.”

Kora brushed her fingers across one sleeve. A moment earlier the gowns had filled her with delight. Now their beauty felt borrowed from grief. “Must I wear these?” she asked quietly. “Or may I wear what I brought from Marrowgate?”

Mathilde studied her, then smiled. “I reckon a duchess may do as she pleases.”

“Then let’s choose from my trunk,” Kora said, standing straighter. “At least today.”

“Certainly, Your Grace.” Mathilde retrieved a neat Ardorri summer dress from the travel chest and helped Kora into it with quick, capable hands.

“If I may,” she said, reaching for the combs, “your hair up will suit the heat better.”

Kora nodded and seated herself at the vanity. Mathilde gathered her dark strands deftly, humming as she worked, meeting Kora’s gaze now and again in the mirror.

“You’ve such pretty eyes,” Mathilde noted. “I’ve never seen so much color. A tidy twist of the moons, really, that Lemierre’s colors are green and silver.”

Kora smiled politely, unsure what else to do with the compliment, and tried to push the image of Duncan’s grey eyes from her mind.

“Lovely,” Mathilde declared, pinning the last coil. She clapped her hands once in satisfaction. “Is there anything else I might help you with, Your Grace?”

Kora hesitated. “Would you fetch Mr. Denholt for me, please? If he’s available.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Mathilde curtsied and slipped out.

While she waited, Kora studied the chamber again in the morning light. The room was generous without ostentation: a canopied bed dressed in linen with simple needlework, a tiled hearth, and a writing desk by the window. Beyond the glass, Emberglade’s slate roofs stepped along the river in tidy terraces. Beyond them, rolled Lemierre’s hills. Warmth stirred in her chest, along with the renewed hope of one day belonging fully to this place.

A knock sounded.

“Come in,” she called.

Osric entered and bowed with an ease that felt companionable rather than formal. “Good morning, Your Grace. How may I be of service?”

“Good morning,” Kora said, unable to keep the eagerness from her voice. “If it’s no trouble, would you show me the castle and grounds? I hardly know where to begin.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

He offered his arm, and they stepped into the corridor. “We are in the west wing,” he said. “Family quarters on this floor. The master suite lies directly above.”

“The duke doesn’t stay there?” Kora asked.

Osric’s mouth softened. “He has chosen to remain in his usual rooms. The memory of his father… It is not easy for him to live there.”

Kora nodded, understanding enough. “How does the duke spend his day?”

“Mornings in the castle’s study,” Osric said. “Correspondence. Petitions. Contracts. He often takes his midday meal there as well—if I allow it.” He gestured toward a door they passed. “Your withdrawing room, Your Grace. Use it as you wish.” They continued along the hall. “In the afternoons he holds meetings. Contractors. Guilds. Nobles, depending on the day.” With a wave of his hand, “The east wing begins here. Guest apartments and the solar.”

Kora paused before one of the tapestries lining the corridor. It showed small, blue-eyed men and women binding sheaves of grain, its weave worn thin with age. “Who are they?”

Osric studied it. “I cannot say with certainty. The derWhitte line is ancient. Many pieces predate even Lemierre’s elevation to a duchy.”

He waited a moment before gesturing onward. “Shall we see the library?”