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A servant pulled out one of the chairs from around the table, and I took a seat.
“I must say, that is an interesting color choice, Miss Ravenwood,” a lady in a hideous green dress commented. By the look of her, she couldn’t have been much older than me.
I gave her the most charming smile I could muster up. “And who are you?”
She looked befuddled by the question. “Perhaps His Grace has mentioned me. I’m Lady Argent. My late husband oversaw the ducal shipyards for thirty years.”
I canted my head to the side. “No, His Grace hasn’t mentioned you.”
Her look soured, and her gaze returned to my dress. “The gossip is that you prefer black to His Grace’s court colors. Tell me, Miss Ravenwood, are you in mourning?”
A few ladies chuckled behind their gloved hands. I knew Lady Argent was teasing me. I couldn’t decide what I found funnier: their clear anticipation of my answer or their lack of knowledge about witches.
I let them wait for my answer while my tea was poured. I lifted the cup to my lips, tasting ginger, raspberry leaf, and lemon balm. A flavor beneath it made the tea slightly bitter. I swallowed, then set the cup back down.
“Dark Witches don’t believe in mourning the dead,” I informed them. “We know where our spirits will go when we die, and we often look forward to haunting our living relatives.”
“Then why black?” the lady inquired.
I shrugged. “Why not?”
The ladies’ reactions varied from amusement to disbelief.
“Why not, indeed,” Lady Christine chimed in.
The gaggle of ladies all turned to her, waiting to hear what she would say next. Christine folded her hands under her chin and leaned forward.
“I have heard the story of your harbor rescue from eleven people, but I want to hear it from you. So, please, Miss Ravenwood, tell us all how Valemer plucked you from the sea and made you his son’s nanny. Spare no detail.” Her smile brightened. “The juicier, the better.”
I glanced around the table and found that the young women in green all looked positively jealous—especially Lady Argent. A small smile rounded my lips.
I wondered if they wished to throw themselves in the harbor to recreate the scene.
“I’m sorry to say it isn’t a very juicy tale,” I admitted. “I had fallen in the harbor, and His Grace saved me before I could drown. Master Adrien took a liking to my bird, and now I’m here.”
“They say the Duke leaped from a third-story balcony,” one rushed to say.
“How positively romantic!” Lady Christine exclaimed.
“I assume taking the stairs would have been slower,” I asserted. “I mentioned that I was drowning, didn’t I?”
Giggles went around the table.
“Well, the Duke of Rochefort says it was the first time Valemer left his balcony in eight years,” Lady Christine said.
“The first time?” I said, disbelieving. “That can’t be true.”
“You might not believe in mourning the dead, but His Grace has been in mourning for eight years. Hasn’t left his wing of the castle. Hasn’t even gone to a ball. And yet when he brought you back here, in the dead of night, you stayed in his wife’s cottage. And on your first day in the castle, you wore one of his lady wife’s old dresses.”
I had been prepared for them to ask questions, but not for this.
“And then—” she continued, “—when the little lord took ill, you screamed His Grace’s name out the window. His name, chérie. Not his title.” She lifted a shoulder and looked conspiratorially at her friends. “Tell me, what are we to think of that?”
“When the heir to Valemer is sick,” I said flatly, “you scream the easiest name. Your Grace is two syllables longer than Yves.” I set down my cup. “Had he a shorter title, I’d have screamed that instead.”
Lady Christine regarded me for a long moment. “I’m sorry, I just find it fascinating that when it was time to scream his name, you called out Yves. It’s so… familiar.”
“Forgive me,” I shot back, temper rising before I could stop it. “I come from a place where titles don’t matter when someone’s in danger. If you choose to find that fascinating, then perhaps you should visit those who don’t live in a castle they call The Pearl.”
