The Bride Tournament (Hexed Hearts Book 1)(6)

The old man took a bite and spit out the offering. “You may have made it pretty, but it tastes rotten.”

Once again, the merchant shrugged. “How would you have fixed it?”

“I’d have put the magic in the soil when I planted the seed, not painted the skin.”

“But this is easier,” the merchant said.

“Easier isn’t always better,” the beggar said.

The moral of the story was that old magic was like fertilizer—difficult, hard work, often smelly and dangerous—but it worked. New magic was a glorified jar of paint.

A cloaked figure emerged from the forest and tramped through the muddy field, hood pulled low. Gerard jerked out of his memories. He watched as the person spun their hands in the air as if talking to themselves. He signaled Edward for silence.

The figure never turned.

Gerard waited until the cloaked person rounded a corner of the apple orchard, disappearing from sight. “Who was that?”

“Don’t have a clue,” Edward replied as he braced two logs together. “Want me to find out?”

“No.” He stared after the figure for a moment longer. Something about the way they walked had snared his attention. “Let’s get building.”

***

Ellie shook with rage as she chopped basil on the hardy wood block. The steel knife pounded into the counter with every slam.

Tomato soup simmered in the small cast-iron cauldron. She scooped the herbs into the mixture and gave it a quick stir. The bell rang in its usual clanging manner. Ellie stormed over to the speaking pipe and slammed open the clasp.

“What?”

“Watch your tone, young lady,” Lady Irene said, ice in her tone. “We will take dinner with your father in the dining room. In thirteen minutes.”

“Yes, milady.”

Ellie closed the valve and marched to the other side of the kitchen before cursing. The Burbe ladies never wanted to eat with Father. No doubt they wished for his help in some whimsical fashion—using his honorary title to gain an invitation to the latest party, permission to ban Ellie from societal functions. The list ran on to infinity.

Why her father married Lady Irene was a mystery to her. Sort of. He’d been despondent after her mother’s death and was urged by the remaining servants to take a wife, one with wealth, one with the ability to keep them from ruin. Lady Irene had been happy to marry a man who’d keep his hands off her and stayed out of her social activities. Thanks to Ellie’s mother, Lady Irene had married into a prestigious—if poor—lineage.

Ellie poured the soup into a porcelain bowl that rested in a copper container to keep the heat and added an extra seat for Father at the table. Footsteps pounded down the grand staircase. Ellie slipped out of the side door as the Burbe ladies entered the dining room.

In years past, there had been several servants in residence to run the manor. The best, and the one Ellie missed the most, was an elderly woman by the name of Agnes, who had died two months ago in her sleep. Agnes had run most of the household with magic and calm. Ellie missed her.

Lady Irene didn’t like to part with her money. Instead, in a show of utter generosity—Ellie snorted at the thought—Lady Irene had insisted her girls learn the steps needed to run a household and had made them use their magic to help Ellie with the basic tasks. Violet and Marigold cleaned the manor with a flick of their wrists, while Ellie slaved in the kitchen to cook and take care of her father.

A gargantuan task for a lone woman who kept a second job to squirrel away money. A few more months and her pile of coins would be enough to make an offer.

Ellie popped into the south parlor and found Father asleep in a ramshackle chair. She prodded him until he awoke on a snore.

“It’s dinner time, Father. Lady Irene requested your presence.”

His weary eyes opened wide. Father stood, faster than she’d seen him move in days, and strode out of the parlor in a rush. Father and Lady Irene rarely ate together. When they did, Ellie lost her appetite. She passed through the kitchen and collected the tray of soup and grilled bread.

The mood in the dining room was worse than sour. She set the tray on the candlelit table and ladled soup into everyone’s bowls. Lady Irene refused to look at Father. Father refused to look anywhere. His eyes clamped shut, and he gripped his empty wine glass.

“Father, would you like some wine?” Ellie asked.

“Yes.” He held out his glass in an urgent manner. She poured a liberal serving.

As Ellie sat, Lady Irene took a hesitant slurp of soup. She always ate as if she was nervous Ellie had poisoned the food.

“Guests of the king and queen have requested to stay with us.” Lady Irene dabbed her mouth with a tattered napkin.

Father choked on his wine. Ellie patted his back.

“I said yes.” Lady Irene sipped her wine and glared at Violet who was bobbing her leg, shaking the whole table.

“Why?” Ellie asked.

“The castle staff said the family wished a quainter, more private stay on the outskirts of the Citadel,” Lady Irene said. “We were gifted a sum of money for any inconveniences. I have hired a few carpenters and washing women. They will be here by morning to make ready the upstairs rooms.”

Ellie gripped her spoon. The metal bent. “You mean my mother’s room?”

“It’s one of the rooms we must redecorate for our guests, yes.” Lady Irene spoke quickly. “I don’t see why you’d have a problem with this. The room hasn’t been used in decades. It’s time her belongings were removed—if they’re even salvageable.”