She stifled a sudden sob. She should have given the portfolio to Lucan when he’d asked for it. No one would ever find it—or her—now. All her work, all the evidence, hidden away until, by the time it was discovered—years from now likely—none of it would matter any longer. Everyone would be long dead and the grief caused by Vaughn Hargrave would be nothing more than terrible, frightening fables.
She thought of Lady Hargrave and squeezed her eyes shut. She remembered the last hazy words she’d heard the noblewoman speak, how she’d sought to protect Iris from the monster that was her husband. How she had always sought to protect her, keep her close and away from the unpleasantness that swirled just beneath the glittering façade that was Darlyrede House. She thought of the locks on the doors to hers and Euphemia’s rooms, Caris’s bittersweet relief at learning that Euphemia was dead. She must have suspected her husband in the disappearances; she must have known all this time, at least partially, of his sick appetites. And still she had tried to save Iris.
What had Lord Hargrave done to silence her this time? The pain of not knowing was almost too much for Iris to bear.
A short squeak of hinges echoed in the stone vault like a scream and Iris felt her blood turn to ice. She waited for the sound of footsteps, her ears strained until she thought her skull would explode. But there was no sound, no shadow in front of the torchlight to indicate anyone had entered.
Iris’s heart seized in her chest as a weight dropped onto her abdomen, and her fear was so great that for a moment she thought she had fainted again.
Satin had leaped onto her body from the floor and was now staggering to keep his balance on Iris’s heaving stomach.
“Satin,” she croaked as he carefully stepped up her chest toward her face. “How did you find me?” The cat butted and rubbed his head against her chin, and then in his careful, deliberate way, lay down, tucking his paws beneath his chest and looking about the room with slow-blinking disdain. His heavy warmth soaked into her skin like sunshine.
She remembered Padraig’s skepticism of the animal. I prefer a dog meself.
“Fetch Padraig, Satin,” she whispered, and then gave a harsh, delusional giggle as he ignored the request to instead lick at the inside of his elbow.
Iris closed her eyes as the chuckle died away, and thin tears leaked from the corners and ran down the sides of her face into the cups of her ears.
“Good boy. Lovely boy.” Her whisper was a mere creak now. “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave…”
* * * *
Padraig accompanied Ulric at the fore of the wave of men who crept up the eastern corridor, staying just beyond the torchlight, where one of the thieves from the wood stood as guard, facing the hall beyond. He was impressed by the manner in which so many of the king’s men moved soundlessly into place.
They stood in silence several more moments, giving the other half of the company ample time to circle the courtyard and approach from the kitchen passage. Ulric looked back at the soldiers directly behind him and Padraig and gave a series of hand gestures that were quickly relayed to the readied company.
Padraig understood the plan, and he flexed his fingers around the hilt of the sword Ulric had found for him, waiting, eager. Iris’s portfolio was secured in his satchel at his back, and although he’d allowed Satin to escape the chamber, Padraig doubted the cat’s presence would be noticed in comparison to what he and Ulric and the king’s soldiers were about to instigate.
The air was tense, heavy with the anticipation of battle, as Ulric held his open hand in the air and began to move forward, the company following on whispering feet.
Padraig felt alive with anger, with purpose, with determination, as part of the advancing troop. Tonight, good would overcome evil.
Ulric curled his hand into a fist and the company halted, perhaps three paces behind the villain guarding the mouth of the corridor. Padraig could see the glittering candles on the table, the pale, shocked faces of the nobles shining in the light. He looked to Ulric in the same moment that the captain turned to him, a question in his eyes.
Ready, lord?
Padraig gave a single nod.
Ulric slashed his arm down through the air with a shout, and the soldiers surged forward with battle cries, matched by echoing shouts from the company entering the hall from the opposite corridor. The captain himself took down the guard at the mouth of the passage, incapacitating him with one deadly thrust. Padraig darted from the corridor to the right and brought up his sword just in time to parry a slashing blow from a short blade. His wounded shoulder burned, but Padraig did not care—he barely felt it beneath the rush of battle fever coming over him.
A whisper of hot air rushed by his cheek, brushing his hair: an arrow.
Padraig dismissed the averted danger and brought up his sword again, swinging through a block and slashing at the underside of his opponent’s arm, causing the man to cry out and the sword to fall to the ground. Padraig shoved the man over, where he collapsed against the wall. Padraig kicked his sword out of reach as he turned, ready to strike again.
Arrows were flying through the hall now, slicing through the screams of the people ducking beneath the tables, servants
