Lysander skimd the instructions Lorraine had laid out, his eyes darting from line to line before he glanced up at her. "This... is about our mother, isn’t it?" He hadn’t ant to say it aloud, but the weight of it slipped free.
He had told her of what he knew only because she had the right to know, never intending for her to act. Certainly not now, when her husband was the hostage prince newly returned from war. She had a lot to lose.
"Lorraine, you didn’t have to do this," he said, his voice taut. "I had a plan. I was going to—"
"I know," she cut him off.
Her tone was cool, but not dismissive. She understood him too well. Lysander was playing the long ga. He wanted Hadrian to be ruined not with one decisive strike, but with a hundred small cuts. Pride stripped. Allies stolen. Power bled away until the old man was reduced to a husk, a burden even to his own son, needing permission for a simple glass of wine.
It was a good plan. A patient plan.
But patience was not Lorraine’s gift. Certainly not now.
There was sothing else beneath her haste that would not be placated by slow scheming. "He tried to kill Leroy, Lysander. That is unforgivable."
Lysander’s face changed then with surprise, a flicker of the sa unease she had felt. "You an that ’accident’?" His voice dropped, incredulous. He had suspected, but to hear her say it aloud made the suspicion concrete. He crossed the room and took her hand, urgency and protectiveness softening his features. "How did you manage this? Who did you pay?"
It was oddly moving to see him like this, as no longer the boy she rembered, but a man who could take responsibility, who could reach out and steady her. Lorraine felt sothing like warmth in her chest. She could not pretend it did not touch her.
"I asked... so people," Lorraine said at last. It was ridiculous, but seeing her younger brother’s face crease with worry made sothing soft uncurl in her chest.
"You’re not getting yourself tangled with bad people, are you?" Lysander asked, his voice low and careful.
Lorraine blinked. Bad people? She was bad people. No, she was terrible people by the kingdom’s reckoning. And yet, watching her brother look at her as though she were soone to be protected, not feared, stirred an ache she hadn’t expected.
"You have to be careful," he pressed on. "They’ll use your na for their gain, then throw you to the wolves when you least expect it. How did you pay them? Do you owe them favors? Do you need money? Tell how much. It’s always better to settle at once. The sort of people you’re dealing with could be tied to soone like Lazira—and those types never ask for coin. They demand... other things. And then you and your husband will both be at risk. You can talk again now, which makes you a prize. They’ll exploit it. They’ll—"
He broke off only to start gathering banknotes from his desk, thrusting them into a neat pile. "Here. Throw this in their faces and never et them again."
Lorraine had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Her earnest, protective brother thought she might be manipulated by Lazira, when she herself was Lazira. The irony nearly made her giddy. But when her eyes prickled with unexpected tears, it wasn’t from amusent.
For the first ti in a long while, she felt what it was like to be treated as family.
She squeezed his hand once before letting go. "I’ll be careful," she promised. "And thank you. I’ve settled their score."
Lysander’s relief was palpable. For a mont, the scholar’s study felt less like a war room and more like a ho: fragile, stubborn, and guarded by those who still cared enough to try.
"Where are Elyse’s sons? The Dowager’s n will co for them any mont." Lorraine’s voice was steady, the urgency beneath it plain.
When Leroy had balked at the idea of him being seen at a courtesan’s house, she had been mildly irritated. Yet the news she found there hardened that irritation into alarm: the Dowager was hiring rcenaries. Not killers, but retrieval specialists, the kind who located, seized, and transported things or people without asking questions. Professional, anonymous, efficient.
She knew of the existence of such secretive n and hence she had kept tabs on them. Whenever soone used them, she’d be alerted.
Why would the Dowager hire such n? The answer ca with a cold clarity: Elyse’s sons. The Dowager’s grandsons were not rely family; they were political currency: third and fourth in line to the throne after the crown prince. In a court of vultures, they were bargaining chips of the highest order.
The dowager would have guessed that she was going to end her father. And that ant she needed to safeguard her grandsons, out of love or out of necessity.
Lorraine had never intended to stoop to that level, to kidnap, trade, bargain with children. But the Dowager herself had assud Lorraine would. Her assumption beca an invitation: if the old woman thought Lorraine could get that low, Lorraine would prove her capability, on her own terms.
So the plan shifted. There would be a bloodbath today, swift, brutal, and unavoidable, and when the smoke cleared, Lorraine and Leroy might be left alone for a while. She would be exposed, vulnerable perhaps, having hit the snake’s tail and not the head, until the Dowager’s power fractured or the Dowager herself fell.
Either outco suited Lorraine, for she now had her husband by her side. She carried no illusions about the cost; she simply knew what must be done.
"Take your wife and son and stay in Hadrian’s room," she instructed. That room, her father’s sanctuary, was the most fortified in the mansion. "Ask soone for enough food to last until tonight, in the worst case. The baby won’t bear hunger." She had already written it in her letter, but speaking it aloud left no room for hesitation. Protecting Lysander’s little family was her priority.
As she stepped from the study, the air split with a sharp, grating screech. Illyria Arvand, the mistress-turned-Grand Duchess, stord down the corridor, shouting at Lorraine.
"Where is Elyse? Where is my daughter?" Illyria shrieked, lunging toward Lorraine.
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