Chapter 9: The Feast for a Dead Woman

Maren did not reach for the burial order. That was what Aldric expected. His gaze flicked to the drawer, then to her hands, measuring the distance. He had always been good at games played across polished tables. He forgot she had learned new games under a coffin lid. Instead, she picked up his annotated speech. Aldric's smile faltered. "That is private." "So was my funeral." He stepped away from the door. "You look terrible." "You look rehearsed." "Maren." He said her name with practiced pain, as if the study walls were an audience. "Whatever Vespera did, I can help you. I did not know she meant to put you in true danger." The lie was so smooth she almost admired the craft. Almost. She unfolded the speech and read aloud: "Pause. Look wounded. Touch Celeste's hand." Color climbed his throat. "Did you write reminders for my grave note too?" she asked. "Or did cruelty come naturally?" Aldric's eyes hardened. There he was—the man under the gold. "You have no idea what your bloodline is worth. Your mother kept the court weak. Your father wasted alliances. Vespera understands survival." "And you understand profit." "I understand history belongs to the living." "Then you should be very afraid of me." He lunged. Maren threw the ink bottle. It shattered against his chest, black ink bursting across his mourning coat. Aldric cursed and stumbled. Maren snatched the folded order from the drawer, shoved it into her bodice, and ran for the window. He caught her sleeve before she reached it. Fabric tore. Pain ripped through her shoulder as he dragged her back. "You think Cael Draven will protect you?" Aldric snarled. "He will use you until the Hollow Wild opens, then trade what remains." "Still kinder than burying me." She drove her knee into his thigh and slammed the heel of her palm into his nose. Blood spilled over his perfect mouth. He shouted, more offended than hurt. The door burst open. Guards filled the threshold. Maren backed onto the window ledge. Rain struck her face. Three stories below, the alley waited dark and narrow. Across the gap, Cael stood on the opposite roof, expression murderous. "Jump," he called. Aldric laughed through blood. "She will break her neck." Maren looked at him. "You keep mistaking fear for obedience." She jumped. For one terrifying second, there was only rain and air. Then Cael's shadow caught her like a net and threw her hard onto the opposite roof. She rolled, gasping, clutching the order to her chest. Cael hauled her up as crossbow bolts struck tiles around them. "Ten minutes," he said, fury low in his voice. "I was fast." "You were cornered." "And successful." He looked as if he wanted to argue. Then a bolt cut through his hood, and he pulled her into a run. They fled over rooftops while the city below celebrated Maren's memory with black banners and watered wine. By the time they reached the safehouse Cael had arranged above a shuttered apothecary, her legs shook so badly she had to crawl through the window. Only then did she unfold the burial order. The page was written in legal shorthand, dry as bone. *Transfer subject to Briarfall Chapel under medical concealment. Maintain breath suppression through root ceremony. No visible wound. No external witness. Authorized by—* Maren stopped. Cael, dripping rain onto the floorboards, read over her shoulder. The signature at the bottom was Aldric's. Not Vespera's. Not a bribed priest. Aldric Vale, written in a hand she had once watched sign love poems. The room became very quiet. Maren sat on the floor because standing suddenly felt theatrical and useless. She had known. Of course she had known. He sent the note. He smiled at the grave. He reached for Celeste while the roses were still fresh. But knowing a blade exists is different from seeing your name carved into its handle. Cael crouched in front of her. "Maren." "Do not comfort me." "I was not going to." "Good." He held out a cloth for the rainwater running down her face. Or tears. She did not know which, and hated both. She took it anyway. Below, a carriage rolled past. Voices rose from the street. Servants from the Vale house were crossing the district with covered trays and lanterns. Maren went to the cracked window. "What now?" Cael asked. She watched the servants enter the old banquet hall across the canal. Black ribbons hung above its doors. Musicians tuned inside. "Aldric is hosting a memorial feast." "Tonight?" "He has to recover the story after seeing me." Her hand tightened around the order. "If he looks calm in public, people will dismiss anything strange they heard." "You want to enter another guarded building." "I want to plant a rumor where every noble can carry it home." Cael stared at her. "You were buried yesterday." "Then I am late." The memorial feast glittered by candlelight when they arrived disguised as serving staff. Maren kept her hood low and moved among tables where guests praised her sweetness between bites of sugared pear. She placed three whispers carefully: the coffin had been light, the priest looked afraid, Aldric had changed coats after his speech because of blood. Rumor did what truth could not yet do. It traveled without needing permission. By the time Aldric rose to toast her memory, the room had begun to shift. Maren stood behind a screen with Cael, watching him lift his glass. "To Maren," Aldric said, his bruised nose powdered pale. "May her gentle soul rest beyond pain." A drunken old countess near the fire murmured, "If she is resting, why did Lord Vale's study window break?" The whisper spread. Aldric heard it. His hand tightened around the glass. Maren smiled. Then Celeste entered wearing Maren's brooch, Maren's pearls, and a white dress cut like a bridal gown. The room fell silent. Celeste lifted her chin and announced, "Tomorrow, I will honor my sister by taking the crown she could not bear." Maren felt the order against her skin and the ribbon hidden at her waist. Cael leaned close. "Do not." But across the room, Aldric's gaze found the shadowed screen. Found her. His toast turned into a command. "Seal the doors." Every exit slammed shut, and the feast for a dead woman became a hunt.