Stormy Camaraderie

By nightfall, the dark clouds had finally given way to showers, and the rain had driven the party guests away early, carriages rolling down the long drive while thunder split the sky. Inside, the manor glowed with lamplight, but the vast halls seemed emptier than ever. Cecilia had been sent to tidy the music room after the evening’s chaos, gathering abandoned glasses and folding the scattered sheet music. She moved briskly, though her mind was a storm of its own, lightning strikes of journals and stories and warped realities flashing over and over in her mind, drumming up storms of confusion and undeniable interest.

It did not help that since her exchange with the heiress, she had had to immediately turn to playing waiting waif for Master Olrin and his guests. The lord’s words still echoed grating in her ears—his sly promises, his teasing half-threats cloaked in charm. She hated how he cornered her with that velvet voice, how he leaned too close, how he seemed to delight in watching her flush red with discomfort. Each advance was a test, and each refusal only sharpened his grin.

Cecilia stacked the final plates onto her tray with more force than necessary. “Insufferable man,” she muttered under her breath.

“Ah,” came a voice from the doorway. “At last, someone in this house speaks the truth.”

She started, nearly dropping a glass. Lord Peregrine lounged against the doorframe, his usual sneer softened into something closer to weariness. He was holding a half-empty glass of wine, though his eyes were clearer than she had seen them in any of their passing exchanges.

“You…agree?” she asked cautiously.

He strode into the room, boots clicking against the marble. “My brother collects affection like trophies. He thinks every woman who breathes in his direction should swoon. He cannot resist a conquest. It is—” He rolled his eyes, snarl coming back full force, though this time not directed toward her. “—Nauseating.”

Cecilia blinked at him. She had expected mockery, not solidarity. “He toys with people,” she said before she could stop herself. “He never thinks about how cornered it makes us feel.”

Peregrine gave a sharp laugh. “Us. Yes, us. You, servants, and me, his younger shadow. It’s the same game, just played on different boards.” He sank into one of the armchairs, sprawling in deliberate disregard for posture. “Did you know, he once told me that I should be grateful to live in the reflected light of his brilliance? That without him, I’d have no place at all?”

Cecilia stiffened. “That’s cruel.” She muttered under her breath, “Though it’s not something I can’t picture him swanning on about…”

“Cruel,” Peregrine echoed, swirling his wine. “It’s truth to him. He believes himself a god. And gods are never cruel; they don’t have the human morality for it. They are simply entitled.” He tipped the glass back, finishing it, before he set it down with a clink.

For the first time, Cecilia let the frustration spill out of her. “He flirts with me while I’m scrubbing floors. He calls me ‘little maid’ when all I want is to get through the day. And then, when I tell him no, he looks at me like it’s a game I’ll eventually lose, like I’m a chess piece he can outwit and conquer.”

Peregrine regarded her in silence, then, shockingly, he smiled. It was bitter and cynical, but no longer mocking, which Cecilia considered progress. “Congratulations. You’ve discovered my brother’s philosophy—All the world is his chessboard, and the rest of us are pawns. Family, servants, lovers, it doesn’t matter; we are simply dispersed where he considers us most effective.”

Cecilia folded her arms, heat rising in her chest. “Then I suppose I am a very stubborn pawn.”

That earned a short bark of laughter from him. “Stubborn enough to annoy him, I’d wager. Which means, perhaps, you’ve earned my respect.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You hate him. I despise him. I believe that makes us allies, does it not?”

Cecilia hesitated, but the fire in her own words surprised her. “Perhaps.” She shrugged as she added, “At least when it comes to complaining.”

“Ah,” Peregrine said, raising his empty glass in mock toast. “A fine alliance, forged in grievance.”

They both chuckled—his dark and sardonic, hers weary but genuine. The storm outside rattled the windows, but Cecilia felt a strange sense of relief. To share in the grumbling, to know that someone else—his own brother, no less—saw through the lord’s charms, was a relief she hadn’t known she needed.

When the laughter faded, Peregrine’s gaze lingered on her, heavy with thought. “Be careful, maid,” he said softly. “The more you resist him, the more determined he’ll become. It’s how he is. He cannot abide defiance.”

Cecilia drew in a breath, steady and strong. “Then he’ll have to learn.”

Peregrine studied her, then leaned back with a half-smile that she might have interpreted as approval. “Stubborn pawn indeed.”

The rain hammered harder against the windows, drowning the silence that followed. In that storm-lit room, Cecilia and Peregrine shared a fragile truce, bound together not by affection, but by the sharp edges of a common enemy.