Embers in the Dark (2)

Morning light spilled through the tall, leaded windows of the Duskmoore guildhall, catching on dust motes that danced like gold specks in the still air.

The long room was a blend of function and faded grandeur—high timbered ceilings, slate floors worn smooth by generations of boots, the scent of gun oil, beeswax, and old parchment lingering in the corners. The main hall buzzed with a low hum of activity: the scratch of pens on official forms, the shuffle of boots, the murmured conversation of junior hunters heading to the training yards or the dining hall.

At the far end of the hall, seated beneath a tall arched window that bathed her in a cold, clear light, sat Lady Elise Whitefield.

Her desk was a fortress of order in the gentle chaos: manila folders fanned into neat rows, stamped papers aligned in neat stacks, a porcelain teacup—steam long vanished—beside a silver letter opener shaped like a stiletto. Her midnight blue cloak was draped over the chair's back, revealing the pristine high-collared white blouse she usually wore beneath. Her pale golden curls were pinned back in a severe but elegant style, and her gloved fingers turned the page of a trainee report with slow precision.

The door groaned open.

"Should've let me sleep in," grumbled a familiar voice, rough with sleep.

Cole slouched into the room like a bear roused too early from hibernation. His Duskmoore violet coat was wrinkled and half-buttoned over a rumpled shirt, his hair a riot of unbrushed dark curls, and his jaw shadowed with coarse stubble. He carried a tin mug of strong, black coffee in one hand and a half-eaten biscuit in the other.

Elise didn't look up.

"Honestly," he went on, collapsing into the worn leather chair across from her with a grunt that spoke of old aches, "you kill one vamp and suddenly the whole bloody Guild expects you to fill out paperwork before dawn. In my day, you could gut a bloodsucker, pour whiskey on whatever wound you got, and call it a week."

She flipped a page, the sound whisper-soft.

Cole watched her for a moment before sighing heavily. "...Good mornin' to you, too, milady."

She kept reading.

Cole leaned back with a groan and threw his legs over the armrest of his chair. "Don't know why I bother. You're like a statue someone forgot to put in the garden."

A moment passed. The only sound was the rustle of her next page.

Then, without looking up, Elise murmured, "I ought to put a muzzle on you."

"Hah!" Cole let out a short, barking laugh. "Ah, she speaks."

A loud crash rang out from the back of the hall—two young hunters wrestling with a crate of practice bolts had dropped it, scattering metal across the slate floor.

Cole didn't even glance. He simply cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, "Hey! You two wanna get a beating? No? Then quit dropping shit!"

The boys flinched and scrambled to pick up the mess.

Satisfied, Cole leaned back and sipped from his mug. "Rookies these days. All muscle, no sense. One of 'em asked me yesterday if it's true vampires can smell fear. I told him—'Course they can, that's why we make you bathe, genius.' Truth is, I just can't stand the stink. Don't remember smellin' that bad when I was their age."

Elise turned another page.

Cole narrowed his eyes at the file she held. "You're looking at trainee files?"

"Yes."

"Why? What did the poor saps do to earn your scrutiny?"

"I have been rather absent from the guild this past year and missed the formal introduction of the new recruits. I am rectifying that."

Cole chuckled. "Of course. Only you would call getting to know the new blood 'rectifying.' So, who's the unfortunate soul right now?"

She passed the page to him without a word.

Cole took the sheet, his brow furrowing. "Edric Ellery. Huh. Subpar with a blade, sharp as a tack with the books. Bit timid, though. Word is he's some noble's son, a minor house from west of Velisandria."

"Really."

"Aye. Could explain the prissy manners." Cole shrugged. "Matters not to me. All these noble pricks act and sound the same."

Silence.

Elise's eyes flicked up from the next file, her gaze glacial.

Remembering who he was talking to, Cole gave an awkward, rumbling laugh. "Ah. Right."

"You forget yourself, Mr. Holman," she said, her voice calm and low.

"Aye, yes, my apologies, milady," he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.

"We do not sound the same," she continued, returning her eyes to the paper. "He must have an accent, being from a different country."

Cole blinked, then snorted into his coffee. "You have a wicked way with a joke, my lady."

Elise simply hummed, the ghost of a point made.

Another group of hunters passed by in the corridor, their laughter and boisterous chatter echoing into the hall. One of them, a young man with a shock of red hair, sneaked a glance in Elise's direction before being elbowed sharply by his friend. Their voices hushed instantly as they hurried away.

Cole noticed. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble.

"They're all terrified of you, you know."

Elise didn't respond.

"Lady of Duskmoore. Daughter of the Count. Prodigal monster hunter. Elegant noblewoman." He made a sweeping, theatrical gesture with his biscuit hand, scattering crumbs across his trousers. "You could stab a man with your stare."

He dusted the crumbs away. "Alas, you are well beyond the debutante balls. Everyday I hear about a new challenger plotting ways to earn a smile from you. Has no good man ever caught your eye? Did the Count ever plan on arranging a match?"

She remained a statue of focus.

Cole's smirk returned. He leaned even closer, his tone teasing. "Well, if there's no one in mind... I heard Garen's boy fancies you. Has the old man ever mentioned it?"

This time, Elise looked up, a single, pale brow arched in silent inquiry.

Cole's smirk widened. "Oh? Interested, milady? Fear not, I've met the lad. A bit green, needs to put some meat on his bones, but he's clever. You should ask Garen about him."

She tapped the top of the next file with a gloved finger. The message was clear: Enough.

Cole held up his hands in surrender, still smirking. "Point taken."

After a pause, he asked, "The Count still not back from the capital?"

"No."

"Hm." He sipped his coffee, the playfulness fading from his face. "Well, Duskmoore hasn't fallen apart yet. Velisandria's still run by humans. Which means you're doing fine."

"I'm managing."

Cole grinned. "That's noble-speak for 'I haven't burned the place down, yet.'"

From the back, another clatter echoed—the distinct sound of a training rifle hitting the floor.

Without missing a beat, Cole leaned back and hollered, "Drop that again and I'll get Helen to tan your hides!"

The hall quieted immediately.

He settled back, immensely pleased. "Discipline. That's what keeps 'em in line."

Elise gathered the stack of reports, aligned their edges with a sharp tap against the desktop, and set them neatly in her out tray.

Her work here, for now, was complete.

The teacup sat beside her, untouched and stone cold.

She rose without a word, gathering her cloak from the chair.

.

.

.

Whitefield Manor loomed against the autumn sky, its pale stone façade gilded by the morning sun. Tall, glinting windows and pointed spires pierced a pale blue expanse. The gravel drive curved through wrought-iron gates, flanked by hedges trimmed to geometric perfection.

The moment Elise stepped through the front doors, the household staff bowed in near-unison.

"Welcome home, Lady Elise," intoned Hammond, the head butler. His silver-streaked hair was impeccably styled, his mustache neatly trimmed, and his posture ramrod straight. "The eastern drawing room has been prepared per your instruction. Brunch is ready at your leisure."

Behind him stood Edith, the head maid, her back straight despite her years, her uniform without a single crease. Her grayed hair was tied neatly into a bun, not a single strand out of place.

Before Elise could respond, a blur of auburn hair and frantic energy shot into the foyer.

"Lady Elise!"

Daisy skidded to a halt just short of colliding with her. Her freckled face was alight with joy, a red braid swinging wildly behind her. "You're back! I didn't expect you until supper! I was just airing out the west wing linens and—"

She cut herself off, suddenly aware of the stern gazes of Hammond and Edith. She quickly snapped to a practiced, formal posture, adjusting her apron. "Ahem. That is... welcome home, my lady."

Elise gave a small, acknowledging nod.

Daisy moved to gather her cloak, and Elise unbuckled the belt holster holding her revolver and silver sword, handing it over without a word.

"Where is Louis?" Elise asked.

Daisy huffed, her formality crumbling. "Gone since breakfast. Probably at some wine-tasting in Lorne or losing at cards in a tavern."

Elise's lips thinned. "Unbecoming." Her cool gaze shifted to Edith. "And Annabelle?"

The servants visibly tensed. Edith cleared her throat. "Lady Annabelle is... taking the air. In the garden."

"During her lesson hours?" Elise's voice grew dangerously soft.

Hammond and Edith shared a pained glance.

Elise exhaled, a faint, weary sound. "I see."

—{}—

Outside, the garden stretched like a small kingdom unto itself.

Manicured hedges framed meandering paths that curved through flowerbeds in full bloom—lilies and foxglove, snowdrops and forget-me-nots. Trellises tangled with climbing roses stood like archways to secret worlds. Marble benches sat in pockets of shade, beneath cherry trees just beginning to bronze at the edges.

And everywhere, blue roses bloomed.

Soft sapphire petals nodded in the breeze, glowing faintly beneath the cloudy autumn sun. They lined the main path, curled up trellises, and bloomed in generous clusters around the central fountain, where water whispered into the basin below.

At the garden's heart, beneath a gnarled white ash tree, a scene of mild chaos was unfolding.

A girl in a noticeably simple, slightly frayed cream dress—cinched with a ribbon in lieu of a proper sash—was perched on a low branch, her legs swinging freely.

Below her, a young footman stood with his arms outstretched, a picture of pure anxiety.

"Lady Annabelle," he begged, "please—Lady Elise has returned, you'll catch her attention—"

"Oh, who cares, let her come," came the airy reply.

Annabelle Whitefield reclined against the trunk, gazing up through the canopy of golden leaves. A leather-bound novel lay open in her lap, its pages fluttering in the breeze. Her long, chestnut hair spilled over her shoulder in artless waves, a ribbon clinging precariously to a half-up half-down style. Her hazel eyes blinked lazily at the sunlight.

"I wasn't born to practice needlework until my fingers cramp," she sighed, as if confiding in the tree itself. "Don't you ever feel there's a grander destiny for you, Frederick?"

The footman blinked. "My... uh, destiny is currently to ensure you don't fall and break your neck, my lady."

She sighed again, deeper this time. "No one understands. I'm a songbird in a gilded cage."

"Most songbirds aren't fed strawberries and cream for breakfast, my lady—"

"Don't be literal," Annie chided, though not unkindly.

Nearby, the music master, Mr. Bernard, massaged his temples. "Lady Annabelle, this is most irregular. I must report to Lady Elise on your progress, and thus far, our progress has been... rather impeded."

Annie groaned. "Elise, Elise, Elise. Must my entire life be dictated by her schedule? What about my dreams? What about my desires?"

"Lady Annabelle, please—"

Elise approached in silence, her shadow falling over the grass like a sudden chill.

Frederick jolted. "L-Lady Elise!" he gasped, scrambling into a deep bow.

Mr. Bernard turned to her and offered a respectful nod, his relief palpable. "Lady Elise."

Annie didn't notice until her sister spoke.

"Annabelle."

The younger Whitefield glanced over, then turned, swinging her legs petulantly. "Oh. It's you." She offered a lazy smile. "Back so soon?"

Elise gazed at her impassively. "You are not dressed for lessons."

"I'm dressed for freedom," Annie declared, stretching her arms wide. "Is one morning of authentic living such a crime?"

"Neglecting your education is."

Annie waved a dismissive hand. "It's just a little poetry and piano. It's not like the world will—."

"Down. Now."

The air left Annie's sails. With a dramatic pout, she closed her book, slid from the branch, and landed with a soft thud on the grass, brushing her skirts with undue force.

"You will return indoors," Elise stated, her tone leaving no room for argument, "and you will complete your lessons with Mr. Bernard."

Annie's face scrunched in frustration. She kicked at a loose pebble. "Sewing, curtsying, silent suffering... Why must I be trapped inside while the world is so vast? I'm not like those other simpering girls, content with their embroidery hoops and gossip!"

Elise crossed her arms. "What, precisely, would you rather be doing?"

"Living!" Annie spread her arms as if to embrace the entire estate. "I want to ride a stallion at full gallop! I want to feel the weight of a sword in my hand! I want to discuss philosophy and battle tactics, not which lace trim is most fashionable for the season! You wouldn't understand, Elise. You're just a girl after all..."

Elise's eyebrow arched slightly. "You would be thrown from a stallion. And a practice rapier would give you splinters."

"I could learn!" Annie insisted, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "If anyone in this stuffy house would ever give me a chance instead of trying to lace me into a corset!"

"Which you are also not wearing," Elise observed coolly. "You will rectify that when you go inside."

Annie let out a sound of utter exasperation. "You see? This is exactly my point!"

Having exhausted her patience for the performance, Elise turned to the footman. "Frederick."

He jumped. "Y-yes, my lady?"

"Inform Edith and the rest of the staff. Lady Annabelle is confined to the manor until her lessons are completed to Mr. Bernard's satisfaction."

Frederick bowed and scurried away.

Annie gasped, her hand flying to her heart as if struck. "You'd make me a prisoner in my own home? A caged nightingale forced to sing only your tunes?"

"Nightingales," Elise said, turning to leave, "do not read romance novels in hundred-acre gardens."

"They do if their souls are yearning for more!" Annie called after her.

Elise didn't look back.

Mr. Bernard let out a long-suffering sigh. "Come along, Lady Annabelle. We still have two hours of piano."

Annie pressed her lips into a thin, furious line, snatched her book from the grass, and stormed toward the manor, leaving the music master trailing in her wake.