The Weight of Blood and Name (2)

Thwack!

The sharp, sickening crack of polished wood against flesh echoed through the soundproofed study. Count Sirius Whitefield brought his cane down against his daughter's back with practiced, brutal precision.

She knelt before him on the hard wooden floor, her posture ramrod straight, her gloved hands resting flat on her thighs. Her expression was a mask of carved ice, betraying nothing.

"Word of your brother's disgrace has already reached my ears," Sirius's voice was calm, devoid of shouting, which made the cold authority in it even more cutting. "A drunken brawl. A public spectacle. Commoners whispering my name in the streets with ridicule. What does that say about the Whitefield heir? That he is a reckless fool who cannot control himself?"

Thwack!

Another strike landed, measured and deliberate, in a different spot. The force of it jarred through her ribs.

Through his calm visage, his icy, pale blue eyes glared down at his kneeling daughter. "Elise, did I not entrust you with the task of keeping him contained?"

Elise's brows furrowed ever so slightly—a minute, involuntary twitch of pain—before her features smoothed back into perfect impassivity.

She had been bedridden, unconscious from bloodloss while a doctor that Daisy brought in treated her wounds. She had only learned of Louis' idiocy when the enraged couple appeared at their gates, screaming for compensation.

But Sirius Whitefield expected omniscience. It did not matter that she was half-dead. She should have known. She should have anticipated.

Thwack!

The next strike landed clean and cruel. The impact reverberated through her body, a hot bloom of pain, yet she did not cry out. She did not flinch. The faintest tightening of her gloved hands into fists on her thighs was the only sign she felt it at all.

"As the eldest, your duty is vigilance," Sirius stated, his tone as unyielding as iron. "You are not his nursemaid, Elise, nor his moral compass. You are his warden. You are to know his movements before he makes them, anticipate his every failure, and sever the problem at the root. That is your purpose. Have I not made that excruciatingly clear?"

"Yes, Father."

"So, the next time he resists your control, you will remind him of his place. By whatever means necessary. You have my full authority."

"Yes, Father."

"The heir's reputation is the family's reputation," Sirius continued, finally lowering his cane. He studied her as one would assess a damaged tool. "This incident has already become fodder for our enemies. We will not give them the pleasure of a scandal. You will ensure this disgrace is buried by a more favorable narrative."

He leaned against his desk, his gaze never leaving her. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Find something... a philanthropic gesture the Gazette can fawn over. Something significant enough to make the nobility forget my son was pulled from a tavern gutter."

Elise remained kneeling, her gaze fixed on a point on the floor ahead of her. "The schoolhouse in the Old Mill Quarter," she said after a moment of calculated silence. "It is collapsing. The children shiver through their lessons. Winter will finish it. I will make a substantial donation in Louis' name to fund its complete reconstruction."

Sirius nodded slowly like a businessman evaluating a proposal. "Adequate. Quiet, respectable, sympathetic. It will do. See it done."

His eyes flicked back to her, scanning her form with a clinical detachment. "I was informed you were injured a fortnight ago," he remarked. "Stand."

Elise rose smoothly, her posture unwavering despite the fresh, throbbing pain in her back. Sirius gestured with his cane toward her neck. "Show me."

Without a moment's hesitation, Elise tilted her head, pushing the heavy fall of her pale blonde curls aside to reveal the stark white bandages wrapped around her throat. A faint, rusty crimson bloomed through the gauze where the wounds had seeped. A phantom sensation of fangs and tearing flesh ghosted across her skin.

Sirius regarded the injury without a flicker of emotion—no pity, no anger, no concern. His sharp gaze was that of a general inspecting a battlefield report, tracing every contour of the bandage as if assessing structural damage.

"Does it impair you?" he asked, his voice flat.

Elise shook her head once, a sharp, precise motion. "No, Father. It is manageable."

Sirius sighed and tilted his head back, closing his eyes as if weary of the world's inefficiencies. "It is a credit to your management that Daisy remains so loyal after all these years." When his eyes opened again, any hint of softness was gone, erased as if it had never been. "Now. Explain why you were patrolling alone at night. Without bodyguards. Without other hunters."

Elise lowered her gaze to the floor in a show of deference. "The error in judgment was mine. It will not be repeated." The question was answered, and yet not answered at all.

He studied her for a long, silent moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. "And now, your prey has escaped."

Elise gave a single, curt nod. "I was incompetent."

He clicked his tongue, a sound of profound disappointment. "That is a problem. A significant one. You will inform the guild. But this stays within the guild. I will not have a panic in Duskmoore over a single creature."

"I have already delivered a full report to Guildmaster Helen."

"Good." He turned away from her, effectively dismissing her. "Let us hope their efforts prove more effective than your own. Do not let this failure stand."

Elise then reached into the inner pocket of her dress, retrieving the cream-colored envelope. "There is another matter," she said, holding it out. "An invitation arrived from Count Ashford."

Sirius turned and took the letter, opening it with a sharp flick of his thumb. His eyes scanned the flowery calligraphy, his expression hardening into one of profound distaste. "Reginald Ashford," he muttered, the name sounding like a curse. "That preening peacock. He's desperate to clamber up a ladder that was never meant for him. I suppose he wishes to dazzle his betters with a display of borrowed grandeur."

Elise remained silent, a statue awaiting further instruction.

His gaze, cold and assessing, flicked back to her. "That son of his—is his infatuation with you still a persistent nuisance?"

Elise sidestepped the question with practiced ease. "The invitation is addressed to the Whitefield family. This is a strategic play, not a romantic one."

"Ha!" Sirius let out a dry, humorless bark of laughter. "Ashford's only strategies are ostentation and procreation. Beyond putting on a lavish show and siring an heir, the man has no other notable accomplishments."

Elise paused for a moment, allowing the silence to hang before delivering the key piece of information. "There are, however, credible rumors that Duke Ravencourt may be in attendance."

A brief heavy silence passed through the study.

Sirius set the letter down slowly on his desk. "Evander Ravencourt?" he repeated, the name spoken with a new, measured weight.

Elise watched him closely, noting the subtle shift in his demeanor—the predatory calculation that replaced outright dismissal.

"Curious... What possible business would a man like him have in Rothwale? And with Reginald Ashford, of all people." His long fingers began to drum a slow, thoughtful rhythm against the polished wood of his desk. "A wolf does not attend a poodle's party without reason. If he is gracing that fool with his presence, it is because something... or someone... of value has drawn his interest."

His eyes narrowed, the gears of strategy turning visibly behind his icy gaze. "A man of that influence cannot be allowed to fall into the orbit of a social climber like Ashford."

He turned, pacing a few steps toward the window, his cane tapping a light, pensive rhythm on the floor. Then he stopped, standing in a moment of silent calculation before turning back to Elise.

"Annabelle debuted last season," he mused, almost to himself. "A fortunate coincidence. A favorable connection there would be an immense strategic advantage for our house."

Elise didn't react. She said nothing, though the thought was immediate and stark—Annabelle, in Ravencourt's world? His beloved, daydreaming Annabelle, who complained about corsets and preferred climbing trees to practicing her curtsy? Thrown into the deep, dark waters of a man like Evander Ravencourt?

Sirius's ambitions, however, were impervious to such practical doubts. He did not see a flighty young girl; he saw a piece on his chessboard. He saw an alliance, a merger of power and name. Even his dearest daughter was not exempt from her function.

"She will attend," he decided, his voice leaving no room for debate. "Whether a connection is forged is secondary. The opportunity must, at the very least, be scouted."

Elise gave a slight, deferential nod, acknowledging his command without endorsement.

Sirius's gaze fell once more on the bandages at her throat, a brief return to the previous subject. "Have Daisy see to your wounds again. Dinner will be served shortly."

"Yes, Father." Elise turned toward the door with the same composed, soundless grace with which she had entered and knelt. She did not look back as she left the room, the phantom sting of the cane a fresh brand on her back, but her stride never once faltered.