The kitchen had gone still, the silence broken only by the low, exhausted hum of the dying hearth. The copper bowls were stacked, the blood-soaked linens submerged in scalding lye. Amahle lay bound in a rough canvas shroud on the very table where she'd been torn apart. Her death was still too recent, too violent, to feel quiet.
Calthea's hands trembled violently as she pulled the thick bread twine tight, tying the final knot over the girl's chest.
A floorboard creaked near the servants' stairs. Adrian stood in the doorway, a ghost haunting his own home. He gripped the wooden doorframe as if it were the only thing keeping his spine straight, his eyes hollow and bruised with grief.
"Adrian," Calthea said softly, her voice raspy. "Speak now, while the truth still has room to breathe in this house."
He stared at the shrouded body, unable to cross the threshold. "What is there left to say?"
"Who she was," Calthea pressed, stepping away from the table. "And exactly where she came from. There is ancient blood in the child you just put in your wife's arms, Adrian. The mark on her shoulder—the twin moons—that isn't a kitchen maid's lineage. You need to tell me exactly where you found her."
Adrian swallowed hard, rubbing a trembling hand over his face. "I found her in the woods. A year and a half ago. But not just the woods… it was past the north clearing. Deep."
Calthea's eyes narrowed, a cold dread pooling in her stomach. "How deep?"
"Past the rusted iron gates," he whispered, his voice fracturing. "Near the old standing stones that sink into the black creek. The locals won't go near it. I was hunting a stag that broke the tree line. I found her half-submerged in the freezing water. Her dress was shredded, covered in strange, glowing silt. I thought she was a corpse until she coughed."
"The Moon's Cradle," Calthea breathed, the name tasting like ash. The magic in the room seemed to drop by ten degrees. "Adrian, those stones are older than this country. They mark a tear in the veil."
"She was just a girl," Adrian pleaded pathetically. "She was cold and hurt. I carried her back here. I loved her, Calthea."
"Your love means nothing to the dark," Calthea snapped, her voice hardening into steel. "Do you understand what you've done? Amahle told me something before she died. She said her blood flees the sun and must return to the shadow. She said this child is an anchor, and if she tips the balance, they will come for her. You haven't just brought a bastard into this house. You've brought a conduit."
Adrian squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. "I don't understand any of that."
"You don't need to," Calthea warned. "You just need to know that your daughter possesses a power that could level this estate, and your sociopathic wife now owns her. Pretend they are both Elara's. Keep your mouth shut, keep your head down, and pray the magic stays dormant."
Adrian looked at the shrouded body one last time, a tear slipping down his jaw. "I can do that."
"Good," the witch replied. "Start there."
Three floors above, the Viscountess's chamber was a suffocating display of immaculate calm.
The guests were gone. The heavy mahogany doors were locked. Elara Veriton sat at her vanity, slowly brushing her heavy obsidian hair, staring at her own reflection in the silver-backed mirror.
Through the open adjoining door, she could hear the soft, rhythmic breathing of the two infants in the nursery.
Aurelia. And Miré.
Elara set the brush down, her lips curving into a slow, terrifying smile. The night had been a gamble—a brutal, agonizing roll of the dice—but she had won. She always won.
She thought of Aurelia, her perfect, golden child. Aurelia would be the sword Elara used to cut through the nobility. With the Veriton wealth and Elara's ruthless grooming, the girl would be flawless. She would catch the eye of the Crown. Prince Edmund would be of age in a decade and a half, and Elara would see to it that Aurelia wore the princess's diadem, no matter who had to bleed to make it happen. Eldermere would not just be a Viscount's estate; it would be the seat of the Queen's mother.
And then there was the other one.
Elara stood, her silk robe trailing across the floor like spilled milk, and walked into the dimly lit nursery. She bypassed Aurelia's gilded cradle and stood over the plain wooden basket where Miré slept.
The infant's storm-gray eyes were closed, but the air around her felt charged, heavy with the scent of ozone and rain. Elara had seen the witch's face when she looked at the child. She knew the girl was unnatural. She could feel the wild, thrumming energy buried beneath that fair skin.
Power, Elara thought, her dark eyes glittering in the gloom.
Other women might have drowned the bastard child out of spite. But Elara was a visionary. Spite was petty; control was absolute. If this child possessed the kind of dangerous, ancient magic the witch feared, then Elara would not destroy it. She would harness it.
She would break the girl down to her foundations. She would raise Miré in the shadow of Aurelia's blinding light, feeding her on scraps of affection and heavy doses of obedience. She would make the girl believe she was nothing, a stain on the family name, entirely dependent on Elara's mercy.
When Aurelia ascended to the throne, a beautiful queen would need a weapon. A secret, lethal shadow to eliminate her enemies and bend the world to her will.
Elara reached down, her perfectly manicured nail tracing the faint, crescent mark on the sleeping infant's shoulder. Miré shifted, letting out a soft sigh, entirely unaware of the cage being built around her.
"You belong to me now, little stain," Elara whispered into the dark, her voice a velvet poison. "Your mother gave you life, but I will give you your purpose. You will be the dirt my daughter walks upon to reach the sky."