Chapter 83 We Hope The Visit Does Not Catch You Unaware
The four pillars. House Montague, head of all Kinetic affinities. House Alastair, head of all Mental affinities. House Colis, head of all Vital affinities. And house Marlin, head of all Spatial affinities.
With the last three going radio silent after the war and maintaining a steady distance from the Queen and everything else.
Until now.
“It seems so much different from how I have heard it to be.” Maeve’s focus had not shifted from the man seated in front of her. Lord Theron Alastair, son and heir of House Alastair. He stared outside the carriage window, a glow in his eyes. “The fashion too. What is it that they wear?”
“Sunglasses.”
“What does it do?”
“Block the sun.”
“What a marvelous idea. Glasses to block the sun because not all parasols can do them. Was that your idea?” He sounded so cheerful. So… polite. “I have heard so many tales about you, Sister. You are very… advanced for our time. My Mother speaks of you in very high regard.”
“Your mother?”
“Head of House Alastair.” Then he smiled. “She finds you very intriguing.”
It was hours after they had arrived at the Estate, with him going around looking surprised about the existence of Orcs and Elves on their land that Lucien spoke, “Are we certain he is from a pillar house?”
“He claims he is.”
“Yes. That is good enough evidence to not be suspicious whatsoever.”
“I don’t like when you’re sarcastic.”
“You will get used to it.”
Countess Guinevere Montague was a different case entirely when she saw him. Maeve had not seen her in days so it threw her back slightly to find her mother in another section of the house, wearing stable clothes with different files in her hand.
All of them being the lingerie prints.
Maeve’s eyes widened, her steps instantly blocking his path as she waved her hands behind her, urging Lucien to go in and clear the room because remember, this was supposed to be a silent operation, her eyes in Theron. “Good gracious. I was planning on taking you to mother but it seems she’s a bit preoccupied at the moment. Would you rather take a walk with me?”
“Ah. I did arrive without announcing. Forgive me. We always assume people know of our arrival at home. Mhm manners are far different than the one here.” He was smiling again. “Where would you like to go, Sister?”
“Ever had ice cream?”
When they reached the kitchen, the head pastry chef— a new position after the head chef refused to keep doing Maeve’s pointless creations and the orc hulk like women called him weakling and had a whole siege in the kitchen took the job— stared at Theron like he had grown an extra head. “Is this another stray of yours, Lassie?”
“Stray is such a cruel word, wouldn’t you say, Grulda?” Maeve asked, though she was smiling. “It smells amazing. Where is—?”
“We do not utter the other name when I am here. That man infuriates me. Claiming he cooks better than a woman. I ought to split his brain one of these days.”
Take note that the pastry chef and the head chef, Marcus, are in a relationship of sorts.
Theron was already moving around, his eyes focused on the massive hearth, then at the rows of copper pots hanging. “Your kitchen is magnificent. The heat distribution must be a nightmare. Do you use affinity stones or—?”
“We use fire,” Grulda said flatly.
"Fascinating."
Maeve stepped between them, hands raised. “Grulda, this is Lord Theron Alastair. He's a guest. And he's never had ice cream. I thought we could remedy that.”
The Orc's expression did not soften. “We already had a conversation about this, little lady. You can have your ice creams but I am under no contract to feed ANYONE ELSE’S needs. As you are my Matriarch, overall.”
“Kazh is your leader—”
“And you are my Matriarch. I know how to speak words even if I am such a great baker.” Then she turned her attention to Theron. “I know right now you might see Lady Isabella as calm and rational but when she came to the mountains to our people, she was anything but. Imagine my shock these recent days when I found out that she pretends with her fellow humans. What is so fun about pretending to wear dresses, good man?”
Theron tilted his head, genuinely considering the question then said after a moment, “I don't know. I've never pretended to wear a dress.”
Grulda's chipped tusk caught the firelight as her lips twitched— almost a smile. Almost. “Smart answer.”
Maeve seized the opening. “Grulda. Please. One scoop. You can do this, I promise you. Think of it as a revolutionary thing. Like a battle you must win to feed a hungry man after war—”
“Did not ask for a political speech, silly child.” She waved her hand in the hair. “Go fetch it. But do not give him too much. The ice is already about to be finished anyway.”
Maeve was already moving toward the cold locker, a brass-bound door frost-rimed and pulled it open before lifting out a ceramic pot from the third shelf, its lid beaded with condensation. “Strawberry. Want to try?”
Theron's glowing eyes fixed on the pot with pink in it. “You eat colors here?”
Grulda snorted. Loudly.
Maeve laughed. It had been a while since she had let out such a sound, especially with everything going on. She liked it. It was calming. She handed it to him. “Take it first.”
Theron stared at the pale pink mound like it might bite him. Then, with the careful deliberation of a man defusing a bomb, he lifted the small spoon Grulda had wordlessly shoved toward him and took a bite.
His eyes went wide as he said with a deadpan voice, “Oh,”
Then: “Oh.”
Then he turned to Maeve with an expression of pure, childlike betrayal. “You have been hiding this?”
“We haven't been hiding—"
“Why would anyone EAT anything else?”
Grulda crossed her arms, but her tusks were showing now. That was definitely a smile. “Finally. A man with sense. Told her to let go of that man. She made up something about nutrients and calories. All lies, I am sure.”
“It is very good.” He was scooping, filling his mouth with a speed Maeve hadn’t seen before. “Such a chilling thing— we barely know how to keep food cold at my side of the realm. What is it? What is your secret—?”
“Of course, you feed him.” Lucien’s voice broke out as he walked to her, his voice soft as he turned to Grulda. “Were you not giving her an earful for stealing all your baked goods to give to the kids at the orphanage?”
Grulda now staring at the hearth like something magically was in it. “Who knows?”
Lucien turned his attention to the man who was now suffering a brain freeze. “Lord Alastair. The Countess will see you now. She's... cleared her schedule.”
Theron swallowed his last bite of ice cream with visible regret, set the bowl down with both hands as if it were a sacred object, and straightened his coat. “Alright.” Then turned to Grulda. “Your work is remarkable. The texture alone—“
“Go,” Grulda said, but gently. “And come back when you want more. I will teach you about pretending to wear dresses another time.”
Theron beamed. “As you have said, Miss Grulda.”
Maeve followed him out, falling into step beside Lucien as they walked the long corridor toward the east wing where her mother had set up temporary command.
“Thoughts?” She murmured.
Lucien waited until Theron was a few paces ahead, still marveling at the ceiling frescoes. “Either he is the most genuine man I've ever met, or he's the best actor on the continent. And I've met theater folk from the Floating Cities. By the way, we should see a play of theirs.”
“Sure. I’ll just out my wedding on hold.”
“Your sarcasm is unwarranted,”
Maeve had a beaming smile on her face. “Yeah, yeah.”
They rounded the corner to find Countess Guinevere Montague standing in an open doorway. She had changed out of the stable clothes— now in a severe gown of deep blue, her silver-streaked hair pinned up with mathematical precision. The lingerie prints were nowhere to be seen.
But her eyes.
Her eyes were the same as Theron's. And Maeve realized with a serious shock that they looked very similar. “Ronnie.”
“Aunt Guinevere.” He bowed again like he did with Maeve. “My apologies for not announcing—”
“Nonsense. Come.” She hurried to him, pulling him into a hug— a thing that Maeve had only ever seen her do with her once in a while then pulled away. “Are you well? How is your mother?”
“You know how she can be.” Theron said, still smiling. “But I fear I bring bad news. May your daughter and her best friend excuse us?”
What?
“Isabella, leave.”
“Countess—”
“Now. I am sure you have somewhere to be anyway.” Then Countess Guinevere smiled. “I will be well. I know who he is. I promise.”