“How many?”
“Too many to count, Your Highness. My lord and lady pride themselves on their produce.”
Something pricks at my conscience. Elisaf called Danthrin a minor lord of an impoverished area, but this manor and the way Lady Danthrin regards herself would suggest otherwise.
I knew a guy once. Sneaky Pete, they called him. He was this skinny twenty-year-old kid, a small-time dealer, carving out a tiny corner of Staten Island for himself. Korsakov found out, but instead of ending his little operation, he decided to let the kid keep going in his territory, as long as he moved his product. He said he liked Sneaky Pete’s gusto.
Until he discovered that Sneaky Pete was also getting his drugs from three other suppliers and selling four times what he admitted to Korsakov, beyond his original borders. Sneaky Pete was raking in money.
I overheard Tony joking about how they buried a wad of his cash with him so he could spend it in hell.
I’ll bet if anyone looked at Danthrin’s books, so to speak, they might not call him impoverished, despite how the townsfolk live.
“Do you like living here, Eden?”
She falters. “I … Lord and Lady Danthrin are …”
I collect the lantern from her grasp and hold it up to her face. Fear is splayed there. “The burn on your wrist reminds me of one I recently saw on a little boy from Freywich. He was at the market in Cirilea. His keeper punished him for eating a wormy apple off the ground.”
Recognition streaks across her face. She swallows hard. “I broke one of the lady’s dishes. I was washing, and it slipped from my grasp.”
“She did that to you?”
“It was one of her favorites. Passed down through generations.” The way Eden says it, it’s as if it’s excusable.
How nostalgic. So torturing their servants isn’t only the lord’s pastime of choice. “Is that the only time they’ve punished you for something?”
She hesitates before offering an almost imperceptible head shake.
My ire flares. Eden doesn’t deserve this. None of them do. “Gracen and her children are now part of the royal household, living in the castle in Cirilea.”
Her eyes widen with shock. “My lord allowed them to leave?”
“He wasn’t given a choice.”
She blinks, processing this. “So … they’re never coming back?”
“Not if I can help it. They’ll be treated well there.” I hope. I pray Zander is right about Atticus in that regard.
“That is good. They will be happier there.” Her words are hopeful, yet her shoulders sink as if weighed down.
“Do you have family here?”
“No. I grew up in a small village near the Plains of Aminadav, with my mother, father, and younger brother.” She smiles. “It wasn’t so bad. Our keeper was much kinder.”
“And then you were forced to leave with Danthrin on Presenting Day?” Corrin spoke of the day when young mortal men and women who’d reached eighteen years were lined up in town squares to be bid on.
She shakes her head. “I wasn’t of age yet. My keeper had a gambling problem and owed Lord Danthrin considerable money, so he paid off his debt with me.”
The curse slips out. I know I shouldn’t be doing this—I’m in no position to, yet, I can’t help myself. Who knows how much longer I’ll be able to wield this fake title around? “I gave Gracen a choice that I’m now going to give you. We are leaving here tomorrow morning, and you can leave with us.”
Her mouth gapes. “To Cirilea? To the castle?”
I hesitate. I don’t want to lie, but I can’t tell her the truth. “Eventually, I hope so. There are some complications we need to sort out. But for now, where we’re going is not safe. You’ll be with me and a powerful caster, and probably the scariest warriors in all of Islor, but it won’t be safe. It’s your choice. You can stay here if you want. I’m not forcing you.”
She peers back toward the house. “There’s nothing left for me here.”
“But it might be safer—”