Arinel decided not to go straight to Bishop Riddell's lab, which was her current workplace, and instead slipped back to work in the scullery. Zier's rebellion might have left her reeling for a while, but Arinel's mind was already made up long before Gretella swept into the scullery for a morning briefing with Head Cook Apollon. Just as she had anticipated.

The Baron had ordered Coris to take care of Meya until she fully recovered. Obviously, someone must bring up their breakfast to remind them they were to stay in their room and procreate.

Seeing her window of opportunity, Arinel instantly made her way to the station right next to where the two were conversing, signaling with a mere tilt of her head for the Crossetian maid working there to hurry away and take up her old post.

"Lord Coris will be keeping watch over Lady Arinel this morning, so please prepare their meals separately and have it brought straight up to their chambers. The healer recommends light, easy to digest foods for the Lady, and lukewarm herbal tea. To reduce the pain and swelling."

Gretella was just as efficient as always. Head Cook Apollon also seemed to have no trouble digesting all that information thrown at him in one large bite; he gave short, vigorous nods which sent his meaty chin wiggling, his calm, sharp eyes fixed on Gretella's amidst the chaos of a castle kitchen at daybreak.

"Very well, Madam." He responded earnestly, a ghost of a smile on his thin lips, an eyebrow raised. "Would your Lady prefer rosehip or ginger?"

Even under the dingy light of the underground kitchen, Arinel could have sworn Gretella was blushing. For a beat she stood frozen except for her blinking eyes, looking discombobulated, then quickly snapped back to her same old haughty self.

"Which would go best with her main dish?" She forced out, her voice oddly hearty. The Head Cook cocked his head as he thought, but his eyes never left the governess.

"Lord Coris has his own herb gruel recipe prescribed by the healer. I'm thinking maybe the Lady could have the same for breakfast. It's very healthy, and it goes marvelously with ginger tea." He clasped his hands together in enthusiasm as he proclaimed, then added,

"And I'll send up some dessert with the rosehip for mid-morning tea. Works wonders for reluctant newlyweds."

At that, Apollon beckoned covertly for a nonplussed Gretella to lean closer, and Arinel herself also had to strain her ears to catch what he was whispering behind his long tapered fingers like a viellist's, riddled with cuts and grazes.

"Just between you and me. I and my rosehip brew, we share credit for arranging the night the Baron finally begot Lord Coris. And if it worked for the sire, why not try it with the son, too, eh?"

Apollon ended with a devious snicker, his eyes gleaming like a troublemaker anticipating the fruition of his elaborate prank. Gretella, however, looked pained.

"I appreciate your humor, Sir Apollon, but would it really be for the best if they actually conceived a babe?"

She countered softly, apologetic and hesitant. Apollon shook his head, his seemingly empty, playful grin now weighed down with substance.

"It's not just humor, my good woman." He said in a low voice, his brown eyes dimmed by sorrow,

"We all know Lord Coris is against having an heir, but duty aside, hope might do more good for him than he realizes."

"Hope...?" Gretella mouthed silently as Apollon went on, looking weary.

"Tenorus always said food and herbs can only do so much for the body, if the heart has already resigned itself to death. That's why the Baron pushed for the marriage. To show Lord Coris he hasn't given up, even if Coris himself has."

Apollon heaved a deep sigh. It was clear he knew the young lord well, probably having bonded over their pet-projects introducing new cuisine to Hadrian.

Gretella's eyes wandered as she pondered those words. That was when she noticed Arinel staring up at her from where she was crouched, washing a cartload of cabbages in a large wooden tub. The old governess raised a careworn eyebrow, awaiting her command.

Arinel understood Gretella's dilemma, but she had already made her decision. Lies are bound to be exposed someday. It would drastically complicate things if Meya became pregnant with Coris's child by then. And they couldn't just keep sending her Silfum candles, too; it wasn't always effective.

And if Zier couldn't find it in him to do the right thing, Arinel must put an end to all this herself.

Arinel gave a subtle, yet decisive nod. Gretella bit her trembling lips hard, tortured by the thought of her Lady sacrificing her hard-won freedom for duty, again.

"I guess I'll leave it to the Lady to decide, then." She glanced at Apollon, blew out a barely audible sigh, then turned back to Arinel with a firm command, "Meya, you're in charge of the Lady's breakfast."

"Yes, ma'am." Arinel stood up and bowed her head, her wrinkled and peeling hands clasped at her front. Heaving one last sigh, Gretella turned and left the scullery.

⏳

Head Cook Apollon assembled the newlyweds' tray himself. Once Arinel had fetched him a heavy clay bowl, he drew thick, sluggishly simmering oat gruel from a large pot and slopped ladle-fulls into it. He topped it with chopped squash, halves of a boiled egg, shredded cheese, then sprinkled pepper, chopped parsley and chives, and added a final pinch of salt.

As Arinel filled a tiny jug with honey and dug the pit out of lemon slices, he plied a tea-sieve with chopped ginger and lowered it gently into a ceramic pot filled to the brim with boiling water, then flipped the sand-clock.

The tray was set atop a wheeled cart for Arinel and Haselle to trundle outside, then Arinel left Haselle in front of the delivery shaft at the foot of the spiral staircase. By the time she climbed up to the third floor of the Keep, the tray was already there, hoisted up by Haselle working the pulley.

Arinel fetched a low table from the nearby cupboard. With hands slightly trembling under the weight and pressure, she slid the tray out of the wall shaft and onto the table. Taking a deep breath, she gritted her teeth and lifted the table up along with her as she stretched back to her feet, as the carved wooden curlicues on the edge dug deep welts into her flabby, waterlogged fingers. She rotated around towards Coris's door, then found herself face-to-face with one Sir Simon of Amplevale, approaching at full speed.

"SIMON, HALT!" Lady Fione screamed from in front of Coris's doorway, as Lady Heloise clutched at the chest of her dress.

"AAAARGH!" Simon yelled, both arms flailing over his head as if hoping air resistance would slow him down in time.

"EEEEK!" Arinel shrieked as she gripped the table so tight her fingers went numb. Simon screeched to a halt barely half a foot away from Arinel. Right then, Coris's door was wrenched open, and Sir Christopher, who had been standing with an arm propped against it, staring in horror at Simon, tumbled right into Meya, who swore at the top of her lungs,

"CHIONE'S FLOPPY LEFT—EEK!"

Firm hands slammed into Meya from behind, pitching her headfirst back to her feet and sending poor Christopher rolling back out to the hallway in the progress.

Coris's face appeared at the door. His calm silvery eyes traveled from the profusely cursing Meya to the groaning Christopher, the fidgeting Fione and Heloise, then finally settled on Simon and Arinel, still frozen in mid-poses at the end of the hallway.

Coris's gaze dropped drastically in temperature as comprehension came over him. His eyes narrowed at Simon, before snapping back to zero in on Christopher, who was just picking himself up, then he asked in a voice as slow and bitingly cold as a glacier in Icemeet.

"What in the three lands are you all doing here?"

⏳

"We were simply carrying out your parents' orders, Coris! You have no right to punish us! We are protected by Hadrian law!"

Brave young Sir Simon of Amplevale objected against what he considered cruel and unfair punishment from his ingenious yet sadistic liege. A pile of linen paper lay empty before him on the low letter-writing table, beside a freshly whetted charcoal pencil, as Coris did not deem his costly Hadrian Rose ink and hawk-feather quill collection fit to be wasted on disciplining unruly squires.

"Simon, in the absence of the Baron, the Baron's son is the law."

Sir Christopher reminded him in a tone overflowing with resignation. Wincing at the dull pain radiating from his ears, folded and clamped down by wooden clothespins, he forced his jittery fingers to be staid while he scribbled out his lines:

Thou shalt not eavesdrop on thine liege and lady.

Thou shalt not eavesdrop on thine liege and lady.

Meanwhile, Lady Fione scrunched her face as if she was experiencing intestinal blockage in the loo, as she tried wiggling her ears (a feat she was immensely proud of), and failed. Pale with horror, the young maid-of-honor wailed.

"No! I can no longer feel my ears! Will they fall off?"

"Will you guys stop talking!? I keep writing down what everyone is saying! Argh!"

Lady Heloise balled up a ruined paper and chucked it on the floor, then snatched up a fresh one from her pile and started over at the top. A smirk formed on the corner of Fione's lips, and she chanted under her breath. Too low for Coris to catch but loud enough for Meya's keen ears and the nearby Heloise to comprehend in full.

"Coris Hadrian is a dong-head, and a fine ding-dong has he. His lady swears by Chione it's as straight as a coconut tree..."

"Fione!" Heloise slammed her fists on the table, her iridescent silver bracelet colliding with the wood with a dull clang. White fangs bared and emerald eyes flaring, she turned and glowered at Fione, while Meya nearly spurted out a whole mouthful of ginger tea. Sighing in frustration at her paper (which now read "Thou shalt not eavesdrop on thine liege's dong."), Heloise balled it up and turned to whine at Coris instead.

"How long do we have to keep these on?" She pointed at the clothespins on her ears.

"Until Meya finishes reading her letter." Coris instantly replied, arms folded and face expressionless. At that, his four friends-cum-subjects whirled around to Meya sitting behind Coris's study desk, Arinel hovering beside her, then snapped back to their liege with a barrage of protests.

"You're a tyrant, you are!" Heloise denounced hotly.

"Devind the Demented reincarnated!" Fione drawled.

"Why must our fates depend on her literacy?" Simon pointed a finger at poor Meya, who grimaced.

"Coris, you know the Baron promotes setting concrete, quantitative milestones." Christopher decided to go full smart-and-big-words. Yet, Coris shrugged, unruffled.

"Antagonizing me isn't going to speed up the learning process." He stated coolly, then narrowed his eyes, "I'm channeling your combined common senses here; let Meya read her letter in peace."

"Yeah. Chuck the heat on the Greeneye. It's not like we already have a surplus." Meya muttered darkly behind Jezia's letter, eyes glaring over its edge at her erstwhile husband.

Coris pretended not to have heard. Straightening his crimson cloak over his nightclothes, he strode towards the door.

"Now, excuse me while I hunt down my treacherous little brother."

The door had barely swung shut with a click behind Coris, when a sharp voice pierced the airy late morning silence.

"Where do you think you're going, my lad?"

Coris resisted the instinct to jump. Recognizing that voice, he composed himself and decided on a course of action in what little time it took to spin around and face his assailant.

"Nowhere, Mother. What brings you all the way up here? Aren't you supposed to be sending off the guests? Since you and Father effectively sidelined me and Arinel and set your attendants to spy on us procreating?"

Sylvia Hadrian raised her eyebrows at her eldest son's seemingly innocent silver eyes and deadpan expression. She clenched her fists behind the folds of her elaborate dress, enunciating coolly.

"Corien Alexis Hadrian. You may be understandably frustrated, but I'm your mother, and you will not answer a mother's worry with such viperous diatribe!"

Coris stiffened as his mother's voice rose into a snap, especially at the evident hurt in those pale eyes like moonbeam he had inherited. Bowing his head in contrition, he sighed and complied.

"I must find Zier. I have a serious matter to discuss with him. Have you seen him, Mother?"

Seeing the guilt in her son's eyes, Sylvia immediately calmed. Looking slightly sheepish, she toyed with a lock of brown hair that had escaped from her pinned braid, her eyes whizzing about.

"Coincidentally, that answers your first question." Coris blinked at that cryptic reply, then Sylvia looked up and met his eyes, looking careworn. "He's with your father in the study. And your father is why I'm here."

Oh Freda, no. Zier. What have you done? Please no.

"He's with Father?" Coris's voice came out a hoarse rasp. Disbelief and pure terror splayed on his face in fearful anticipation, which Sylvia grudgingly confirmed, fidgety fingers tearing at the golden knots on her magenta bodice.

"He wants to talk to you. About this latest heist. Now."

🐉🐉🐉