Finally she placed both feet on the cobblestones and they approached the door; Ferran rapped on it sharply. As they waited, he murmured, “Let me speak and don’t interrupt.”
“By all means,” Sora replied under her breath.
They waited a long moment, and then she heard the doorknob click and the heavy door swung open. A man, most obviously a butler, faced them. He looked in his mid-fifties and stood with a dignified air. He reminded Sora a bit of a pigeon, with a long hooked nose and dark eyes placed close together. His hair was swooped back in a thin comb-over. His black and red livery were perfectly clean and pressed. His clothes were so nicely fitted, she almost didn’t notice his large gut.
He glanced over them, taking in their appearance. Within seconds, Sora knew he had already decided their wealth and status. His eyes lingered on her dress, by far the most obviously out of place. Women’s clothing of the First Tier was far more intricate than what she wore.
“May I help you?” he asked stiffly. Or perhaps he was being polite? Sora didn’t know.
“Please inform Lord Martin Ebonaire that his brother has come to visit,” Ferran said directly.
Sora glanced at him. To her ears, his words sounds rushed and a little tense, but perhaps the butler didn’t notice.
The butler gave them a formidable frown. “Hmph,” he said hotly. “A brother? And am I to presume you are Lord Simeon Ebonaire? He is on holiday with his new wife. You must take me for a fool, to think I wouldn’t recognize Lord Martin’s own brother!”
Ferran hesitated. “Not that brother,” he corrected. “The elder brother. Ferran Ebonaire.”
The butler’s scowl deepened. “I’ve heard of no such person.”
“Then perhaps you should ask Lord Martin before you turn us away,” Ferran said bluntly, a hard edge to his voice. “I assure you, he’ll be most displeased if you do not announce us at once.”
Sora had to suppress a smile. Yes, she recognized that tone—spoken like a true noble.
“Hmph!” the butler grunted again, stepping aside for them to enter. “Do wait in the foyer while I announce you.” He followed them inside and headed up a wide staircase to the upper floors.
Ferran seemed less nervous inside the door. A familiar slouch entered his walk. He thrust his hands into his pockets. Despite his casual posture, he looked tall and impressive, in his deep red greatcoat and shining black boots. Despite twenty years of absence, he seemed immediately familiar with this place. He glanced around the foyer as though gazing at an old portrait on the wall.
Sora took in the sight as well: mahogany floors and wood-paneled walls, two sweeping staircases that led to the higher levels, and magnificent archways to her left and right. Through one, she caught a glimpse of a library, or perhaps a very grand study for entertaining guests. A grand piano stood in one corner, a recent invention she had seen once before. Through the other archway, she saw a richly decorated sitting room complete with stuffed leather couches, polished wooden shelves and a large liquor cabinet. She imagined many more rooms like this throughout the entire house. The Ebonaire manor could have engulfed her own country estate several times over.
Crash remained silently by her side. She found it hard to look at him. He was too clean. Too well-composed. Every time she looked over at him, she felt a rush of heat to her face and lost her train of thought.
“Where are the servants?” Sora finally asked, her voice soft and subdued.
Ferran shrugged. “They keep to the servant halls,” he said. “It’s bad etiquette for servants to walk openly about during the day.”
Sora was surprised at that. Life in the country was much more lax. Servants, particularly the higher staff, were treated like family in her manor. Or at least, she had treated them as such. Her stepfather had not, but he had rarely been there.
Finally the butler returned for them. He gave Ferran a deep bow, then nodded to Sora. He ignored Crash, which was proper, as he was dressed as a footman and played the part well; he stood slightly behind them, a short distance away. She remembered him practicing a few basic protocols with Ferran yesterday, just enough to get by without arousing suspicion.
“Lord Ebonaire will see you now,” the butler said, leading them up the staircase.
Ferran let out a slow breath, and followed.
The second level of the manor seemed covered by a maze of intersecting halls. Sora caught a few brief glimpses of the staff: maids in uniform airing out rooms or whisking laundry away down the hall. Several maids passed by them quickly, hardly stopping to bob a curtsy before continuing on with basins of water and stacks of cloths. Sora frowned, recognizing a jar of herbs in one girl’s hands: a mixture of yarrow, valerian root and mint leaves—common fever remedies. She wondered where she was off to.
“Is someone sick?” she asked.
Ferran shot her a be quiet look, but she ignored him.
The butler seemed uncomfortable. “Lady Danica is ill. Her condition has worsened over the past week….” He paused. “We are all praying for her swift recovery.”
Lady Danica? Sora wondered if that was Lord Ebonaire’s wife. Or daughter? Perhaps a visiting cousin? She wanted to ask, but Ferran’s warning look stilled her tongue.
Finally they reached a waiting room in the manor’s west wing. The butler led them through it and opened a pair of double-doors to a plush office. Ferran entered without pause, but Sora hesitated for a moment, unsure if she should join him. Were ladies often included in First Tier business, particularly between brothers? Was she overstepping her bounds? As a daughter, she had even less right to intrude….
Crash remained by her side, just as a footman would.
Finally, she entered through the huge oak doors.
CHAPTER 18
Martin Ebonaire sat behind one of the largest desks in the Kingdom. It was almost the size of a dining table, and his chair could have replaced the royal throne. Behind him stood a tall, wide window overlooking the manor gardens, which lay thorny and dormant in the winter sun.
Ferran didn’t expect this room to feel so familiar. Family portraits adorned the walls; he remembered each one. He noted a few new bookshelves full of ledgers, land deeds and reports. The entire left wall was taken up by a massive tapestry, spanning floor to ceiling. Upon it, all the names of the Ebonaire line were written in curling, stylized script. A tree connected them all together, with hundreds of thin branches spiraling out from a thick trunk. A map of the family, his father had called it. Ferran had been forced to memorize every name of each generation. An Ebonaire must know his roots. He had spent hours in this room with his father, Lord Rowland Ebonaire, who taught him to manage the estate.
The room seemed the same, yet the man before him barely resembled the younger brother of his memories. Martin Ebonaire faced him across the desk. He wore unusually macabre colors: a black waistcoat with silver embroidery and a ruffled gray tunic. Ornate white-gold cufflinks fastened his wide sleeves, and a pocketwatch fit snugly into his breast pocket. He wore his dark-brown hair slicked back, tied at the base of his neck in a short ponytail with a black ribbon. He looked a far cry from the adolescent boy Ferran remembered—a shy, sensitive lad who had followed on his heels through the royal court. Martin Ebonaire was now a sharply handsome man with steel-gray eyes and an inquisitive nose.
Ferran could only assume Martin had a wife and family by now, though he hadn’t contacted his brother in many years. A sister-in-law, nieces and nephews? he thought, wondering how he would fit into the mix. Or if he would fit in. He had written Martin once, shortly after their father died, but a wayfaring life made it hard to send and receive posts. He never received a letter back and didn’t even know if his letter had been delivered.
His brother stared at him quietly over long, steepled fingers, his expression unreadable. The two regarded each other in static silence. It felt as though a storm of unspoken words filled the room.
Ferran fiddled with the cinnamon stick in his pocket. He had never expected to stand
in this office again. He felt less than presentable—which was absurd, considering the expensive suit Silas had loaned him. But in this house, even the servants’ livery was starched and creased to perfection.
Forget about it, he thought. It seemed ridiculous to worry about his appearance after his life of traveling. The First Tier had that effect on people, though. He cast a look at Sora, who appeared pale, if composed. The young girl nodded to him, and he was surprised by the steadiness of her gaze.
“Lord Ebonaire,” Sora said, unexpectedly leading the introductions. She gave a surprisingly elegant bow to his brother—reminding Ferran, again, that she was raised as a noblewoman.
Crash remained silent near the doorway, his arms by his sides, like a proper footman should.
Lord Martin nodded back to Sora, taking note of her well-practiced bow. Then he sat back. His scrutinizing gaze settled again on Ferran. “Well, you look like my brother,” he finally said. He surveyed them all closely. “Then again, you could also be a smuggler, thief, or some riffraff pulled out of the river. You’ll have to wear more than a nice suit if you want to convince me of your name.”
Ferran blinked. Not the response he expected. He cleared his throat and asked, “Then what do you suggest?”
“Prove your claim, or I will have Donwick throw you out,” Martin said simply.
Ferran felt a bit of his usual fire return. “You think this is a charade?”
Martin raised a manicured eyebrow. “Last we heard, my brother drowned on a pirate ship off the Glass Coast, and not a word since.”
“I sent a letter,” Ferran said. “Though to my knowledge, you never returned one…” He paused. Perhaps that wasn’t the best tactic, given the situation. His letter might not have arrived. “If I’m not who I say I am, then why did I come here?”
“Why does anyone come to the Ebonaire estate?” Martin said ironically. “Our coin, perhaps? Do you have a debt to pay off? May I mortgage some land for you? Or is it an overseas venture? Come now, let’s have it.”
Ferran truly wasn’t prepared for this. Why had he assumed his brother would recognize him? “I want nothing, Martin, more than to give my condolences for our father’s passing.”
“Tactful,” his brother said flippantly.
Ferran tried again. “I’ll prove it, then,” he said. He pointed to his face. “I have a scar on my chin.”
Martin regarded him for a moment longer. Then he stood and circled around his large desk, coming to stand immediately in front of Ferran. He gave him a measured look. Ferran stood just an inch taller than he. The two studied one another closely.
“There is a scar,” Martin acknowledged.
“I don’t suppose you remember how it came about?”
Martin nodded thoughtfully. “I remember. But do you?”
Ferran’s face cracked into a grin. “I was taunting you with a rapier,” he said. “You were ten at the time. You clocked me in the jaw, and I tripped down the staircase to the servant’s quarters. Bled something horrible. Mother thought I’d slit my neck.”
A smile grew on Martin’s lips as well.
“I cussed like a sailor and the governess fainted,” Ferran added.
Martin grinned, then composed himself thoughtfully. “There was another scar, on your left hand.”
Ferran raised his hand and displayed the back of it. A white line ran between his index and middle finger. “We were fishing on the lake behind our summer cottage,” he said. He remembered the place well—it was far from a cottage; the villa resided in a green valley to the south. Many of the First Tier owned land there because of the plentiful game and fishing. “You hooked me with your cast and tore out some flesh. I do believe you caught a steelhead.”
Now Martin laughed—a quick, ironic sound. “Biggest trout I ever saw…that fish was the size of a dog. Father mounted it in the cottage.” Martin paused, remembering. “But which room?”
“The sitting room,” Ferran said dryly. “It replaced our family portrait.”
Martin regarded him a bit longer. Then his stoic facade broke. A spark of disbelief kindled his eyes. “Well, a man can weave a good story, but you can’t fake a scar,” he murmured. Then, “I must say this is quite unexpected. We haven’t heard anything about you in eight years. We thought you’d drowned off the Glass Coast.”
“I’ve drowned many times,” Ferran dismissed him.
“Ha!” Martin barked. Then his brother clapped him on the shoulder, and Ferran felt as if a different man now stood before him. “This is truly a winter solstice blessing. It seems the Goddess has smiled upon me at last. To think, after so many years, here you are in the flesh!” Martin gazed at Ferran again, his eyes clear and focused, as though truly seeing him for the first time. “My long-lost brother, returned home,” he mused. “You look like a hard-traveled man—but your coat leads me to believe you’re doing well?” He flicked the shoulders of Ferran’s red coat as though admiring it, which was all for show, considering his own wealth. “You look like a proper Lord.”
Ferran grimaced. “Thank you…but I’m afraid my station has fallen a bit lower than that,” he said.
“No doubt,” Martin agreed readily. Ferran felt slightly put off. Then his brother turned and circled around his desk again, drew a cigar box from a cabinet at the corner of the room and lit it. “Smoke?” he asked.
Ferran hesitated. His hand twitched. With a bemused smile, he pulled his cinnamon stick from his pocket. “I’m sorry to say I no longer partake,” he declined.
Martin shrugged and puffed on his cigar. For a moment, Ferran thought he looked exactly like their father. That unnerved him.
“For a while, we didn’t stop hearing about you,” Martin said as he sat down again. “All sorts of stories and adventures about your procurement service. Father denied any connection to the Ebonaire line, of course, but….” He paused, and his mood seemed to shift. He turned solemn, as though remembering a dark time. “Mother missed you horribly. She would ask the servants for news of that dastardly treasure hunter. Simeon and I always listened. We enjoyed the stories. Simeon collected some of the tales in a journal. Said he might write a novel about it.”
Ferran paused in surprise. He fingered the cinnamon stick in his pocket. “A novel?” he asked.
“Yes. Of course Simeon doesn’t remember you as I do; he was so young, he could barely walk when you left.” Martin grinned ironically. “If he knew you a bit better, he might not feel so enamored by your adventures.”
“Well, that was a long time ago,” Ferran muttered.
Martin didn’t seem to hear. “We didn’t all agree with your exile, you know. Father was old-fashioned. Said the honor of our family had been questioned; we couldn’t have a thief running the Ebonaire estate. But for what it’s worth, no family like ours has a lick of honor.”
Martin laughed wryly at that while Ferran remained uncomfortably silent. He wasn’t fooled by his brother’s jovial manner. When his father threw him out, Martin certainly hadn’t stood up in his defense. He had the entire estate to inherit. Ferran wondered if he was only being welcomed home because he wasn’t a threat.
“Well, you’ve certainly filled my shoes as heir,” he mentioned, watching his brother’s reaction.
Martin shrugged at that. “I suppose it’s in the blood,” he said easily, then changed the topic. “What brings you here, after so many years? And who is your lovely companion? You appear to have journeyed far.” His eyes lingered on Sora again, glancing over her with keen interest. He ignored Crash completely, typical of a Lord of the First Tier.
Ferran felt a strange surge of protectiveness. Sora was a lovely girl in the prime of beauty. She had an innocent look about her—a heart-shaped face and full bottom lip with large, wide-set blue eyes. Her petite figure was toned with muscle and attractively proportionate. He didn’t like the way his brother’s gaze lingered on her.
“This is my daughter, Sora,” he said, keeping to the roles they had rehearsed on the Dawn Seeker. But
his satisfaction went deeper than that. He liked seeing the twitch on Martin’s face. “My wife is a respected Healer who studied at the royal seminary here in Crowns.”
Martin’s eyes darted between them. “I have a niece?” he said, and a charming smile came over his face. He set the cigar down, stood up, and took Sora’s hand. “My Lady, you certainly carry a noble grace.”
“Thank you, Milord,” Sora said, and curtsied slightly while holding his hand. She released his grip with the perfect amount of propriety, but Ferran still felt ruffled.
Then Martin turned back to Ferran. His tone became grave. “I am actually relieved at your arrival. It must be serendipity. This season has been hard on us. There seems to be a particularly nasty illness spreading around this winter. My wife….” His voice faded. “The illness claimed my wife three months ago. And now my daughter, Danica, has fallen ill….”
A look of anguish passed over Martin’s face, and Ferran felt his chest squeeze. He noted again his brother’s somber dress. “You’re in mourning,” he said, making sense of the general malaise of the house. “My condolences….Martin, if I had known….”
His brother waved a hand. “She is sorely missed, but we are surviving our grief.” He recovered his composure. “The Healer’s seminary is overrun and our house Healer is unable to treat Danica’s illness. We’ve brought in three other Healers, and they’ve tried everything, but Lady Danica only grows worse.”
Ferran could hear the genuine concern in his brother’s voice. He cleared his throat. “It must be serendipity indeed,” he murmured. “My wife, Lorianne, is quite skilled.”
Martin’s eyes flashed. “Perhaps, if your wife is so well-trained, she could see my daughter?” he asked. He glanced around the room as though Lori would appear any second. “Where is she?”
“She remains on our ship,” Ferran explained. “She wasn’t sure how we would be welcomed. But I can send for her….”