Cayman was delighted to have captured the young Duke's attention — though he could not, for the life of him, understand *why* the subject had provoked such a reaction.
He masked his uncertainty with importance. Drew his shoulders back. Let a note of condescension creep into his voice, the way he imagined a man of true standing might address a younger, less experienced peer.
"Yes, Your Grace. According to my subordinate, this woman is a demon contractor."
He wasn't sure whether it was the wine talking or whether some deeper, more reckless impulse had taken hold — the desire to demonstrate to this beautiful, arrogant boy from the North that Viscount Cayman was not a man to be overlooked.
Whatever the reason, he did not understand — could not yet understand — that he was doing something he would bitterly regret for the rest of his life.
"I'm also told," he continued, warming to his own performance, "that this pretty little thing possesses an unusual demon that manifests in the form of a butterfly." He allowed himself a chuckle. "Rather amusing, don't you think? Butterflies are such delicate creatures — hardly dangerous. So disposing of her should be as easy as swatting a fly. Wouldn't you agree?"
The banquet hall waited.
"…Funny."
For the first time that evening, something shifted at the corners of Lennox Carlisle's mouth. It might have been called a smile — but only by someone who had never seen one. There was no warmth in it. No amusement. It was the expression of a blade being drawn halfway from its sheath.
"I'm also looking for a woman."
The words fell into the room like a stone into still water.
Cayman's eyes widened. He had not expected this — not remotely. His pulse quickened, and he fought to keep the excitement from showing too plainly on his face.
In truth, every man gathered at this feast had paid for the privilege of sitting at Lord Akitas's table. Robert had summoned them with a carefully worded hint: the Duke of Carlisle appeared to be seeking someone in the East. Whoever proved useful might earn the favor of the most powerful lord in the North.
Cayman had assumed the Duke was either pursuing a runaway servant or tracking down a wayward blood relative. Something tedious. Something beneath a man of his station.
But *this* — a woman linked to a demon contractor, sought personally by the Duke of Carlisle — this was something else entirely. If Cayman could find her first, the reward would be extraordinary.
And despite his instinctive dislike of the young duke, despite every fiber of resentment that coiled in his chest at the sight of that effortlessly noble face — favor from the ruler of the North was favor from the ruler of the North.
"Tell me, Your Grace — who is it you're looking for?" Cayman leaned forward, careful to modulate his eagerness. "Perhaps I might be of some assistance."
At that moment, the expressions on the faces of the two knights seated beside Lennox Carlisle went absolutely still. Not tense. Not alarmed. Simply *frozen* — the way men's faces become when they know what is about to happen and have decided to let it.
Cayman didn't notice.
The Duke lifted his wine goblet, took a slow sip, and touched his tongue briefly to his lower lip before setting the cup down on the table with a soft, deliberate sound.
Lord Akitas's white wine had once been the pride of the East — legendary vintages that connoisseurs traveled across the empire to taste. But that was long ago. Like everything else in Aquitaine, the wine had aged past its prime. The aroma was pleasant enough, but the body was overripe, the finish cloying. It was not to his taste.
He set the goblet aside.
"Or," Cayman pressed, mistaking the silence for hesitation, "if you're not looking for anyone specific, I'd be happy to make introductions. There are many beauties in the East."
Lord Akitas, sensing an opportunity to insert himself, nodded vigorously from the head of the table.
"Yes, tell him, Duke! Cayman is the man who can find anyone you wish. *Anyone.* You have my personal guarantee."
Lennox's gaze drifted from the wine to Cayman's face. He regarded him for a long, unhurried moment — the way a man might examine an insect that had landed on his sleeve.
"Well," he said slowly, "since you insist." A pause. "How long would it take you to find the woman I want?"
"A week!" Cayman declared, striking the table lightly with his palm. "One week is more than sufficient."
"A week." Lennox repeated the words as though tasting them. "Then if you fail — you'll forfeit your head without hesitation?"
"Of course! I — " Cayman's mouth continued moving for a fraction of a second before his brain caught up. "…What?"
The banquet hall had gone very quiet. Even the musicians had stopped playing, though no one had signaled them to do so.
Lennox continued as though the question had been rhetorical.
"It's a simple enough task. The woman I'm looking for is the possessor of a butterfly demon."
The blood drained from Cayman's face in a single, visible wave — forehead to jaw, like a tide retreating from sand.
"I — that's — well, it's somewhat —"
He never finished the sentence.
***Clang.***
A metal cup struck the stone floor and rolled, the scraping sound obscenely loud in the silence.
It was Cayman's goblet. He had dropped it — though *dropped* was generous. He hadn't felt his fingers open. He hadn't felt himself move at all. Yet somehow he was no longer seated. Somehow his knees were on the cold floor, and the impact had sent a jolt of pain up through both legs, and tears — *tears*, in front of the Duke, in front of Lord Akitas, in front of every vassal and merchant and servant in the hall — were streaming down his face.
"I — Your Grace, what are you —"
"You said one week."
"Yes. Yes…?"
"Then I suggest you take very good care of your throat."
The air *split.*
Every person in the banquet hall saw it, and not one of them could explain it afterward. One instant, the Duke of Carlisle's hands were empty. The next, a sword occupied the space between them — pulled from nowhere, from nothing, from thin air itself, as though reality had simply decided to accommodate him.
The blade was black. Not dark steel, not burnished iron — ***black***, the way a void is black, the way the space between stars is black. It drank the candlelight and gave nothing back.
Its tip rested against the hollow of Cayman's throat. He could feel the point — cold and impossibly sharp — pressing into the skin just above his collar, precisely where the pulse beat fastest.
Lennox Carlisle looked down at him with those red eyes, and his voice, when he spoke, was quieter than anything Cayman had ever heard. Quieter than silence. Quieter than the sound of his own heart hammering behind his ribs.
"If even one hair on Juliet's head is harmed — I will take yours."
No one in the hall moved. No one breathed.
The black sword held its position for three seconds longer — an eternity measured in heartbeats — and then it was gone. Vanished as impossibly as it had appeared. Lennox sat back in his chair, lifted Lord Akitas's mediocre wine, and drank.
Cayman remained on the floor.
His knees would not obey him. His hands, braced flat against the stone, were shaking so badly that his rings clicked against the tile. A wet, dark stain was spreading beneath his left knee where the spilled wine had pooled, but he could not bring himself to care.
*Juliet.*
He didn't know the name. He had never heard it before this moment.
But he understood — with the absolute, bone-deep certainty of a man who has just watched death pass close enough to feel its breath — that he would never forget it.
---
## — Lobell —
"Ow!"
Juliet winced and pulled the towel away from her head, frowning at it as though it had personally betrayed her.
A sharp, stinging sensation prickled her scalp. She turned the towel over and discovered a tangle of long hair clinging to the rough fabric — several strands pulled free during her vigorous drying.
She dropped the towel with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in her chest.
"Huff."
Long hair was a commitment. It took ages to dry, ages to comb, and a frankly unreasonable amount of effort to maintain. Juliet grabbed a fresh towel and wound it around her head in a haphazard turban, tucking the ends in with the practiced resignation of someone who had performed this ritual a thousand times.
*Beautiful, silky hair is not easy to achieve.*
She caught her reflection in the small mirror above the washbasin and laughed — a quiet, rueful sound.
*This beauty is the result of hard work. Very hard work that I am no longer doing.*
Her hair was a lovely color — the warm, honeyed shade of good light bourbon — but it had a fine, temperamental texture and grew out with alarming speed. She remembered, with a pang she hadn't expected, those mornings and evenings in the Duke's manor, when the maids would gather in her bedroom with their combs and oils. They would work in pairs, starting at the ends and moving upward with infinite patience, massaging costly serums into every strand until it gleamed like poured silk.
Juliet tilted her head and studied the woman in the mirror. Damp hair escaping the towel in unruly wisps. Cheeks pink from the steam. No cosmetics, no jewelry, no elaborate gown — just a plain cotton dress and bare feet on cold tile.
She grinned.
*If the Duke of Carlisle could see me now, he probably wouldn't recognize his exquisite mistress.*
Since leaving the manor, she had done nothing for her hair beyond the bare minimum — washing, drying, occasionally wrestling a comb through it when the tangles became aggressive enough to qualify as a separate entity. Her appearance had suffered accordingly.
"Maybe I should just cut it," she murmured to her reflection.
The thought made her wince. She'd been growing it for *years.* But managing it alone, without the maids, without the oils, without the two-hour grooming sessions —
No. She couldn't do it. The very idea of scissors near her hair made something inside her rebel.
*Coward,* she told herself fondly.
And so, armed with a comb and a determination that bordered on martial, Juliet went to war against her most terrible enemy: moisture.
---
By the time her hair was finally, mercifully dry, the morning was well advanced.
Juliet descended the stairs to the town square with a lightness in her step that bordered on giddiness. The day before, Zachary's lawyer had presented her with a list of establishments in Lobell where she might find temporary work. She hadn't expected much — it was a small town, after all — but to her surprise, the shopkeepers and merchants she'd approached had agreed readily. Enthusiastically, even.
Sewing was out of the question. Cooking was a disaster waiting to happen. But Juliet could read, and she could write, and in a town where not everyone possessed those skills, that was currency enough.
*Well, I'm lucky.*
Her savings had covered travel expenses so far without difficulty, but she was realistic enough to know they wouldn't last forever. A bit of income would give her breathing room — and if the work was pleasant, perhaps she'd stay in Lobell a little longer than planned. The thought warmed her. She liked this town. She liked its people.
She reached the first shop on her list, smoothed her dress, and knocked.
---
Twenty minutes later, the warmth had cooled considerably.
"I'm terribly sorry," the shopkeeper said, not quite meeting her eyes. "We actually can't take anyone on right now."
Juliet blinked. "But yesterday you said —"
"Yes, well." The man rubbed the back of his neck and studied the doorframe with intense fascination. "Things have changed. I'm sorry."
She smiled — because she always smiled — told him it was no trouble at all, and walked to the next establishment on her list.
The same thing happened.
And the next.
And the next.
The townspeople who had so readily promised her work just the day before now shifted on their feet, avoided her gaze, and produced excuses that ranged from apologetic to transparently invented. *We've just filled the position. The budget won't allow it. My partner decided against it.*
Juliet's steps grew heavier with each refusal.
Even Veronica, the librarian — who had been so excited about the prospect of an assistant that she'd nearly clapped her hands — now stood behind her desk with a pained expression.
"I'm so sorry, Juliet. I spoke too soon. I should have checked with the director first, and when I told him about it…" She trailed off, guilt written across every feature. "He said we can't afford a new staff member."
"It's perfectly all right." Juliet's smile was warm, practiced, and only slightly strained. "Please don't worry about it."
She left the library and stood in the square for a moment, staring at nothing.
*What happened between yesterday and today?*
She visited the merchants who had given her a ride recently — friendly men who had chatted amiably with her for miles. They, too, seemed suddenly and acutely embarrassed. They busied themselves with imaginary tasks, rearranging crates that didn't need rearranging, and declined with the hurried vagueness of people who wished very much that she would stop asking.
*Is it because I'm an outsider?*
The thought settled over her like a shadow, and the brightness of the morning dimmed.
---
It was past midday when Juliet returned to the center of town, footsore and dispirited.
She chose a table beneath a faded canvas umbrella outside a small open-air café and sat down with the careful, deliberate composure of someone trying very hard not to feel sorry for herself.
*What should I do now?*
She hadn't anticipated this. Not even remotely. Yesterday the doors had been open, and today every one of them had closed — gently, apologetically, but firmly.
*It seems I'll have to move on to where I originally planned.*
Her true destination wasn't far from Lobell. She still had time to explore the surrounding area before departing. But —
*Oh, I so wanted to stay here a little longer.*
She loved this quiet, unhurried town. The cobblestone streets that smelled of bread in the mornings. The little rented house with its creaking staircase and its windows that caught the afternoon light. The food — simple, honest, and somehow always better than it had any right to be.
There were historical sites nearby she hadn't seen. And the Festival of the Dead in Carcassonne — she'd read about it in the library, the lanterns and the processions and the music that was said to make the living weep and the dead smile — she had wanted so badly to see it.
Juliet stabbed her fork into her sandwich with more force than the bread deserved and chewed without tasting.
Her finances were modest but manageable. She'd rented the house, but she couldn't afford to hire help, so she did the cleaning and laundry herself — or tried to. Mrs. Rhonda, the house's owner, appeared at her door every other day regardless, armed with a mop and a basket for the linens, refusing payment with a wave of her hand and a cheerful "Nonsense, dear, it's no trouble."
Juliet was still contemplating her circumstances when a plate materialized before her, placed on the table with a soft, ceramic *click.*
She looked up.
A slice of raspberry pie sat before her — golden-crusted, dusted with powdered sugar, the deep red fruit glistening through a lattice top like tiny jewels.
"I didn't order this," Juliet said.
"Oh, I know." Mrs. Riley, the café's owner, stood beside her table with a dish towel over one shoulder and the particular smile of a woman who would not be argued with. "I was just practicing a new recipe. Try it instead of dessert — I need an honest opinion."
"Thank you. I'd be happy to."
Juliet studied the pie with genuine admiration. The crust was a deep, even gold. The lattice work was precise — not the casual effort of a *practice run.* The scent alone — butter, warm sugar, the bright tang of fresh raspberries — was enough to make her mouth water.
She cut a piece with her fork and brought it to her lips.
The outer crust shattered at the first touch of her teeth — crisp, flaky, shattering into buttery layers. The interior was soft and yielding, the raspberry filling perfectly balanced between sweetness and tartness. It melted on her tongue, and for a moment the disappointments of the morning dissolved with it.
*Eight coupons. I am eating a dessert that costs eight coupons.*
In the capital, a pie of this quality would cost two silver coins. Three, if the pastry chef had any sense of his own worth.
*The people here are truly very kind.*
Juliet set her fork down on the edge of the plate with the unconscious grace of someone trained in etiquette from childhood.
And then she paused.
A thought — small and sharp, like a splinter working its way to the surface — pierced through the pleasant haze.
*…Too kind.*
She sat very still.
That's exactly it. The people of Lobell were too generous. Too attentive. Too *coincidental* in their kindnesses.
She began to count.
Last week, she had lost one of her gloves. She'd been about to purchase a new pair when Mrs. Rhonda had appeared at her door that same evening, pressing a pair of delicate lace gloves into her hands. *"My niece used to wear these — they're just sitting in a drawer. Please, take them."*
Two days later, Juliet had spent half a day searching for a hair clip — a simple, functional thing to tame the unruly mess her hair had become. She'd found nothing suitable in the shops. That evening, Mrs. Riley had presented her with a brand-new one over coffee. *"I bought two by accident. Silly of me. This one's yours."*
And just yesterday, when she'd been about to hire a carriage back to her rented house after a long walk, Bollen — the general goods merchant — had pulled up alongside her in his cart. *"I'm heading the same direction. Climb in."* For some reason, she had felt far more comfortable in his company than she ever had with the guild merchants.
Her gaze drifted to the table.
A bouquet of fresh flowers sat in a small glass vase — primroses, their petals the soft, creamy yellow of early spring. On her way to the main street that morning, Mr. Gelazni, the florist, had pressed them into her hands with an apologetic shrug. *"A customer ordered these and never came to collect them. It would be a shame to let them wilt."*
And now this pie.
Juliet looked down at the plate. At the perfect crust. At the filling that no *practice attempt* had any business producing.
She looked at the flowers.
She looked at the gloves on her hands.
*The first primrose flowers of the season,* she thought slowly. *Given away because a customer didn't collect them. A hair clip bought "by accident." A pie made "for practice." A carriage ride offered "because he was going the same direction."*
Each kindness, taken alone, was perfectly natural. Perfectly plausible. The sort of warmth one might expect in a small, friendly town.
But taken together —
Juliet placed her fork on the plate with a precision worthy of a royal dining hall.
Her expression did not change. Her posture remained relaxed, her smile soft and pleasant. But behind her eyes, something had shifted — a quiet rearrangement, like tumblers clicking into place inside a lock.
*Someone* was looking after her.
She didn't know who. She didn't know why. And she wasn't certain whether the realization should comfort her or frighten her.
She picked up the fork again and took another bite of the pie.
It was, she had to admit, absolutely *magnificent.*