1st Week of March, 1460

  The day should have been going perfectly.

  That was the thought that lodged itself in Theophylact’s mind, the one he returned to with the most bitterness. His anxiety gnawed at him like a great beast he could neither leash nor drive away, stalking him through the myriad of small crises that sprang up each day, through every syllable he stuttered, even through the shadowed corridors of his own thoughts. It was an old companion to him now, as familiar as it was unwelcome. And one he was deathly afraid of, even at the best of times.

  And this was not a good time for it.

  He entered his cramped study to find Iadeus already there, ginger mop bobbing as he rummaged through the litany of old writs and flowery prose the Nomikos ancestors had left behind. The boy was elbow-deep in parchment, tracing a chronological telling of times long gone, all in search of one damning piece of evidence. Theophylact’s gaze slid over the piles of crumbling seals and fading ink, the dust of generations.

  In truth, the northern lands of Theodoro were not, by right, solely in the command of House Nomikos. The systems left over from the great Eastern Roman Empire of days past had specifically stated that commanders of the great fortresses of the realm were to be appointed officers, loyal to the Crown first and foremost. The great families of that bygone era, for all their grandeur, lived and died by imperial favour and were nowhere near as autonomous as the ones today.

  In the long decline that followed the catastrophic defeat at the hands of the Seljuk horde, that system had frayed. The Crown, weakened and desperate, had come to lean more heavily on its noble houses, granting away privileges piece by piece. The Principality had not been spared that gradual rot. In time - through intrigue, favours, alliances, and betrayals - the appointed holders of the northern lands of Theodoro and the Suyren fortress had always ended up being the successive Nomikos patriarchs, confirmed by the Prince himself.

  The cost of this arrangement, however, weighed heavily upon Nomikos land. Tribute was expected to be high, gifts and courtesies to the Crown a necessity. It was the price for keeping the appointment from slipping through their fingers. A single misstep, a single displeased courtier, and the Prince might very well remember that the fortress was, in theory, his to grant to whomever he wished.

  But with their work, that precarious balance might change. If they succeeded, it could alter the entire political landscape of the Principality.

  And Theophylact would be the man behind it.

  The thought filled him with equal parts pride and dread.

  “D-did you double-check the s-signature on the original document?” Theophylact whispered, voice hoarse. His eyes flicked between the forgery in Iadeus’s ink-stained fingers and the original writ lying open on the table.

  “Yes. It is perfect.” Iadeus did not look up. The young Nomikos’s expression was feverish, the slight bags under his eyes mirroring Theophylact’s own, as if both had been gnawed at by the same sleepless nights.

  Theophylact drew in a slow breath and turned his attention to the mountain of paperwork that now dominated his small office. It was the result of months of careful labour, only made possible by delegating swathes of his usual duties to that snake Hypatius and to the always reliable Captain. Here, gathered in precarious stacks, lay tax rolls, boundary descriptions, records of church donations and, most crucially, the history of the past Suyren commanders, reaching as far back as the thirteenth century.

  Together, they formed critical, unequivocal proof that the Nomikos had held these lands for generations. It painted a picture that they had been the Crown’s stewards here and managed the region with exceptional diligence, increasing yields and keeping a fragile stability in the borderlands that might easily have fallen into chaos. Though the numbers and figures cited were heavily skewed and edited.

  Tying it all together was a single, precious piece of evidence that staked their claim unequivocally. A royal writ, asserting that the very formation of the Principality had sprung from the grant of Crown lands to the Gabras family in reward for their service as loyal vassals and commanders of the Theodoran region for decades and generations.

  It was a precedent that, if accepted, meant the Nomikos lands could in theory rule themselves, answering to the Crown only in name, making them less vassals and more partners.

  It was also utterly fake, crafted with care by Iadeus and Theophylact from a copy of the original grant, each line adjusted until the text said what they needed it to say.

  They had mimicked John VI Kantakouzenos’s hand and made a crude imitation of the royal seal by pressing fine, moist clay on a copy the Lord had procured of the decades-old seal, then baking it into a hard mold to pour wax on.

  The compilation of documents they had assembled, a veritable paper arsenal, would let Nomikos lands secede from the Crown.

  “G-good work.” Theophylact placed a trembling hand upon Iadeus’s shoulder. The boy’s talent for bookkeeping and fine handwriting had allowed the whole process to run smoothly. Without him, the forgery would never have reached this level of perfection.

  Iadeus shrugged off the hand at once, as if it were something unclean. His freckled face pinched with open disgust. “Do not touch me so casually, you disgusting tub of lard.” The Nomikos scion rose, putting deliberate distance between them. “With this, I am finally free of this tedious work. And of pretending to work for such a useless fop as yourself.”

  Theophylact withdrew his hand as though burned and nursed it against his chest like a dog licking at its wounds, hating himself for the gesture even as he made it. His only ‘subordinate’ was nothing more than a tool lent to him by Lord Adanis for this forgery of monumental consequence, and would return to his true master the moment the task was done.

  “O-of c-course, Y-young master,” Theophylact murmured, bowing with awkward haste. He had no notion where Iadeus had learned his skills, but he knew enough to understand that the boy was a prized tool of Lord Adanis, and thus a dangerous person to cross. It still stung to be dismissed by one so young, and one who, by rights, should have been working under him. “I did not mean to presume-”

  “You did not mean, but you have.” Iadeus cut in, voice cold and smooth. “Never forget your place.” He sneered openly, contempt plain in every line of his face, before turning away as though Theophylact were no more than another inkpot on the table.

  Three soft knocks sounded at the door. Their familiar rhythm clearly announced who stood on the other side. Iadeus and Theophylact exchanged a brief glance and, in the span of a heartbeat, schooled their postures and expressions back into their appointed roles.

  “P-Please enter, Captain,” Theophylact called, lowering himself back into his chair as if he had been rooted there, buried in the mountain of paperwork before him.

  Iadeus hunched in his corner, shoulders rounded, eyes downcast, looking every bit the hapless young scribe drafted from the household to assist the steward.

  Captain Theodorus waltzed into the room with the commanding air of a general surveying a battlefield, his gaze sweeping over the study. It was a habit Theophylact had noticed in the Captain. The boy always assessed before he spoke, taking in the placement of documents, the blotches of ink, even the angle of one’s shoulders. It was as if he were sizing up the people around him by their very clothes and scraps of decoration.

  “Good morning, Theophylact,” he said with a smile. His talent for analysis was even more terrifying when turned upon people. Theophylact lived in constant dread that the Captain had already seen through their plot - and through Theophylact himself. “Already working? Your diligence is a virtue.”

  Despite himself, Theophylact preened at the compliment - it was rare he ever received one. “T-the work never ends,” he stuttered with a nervous smile, sometimes wondering if the reason the Captain had not yet pierced his deception was because the anxious quiver in his voice when he lied so perfectly mirrored his usual miserable, stuttering disposition.

  “Indeed, it doesn’t.” Theodorus’s smile thinned as he spared a brief glance toward Iadeus from the corner of his eye, the familiar signal to Theophylact that he wished to speak alone.

  “I-Iadeus, why don’t you t-take the finished document to Lord A-Adanis?” Theophylact could not help the scared tremor in his voice every time he had to give Iadeus an order.

  “Of course, master Steward.” Iadeus bowed deeply, the image of weary obedience. His deferential tone contrasted so sharply with his earlier contempt that, had Theophylact not known better, he might have believed it. The boy took the forgery with careful fingers and left the study with light, unhurried steps, sneaking a glance at Theophylact. One he knew the meaning of well. Do not share anything you’re not supposed to.

  Theodorus’s eyes followed the document as it disappeared through the doorway. “A signed writ?” he asked, mild as ever. The man let nothing slip past his notice, he had almost certainly glimpsed the imperial seal.

  “A-an old account of previous tax r-rolls,” Theophylact said quickly, waving a hand as if the matter bored him. His stutter did its best to hide the stiffness in his manner. “The Lord i-is f-finding ways to r-reduce the tithe he has to p-pay.” he said by way of misdirection.

  “He hasn’t paid the tithe yet?” The Captain frowned, a faint line cutting between his brows. “My brother has paid the remaining sum of the tax, as part of the arrangement I procured for our Lord. He has the goods in hand to cover it.”

  “Y-yes, and he i-is grateful for your assistance,” Theophylact said. It had been a salvation when the Captain stepped in to mend that looming disaster. The unpaid tithe had been the chief terror haunting Theophylact’s sleep, alongside the forgery itself. The Captain had come through and helped him. Of course, Theophylact knew it was not solely out of kindness, but that he valued Theophylact enough to move so many pieces on his behalf was a compliment in and of itself. “B-but the tithe is too large, h-he says. H-he is trying to argue it d-down.”

  The Captain was silent for a moment, turning the words over in his mind. He studied Theophylact without blinking, as if weighing him on an invisible scale. Theophylact swallowed.

  “Very well,” Theodorus said at last. His tone gave nothing away. “I came to you at this early hour, my good Steward, because I have heard whispers from the nomad families during the last Market Fair.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “The Lord has begun calling on the Tatar families to come to the castle to hear an invitation and a proposal.” His tone dropped to a murmur. “Do you know anything about this?”

  Theophylact felt a bead of sweat slide from his bald head, tracing a slow path down his temple. “I’m a-afraid not, Captain,” he managed. He hated himself for how quickly the lie sprang to his lips. The Captain had been the only noble to treat him with courtesy and respect, the only one to speak to him as if he were a man rather than a piece of furniture that shuffled parchment. And Theophylact repaid that with lies. “T-the Lord doesn’t share such things with me.”

  Theodorus looked at him and Theophylact felt exposed beneath that steady gaze. He knew the Captain could see straight through him, past the stutter and sweat to the quivering truth he tried to hide. Theophylact braced for anger, for cold accusation, for the hard narrowing of the eyes.

  Instead, the Captain simply smiled. His shoulders loosened, and his hand came to rest on Theophylact’s shoulder in a firm, companionable grip. Somehow, that gentle touch was worse. He still treated Theophylact with kindness despite everything. “I know that the Lord raised you up to your position, and that you have always been a loyal servant of his,” the Captain said softly, youthful eyes bright and steady. “But do you not trust me?”

  The question struck Theophylact’s heart like a blade.

  “The nights spent poring over inventory documents, updating the muster rolls. The market fair,” Theodorus continued, quietly ticking off all the tasks on his fingers. Tasks they had accomplished together, a roll of small, careful victories any steward would be proud to claim. “And the tithe,” he added. “It was our great accomplishment, Theophylact. We have done much together. People might attribute such things to me, but I know the hand that steadies the proceedings behind. I do not forget debts paid.” His eyes hardened, not with anger, but with earnest conviction. “And I never turn my back on my friends.”

  The words rang inside Theophylact’s skull.

  “F-friends?” he repeated, the word stumbling over his tongue as if it were foreign. He could not quite grasp its meaning as applied to himself. He had never had any. His memories were full only of mockery, belittlement, insults. He had been granted his position because the Lord had been amused by his heavy stutter, because he had noticed a man willing to perform the most menial tasks with zeal in order to prove his worth, and because his father had been the previous steward. “W-we’re f-friends?” he whispered. The notion felt fragile and impossible. He had never had anyone to call close to him.

  “Yes, we are.” Theodorus replied with a comforting smile. “So please, tell me what ails you. I can tell you are more agitated than usual. Something weighs on you.”

  Theophylact looked startled. So the Captain had noticed from the very beginning. He supposed that was what friends were for - someone to whom you could finally loosen your grip on troubles and tribulations. The thought brought a small, uncertain smile to his face. Yes. That sounded… nice.

  “Y-you are right, C-captain,” Theophylact said, fingers worrying at the edge of a ledger. “Th-there is… something.”

  Theodorus waited, patient, his hand still resting lightly on Theophylact’s shoulder.

  “It’s L-lord Adanis,” Theophylact began, swallowing. “H-he is not only c-calling the Tatar families back to the castle. H-he is m-mustering his troops as well. R-riders sent to the outlying v-villages, orders f-for men to gather. H-he means to s-start building a force.”

  Theodorus’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. “A permanent muster?” he asked quietly.

  Theophylact nodded his head. “I-I do not think he m-means to pay the tithe at all. The s-second market fair was a s-success - more so than the f-first thanks to our efforts. The s-stalls are growing, the n-nomads came d-despite the Lord’s announcement at the last fair. A-and already I hear whispers o-of merchants visiting S-Suyren to know more about it.” Theophylact’s tone grew passionate as he imagined the coin and trade flowing through their lands in time under his stewardship. “And yet the Lord b-barely batted an eye. He only asked h-how much in market tolls we had e-extracted. A-as if it didn’t matter.” His mouth twisted in bitterness. At the casual dismissal of his accomplishments. He should be used to it by now, but he was finding out just how much it still stang as he shared it aloud.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Theodorus drew back a fraction, his earlier warmth cooling into careful focus. “Go on,” he said.

  “I-I have also learned that Hypatius has amassed and l-loaned a sizeable sum of m-money for Lord Adanis,” Theophylact continued in a rush, as if afraid his courage would fail him. “And the Lord has g-granted him control of the Suyren garrison in exchange. Hypatius m-means to begin reorganizing its structure, equipping the men with h-his own weapons, even s-supplementing them with men from the Nomikos l-lands. New spears, new pay, new officers. All f-flowing through his hands.”

  The Captain’s jaw tightened. “Hypatius?” he repeated. “In charge of the garrison.” His gaze drifted past Theophylact for a heartbeat, as if mapping possibilities against the stone walls. “What do you think will happen, Theophylact?”

  The steward’s shoulders sagged. “I-I fear they are b-building an army,” he whispered. “For what p-purpose, I have no c-clue. But an army all the same.”

  He hesitated, but decided to go for broke, to share all his fears. “A-and with Hypatius’s new r-role, l-looking over m-musters and accounts, I… I f-fear the Lord is… enh-hancing his standing. Th-that he may be b-beginning to r-replace me.” The words came out strangled, shame burning in his cheeks. “I-I am just a stuttering f-fool in their eyes. Easily s-set aside.”

  For a moment the panic clawed at him, thin breath rasping in his throat.

  Theodorus’s grip on his shoulder firmed, steadying. “Listen to me,” he said, voice low but resolute. “If Lord Adanis is playing at soldiers and defiance, then a storm is coming. But we will weather it together, you and I. We will watch, and we will act when we must. You are not alone in this.”

  Theophylact stared at him, blinking rapidly as his eyes grew hot. “Th-thank you, C-captain,” he murmured, tears threatening to begin to slip free. “I… I don’t d-deserve-”

  “You have nothing to thank me for,” Theodorus cut in gently. “ This is what friends are for.”

  Theophylact broke down in tears.

  …

  When the Captain took his leave again, Theophylact found he could not bring himself back to his ledgers. The columns blurred whenever he looked at them. He decided he needed a break from the work. With his mind in turmoil he withdrew to his cramped bedroom and began pacing its narrow track like a caged animal.

  No one entered this sanctuary, not even the maids, as he had forbidden it so. Here, he shed the sneers and the snickering. Here, he was simply himself. Yet the worry followed him still, a dog at his heel, a shadow he could not shake loose. His breath quickened, coming fast and hot.

  “T-they want to replace me, b-because they think me a fool. A s-simpleton. A s-s-stuttering buffoon.” His voice sounded strange in the small room. Here he could give shape to the thoughts and emotions that roiled inside his head through the day, that pulsed and throbbed and ached so badly he had to release them or be split apart. They were in his very blood.

  And there was only one way he had found to take them out.

  He rolled back his sleeve. A lattice of pale, roped scars and fresh red welts crossed his wrist like bad stitching - an old map of every impure, dark impulse he had ever harboured.

  “Y-you h-have to be better, you u-utter simpleton,” he muttered, hearing his father’s voice as clearly as if the man still stood over him. It was what his father used to say as he taught him his letters, cane in hand. His father might have left, but the words never had. Neither had the pain.

  He took up the small knife he kept for this private ritual, its curved edge oiled to a muted sheen.

  His breath hitched as the cold metal met his skin. The blade bit, and fire blossomed along the line it traced. Each stroke felt like a penance, a desperate attempt to scour away the sins that had bred his cursed stammer, to use the wounds on his flesh to reach the ones buried too deep in his heart. The pain clarified. The pain obeyed. Unlike the whispers and the doubts, it did as it was told.

  It was the only way he had ever found to vent the frustration and dark thoughts in his mind. There had never been anyone he could tell them to. Not before.

  As he lay panting on his narrow bed, exhausted, feeling weak from the thin rivulets of blood seeping from his wrist and soaking into the rag he pressed there, he couldn’t help the small, shaky smile that tugged at his lips.

  Because now, for the first time in his life, he had someone to speak to.

  He had a friend.

  A roiling black cloud crawled up from the east, slowly ambling its way toward Mangup, streaks of white lightning faintly visible in the distance.

  Dark and grey. That was how Panagiotis’s days had felt of late. Like a man bracing for the coming rain, trying desperately to patch up a cracked fortress with bare hands before the flood broke through.

  The Principality had been betrayed, and the shape of the culprit behind it was now plain to see.

  Philemon had long been a thorn in their side. A stubborn vine that found cracks in the old fortifications and wormed its way deeper into the stone, sending out fresh tendrils wherever it pleased. And Mangup’s stones were old and cracked - now more than ever. Panagiotis had suspected him for years, placing agents along the edges of his retinue, cultivating informants and spies in the expectation of an inevitable clash. A man like Philemon did not play for second fiddle.

  Through those channels he had begun to sketch an outline of Philemon’s plots, but the report from the Sideris boy had been the final piece, the line that made the whole picture suddenly clear.

  Playing this game of shadows and intrigue for so long with that cunning fox had tricked Panagiotis. He had expected subtle plays and creeping encroachments: another concession here, a sliver of land there, a little more autonomy prised from the Crown’s weakening grip. The same game they had played back and forth for the last decade - Panagiotis striving to preserve the Crown and what remained of the state, Philemon trying to carve it apart to take pieces for himself.

  That long familiarity had somehow left him blindsided to the possibility of a full-blown rebellion. Philemon was a cunning man, and direct war was a crude tool, a saying he’d stated himself on plenty of occasions. He had never had much talent for it, nor any particular taste. When they had served as officers together in the army, Philemon had always been more interested in vying for influence, whispering in tents and council halls, than in studying the enemy’s formations.

  In a way, this military confrontation was itself a cunning move. It used Panagiotis’s own perception of the man against him. War from Philemon was the last thing he’d expect.

  But now Panagiotis had information about his concrete plans. And, crucially, Philemon did not know that. A threat you could see was valuable, but only so long as your enemy remained blind to the fact that you saw it.

  So the plan he had hatched with the Prince had been one of quiet countermoves. No proclamations or overt purges, as Philemon had too much influence with the nobles and they didn't have any concrete evidence as of yet. Just a slow tightening of belts, a shifting of men and grain. And now all those quiet preparations were coming to a head.

  “Enter,” Panagiotis commanded.

  Gennadios slipped in without a sound, as he always did. “The men have gathered and the militias are ready to muster,” he said, without preamble. He always spoke sparingly and cut straight to the heart of a matter, a trait Panagiotis valued highly. It was one of the reasons they had been tied together for so long.

  “The supplies?” Panagiotis asked.

  “A secret stash is being filled in the lower granary,” Gennadios replied. “And the garrison’s equipment has been double-checked. We have plenty of dried grain and salted meat, and enough weapons to arm upwards of a thousand men.”

  His ruined eye, pale and cloudy, caught the firelight as he turned toward the window, its partner narrowing as he studied the roiling clouds sweeping toward them. For all its damage, that blind eye unnerved men more than any sword.

  “Good,” Panagiotis said.

  In truth, it was a pitiful amount. A thousand men, and that was counting on the village militias answering promptly. But it was the best they had been able to scrape together with the treasury drained, and so much of their strength squandered on that foolish privateer war.

  Philemon had managed to force through the issue of the attack on Genoese war galleys. His hatred for the Italians was a good mask for the instability he sought to create in the Principality.

  His arrogance, however, would be his undoing.

  They were fully stocked for a siege within the capital’s walls, and Panagiotis had quietly mustered men and equipment for the coming confrontation, shuffling units on parchment as carefully as a gambler shifting cards. He was ready to endure a drawn-out siege that Philemon could not hope to maintain for long, or, if all went according to plan, to force a decisive engagement in the field. One that he was confident would mean the end of the Makris Patriarch.

  Because when it came to military affairs, Panagiotis had never lost to Philemon.

  Hard knocks echoed through the room, sharp enough to rattle the hinges, and both men turned toward the sound. Panagiotis jutted his chin in a small, economical gesture that served as a silent order, and Gennadios moved at once to obey.

  Panagiotis heard only snatches from the other side of the door, panicked whispers, and Gennadios’s calm rasp cutting the panic down to size. A moment later, his bodyguard slipped back inside, closing the door firmly behind him. His face was drawn and tight, his whole posture coiled as if ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.

  Panagiotis was instantly on guard. News that put that look on Gennadios’s face was never good.

  “What happened?” Panagiotis asked, more brusque than even his usual self.

  “The attack on the Genoese galleys.” Gennadios spoke slowly. “It failed.” He paused, as though the words themselves weighed on his tongue, each word dropping like a stone. “We lost nearly all the galleys. Sunk to the bottom of the sea, or captured by the Genoese.”

  The words landed like a thunderbolt in the room, scouring away all other sound. The fireplace seemed to crackle more quietly, even the wind outside held its breath.

  Captured galleys meant seized crews, seized logs, and seized letters. The Genoese would learn exactly who had been behind the recent attacks, and they would not take that lying down. They had stirred the hornet’s nest at the worst possible time, and now the whole swarm would come flying out.

  The Principality was hanging on by a thread as it was. Panagiotis could feel, in the ache of his bones and the pull at the back of his neck, that this was the last snap. Diplomatic cover was gone, and the illusion of deniability had been smashed on a foreign shore.

  All that was left was the pour of the rain, descending upon Mangup like a waterfall off the cliffs.

  The storm had arrived.

  Cassandra fiddled with the quill in her hand, turning it between ink-stained fingers as the last strokes of the poem she was writing eluded her. The words hovered just out of reach, like misty clouds you couldn’t quite see.

  The crackle of the fireplace in the Nomikos common room proved a soothing balm. Warmth gathered in the high stone hearth, painting the shelves and tapestries with a soft orange glow. Cassandra and Apostolos once again occupied their respective tables: she with her scattered parchments and half-finished verses, he with neat stacks of reports from his patrols.

  The lines were coming slowly to her, so Cassandra decided a break was in order. She stretched her cramped fingers and glanced at her brother.

  “The work is going better this time?” Cassandra asked. The energy radiating from Apostolos was much less frantic than last time. Instead of restless pacing and muttered curses, he sat at his desk, calmly poring over his reports, lips moving faintly as he read.

  “Yes.” Apostolos smiled, a quick, genuine thing that softened his features. “Your suitor’s advice has proved invaluable in bettering discipline amidst my patrols.” He had moved past ignoring his little sister’s love adventures and to the next phase of teasing her for it. She wondered if this was a normal development for all big brothers. “I was right all along. There was no single secret to it.” He seemed quietly pleased with himself over that revelation. “It is a system. An ingenious, unorthodox one. But one can’t deny the results.”

  He gave a small laugh, shoulders easing as he leaned back in his chair, satisfaction loosening the stiffness that duty usually carved into his frame.

  He nearly toppled over when their father entered unannounced. Apostolos jolted, forcing his posture into a ramrod-straight line, greeting Papa with a brisk military salute.

  Their father barely acknowledged the gesture, waving a hand to signal at ease as he closed the door to his study behind him. His eyes were tired, but they curved into smiling half-moons when he saw Cassandra and moved closer.

  “How are you, my little fawn?” he asked, reaching out to pat her head.

  “Papaa,” Cassandra said in mock irritation, shooing his hand away with an exaggerated flick. “I’m not twelve anymore,” she pouted, though the corners of her mouth threatened to betray her.

  Papa chuckled softly. “To me, you’ll always be my little fawn.” His gaze drifted to the desk before her, taking in the ink, the careful script, the half-crossed-out lines. “I see you’re writing poetry again,” he said, voice carefully neutral.

  He knew, of course, the likely subject and inspiration for Cassandra’s sudden renewed interest in poetry. Cassandra ducked her head, letting the curtain of her copper hair fall forward to hide the flush rising in her cheeks.

  “Just a short little thing,” she said shyly.

  Despite her father’s warning not to trust Theodorus implicitly, he had not forbidden her from seeing him, and thus had tacitly agreed to their reunions. Those meetings had quietly settled into a weekly rhythm now. A little bright mark on Cassandra’s mental calendar, a moment to look forward to when she could slip free of the pressure of being a lady and simply enjoy herself, and the uneven flutter of her heart when she was with the Captain.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re writing again.” He patted her head once more, ignoring her small grimace, and moved toward his master bedroom through the main doors off the common room.

  Cassandra averted her eyes. She had never had the courage to look properly into that room after Mama passed away. It felt too empty and too large for just one person, a cavern carved out of absence, and it always made her heart twist to think of Papa sleeping there alone night after night.

  “Don’t stay up too late,” he said by way of farewell, his voice worn thin as he closed the doors behind him.

  “Yes, Sir,” Apostolos replied stiffly, spine still straight from his salute.

  “You too, Papa,” Cassandra added more warmly. “Get some rest, you’ve been working hard.”

  He had been staying up late working, pouring over ledgers and letters by candlelight, something he rarely did before, and it was beginning to take a toll on him. Cassandra felt the difference in the heaviness of his step, in the way his hand lingered on the back of a chair before he moved on. She could sense, in those small changes, that something big was about to happen, though no one had yet spoken it aloud.

  Cassandra turned back to her script, nestled once more in the warmth of the room and the gentler warmth in her chest. She put the last strokes on the poem with a small flourish, satisfied with the curve of the letters.

  The dates had been a welcome reprieve from worry, and Cassandra felt herself falling further and further for the Captain. For his unorthodox humour, his unexpected little jests. For his chivalry. For his quick wit. For his grey, piercing eyes that seemed to see more than he ever said. For everything.

  The Captain had grown bolder during their meetings, in his own careful way, and in the last one they had even held hands. She felt certain he was mustering up both the courage and the means to ask for her hand in earnest. As much as she wanted to cheer for her brother in the end-of-season competition in a week and a half’s time, she secretly hoped that the Captain would win. Victory would give him something solid and shining to lay before her father when he asked.

  Apostolos rose from his desk, jotting down a few final notes on his report before announcing that he would retire to his bedroom.

  “Good night, sister,” he said warmly as he opened the unassuming door that led to his room.

  “Good night, brother,” Cassandra replied. Finished with her poem, she eased back in her chair and stretched, loosening the tension in her shoulders, before turning to her small stack of correspondence and folded papers.

  For the past few weeks, she had been receiving anonymous short poems directed at her, always left on the garden bench she liked to sit at. The verses were brief and messy, the words stilted and the Greek poor, almost scrawled shakily, as though the writer’s hand trembled with every stroke. But Cassandra had grown fond of them. She liked reading them in her spare moments and, on a whim, had begun leaving her own tiny poems in reply, tucking them beneath the same stone. It had become a private little joke with an unknown partner. The whole exchange struck her as a kind gesture, and she wanted to encourage someone else to take their first steps along the same poetic path she loved.

  Sometimes she almost wondered if it was the Captain writing them, deliberately scrawling them poorly to make her think it wasn’t him. The thought amused her. It was exactly the sort of teasing game he might attempt.

  She picked up the newest folded paper and opened it delicately, careful not to smudge the ink.

  Her heart seemed to stop mid-beat as she read.

  It wasn’t a small stanza about nature, the changing of seasons, or chivalry and honour.

  In the same hasty, shaky scrawl as all the other poems were just two verses, dominating the page.

  Do not give away your heart

  He will only break it apart

  Cassandra jerked back in her chair, putting distance between herself and the letter as if it were a coal plucked straight from the fire.

  Who were they? And what did they know about the Captain?

  She should have dismissed as a cruel joke, or an attempt by someone to tear them apart. But she had a hard time believing the author of the small poems by the benchside would do such a cruel thing. She’d read enough to know a gentle heart was behind them. More than that the words tugged at Cassandra’s own instincts, the first thoughts she’d had when she’d ambushed him outside her father’s study and he’d barely acknowledged her. That he was a puzzle she couldn’t solve.

  A thousand thoughts raced through Cassandra’s mind, every date, stray comment, every shared glance with Theodorus replaying in her memory. And in that swirling sea of speculation, a single hard seed of doubt dropped into her heart and began, quietly, to root.

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