Chapter 70 — Vane's Request

The summons from my father's study came that same afternoon, delivered by a nervous young steward who clearly understood, from the careful formality of the request, that something significant was unfolding beneath the household's ordinary surface.

I found Lord Vane already seated when I arrived, my father behind his desk with an expression I had learned, these past months, meant he was holding his composure through sheer effort of will. Vane rose when I entered, offering his usual warm, courteous bow, though something in his eyes, meeting mine, carried none of the gentle warmth I remembered from our earliest conversations in this same house.

"Miss Vale," he said. "I've just been explaining to your father that my work here as Concord observer draws toward its natural conclusion. The investigation into the attempts on your life has, regrettably, produced no further leads worth pursuing, and I find myself obligated to return to other duties the Concord has long delayed."

I kept my face carefully neutral, though my mind raced through the implications. Vane leaving meant Vane no longer needing the pretense of investigation to justify his presence — which meant, almost certainly, that he had already gathered whatever he'd come for, or had decided some other avenue now served his purposes better.

"That's unfortunate," I said carefully. "Though I understand the Concord's demands on your time must be considerable."

"They are." Vane's eyes held mine a moment longer than strict courtesy required. "Before I depart, however, I find myself curious about something, and I hope you'll indulge an old man's idle question. I understand you traveled east recently, Miss Vale. Quite far east, by the accounts I've gathered. I wonder what business could possibly call a young woman of your station so far from home, so suddenly, with so little explanation offered to the household she left behind."

The question landed exactly as precisely as I'd feared it might, stripped of any pretense that he did not already understand far more than he was asking permission to know.

"Family business," I said, matching his careful blandness with my own. "A distant relation, in need of assistance."

"How fortunate," Vane said, "that you found them in time."

The words hung in the study's quiet air, unmistakable in their meaning despite their careful courtesy, and I understood, watching my father's confused glance pass between the two of us, that whatever game Vane and I were playing had just moved, openly, into territory my father did not yet fully understand.

"Edric," my father said slowly, "is there something I should be aware of?"

"Nothing that need concern you, Aldric," Vane said smoothly, his attention never fully leaving my face. "Merely an old man's curiosity about the comings and goings of a household I've come to care for rather deeply these past weeks." He rose, gathering his cloak with unhurried grace. "I'll take my leave within the week. I trust whatever family business drew Miss Vale east has been satisfactorily resolved."

"It has," I said, holding his gaze steadily, refusing to let him see whatever fear still lived beneath my careful composure.

"Good," Vane said, and something in his tone, mild as ever, carried an unmistakable undertone of warning. "I would hate for House Vale to find itself drawn into complications beyond its capacity to manage. Some burdens, Miss Vale, are heavier than they first appear."

He left with his usual courteous bow, and I stood in the quiet study afterward, my father watching me with open confusion and dawning concern, understanding, with cold certainty, that whatever patience Vane had shown until now had just, in that single carefully worded exchange, run entirely out.

"Liora," my father said, once the door had closed fully behind Vane's departing figure, "I think it's past time you told me plainly what exactly I just witnessed."

I sat down slowly across from him, weighing how much to finally share against how much he could reasonably absorb in a single difficult conversation. "Edric Vane has spent fifteen years, perhaps longer, hunting a bloodline he believes holds dangerous power," I said finally. "My mother's bloodline. Mine. He's watched this house for years, waiting for the right moment to act on what he's learned. I believe, now, that moment has nearly arrived."

My father's face went pale, old fear and fresh understanding warring visibly behind his composed exterior. "And the family you traveled east to find—"

"Carries the same blood," I confirmed. "I couldn't leave them unprotected, Father, not once I understood what Vane intended for them. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I was afraid of what knowing might cost you, the same way Mother was afraid of what it might cost all of us."

My father was quiet a long moment, processing the weight of everything I'd just handed him, and when he finally spoke, his voice carried a steadiness that surprised me. "Your mother carried this alone for the whole of our marriage," he said. "I understand now why she sometimes seemed so very tired, in ways I never had the wisdom to ask about properly. I don't intend to let you carry it alone the same way, Liora. Whatever Vane intends, whatever danger still circles this house, you will tell me. All of it. I would rather face this fully informed than continue stumbling through my own home like a blind man."

"I promise," I said, and meant it fully, grateful beyond words for a father who had finally, completely, chosen partnership over the comfortable distance of not knowing.

He rose from his desk and crossed to the window, looking out over the grounds where Vane's carriage was already being readied for an early departure, his expression troubled in a way I had rarely seen from him before.

"I trusted that man," my father said quietly, not turning from the window. "I counted him a friend, Liora. I shared meals with him, confided in him about matters I never shared even with your mother's memory, and all the while he was simply waiting, patient as a spider, for the thread that would finally lead him to you." His hands, braced against the windowsill, tightened visibly. "I don't know how to reconcile the man I believed I knew with the man you've just described to me."

"You're not the only one who trusted him," I said gently, thinking of my own first life, of tea in a glasshouse and a voice telling me cruelty was not the same as strength. "I trusted him completely, in the life I remember. I think that's precisely why he's remained so effective for so long — he understands, better than almost anyone, exactly how to make people want to believe in his kindness."

My father turned from the window, something steadier settling into his expression despite the difficult conversation. "Then we'll simply have to be more careful, going forward, about which kindnesses we choose to trust so completely." He managed a small, tired smile. "Starting, I think, with trusting my own daughter's judgment considerably more than I have these past several years."

I crossed the room and embraced him, grateful beyond measure for a reconciliation I had never fully expected to find in this second, stranger life, and felt, held there in his arms, that whatever difficult battles still waited ahead, I would face them with considerably more support than I had ever imagined possible.