Chapter 9 — The Invitation

The letter from Draven Hall arrived nine days later, carried by a rider in gray and black who would not dismount until my father himself came out to receive it.

I was in the east study when Seraphine burst in, breathless, waving a sealed envelope over her head like a banner.

"House Vale is invited," she announced, "to a formal dinner at Draven Hall, in honor of the Concord envoys currently in residence. Father is beside himself. He's already shouting for the tailor."

In my first life, this invitation had never come. Not in this form, not this early. The Vale family's first real entrance into Draven society had happened almost a full year from now, at a much larger, much colder gathering, where I had stood at the edge of a crowded hall in a borrowed gown and watched Kael's eyes pass over me exactly once.

This was different. This was small. Personal. A house dinner, not a formal ball — the sort of invitation extended to families a great Alpha wished to know better, not merely tolerate.

"That's early," I said, before I could stop myself.

Seraphine blinked. "Early for what?"

"For an alliance to matter this much." I recovered quickly. "I only meant — we're a small house. It's generous of him."

"Generous, or strategic." Seraphine's eyes glittered in the way they always did when she scented advantage. "Father says the Draven pack is looking to secure northern loyalties before the Concord vote next spring. He thinks Alpha Draven means to court one of us."

One of us. Not you. Not me. Seraphine said it with the easy, generous carelessness of a girl who assumed, without needing to think about it, that the choice would fall to her. In my first life it always had. I remembered standing beside her at every gathering like a smaller, dimmer star orbiting something brighter, and never once resenting it, because I had believed, with the whole foolish devotion of the unloved, that being near her light was enough.

I did not feel that devotion now. I felt something colder and more careful, watching her face for whatever truth lived behind the delight.

"You'll be perfect for it," I said, testing.

"Don't be silly." Seraphine laughed, swatting my arm. "It could be either of us. Father hasn't decided which of us to put forward first." A pause, and something flickered behind her eyes too quickly for me to name it. "Though I imagine it will end up being obvious enough, once we're both in the room."

I said nothing. I had learned, three days into a second life, that Seraphine's easy warmth could sit directly on top of something else entirely, the way ice sits on deep water. I no longer knew, watching her now, whether the ice was thin or thick.

My father summoned us both to his study within the hour.

Lord Aldric Vale had never been an unkind man, precisely. He had been, in my memory, an absent one — a man who measured his daughters in the coin of usefulness and had, for most of my life, found me wanting. He stood now behind his desk, a letter in one hand, an expression on his face I had not seen directed at me since I was a small child: something close to hope.

"You will both attend," he said. "You will both be presentable, and gracious, and you will not embarrass this house." His eyes moved, briefly, to me, and lingered a moment longer than they usually did. "Liora. You've been different, this week. Quieter, even for you. I trust whatever's troubling you will not follow you to Draven Hall."

"No, Father."

"Good." He set the letter down. "This is the largest opportunity House Vale has been given in a generation. I will not have it wasted."

I thought of the empty compartment beneath my mother's desk. I thought of a heartbeat in a stone post that did not belong to me. I thought of my father's face in the snow, arms folded, watching a knife find me, and said nothing at all of what troubled me, because the first rule I had written for myself allowed for no exceptions, not even for hope on my father's face.

"I understand," I said instead.

He nodded, satisfied, and turned to discuss seating arrangements with Seraphine, and I stood a little apart from both of them, watching the two people I had once loved most in the world plan, with such easy excitement, the evening that — in another life, at a different hour, under a different roof — had been the first small stone laid on the path to my death.

"For an alliance to matter this much." I recovered quickly. "I only meant — we're a small house. It's generous of him."

"Generous, or strategic." Seraphine's eyes glittered in the way they always did when she scented advantage. "Father says the Draven pack is looking to secure northern loyalties before the Concord vote next spring. He thinks Alpha Draven means to court one of us."

One of us. Not you. Not me. Seraphine said it with the easy, generous carelessness of a girl who assumed, without needing to think about it, that the choice would fall to her. In my first life it always had. I remembered standing beside her at every gathering like a smaller, dimmer star orbiting something brighter, and never once resenting it, because I had believed, with the whole foolish devotion of the unloved, that being near her light was enough.

I did not feel that devotion now. I felt something colder and more careful, watching her face for whatever truth lived behind the delight.

"You'll be perfect for it," I said, testing.

"Don't be silly." Seraphine laughed, swatting my arm. "It could be either of us. Father hasn't decided which of us to put forward first." A pause, and something flickered behind her eyes too quickly for me to name it. "Though I imagine it will end up being obvious enough, once we're both in the room."

I said nothing. I had learned, three days into a second life, that Seraphine's easy warmth could sit directly on top of something else entirely, the way ice sits on deep water. I no longer knew, watching her now, whether the ice was thin or thick.

My father summoned us both to his study within the hour.

Lord Aldric Vale had never been an unkind man, precisely. He had been, in my memory, an absent one — a man who measured his daughters in the coin of usefulness and had, for most of my life, found me wanting. He stood now behind his desk, a letter in one hand, an expression on his face I had not seen directed at me since I was a small child: something close to hope.

"You will both attend," he said. "You will both be presentable, and gracious, and you will not embarrass this house." His eyes moved, briefly, to me, and lingered a moment longer than they usually did. "Liora. You've been different, this week. Quieter, even for you. I trust whatever's troubling you will not follow you to Draven Hall."

"No, Father."

"Good." He set the letter down. "This is the largest opportunity House Vale has been given in a generation. I will not have it wasted."

I thought of the empty compartment beneath my mother's desk. I thought of a heartbeat in a stone post that did not belong to me. I thought of my father's face in the snow, arms folded, watching a knife find me, and said nothing at all of what troubled me, because the first rule I had written for myself allowed for no exceptions, not even for hope on my father's face.

"I understand," I said instead.

He nodded, satisfied, and turned to discuss seating arrangements with Seraphine, and I stood a little apart from both of them, watching the two people I had once loved most in the world plan, with such easy excitement, the evening that — in another life, at a different hour, under a different roof — had been the first small stone laid on the path to my death.