All Chapters of FATED MATES IN THE SHADOWS: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The cold was inside Selene's bones before she reached the foot of the mountain road. She had slept barely three hours on the narrow pallet beside the hearth, waking twice to the sound of Martha's thin, rattling cough. Her eyes burned with grit, her knees were stiff, and the bitter oil beneath her scarf seemed to have frozen against her throat. The morning bells of five were tolling across the valley when she reached the High Keep. The snow had stopped, but the wind had driven fresh drifts against the outer stone walls. In the bailey, stable boys were already clearing paths through the slush, their breath rising in the torchlight. Selene slipped through the scullery door, stamping the snow from her boots onto the rush mat. The kitchen heat was almost unbearable after the road. It smelled of boiled oats, woodsmoke and fried lard. Usually, this was the hour when the day-maids crowded around the copper wash vats, arguing over clean aprons and dry rags. Today, Mrs Hallowell stood bloc

The climb to the fifth floor was slower this time. Selene carried a small wooden pail of water and two dry rags. The handle pressed cold against her woollen mitten. As she climbed, the warmth of the lower kitchens gradually faded, replaced by the sharp chill of stone that rarely saw sunlight. The landing outside the high library was empty. No sentries stood near the vaulted entrance. Below, the bell in the bailey tolled two, its dull sound travelling up the spiral stairwell. Selene shifted the pail against her hip and pushed both palms against the iron-studded oak doors. They opened with a low creak. The library was quiet. Pale winter light entered through the high south windows, illuminating dust suspended in the cold air. The familiar smell of parchment, beeswax, dry leather and old cedar filled the room. Selene stepped inside and eased the doors shut. Her eyes went first to the far alcove. The large oak desk was empty. A single iron candlestick stood on the blotter, its wi

The buttery smelled of sour dregs, soaked oak staves and damp earth. Set three levels below ground, beneath the eastern curtain wall, the low-vaulted room held the fortress's winter stores: thirty barrels of dark northern ale, ten tuns of salt pork and a towering row of cider kegs stacked three high on heavy timber cradles. Selene knelt on the damp flagstones, a piece of soft chalk in one hand and a notched tally stick in the other. Mark the bung. Check the seal. Scratch the tally. The physical labour was cold and dirty, exactly what she needed to keep her hands from trembling. Her knees ached beneath her skirts where moisture seeped through from the floor, but she didn't stand. "Twenty-two," she murmured, pressing her thumb against the lead plug of a cider cask. The wax seal was intact, stamped with the running stag of the Western merchants. "Twenty-two what?" Selene stiffened. The chalk snapped between her fingers. Master Donald stood at the foot of the cellar stairs, holding

The horn from the high watchtower died away into the screaming wind, leaving only the dry crackle of pinewood in the hearth. Bram's hand lingered near Selene's temple for a moment before he pulled it away. His fingers curled briefly into a fist, then he stepped back. "You won't leave," he said quietly. It wasn't a question. Selene pulled the rough wool blanket tighter around her shoulders and tucked her cold boots beneath her skirt. "I can't, Bram. Martha wouldn't survive a journey in an open cart. The frost is already troubling her chest." "And if she dies here?" He turned to face her, his hazel eyes dark in the firelight. "What then? You stay on this mountain, carrying water until your knees give out, taking coppers from wolves who wouldn't stop their horses if they ran you down in the ditch?" "It pays for the barley," Selene said, keeping her voice level. "It pays for the firewood. We don't have forty silver pieces saved under the hearth, Bram. We don't have an uncle with a f

The copper kettles were broad-bottomed, blackened with wood ash and brutally heavy. Selene wrapped two thick linen rags around the iron handle to protect her hands. Steam rose in white clouds as she and Gwen made their third trip up the back stairs, leaving damp patches along the stone walls. Gwen was two steps ahead, puffing as she struggled with her kettle. Her apron hem dragged against her clogs. "If she asks for dried rosebuds to float in the bath," Gwen wheezed, stopping on the landing to adjust her grip, "I'll put cabbage leaves in and tell her they're northern heather." "Keep moving," Selene murmured. Her forearms were beginning to ache. "The water is cooling." They reached the guest solar. Unlike the heavy oak doors of the servants' wing, these were made of polished pine, carved with delicate patterns and guarded by a Western warrior. He leaned against the doorway, paring a dried apple with a small bone-handled knife. His eyes moved from the kettles to their boots, then