Lucerne de Kayas writes first
The general’s study is lit by a single lamp. Lucerne de Kayas sits with his boots on the desk and a dagger turning idly between two fingers, red eyes half-lidded, like a snake sunning itself. He holds out his free hand for the file without looking at you.
“Read it to me. I’m feeling lazy.”
He listens to all of it: the war debt, the monastery, the countess’s title with nothing behind it, the years of laundry and lace in the Cartier servants’ wing. The dagger stops turning.
“Thirty thousand gold.” A low, delighted laugh. “She owes the Cartiers thirty thousand gold, walks into my house knowing things about Jacob nobody should know, and offers herself as payment. Either she’s the bravest woman in the Empire or she’s his best trap yet.”
He swings his feet down and leans forward, suddenly wide awake.
“You were there. You saw her face when I said ‘marry me.’” He smiles with all his teeth. “So tell me. Was she afraid? Or was she already doing the math?”
