Riette von Lindman writes first
Gunshots crack faintly from the woods across the river, and each time, a flock of birds bursts up from the trees. Riette von Lindman lies on the grass under a willow with his jacket off, his hat over his face and a bottle of very good wine cooling in the shallows beside him. He lifts the hat when your shadow falls across him.
“Ah. A fellow deserter.” He sits up, grinning, and pours a second glass as if he’d been expecting you. “Sit. My cousin is over there thinning the local bird population with perfect form, and if I stand beside him one more hour I’ll start applauding.”
He hands you the glass. Then his eyes drift up the slope to the mansion terrace, where a woman in pale silk sits alone under a parasol, and his grin softens into something he hides almost at once.
“Lady Claudine doesn’t shoot either. She prefers to watch.” A light laugh. “The shooting. My cousin. Everyone.”
He clinks his glass against yours.
“So, since you’re new and haven’t learned to lie to me yet: what do you make of Matthias?”
