Chapter 9
“It is anyone’s guess when that day might arrive.”
Yuls met Marchioness Connolly’s observation with a faint, cynical curve of his lips.
“I was thinking the exact same thing.”
He offered his complete concurrence.
“If that is the case, why did you act as you did back then?”
The Marchioness remained silent, offering no defense to Yuls’s inquiry.
“Had you finished it at that moment, we wouldn’t be in this position now.”
Regret was a fruitless endeavor; the past was set in stone. A solitary, fleeting lapse in judgment sends ripples through time, altering a thousand different outcomes. They remained trapped within the wake of that single choice.
Even Yuls had ceased to progress, his development halted in that perpetual state.
His physical form, his intellect, and his soul were all frozen.
Before departing, Marchioness Connolly requested to be briefed once the itinerary and strategies were set. Despite her exit, she remained a resident of Pallesa Palace. Regardless of which wing the noblewomen occupied, it was never more than a ten-minute stroll away.
Yuls let out a weary breath as he scanned the mountain of offerings. The bulk of it was garbage, destined for the incinerator. The perishables would be distributed among the household staff and the garrison, while most of the trinkets would be re-gifted to others. The only items of true worth were the various records and intelligence reports tucked away within the pile.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t leave empty-handed. He decided to select a few passable items to store away and thought he should perhaps toss a bone to his escort in Pallesa. This train of thought led him to look toward Bert, who was waiting nearby.
The moment the Marchioness disappeared, Bert’s posture lost its rigid formality. Feeling Yuls’s eyes on him, he spoke up immediately. “Do you have a task for me, sir?”
“What is your assessment of Grimaldi?”
“You refer to Adi. She is adequate,” Bert replied.
“I need more detail than that.”
“She claims she fled the North simply because she loathed the place. Her rapport with Spencer Grimaldi appears strained at best. She is remarkably reserved; if you don’t initiate a conversation, she remains a statue. She asks nothing—not even the questions she should be asking. She is the quintessential soldier who follows a command to the letter. Furthermore, she has no history of romantic scandal with either men or women. Based on that, I suspect—”
“Bert,” Yuls interrupted.
He knew his attendant was intentionally being obtuse and steering the conversation toward jokes. Yuls rubbed his temples in frustration.
“She doesn’t seem to be a plant from that faction.”
“You are certain?”
“For the time being. Who can say for sure? She is, after all, the offspring of that wretched Grimaldi,” Bert remarked. Still, a person like Adi Grimaldi, who lacked any social network, was easy to monitor. Any new influence attempting to sway her would stand out immediately.
The image of Spencer Grimaldi surfaced in Yuls’s mind. He couldn’t recall the man’s natural hair color; currently, it was a striking, premature silver. That hair created a jarring contrast with a face that remained unnervingly youthful. Spencer was a man who enjoyed the King’s absolute confidence while simultaneously being the most isolated figure in the realm.
Yuls then shifted his focus to Adi Grimaldi. He could find no resemblance to Spencer in the lithe, tawny-haired knight. He had yet to witness her prowess in combat and wondered if someone of her build could truly protect him, though the whispers within Pallesa Palace suggested otherwise.
“The Dog of Pallesa.”
While the term usually implied a faithful hound, here it was used as a slur for a common cur. Looking at her, the title felt misplaced. The rumors were at odds with her soft, handsome features. From what Yuls had observed, she was exceptionally disciplined and quiet. He wondered if she was simply terrified of losing her head.
“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” Yuls admitted.
“But she is clearly not cut from the same cloth as Spencer Grimaldi,” Bert added.
At the very least, she was devoid of political guile. Spencer’s rise to power was fueled by his mastery of court intrigue. Had Adi possessed even a fraction of his cunning, her reception in Pallesa would have been entirely different.
“That is because Your Grace keeps her at a distance.”
Yuls didn’t just sideline Adi; he kept every knight in Pallesa at arm’s length. He considered the palace staff fundamentally untrustworthy. In truth, he didn’t even fully trust those within his own Dukedom.
“Why not test her? It would be quite a spectacle to see Adrian turn against Spencer.”
“Is she even capable of such a thing? She doesn’t seem to have the stomach for it.”
“She is called the Dog of Pallesa for a reason. She must have teeth.”
“A dog that bites its owner is merely a liability.”
“The risk of a bite is a small price to pay for a loyal beast. Eventually, the Grimaldi legacy will pass to her,” Bert noted. It was a logical conclusion. Spencer wouldn’t live forever; he had perhaps a decade or two left at the peak of his power. It was a reasonable window.
“I will consider it,” Yuls said, rising from his chair. Bert gave a respectful nod to the boy, who barely reached the height of his chest.
“I have an assignment for you.” Yuls walked to his bureau, jotted something down on a scrap of parchment, and handed the rolled note to Bert.
Bert scanned the instructions, folded the paper, and tucked it securely into his gambeson. “I’ll see to this immediately.”
“Good. Let’s move out.”
“Where are we bound, sir?”
“Witch Street.”
Bert started to nod but then hesitated. He realized this was a perfect opening. A knowing grin spread across his face.
“Your Grace.”
“What is it?”
“Since I’ll be occupied with the task you just gave me, why not take Sir Adi Grimaldi to Witch Street instead?”
Yuls stared at him in silence.
“You should spend some time together,” Bert pushed.
“To what end?”
“You’re stuck with her for months. You need to foster some level of reliability so she doesn’t vanish the moment things get dangerous.”
“I have no use for a guard who would desert me.”
“You never know until you try,” Bert said with a shrug. “Witch Street is safe enough. There’s no harm in it.”
Yuls suspected Bert was simply trying to force them together for his own amusement. He couldn’t understand why his attendant was suddenly so invested in the girl.
“The weather is pleasant—a fine day for a stroll. I’ll have the staff prepare everything.”
It was clear Bert had already decided they were going. Yuls turned to the window, offering no further protest.
The heat of summer was beginning to stir. The biting chill and dampness of the previous months had faded, replaced by a dry, swirling breeze. Pallesa was always breathtaking during the summer months.
Perhaps his resentment of the place was tied to the timing of his visits. He loathed Pallesa, yet he couldn’t deny the strange pull of its seasonal beauty.
“Pallesa looks so peaceful.”
The sunlight, the wind, the blooming white flora, and the sounds of children playing—children whose lineages were a mystery.
“It’s revolting,” Yuls muttered.
Bert murmured a quick “Excuse me” and exited the room. Yuls watched him go.
Shortly after, a servant arrived. Informed by Bert, the man announced that the carriage would be ready in an hour and that he would return with a change of clothes. Yuls gave no response.
*
Back in her private quarters, Adi cracked open the window and sat at her desk to light a candle. A gentle draft brushed against her.
It was easy to see why Pallesa remained the seat of the Kingdom of Dalkatir for so long; the climate was magnificent. The crisp air of early spring was transitioning into the warmth of the later season.
This time of year was foreign to her. The spring in Pallesa was surprisingly hot, rivaling the peak of summer in the North. She thought of how much Adrian would have appreciated this warmth, a sight he had never been permitted to see.
Using fruit juice as invisible ink, she drafted a hidden message on a heavy sheet of paper. On the surface, she wrote a mundane letter.
She claimed to be in good health and expressed a longing for her kin—a collection of hollow lies that mirrored the letters she often received from Spencer Grimaldi. It was a polite, affectionate note that contained no real emotion.
She used a blotter to dry the ink before folding the parchment. After melting some beeswax over the candle flame, she let it drip onto the seam of the letter. She retrieved a ring from the back of a drawer and pressed it into the wax with a careless, heavy hand, indifferent to how the seal looked.
She just needed to drop this at the palace post before heading to the Duke. A knock sounded at the door. Adi didn’t wait for the visitor to enter; she walked over and opened it herself.
“Sir Adrian Grimaldi?” a servant asked.
“There has been a change in plans. You are expected to accompany the Duke into the city in thirty minutes.”
“I understand,” Adi replied. “I will be ready.”
“You aren’t curious about the destination?”
“My duty is to protect him, regardless of where he goes.”
“Understood… You are heading to Witch Street,” the servant informed her.
Adi realized that an escort was hardly necessary for a trip to such a public, safe area.
“Please report to the reception room in half an hour.”
“I can go now,” Adi offered.
“No, the Duke is currently dressing,” the servant replied.
Adi nodded. “Then I will stop by the registry first and meet him there.”
The servant’s eyes lingered briefly on the letter in her hand before he gave a nod of acknowledgment and departed.
