“What in the deadlands is this?”
The small man shook as he took cautious steps away from Trystan’s desk. “It’s— It’s cauldron brew, sir.”
He gripped the silver chalice containing the foul black liquid.
No cream, no sugar, none of Sage’s ridiculous attempts to make faces with the milk. It was all wrong.
“I did not ask for cauldron brew,” he said darkly.
“Of course, sir, but, um, you did say to me ten minutes ago, ‘Get me a cup of brew immediately, Stuart, or I will rip the skin from your bones.’”
Ah, yes, he had said that, hadn’t he? He’d thought he’d forego the brew until he could sneak some milk into it, but by noon he had a splitting headache and had grown desperate.
“I do not want this swill—take it from my sight this instant!” He stood, shoving the cup at the terrified man, who just barely caught it before he scurried from the room.
Trystan spared a glance at Kingsley. The frog ribbited as he held up a sign that simply read: Blockhead.
For once, the frog summed things up perfectly.
Ignoring the amphibian, Trystan settled back behind his desk to focus on his evildoing plans. Surely thoughts of mayhem and destruction would calm his sour mood.
By the afternoon, Trystan was surprised the office was still standing.
A fire had started in the south corridor of the manor, and it nearly burned an entire room of charted maps to ash. It started as two of the fire pixies had a disagreement that ended in fast-spreading flames, and only Sage knew where to find the irrigation devices she’d insisted they install during her first month of employment.
“You’ll never see them!” Sage had said, curls bouncing with her excitement at the water fixture installation.
She’d pushed the hose made of some material she’d insisted he invest in called “rubber” back into the wall. The mechanism locked in place, the rubber tubing flipping and disappearing behind the white bricks.
“They’re hidden all over the manor! When you have a structure this big, it’s important that you account for fires, especially with all the lives in your care.” She’d smiled and pulled her notebook from her satchel. “Now, I’ve mapped out where all thirty of them are, and I’ll take you to each spot so you know exactly how to find them.”
Thirty?
“Sage, as delightful as a tour of hoses sounds, I have actual work to do.”
She’d frowned, which had given him a foreign, uncomfortable feeling in his chest. “But what will you do if there’s a fire?”
“I’ll ask you where the hose is,” Trystan had replied flatly.
Sage’s nose had scrunched, as it so often did, and she looked at him with a curiosity that was almost…endearing? He shuddered. “But what will you do if I’m not here?” she’d asked.
“You’ll always be here, Sage.”
Trystan blinked, feeling a sting under his eyes. He strode through his office and pushed open the wooden doors that led out to the damaged parapet. The doors slammed closed behind him, and he blinked back the wet heat in the air. The structure on the other side was covered and propped up by wooden beams that were aiding the reconstruction being done.
He stopped just short of the ruined end, the heat of the air burning his eyes again. He’d resolved to not care that she was gone. He wouldn’t dare go after her, and she wouldn’t dare return here after the cruel way in which he’d spoken to her.
The heat was relentless now, the moisture so strong, a drop of water was sliding down his cheek. He furiously swiped it away and looked at the wetness on his hand with disgust.
“Sir?”
Ms. Erring’s voice cut through the quiet, making the wet heat hitting his eyes dry in seconds. Sniffing like he’d smelled something foul, Trystan frowned, turning his head slightly toward her.
“What’s wrong now?” he asked gruffly.
The woman was always a little pinched, but right now her face was so twisted, it looked as if she were about to swallow her own tongue. She shook her head, her large glasses sliding down her nose. “One of the men you have working through the manor’s finances is up in arms because he can’t read the appraiser’s handwriting.”
Trystan furrowed his brow in confusion. “What exactly was the appraiser valuing?”
“Several crates of jewels that had been en route to King Benedict, aid from Roselia—one of the northern kingdoms. It was intercepted by the Malevolent Guards this morning.”
What a brilliant plan—pity he had no memory of creating it. “Who on earth arranged for that? The northern kingdoms usually have their shipments travel with an army’s worth of guards.”
Ms. Erring’s mouth pulled down, but she looked at him directly when she said, “Evangelina had the plans drawn up a month ago, and you signed off on them, sir.”
No, that couldn’t be… But he had, hadn’t he? Sage had proposed that some of the Malevolent Guards wear Roselia uniforms, slowly working their way through the throng of them and plucking the real Roselia knights off one by one.
It was suicide, but she’d seemed so sure. So he’d signed off on the plan, requiring that some of his best guards carry it out—no need to send the novices to an early demise. At least his more seasoned guards would have a chance of making it out.
But they hadn’t just made it out; they’d succeeded. “Well, that is excellent. But I’m still not understanding the conflict. Why can’t our financial adviser read the appraiser’s handwriting?”
Rebecka Erring, in the two years he’d known her, had never been without her armor of composure. Even when he’d first met her, under those unpleasant circumstances, she’d remained impassive. But she surprised Trystan when she rolled her eyes at him. “The handwriting is atrocious, sir. It would take a translator to make out even one letter of that scrawl.”
His patience was so thin, it may as well have been the ground beneath his feet. “Well, how did we manage to make it out before?”
But he knew the answer before the uncomfortable look fell across her face. “Evie could always read it without any problems,” she said. “Edwin used to give her pastries while she did it.” By her tone, the stern woman didn’t approve of the latter.
Trystan could hardly bring himself to care, however. He was currently coming to grips with the fact that he simply did not have an office without Sage. Or he supposed he did. But it was frankly an ill-functioning disaster.
The righteous emotions from that morning had turned and mutated into what it really was all along, a way for his brain to rationalize his regret. He truly hated being wrong, but he supposed if he’d defer being right to anyone, it was to Sage. Who would probably never take another step toward this place…which meant he had to go to her.
Trystan tried not to let his turmoil show in his words as he looked at Ms. Erring and said, “Have the finance men put them aside, and I will do my best to translate the handwriting myself.”
She nodded and turned to leave, but before she did, she looked to the ruins at the end of the parapet. “Isn’t it interesting that we are quicker to repair some things over others?”
There was an accusation there that made Trystan narrow his eyes at her. “What are you implying, Ms. Erring?” He noted the sharp edge to his voice, but to Rebecka’s credit, she pulled herself up straight, not wavering for a moment.
“That perhaps you need to remove your pride so that you can see what needs to be fixed more clearly.”
It was the boldness with which she spoke that made Trystan respect her. Rebecka Erring was without fear when she believed herself to be right. It was that respect that saved her.
“You should mind your own problems before mine, Ms. Erring. My employees are yours to counsel; I, however, am not.”
She nodded dutifully, the snap of fight winking out of her in a moment, and it confused him. Rebecka Erring was implying that Sage leaving the job was something that needed to be fixed? Trystan had been certain the feud between them had been quite mutual.
“Ms. Erring, do you want Ms. Sage to come back?” he asked curiously.
She didn’t look at him, just gave him her back as she turned to open the heavy door. “No, I don’t,” she said quietly. “But I think she deserves to.”
The words were so flat and honest that Trystan leaned against the stone half wall, the slam of the door as the woman left a dull, faded sound in his ears. He brushed a heavy hand over his mouth and down until it was resting under his chin.
He looked to the wreckage one more time before returning to his office.
Fix it.
Unfortunately, Trystan didn’t have the skills to fix anything. He was much better at destroying everything he touched.
Which was why he doubted, by the end of this awful day, that even the manor would still remain standing when he was done.
