by Chloe Neill
But still, she felt that ache again, that little hollow in the center of her chest. And what good did it do, the ache? What purpose did it serve, when the only lives they could live were their own?
“You’re welcome aboard the Diana anytime,” she told him on the dock, working to keep up her smile.
He offered his hand, and it discomfited her that she hesitated before taking it.
Why? Because she didn’t want to shake his hand? Or because she was afraid she wouldn’t let go? She hated fear, so she took it.
“Good luck to you,” he told her. “And fair seas.”
But they stood there for a moment, hands still clasped, delaying the conclusion they assumed was inevitable, and considered what dangers the future might hold.
“And to you, Colonel Grant.” With regret in her eyes, but feeling as if she had no other choice, she let go.
* * *
There was a knock at the door. The sisters rose as Mrs. Eaves opened it.
“This just arrived for you,” she said, crossing the room in her efficient stride and offering Kit a letter.
It was from the queen—the seal, the ribbon, the thick, luxurious stock. And her heart tripped in fear that Gerard had already made his move, had already stuck fangs into some village along the Isles’ coast. Had already committed violence.
She moved to the window, putting space between her family and the violence the missive might contain, and pulled away the seal and began to read.
Captain Brightling,
On behalf of Her Royal Highness Queen Charlotte, please accept this formal commendation of your recent service respecting the rescue of Marcus Dunwood, securing the Diana through attack and storm, and in the recent halting of Gerard’s new armada. In anticipation of your continued service to the Crown, you are hereby granted a commission in the Order of Saint James, induction to be conducted at the palace at eight o’clock this evening.
Kit stared at the document, only realized then that her hand was shaking around the paper. And it was a testament to her control that she didn’t scream.
The Order of Saint James. It was both an honor bestowed by the Crown for service to the Isles, and a group that closely advised the queen. Hetta was a member, and now Kit would follow in her footsteps.
“Kit.” Jane’s voice was quiet. “What’s wrong?”
Kit offered her the paper. That’s when the screaming began.
“For gods’ sake.” Mrs. Eaves stepped back into the doorway, displeasure pulling down her brows. “What is all this noise?”
Jane ran to her, put an arm through hers. “Kit’s being invested in the Order of Saint James. Can you believe it?”
“Hardly,” Mrs. Eaves said, looking down her nose at Kit. But there was pride in her eyes, and warmth that confirmed she was proud, even if she wasn’t willing to say it aloud.
“Well, well,” Hetta said, coming into the room beside her. “I believe a celebration is in order.”
* * *
It was raining, of course. Pouring in sheets that beat horizontally against the windows and turned the streets into a soup of mud and rock and horse detritus. And cold on top of it, so Kit’s breath fogged the air of the carriage.
But Kit didn’t care.
The queen had sent the transport, and Kit was bundled into it with Jane and Hetta, who’d be her supporters and witnesses at the palace ceremony inducting her into the order.
Even Mrs. Eaves had taken special care with Kit’s uniform. “You will not represent this family with scuffed boots,” she’d said, and then gave them a zealous buffing.
“How are you feeling?” Hetta asked.
“Fortunate and excited and nervous.”
Hetta, who sat across from her, reached out and patted her knee. “Very reasonable responses to a very exciting honor.” As they rode toward the palace, Hetta’s tone and expression were all joy, all pride. But the thoughts she’d passed along in private had been cautious.
“I am so proud,” she’d said in her study. “Not surprised, but very proud. It is an honor to serve in the Crown Command, much less the order. It is an honor to represent the queen, to advise her.” Her smile faded.
“But there is also a cost to bear. You will become . . . a symbol of the Crown, in some respects. And those who dislike the queen, who dislike the Isles, will consider you part of the Crown. Part of the queen’s government. I wouldn’t say that’s dangerous, Kingsley’s idiocy aside, but the scrutiny can be uncomfortable.”
“You think I should decline?” Kit had asked.
“Not in this damned lifetime,” Hetta said fiercely. “I’m merely telling you the things I wish someone had told me. I wouldn’t have done any different, either,” she had said. “But I’d have been . . . less startled . . . when confronted with my opponents.”
Kit understood the honor, so she’d refused to give voice to her concern. But this close to the palace, to the ceremony, it bubbled out.
“The next war will use magic. Nations will fight for it, use it against one another. The land and people will suffer.” She looked out the window. “We will use it, and I wonder if that’s a cause I ought to support.”
Hetta watched her for a moment. “Perhaps we might consider adding a new Principle of Self-Sufficiency. Principle number ten,” she said crisply. “If you’re the one who best understands the line between good and evil, it’s your responsibility to keep watch.”
Kit looked at Hetta now, was comforted by her confident and knowing smile, by the fact that she could look to Hetta for advice and counsel. It made an interesting circle—Hetta advising the king. Hetta raising Kit, teaching her to be the person she’d become. Kit advising the king’s daughter, a queen in her own right.
“Okay,” Kit said. “Okay.”
* * *
The rain had eased by the time they reached the palace. Kit climbed out first, helped Hetta, then Jane. The guards at the gate were too well trained to smile, but their eyes gleamed as Kit moved through the gate, followed by her family.
The palace doors were opened for them, and Kit wondered if that was because of her, or because she’d arrived with Hetta. Probably the latter, which would help keep her humble.
They walked into the rotunda, and Kit pushed her hair behind her ears, straightened her jacket.
And then stopped.
There were many others in the rotunda waiting to be escorted into the stateroom for the ceremony. But even with his back turned, she recognized him. There was no mistaking the set of his broad shoulders, the sun-streaked hair.
He glanced back, his gaze meeting hers.
And across that expanse of gilt and marble, they watched each other.
“Oh?” Hetta said, slipping beside her. “Did I not mention Colonel Grant has also been given the honor of induction in the order?”
The crowd shifted, moved, breaking the visual connection.
Kit glanced down at Hetta, noted the wicked smile in her eyes. “I believe you failed to mention that.”
“Hmm,” Hetta said. “It’s very unlike me to forget a detail.”
“Strategic to the last,” Kit muttered, but let herself feel the jittery flutter in her abdomen. And let herself feel the uncertainty. The excitement. The fear.
The crowd shifted again, and he stood in front of her, eyes as bright as the sea, the heat in his gaze warm enough to spark flame.
“Captain Brightling.” The words were low, infused with promise.
She smiled at him. “Colonel Grant.”
The silver horns were raised, their song ringing across stone as the queen made her way into the room.
And they all turned to face their queen . . . and their futures.
* * *
When the toasts were made and the speeches done, and the glittering badges of the order—diamond circles crossed by a curve of the Saint Jam
es—were pinned to their jackets, Grant found Kit in the crowd.
“Colonel,” she said.
“Captain. I thought I saw your mother and sister?”
“They’ve gone for more punch. Tepid though it is.”
“Punch is always tepid,” Grant said. “I came to congratulate you on your induction. Congratulations.”
Kit nodded. “And to you. I imagine it will be difficult for you to serve in the order from Queenscliffe, will it not?”
“That’s more obtuse a question than you usually prefer. But I’ll answer it. For the time being, I’ll be staying in New London.”
Uncertainty and excitement flitted again. And while people moved around them in gowns and tails, and candles winked in chandeliers, Grant looked at her. She saw the promise—and the challenge—in his eyes.
“And the estate?” she asked, thrilled her voice didn’t waver.
“My agreement to, shall we say, reenlist came with a side benefit—the absolution of the estate’s debts.”
That echoed the reward the queen had given to Kit, which she’d promptly donated to the Brightling house.
“I’ve hired Matthew to act as the estate’s manager in my absence. He’ll be teaching Lucien how to run it. And Will has a friend who’ll be assisting with . . . security.”
Kit grinned. “You hired a soldier to watch Lucien.”
“In the guise of a bodyguard, should Forsythe or anyone else decide to intrude on his pastoral interlude. But essentially, yes.”
“It sounds like you’ve managed those problems very neatly,” Kit said. “I’m glad of it. And I hope it brings your family some peace.”
He looked at her again. “Grant Hall will always be home, if a rather complicated one. It is, in a way, my touchstone. Much, I suspect, as the Brightling house is for you.”
Kit nodded.
“Having a place to return after the war, after the pain and misery, had been a relief, even in its condition. But the thought of going back now . . . simply doesn’t have the same appeal.”
Kit stared at him, tried to sift through her tangled emotions, wondered how to align them.
Grant had opened his mouth to speak, when Chandler found them, his expression grim.
He offered no greeting. “With me, please.”
They followed him into a small anteroom Kit hadn’t yet seen. A room of soft carpets and fabrics, and a basket of needlepoint near a chair. A place, she thought, where the queen could find a few moments’ peace outside the throne room.
“What is it?” Kit asked, when the other door opened, and the queen stepped inside, Kess behind her.
“We’ve just learned Gerard is gone,” she said, eyes blazing. “While you brought home his warship, he and a loyal few managed to kill eight guards at Montgraf and escaped in a fishing schooner.”
They all stood quietly for a moment, each considering what the future might hold. The dangers they might be required to face.
“Our world has just become more dangerous,” the queen said. “But never forget this—you’ve taken the first battle for the Isles. Now we’ll see what comes next.”
Photo by Dana Damewood Photography
Chloe Neill—New York Times bestselling author of the Chicagoland Vampires novels, the Heirs of Chicagoland novels, the Dark Elite novels, and the Devil’s Isle novels—was born and raised in the South but now makes her home in the Midwest, just close enough to Cadogan House, St. Sophia’s, and Devil’s Isle to keep an eye on things. When not transcribing her heroines’ adventures, she bakes, works, and scours the Internet for good recipes and great graphic design. Chloe also maintains her sanity by spending time with her boys—her favorite landscape photographer (her husband), and their dogs, Baxter and Scout. (Both she and the photographer understand the dogs are in charge.)
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