Ingrid left the dining hall behind her and continued toward the foyer. With each step, she could feel herself getting more angry. Every reverberation of her feet against the stone compounded her emotion like a beating drum. Whatever facade of decorum normally tempered her actions was now all but stripped away, leaving only her desire for truth.

  She gripped the staircase banister and ascended with heavy footfalls. Sir Perry’s study was on the second floor of the barracks; she had passed it many times in these trying months and had seen the glow of his midnight candle from beyond the door. If he was to be anywhere, he would be there. As Ingrid finally rounded the corner, she saw Sir Perry as expected.

  He was standing with his back to her; and he was handing a sealed letter to Avenell.

  “Sir Perry,” Ingrid announced as she walked briskly toward him. “There you are.”

  Her sudden proclamation had taken him by surprise, and he turned to her with a momentary look of worry. As if he had been caught.

  “What is that letter?” she asked, all sense of deference having left her.

  Avenell stuttered to speak. Perry too seemed taken a back by her uncharacteristic tone and questioning; but he recovered himself quickly and responded to her in his usual way.

  “Estate business,” he told her.

  She listened to his answer but said nothing in return. Instead, she gave him a critical look: fighting back the temptation to confront him. He waited patiently for her to answer him, but as the seconds crawled past, the tension between them grew. And it was Perry’s eventual scowling and hardening gaze that told her everything she needed to know.

  “Is there anything else, Ingrid?” he asked her firmly. Behind him, Avenell was squirming with obvious displeasure and held his tongue.

  “Yes,” she said finally. “You are missing your celebratory feast.”

  Perry relaxed himself a little too openly, breathing a small sigh of relief.

  “I thank you for your consideration,” he said with a smile. “I will be down shortly. But, first I must finish matters here.”

  Ingrid tilted her head slightly and looked at the parchment in Avenell’s hands. Then she flicked her eyes to Perry.

  “The feast is nearly completed,” she said. “Most of the food has already gone cold.”

  “I understand that, Ingrid. And I will be down as soon as I can.”

  “Is it so important that it cannot wait?” she asked.

  He narrowed his gaze at her.

  “The guild was very much looking forward to celebrating with you this evening,” she continued. “Yet, unfortunately, like so many other evenings, you are painfully absent. Distracted.”

  At this, Perry’s demeanor changed instantly. He tightened his jaw and straightened his posture.

  “I carry many responsibilities,” he answered in a low voice. “As much as I would prefer to engage frivolously, it is a luxury that I am not always fortunate to have.”

  “If you are overburdened,” she said as she folded her arms in front of her, “Then I would be happy to assist you. Let me deliver the correspondence, so that you can enjoy some frivolity with your men.”

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  What was she doing!?

  To speak so brazenly was a foolish thing for her to have done.

  And yet she did not care. Even knowing such actions could threaten her station, as well as their relationship, she was tempted nonetheless. There was so much more she wanted to say— she wanted to scream at him. To demand he tell her the truth. But his actions had betrayed his intent. He was scared of her getting too close. In a way, she had achieved what she set out to do.

  Then why did it hurt her so?

  This Perry who stood before was filled with such vitriol that she hardly recognized him. The face before her twisted with ire into something unrecognizable. It made her heart race. This was not simple frustration. Nor was it a mere excitement. It was fear. A primal fear— one which had been tethered to her soul with poison lace many years ago. It pulled at her insides; and by its absolute dominance could she feel herself begin to tremble.

  When Ingrid did not respond, Perry stepped in close and locked eyes with her as he spoke. “I believe you may have enjoyed yourself a little too much, Dame Helvenin. Please inform the men that I will join them when I am done.”

  Ingrid hesitated to answer.

  “This is an order,” he told her. “Am I understood?”

  “Understood, Sir Perry.”

  Ingrid then bowed her head slightly and turned from him. But, in that moment, Perry caught something else —something strange in her eyes— that gave him great pause…

  No, it couldn’t have been.

  He must have imagined it.

  This fleeting moment of sympathy was soon swallowed by billowing wrath. Whatever he felt toward her was irrelevant. There were more important forces at play which could not bend to such whims. Perry turned without word and started down the hall. Avenell lingered as Ingrid continued down the hallway. Then, once she had disappeared, Avenell quickly jogged down the hall after Sir Perry.

  “Have you already found a courier?” Perry asked under his breath.

  “Yes And the letter is addressed to the pseudonym you gave me.”

  “Good. Word should reach Nostros in a few days. Then he will inform the others.”

  “Will we be expecting a response?”

  “No,” Perry told him. “If Rothwell is to be believed, I would not want to risk one of Zorren’s spies noticing our movement. I will speak with them formally in person when we reach Gate City. But until that time, we will have to remain silent.”

  ***

  Ingrid ripped open the nearest door she could find and closed it tight behind her. She pressed her back against the door and stared down at her hands. Trembling, fearful hands. They could not be her own. Frustrated, she threw her head into the door so hard it hurt. But pain was good. Pain distracted. Though that pain could not calm her, not completely. It could not stop her frantically beating heart; nor could it quell the rising heat that flowed up from her chest. And as that wave swelled up into her throat, she felt as if she might choke. Her body shivered. And in an instant, tears burned at the corners of her eyes and ran bitterly down her face.

  “What is wrong with me…?”

  Again she banged her head against the door. And again. And again. But the tears would not stop. And so she squeezed her fingers into a fist, digging her nails into the palm of her hand. With gritted teeth she dug her fingernails in deeper, fighting with all her might against the tidal wave that threatened to over take her.

  Why?

  Why were these feelings still inside her? She was sure he had killed them. Crushed them beneath a mountain of contemptuous and spiteful action. Burned them, with scorn and effulgent pride, into a pile of ash. Cast them through hateful winds into an abyss whose depth to her was entirely unknown. And for so many years they were silent. War had not stirred them. Time had not stirred them.

  So then why?

  Why did that look of rage upon the face of a man she cared so deeply for unleash them once again? Why was that hateful stare so familiar?

  She felt so small now, like that same frightened child. So small, and so tired.

  Exhaustion washed over her as she slid toward the ground. Her forearms relaxed: returning blood to her hands and giving her such relief. Nail marks in the skin of her palm stung at the open air. She breathed deep through the pain. Then, she slowly let her eyes shut. In time, her breath steadied once again, her heart began to slow, and the heat left her.

  How she hated herself.

  Such a bout of weakness that she wished to quickly forget.

  Ingrid brought her hands to her face and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Slowly, she rose from the ground and drew herself tall. Ingrid drew in a long breath as she looked to the ceiling. She then pulled the door open, stepped into the hallway, and slammed the door shut behind her.