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The owl was Philip Beckwith and the swan was Scarlet Wentworth and neither of them spoke again for the rest of the evening. Lance Ashcroft walked her away from a garden path at precisely the wrong moment.

Scarlet entered the morning room just as the sunlight caught the edges of the drapes, spilling gold across the new rug and the low, polished table where breakfast was laid. The room smelled of fresh bread, butter, and brewed tea, a quiet contrast to the grandeur of the Wyndmere ballroom. Her mother sat near the hearth, a half-finished embroidery hoop balanced on her lap, while a small tray of scones and preserves waited nearby.

Christine was already there, perched casually on a cushioned window seat, her legs tucked beneath her. She turned with a bright smile when Scarlet entered.

“Good morning, Scarlet! I hope I’m not intruding,” she said, her voice carrying the easy charm of someone who didn’t feel the need for ceremony.

“Not at all,” Scarlet said. “You’re always welcome here, morning or evening.”

Scarlet’s mother set down her embroidery and inclined her head politely to Christine. “Come, have breakfast with us.”

Christine hopped down gracefully and moved to the table, brushing her hands on the skirt of her gown. “I wanted to see the morning room before the household descends. It’s far too pretty to be hidden.” She reached for a cup of tea, the steam curling around her face.

Scarlet poured her own cup, then set a plate of warm scones before Christine. “It’s always more lived-in in the morning. Breakfast, sunlight, the ordinary motions of the house,” she said, taking a seat across from her friend.

“And what of you, Lady Wentworth?” Christine asked, smiling at the domestic scene. “Do you ever get time like this—quiet, unscheduled?”

“That’s why I come down here in the mornings,” Scarlet’s mother said. “It’s a few minutes of quiet.”

“Mama is wise,” Scarlet said. “She has to claim her time. Otherwise, the house has a rhythm of its own.”

Christine laughed, cutting into a scone. “I much prefer this to a ballroom full of masks, even if it was fun.”

“Mornings are for plain speaking,” Scarlet’s mother said, without looking up from her embroidery. “You may say what you like, my dear.”

“Then tell me everything. I’ve come to be in the confidence of my friends, not merely their formal acquaintance.”

“It was a wonderful party,” Scarlet said. “Everyone was done up so well and Wyndmere was lavishly decorated. You really outdid yourself.”

“The servants outdid themselves,” Christine corrected. “I just told them what I wanted.”

“It was beautifully done and very successful,” Scarlet’s mother said.

“Thank you, my lady,” said Christine. She turned to Scarlet. “You were the talk of the night. And not only for the gown.”

“It was a good evening,” Scarlet said. “Aside from young lord Lorrimer pointing out the shape of my birthing hips.”

“Oh, dear gods,” her mother said. “Did he really?”

“He thought he was being funny.”

“Did you inform him, in no uncertain terms, that he does not a comedian make?”

“He’s harmless,” Scarlet said. “He apologized later, and I forgave him.”

The Duchess nodded, returning to her embroidery hoop.

“Mother,” Scarlet said. “I’ve been told there are Wentworths in the east.”

“Yes,” her mother said. “Psalter’s Point, east of the Dragonspires is home to an entire clan of your father’s cousins. They are a very hardy people, living at the edge of the frozen world.”

“Might they have fighting men?”

The Duchess looked at her daughter, gave a slight shake of her head, and cut her eyes briefly to Christine.

Scarlet nodded slightly in return.

“You danced with Sir Philip Beckwith,” Christine said, reaching for another scone.

“He was an interesting fellow,” she said, giving nothing away.

“Told you he was handsome,” Christine said, flashing her eyes at Scarlet.

“Yes. He seems fine. It was quite a relief. He doesn’t seem to be any more interested in marriage than I am.”

“Really?” Christine asked.

The Duchess smirked, then returned to her embroidery.

“I enjoyed the dance, but once the masks were off and he knew who I was—and to be fair—I knew who he was—we didn’t speak for the rest of the evening which suited me just fine.” Scarlet wasn’t quite sure who she was trying to convince.

“Lord Ashcroft followed you around like a puppy dog,” Christine said.

“Ashcroft fancies himself the solution to my problem,” Scarlet said.

“Does he now?” the Duchess asked, suddenly interested in the conversation.

“He claims that whatever bygones there are had nothing to do with him and nothing to do with me, and that we ought to settle the dispute by ourselves.”

“I think he’s right,” the Duchess said. “You’re familiar with the saber, no?”

Christine choked on her scone, grabbed tea, and cleared her throat. The fire in the hearth gave a brief, sharp flutter. By the time she looked up, the Duchess was paying attention only to the embroidery.

“Ashcroft is the kind of man against whom swords are of little use,” Scarlet said. “He must be disarmed, but not in that way.”

The Duchess just barely smiled, but Scarlet noticed, so she decided to needle a little.

“Still,” she said dreamily. “It’s nice to know that some man is interested in me.”

This time Christine inhaled her tea.

“I think you will find, dear,” Scarlet’s mother said without looking up, “That a great many, and better, men will have an interest in you than just Lance Ashcroft.”

“Well,” Scarlet said. “I do have a problem with men right now, but it’s not the problem everyone thinks.”

“Scarlet,” her mother said. It was a warning.

Christine looked between them, completely unsure of what to make of the exchange.

“In any case,” Scarlet said. “Last night was revealing in more than one way. Lord Ashcroft might have some points about who started this trouble and who ought to finish it. Not in the way that he thinks. Not for his benefit. But I did see a bit of cunning in his thought process. He might be loyal, but he’s still a wolf. The disguise hid nothing.”

“Well observed,” the Duchess said, glancing just briefly at her daughter.

“The question is, whether Sir Beckwith is revealed or hidden by the owl,” Scarlet pondered.

“I heard someone say the same about you and the swan,” Christine said, giggling.

This time, Scarlet inhaled her tea. When she caught her breath she gasped, “I will have you know that I told Philip that swans can be ferocious, too!”

“You used his first name,” Christine said. “You called him Philip.”

The Duchess chuckled, and both girls looked at her.

“I’m glad you two are such good friends,” she said.

“The entire focus doesn’t need to be on me,” Scarlet said, turning back to Christine. “If I recall correctly, I saw a certain sergeant of the Knights Celestial disappear at three minutes before eight. And then, mysteriously, I saw you disappear at two minutes before eight. Care to explain?”

Christine’s face flushed, but she was silent for a moment.

“Well?” Scarlet asked.

“He’s a beautiful man,” Christine said. “We slipped away for a little while to the upstairs gallery, just the two of us. I was not subtle, Scarlet. But he was very—” she paused, searching for the right word, “—careful.”

“Careful,” Scarlet repeated.

“Attentive. Warm. But careful.” Christine picked at her scone. “I cannot tell if he is cautious by nature or cautious about me specifically. Which are different problems.”

Scarlet frowned, considering the implications.

“What do you mean by cautious, girl?” Scarlet’s mother asked. “Speak plainly.”

“I told him I adored him. I was hoping he would kiss me in the dark. But he gave me a trinket instead.”

“What kind of trinket?” Scarlet’s mother asked. “And tell me exactly what he said.”

Christine reached into her dress and pulled out a jade pendant, the sunlight glinting off its smooth surface as she held it up on its silver chain.

“It’s beautiful,” Scarlet said.

“Oh, but it is!” Christine said. “I appreciate it so much, and I told him so.”

“What did he say, child?” Scarlet’s mother asked.

“Something about recognizing me and wondering if I recognized him.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him that, of course, I had seen him before many times and knew who he was.”

The Duchess laughed.

“What have I said?” Christine asked, her hands covering her mouth.

Still chuckling, Scarlet’s mother said. “You do know he is Kiranoise?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Christine said.

Scarlet’s mother huffed. “Whatever do they teach in our schools these days? Listen, young lady. He is from a different land. They have different customs than we.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Christine repeated.

“He has given you a jade pendant. It’s their most precious jewel. What did he say about it?”

“He told me it had been his mother’s.”

“And then he said, he recognized you?”

“Yes,”

“And asked if you recognized him?”

“Yes.”

“Sweet child,” the Duchess said, picking up her embroidery. “He is not speaking of memory, but of your souls.”

The pendant trembled slightly in Christine’s hand.

The Duchess continued. “And he wants to know if you recognize his soul, too.”

“Oh!” Christine said, clutching the pendant to her breast.

The Duchess said, “What he’s saying is that he believes your souls are mated, both in this life and every life, and he wants to know if you feel the same.”

“Oh, gods!” Christine said.

“And then he gave you the most precious thing he has—his mother’s jade pendant.”

“All I can say, child, is that you best go find him.”

Christine went still for a moment. “Um—may I be excused, my lady?”

“Of course, dear. Run along.”

And Christine did. She ran.

Scarlet watched her friend run from Kestrelmont. Her mother was already smiling at her.

“Love is a beautiful thing,” the Duchess said.

Christine arrived at Wyndmere breathless and cursing herself for leaving her carriage behind. She had run all the way from Kestrelmont. Foolish. There’d be no reason for Chenguer to be here. He’d left with Captain Beckwith yesterday evening. He wouldn’t be waiting here for her, so why had she come?

She would need to walk all the way back to Kestrelmont, get her carriage, and then try to figure out where Chenguer might be. How could she even find that?

She stopped to catch her breath, hands on her knees.

She had cried, laughed, and thrown her hands cheering on the run.

But what to do next?

She stood, but then immediately crouched, sliding behind a hedgerow and then peering out towards the front door of the estate.

Chenguer was there!

And he was talking to her parents.

She moved slowly and carefully, getting closer to the front doors, but the hedgerow ended too soon. She couldn’t very well go out in plain view and interrupt whatever was happening. So she stayed in her hiding place and watched.

Chenguer stood before the magnificence of the Wyndmere entry. In contrast, he spoke simply and plainly, as Christine had always admired in him. She could hear nothing he said, but she tried to imagine his words.

The first sign of trouble came when her father’s arms shot out wide in fists, as he barked something at the young man.

Her stomach dropped. She knew the heat her father could summon. But she also knew something Chenguer could not have known. The man was a teddybear underneath.

But Chenguer did not even flinch. He just continued to speak calmly. At most he gestured slightly with his hands.

Then it was her mother’s turn. She watched her mother’s hands drop to an inverted vee, surely posing the impossibilities of whatever he was asking.

But Chenguer did not back down, bless him. The more she watched, the more she admired his resolve. His conviction.

“My gods,” she said out loud. “He actually loves me.”

Christine cried softly and did nothing at all to stop it. She was self-aware enough to know that there is only one time this happens in your life and she was determined to feel every moment of it as honestly as she could.

Gradually, the conversation became less animated on her parents’ side and, even more astonishingly, Chenguer picked up the slack—not quite to the demonstrative level of her parents, but certain and crisp and assured.

Christine laughed despite herself and for the first time, she brought her finger to her eyelid to catch a tear.

Moments later, Christine gasped as her father grabbed Chenguer and gave him a big hug—and then she cried like a baby when her mother joined the embrace.

Christine crouched behind the hedge. She reached for the jade pendant. For a long moment, she simply held it in her open palm, letting the sunlight catch its smooth green surface. Then, with a trembling hand, she lifted the silver chain over her head, letting the jade fall to rest against her chest where it bounced slightly to the thump of her heart.

There was no longer a reason to hide.

Steeling herself, she rose from the hedge. She looked down at her feet as she walked toward them, afraid to look up and see a mirage that might have disappeared.

She tried hard to control her breathing as she walked, head down, afraid.

Finally, she managed a deep breath and a shuddering sigh and looked up to see Chenguer, turned to her, his hands out. For the first time ever, she saw him smile, and she grinned back and walked more quickly to him, taking his hands.

What they said in those moments blurred in her memory, but their arms were locked.

There was only a moment of lucidity when she caught her parents watching—mama’s head leaned back against papa’s shoulder.

They had tears too.

Back in Kestrelmont, Scarlet was busy.

She worked quickly, methodically, her movements exact. She muttered a curse when a buckle resisted her, but she did not slow.

She was happy for Christine. Truly. That much was simple.

What was not simple was her mother’s voice, quiet and certain, lingering where it had no right to.

Love is a beautiful thing.

Scarlet stilled for a moment, then pulled the strap tight.

Beautiful—and apparently optional.

She checked her work again. Then a third time.

When everything was in order, she mounted her mare, Thistledown, and turned toward the drive. She knew, as she did it, she might not return.

At the crest of the hill, she looked back.

Her window caught the light, small now against the stone. Warm. Safe. Familiar.

She held it in her gaze for a heartbeat longer—and then turned away from it without hesitation.

It was time.

Time to settle the matter.

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Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.

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🏵 The Signet - Part 7 🏵