The Duke’s Reborn Daughter Sometimes Chooses Violence.

Count Calloway allowed the children to do whatever they wished after the ceremony was done. This, inevitably, led to chaos.

It did not take long at all before all of the careful arrangements the Count had no doubt painstakingly made were in ruins. Two boys sat at the center of the largest table, the thing messy with several discarded drawings. They were having some kind of competition. Three more children chased each other around a set of chairs they had assembled into some formation I could not guess at.

Most of the older children hung back from the others. Their eyes swept over the adults, and their gazes were searching. I could not fault them for those looks, though it made the people being watched uncomfortable.

I stood near the refreshment table. Calloway moved through the place, trying to keep the destruction to a minimum. He was failing. Violet leaned against a wall, her expression somewhere between bored and watchful.

Cordelia stood at the edge of the room, slightly apart from her maid, her hands folded in front of her. She looked rather out of place, all things considered. A small girl detached herself from the group. She was perhaps six, with dark hair. There was a…boldness to her. I could see it in her eyes. She stopped and stared up, reached out and grabbed a fistful of Cordelia’s skirt. “Are you a princess?”

Cordelia’s smile never wavered. She bent at the waist with perfect grace, bringing herself closer to the child’s level. “No, I’m afraid not. I am just a Lady, but that’s very kind of you to say.”

The girl did not let go of the skirt. She tilted her head, studying Cordelia’s face. It was an intense gaze, one I was glad not to be the subject of. “Why do you smile like that?”

Cordelia’s smile held. “Like what, dear?”

“Like it hurts.”

The silence that followed was brief. To anyone watching, Cordelia’s composure didn’t so much as flicker. She laughed and gently detached the girl’s fingers from her skirt. “You have quite the imagination little one, I’m smiling because I’m happy to be here.”

The girl frowned. From the far wall, Violet’s voice carried just enough to be audible. It wasnt aimed at anyone, and it did not need to be either. “Bloody perfect smile for a bloody perfect doll you mean.”

I turned. Violet was examining her nails with exaggerated interest. She didn’t look up at me, though surely she knew I was looking. My gaze flicked back to Cordelia.I saw the barest tension run through her shoulders. It was something only noticeable because the rest of her was so composed. Her ring began to turn. Once and then twice.

The girl was still staring up at her. Cordelia smoothed an invisible wrinkle on her sleeve. I stepped in beside them as I crouched down next to the girl. “What’s your name?”

“Mila.” She said, head tilted.

“Mila, have you eaten yet? There are tarts on that table. The ones with the red jam are the best.”

Mila’s priorities realigned instantly, as only a small child’s could. She released Cordelia’s skirt and bolted for the refreshment table. I straightened and looked at Cordelia. She met my gaze with a perfectly composed expression that. “Walk with me?” I said. “I’d like your opinion on the layout upstairs.”

There was a flicker behind her eyes. There was no trap, I hoped she could see that. Cordelia nodded, and we walked.

I led her through the upper floor. Some of Calloway’s blueprints were spread on a table in the corridor, weighted down with mugs. He had asked for my input. I wanted Cordellia’s. I hadn’t planned this, I genuinely wanted her opinion.

Cordelia stared at the blueprints. It took Cordelia approximately thirty seconds to study the thing. She looked at the dormitory layout, and something in her posture shifted. Her chin lifted. Her eyes were moving quickly across the diagram. Perhaps I was watching her to closely

“So what do you think?” I asked. “Of the layout, I mean.”

She kept staring, and for a moment I thought she might not answer. Then, she did. “The smaller children’s rooms are facing the main corridoor,” she whispered, almost to herself, and as she did, she traced a line on the blueprint with one gloved finger. “Which means they can hear the front door from their beds. Every time someone enters or leaves, they’ll hear it.” She paused and looked up at me. “For children who were taken as these were,” she said, more carefully now, “the sound of a door opening at night would be…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. “You’re right,” I said softly. “Count Calloway didn’t think of that.” It was the kind of thing you couldn’t think about, unless there was something broken on the inside.

Cordelia caught herself. She smoothed a wrinkle that wasn’t there and folded her hands. “My apologies Lady Veyne, it seems I’m overstepping. Count Calloway has clearly put a great deal of thought into-”

“Calloway.” I raised my voice just enough. The man appeared at the top of the stairs a moment later, eyebrows raised. “The younger children’s rooms need to be moved to the back of the building, far away from the main entrance. Lady Greenward has made an astute observation.”

Calloway looked from me to Cordelia. He seemed to consider and then he nodded. “That’s sound. I’ll have the caretakers begin the move this evening.”

He left and the stairwell was quiet. Cordelia was staring at me. The ring had stopped turning. “You just-” She was staring at me. “You implemented it...just like that.”

“It was a good idea.”

“It was an offhand comment.”

“It was a good idea,” I repeated. “From someone I think rather intelligent.”

Something moved across her face that I could not fully read. It was gone before I had the chance to try. “You’re not what I expected,” she said quietly.

“I rarely am.”

Cordelia’s lips pressed together. I did not think she was frowning. Rather, it seemed she was trying to keep her frown from becoming something else entirely.

We returned to the common room after that. The children had, in our absence, managed to overturn an entire tray of tarts. How they had made more of a mess in the few minutes we had spent away, only the Gods could say.

Calloway was trying to handle it all with increasingly not-quite desperation. I certainly did not envy him. The sight was oddly comforting.

I noticed it midway through the afternoon. There was a pencil on the windowsill next to me, one that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago. I had been standing here for that time, and so I’d have noticed.

The pencil was Sere’s, I recognized the tiny teeth marks along the shaft. She chewed on them when she was thinking. It was a habit I had failed to break and had long since stopped trying. I had the same habit, so perhaps at least some of it wa smy fault.

The children were spread across the common room now. Most of them were engaged in the aftermath of the tart incident, as I liked to think about it, licking jam from fingers or fighting over the last intact pastry. There were not many of them left now. I wondered how many Sere had taken. Hopefully, not many. One boy sat alone.

He was in the far corner, maybe eight or nine, his knees drawn up to his chest. He was not fidgeting. nor was he looking around. He simply sat there, pressed into the angle where two walls met, and stared at nothing. Watching him twisted something inside me. Then the boy looked down.

There was a piece of paper on the floor beside him. It had not been there a moment ago. Nobody was near him. Nobody was even facing his direction. He reached for it. Picked it up with careful fingers. It was a drawing, done in pencil. I couldn’t see the details from where I stood, but I knew Sere’s hand well enough to know it was hers. A flower, probably. Or a funny looking cat.

That was the kind of thing she drew constantly, filling notebook after notebook. That did remind me, I needed to get her more notebooks. Perhaps there was an Artifact out there in the shape of a notebook, one that never ran out of pages. I would look into this.

The boy stared at the drawing. His grip tightened. He looked around the room, searching for whoever had left it. His gaze passed over every face. He looked back down at the drawing and pulled his knees tighter even as he tucked the paper against his chest. His shoulders dropped, just a fraction. It was just a silly drawing. I wondered if it was the first thing anyone had ever given him.

I watched from across the room and did not move. Some things were not mine to touch.

Later, a notepad appeared at my elbow. I hadn’t heard it arrive.

I had just one sentence, written in Sere’s careful handwriting. We are same? My eyes stung. I blinked it away. “Yes, I suppose we are, my dear friend.” I whispered to the air, certain that she could hear. “I will always be proud of you, Sere. Don’t forget that.”

Across the room, the boy was still holding the drawing against his chest. He hadn’t moved. Some part of me wanted to cross the room and sit beside him. To say or promise something. I stayed where I was. Promises from strangers meant nothing to children like him, only actions did. This building was an action and these guards were an action to.

The drawing tucked against his chest was the smallest action of all, and it might have been the one that mattered most.

The afternoon wound down. The smaller children had been gathered by the caretakers and were being ushered toward the dormitories for rest.

The common room was quieter now. The merchant had left. The officials had followed, and the reporters had had to be ushered out. The Greenward maid hovered near the entrance, clearly eager to depart. Cordelia was preparing to leave. It was rather apparent from the occasional look she shot towards her maid. She was turning her ring again.

Then one of the older children, the girl who had stared at me during my address, crossed the room. She was eleven, maybe twelve. Thin and with dark eyes. She moved with purpose. She stopped directly in front of Cordelia and thrust something forward. It was a drawing, done in colored pencil on cheap paper.

I was close enough to see. It was crude. A green figure with a too large smile and a big dress. The proportions were wrong in every direction. The coloring went outside the lines. The face was a circle with two dots and a curve. The girl held the drawing out and glared at Cordelia, as if daring her to throw it away. As if she fully expected her to.

Cordelia looked at the drawing. Her ring stopped turning. Very slowly, very carefully, Cordelia reached out and took the paper from the girl’s hands. She didn’t unfold it or hold it up to the light. She didn’t coo or smile or say anything a noblewoman was supposed to say. She folded it, twice, and she tucked it into an inner pocket of her gown. “Thank you,” she said simply.

The girl blinked. She stood there for a moment before she turned and walked quickly back to the dormitory corridor. Violet had been watching, and I had seen Violet watching.

Violet was still leaning against the wall. Her face was something it very rarely was. It was unreadable. I saw her eyes track the drawing from the girl’s hand to Cordelia’s pocket. Her clenched jaw seemed to unclench, just a little. Just the barest fraction. It was the tiniest thing. No more than the difference between staring at an enemy and realizing perhaps they too might be a person after all.

Cordelia’s maid appeared at her side. “My Lady, the carriage is ready.” Cordelia nodded, smoothing her gown. Her mask was settling back. I had only a few seconds.

“Cordelia.” She paused at the door before she turned, one hand on the frame. “Would you come back?” I asked. “Not for an event. Not for an opening or a ceremony. Just…to visit. Tomorrow?” Her guards were right there. The maid was right there. Her father’s eyes and ears were right there. The calculation happened behind her gaze. I watched it run. I was asking much of her, I knew that. It was cruel, what I was doing. I did it anyway.

“I’ll consider it,” she said. From Cordelia Greenward, that was a yes.

“I’ll send a letter.”

Cordelia did not reply. She curtsied. It was perfect, as always. Her guards closed around her, green and gold, and she was gone.

The common room was empty now. Only when it was fully empty, did Violet push off the wall and came to stand beside me. We stood in silence for a moment, looking at the entrance where Cordelia’s carriage had just pulled away. She wanted to say something, and I thought I knew what. “She kept the drawing,” Violet said. Her voice was quiet, actually quiet.

“She did.”

“Hid it, too. From her own damn people.”

“So you noticed that?”

Violet chewed on her lower lip, folded her arms and unfolded them. She folded them again. “I still don’t trust her,” she said.

“I know.”

“But…” Violet trailed off. Her braid got another fierce tug. “She’s got something in there I guess. Maybe. I don’t know.” It sounded like she wished that wasn’t the case. I looked at her. Reached over and lightly flicked her forehead.

“Hey!”

“Thank you for coming today.”

Violet reddened, turned away and muttered something I didn’t catch. I turned back to the room. The drawings on the walls and the faded rug. The jam stain that nobody had managed to fully clean.

The table where children had sat and eaten and fought over tarts and been, for a few hours, simply children. I hoped they had many more days like this, when there were no more adults to watch.

Sere’s notepad appeared on the table nearest me. She’d drawn the common room. Every detail -the overturned tray, the jam smear, the scattered chairs. In the corner of the drawing, a small figure sat with a piece of paper held against his chest. Beneath it, in her messy handwriting:

Good day.

I ran my thumb across the page. “Yes. It was.”

Someday, when my heart didn’t just clench at the thought. I wanted to come back here. Vaelin hummed faintly in agreement.