By afternoon, the guests arrived.
Three carriages rolled into the courtyard, wheels crunching frostbitten gravel. Footmen leapt down. Maids hurried to hold doors. The manor stirred like a beast roused from slumber.
Veyn watched from the upper stairwell, a silver tray in hand and a carefully blank expression on his face.
The bride to be, he assumed, was the tall girl in the ice blue cloak, her hair twisted into a crown braid. Lady Evelyne's niece, or cousin, or something arranged by blood. House Vexley.
Her parents followed, elegant and sneering. Greetings were exchanged with Lady Aldergrave in the front hall. Perfume filled the air. The smell of wealth.
Hours passed. Veyn served, observed, and catalogued everything.
And then, outside the linen room, he found Callum.
The boy leaned on the bannister like it might be the only thing keeping him upright. His velvet waistcoat was slightly crooked. His eyes were distant.
"Didn't hear you coming," Callum muttered.
"You say that like I wasn't trying to sneak up on you," Veyn replied.
Callum gave a tired laugh. "I don't know if I should be worried."
They stood in silence, the muffled clinking of glasses echoing from downstairs.
"So," Veyn said. "That statue they brought in, is that the bride?"
Callum exhaled slowly. "Yes. House Vexley. They're very… meticulous. Her father once sued a stablehand for mispronouncing the family name."
"Sounds delightful."
"She's not cruel. Just… precise. Trained. Like she's been practicing to be a duchess since the womb."
Veyn leaned against the wall. "And you? Practicing to be a husband since the cradle?"
"More like a pawn since birth," Callum muttered. "I'm the youngest. My older siblings married for advantage, land, titles. I was supposed to be the one who didn't have to. But now…"
He trailed off. The boy looked at Veyn, unsure.
"What?" Veyn asked.
"I guess I just, look, we're not the same. But we're both stuck in someone else's plan. You're here because you needed a job. I'm here because they needed a symbol. Neither of us chose."
That, Veyn couldn't argue with.
"Let me guess," he said. "You wanted to run off and be a painter or something?"
Callum smirked. "A mapmaker. I love topography. Always dreamed of charting unknown lands, drawing the world from memory."
Veyn blinked. That was… oddly specific.
"What about you?" Callum asked. "What'd you want to be before all this?"
Veyn hesitated.
"Alive," he said finally. "Beyond that..."
Callum nodded. "Then I hope you live a long time. Even if it's in someone else's house."
The sincerity caught Veyn off guard. He didn't answer.
A bell rang. Evening preparations.
The manor lit up.
The ballroom was radiant, gold chandeliers burning with a mixture of gaslight and hovering flames. The walls were draped in burgundy silk, Aldergrave crests embroidered at intervals. Musicians tuned instruments near the dais. Footmen lined the walls, servants buzzed like bees. The scent of roasted meats, sugar dusted pastries, and aged wine drifted through the air.
Veyn walked the floor with a decanter, silver tray balanced effortlessly in his hand. He kept his eyes low and his ears open.
He listened to nobles discuss hunting rights, naval contracts, and tariffs. He watched hands exchanging coded gestures. A pat on the shoulder. A brush of the cuff. Power games, language without words.
He caught sight of Callum once, standing stiffly beside his intended, both flanked by parents. His smile was painted on. The girl's was worse, a museum exhibit labeled "Betrothal."
Veyn served drinks, dodged elbows, noted who pocketed sweets, memorized who left their jewelry unattended.
Later, when the ballroom began to thin and the guests went to the parlor for post dinner liqueurs, Veyn headed toward the kitchen.
Until-
"Crowe."
Mrs. Keene's voice was low but carried unmistakable authority. She stood near the pantry, arms crossed, her gaze sharp and unyielding. Beside her, Gideon Brackett's expression was unreadable, his posture rigid.
"Come with us," she said.
Veyn followed silently, his heart thudding in his chest. They led him down a dim corridor to a small study, its walls paneled with dark wood. The air felt heavy.
Mrs. Keene took the seat behind the desk with a deliberate calm, while Gideon remained standing. Veyn lowered himself slowly into the chair opposite them, trying to steady his breathing.
"Gideon," Mrs. Keene began, her voice calm,
"That recommendation letter you supposedly gave him-"
Gideon cut in, his tone sharp, "Was never written by me."
Keene leaned forward, eyes locked on Veyn, "So, Mr. Crowe, care to explain yourself?"