Page 29 of Spar of Hearts

“That is none of your business!” Anya shot back, untying the cinch bag from Yomira’s side.

“Roderick!” The same man from the roof hurried over, a leather carpenter’s apron flapping behind him as he ran.

“Hello, Ellis,” Lord Bryson said, far more calm than the man was. “You have made excellent progress, I see.”

“How could I not take advantage of this gorgeous weather?” Ellis gestured around them, then looked crestfallen. “That, and we need more bedrooms for the children. Having four in each room is a bit much. They’re keeping each other awake by coughing.”

The children. This must be the orphanage.

“Ah. Well, my news should bring you all some peace of mind,” Lord Bryson said confidently.

Anya cleared her throat and stepped next to him. She refused to follow in silence while he tried to wrest command from her. Again.

“Anya Delemond.” She extended a clawed hand to Ellis. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

He accepted her handshake heartily. “Ellis Dacre.” He paused. “Wait—Delemond? As in, the royal family?” He ran a hand through his hair, but the sawdust in it just moved to another spot on his head. “Let me get my mu—I mean our Baroness—she’ll want to—”

“There is no need—” She held her hands up in a placating gesture.

“I’ll be right back!” He bowed hastily, then tore down the broken cobblestone path.

Anya sighed. She left out her title because of moments just like this, though most people eventually recalled the weight of her surname. She had wanted a calm, quiet tour of the orphanage, but he’d disappeared before she could even ask. In Eteross, something as simple as buying a loaf of tarragon bread at her favorite bakery was an event unless she wore a disguise. Hence, the charm of the masquerade.

Lord Bryson chuckled, almost like he knew this man well. Perhaps he did. They’d greeted each other by first name. It took her a frustrating amount of consciousness to keep referring to him by his title. She did not want to give him the illusion of closeness by letting his first name slip.

“The children’s home is right here. I am sure he will figure out we went inside.” Lord Bryson eyed the bag in her hands, then rolled his eyes and started down the path to the home. Moss weaved between the crackled cobblestone, a stark contrast to the brand-new walnut fence that surrounded a rich field of grass on the far side of the building. Two clay pots sat on either side of the door with small sprouts poking out of the dirt within.

He rapped on the door three times, then took a step back. She shifted her gaze to him, then noticed the stillness of his chest.

He was holding his breath. His eyes darted everywhere but the door: the multicolored glass windows, the purple clover poking up around their feet, even the knots in the walnut door frame.

He was nervous.

A woman with tawny hair opened the door and beamed at him. “Roderick!” Then she hugged him. Hugged him. She treated him with astounding familiarity. Was it possible he was courting someone even though he went to the masquerade? Her eyes darted to the woman’s brow, where one amethyst and one sapphire piercing rested—a far cry from the trio of tiger’s eye resting on the Lord’s brow.

Not that Anya cared. Her fingers wandered to the single diamond over her own brow.

“It’s so good to see you.” The woman smiled, but her eyes were tired. Patches of pink scars spanned her right cheek, but they didn’t take away from her humble beauty.

“You as well.” A slight smile tugged the corners of Lord Bryson’s mouth but didn’t seem to reach his eyes. “Ellis went to fetch the Baroness. Though I did not ask him to. He got a little flustered.” He chuckled.

“Come in! Come in!” They followed the young woman into the foyer. A few dozen pairs of children’s shoes were lined up just inside the entryway. Anya’s gaze flicked to where the woman’s cane tapped on the wood floor, then forced her eyes back up to the ceiling, lest she seem to be staring. The building was nearly split down the middle, finished and unfinished. Sheets of canvas blocked off the rightmost side just below where the man had been working on the roof.

The woman’s wavy ponytail swung as she turned the corner into a homey living area. Several children were drawing on the floor, and a young Centarian, no older than thirteen, was reading a book to three enraptured little girls. Her carmine eyes squeezed shut as she coughed violently, halting the story. Two others played with wooden toys in the shape of a wyvern and a gryphon.

The woman turned back to them and looked up at Lord Bryson. “Roderick, aren’t you going to introduce me to your companions?”

He straightened, then cleared his throat. “Right. Yes. This is Millicent Layne. Millicent, this is Princess Anya Delemond and her lady-in-waiting Blackbird Rowan. And you remember my right hand, Sir Octavio Oshfeldt.”

“Millicent Dacre,” she corrected, curtsying as best she could with the cane. Lord Bryson rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “Welcome to the Balcott Home for Children. It is an honor to have you here, Your Highness.”

“The honor is all mine.” Anya nodded to her. “Thank you for being a safe haven for the children.”

“Princess!” a scratchy voice called. A little girl rushed over and hugged Anya’s skirts. She’d recognize those amber curls anywhere. She was one of the orphans on the last leg of the evacuation: Emmaline Chambers.

“Oh! I’m sorry—” Millicent started.

“Emmaline!” Anya crouched down and returned the hug. “My my, you’ve gotten taller.”