Isolde's POV
Dawn broke gray and cold over Ravenshade.
A low mist rolled across the cliffs, creeping up toward the manor like a living thing. From my window, the sea was barely visible, only the hiss of waves below and the faint call of gulls cutting through the silence.
My maid, Clara, moved about quietly, arranging my gown with the nervous precision of someone who understood too well what this morning meant.
"His Grace's council gathers within the hour," she murmured, fastening the final clasp at my back. "They're already in the west hall, my lady. The steward said it's a full attendance."
"Thank you, Clara," I said softly. My voice still felt fragile in the morning air.
She hesitated, then added, "Begging your pardon, my lady… but they don't much care for change. The council, I mean. They liked things as they were."
Her words landed like a quiet warning.
"I see."
When she left, I stood before the mirror, studying the reflection that looked back.
The gown chosen for me was a deep, muted blue, the color of storm clouds over the sea. A simple silver clasp fastened the bodice, and my hair was swept into an elegant twist. It was not ostentatious, but there was strength in its restraint.
That, I thought, was what Ravenshade respected, strength without display.
I drew a steady breath, lifted my chin, and stepped into the corridor.
The house was already awake. Servants moved like whispers through the halls, the chandeliers dimmed but still casting a cold shimmer across the marble. Somewhere ahead, I could hear the faint rumble of male voices, the councilmen assembling.
The steward appeared as I reached the landing. "This way, Your Grace."
He led me toward the west hall, a long corridor lined with banners of black and silver, each bearing the sigil of the stag. The doors at the end were carved with the same emblem, and as they opened, the murmur of conversation died instantly.
Every head turned.
The chamber was vast, a vaulted room lit by tall windows and a great chandelier overhead. A long table stretched across its center, filled with parchment, ledgers, and goblets of dark wine. Around it sat the council: men of rank and wealth, their faces carved by years of politics and patience.
At the head of the table sat Elias.
The Duke's gaze lifted briefly to meet mine before turning away, wordless. His composure was perfect, distant, unreadable, a mountain among lesser peaks.
"Your Grace," said Lord Everard, an older man with a voice like gravel. "The Duchess joins us."
There was a polite murmur of greeting, nothing more.
I took my seat beside Elias, folding my hands neatly in my lap.
"Gentlemen," Elias began, his tone calm but commanding. "We proceed."
What followed was a flurry of discussions, estate reports, trade disputes, military supply routes, a world of numbers and names that moved faster than I could follow. Yet I listened, every word sharpening my understanding of this house.
At intervals, I felt eyes on me, measuring, weighing.
Lord Everard cleared his throat midway through. "And does Her Grace have thoughts on this matter? The estate at Wrenthorne, perhaps?"
The question was a test, mild in tone, but sharp in intent.
I met his gaze. "I've not yet seen Wrenthorne myself," I said carefully, "but I understand it suffered flood damage last winter. If repairs are delayed again, it could affect next season's harvest. The tenants shouldn't bear the cost of that neglect."
The room shifted, faintly, almost imperceptibly.
Lord Everard blinked. "You are… informed, Your Grace."
"Only what I've read in the household reports," I replied evenly.
Elias's eyes flicked toward me for a brief second, not surprise, not approval, but acknowledgment. Then, as quickly, he looked away.
The meeting carried on. I spoke little, only when directly addressed, but each word was measured, deliberate. I could feel Lady Marguerite's lesson whispering in my mind: Don't be invisible.
When at last the council rose, chairs scraping against the floor, the air seemed lighter somehow. One by one, the men bowed slightly before taking their leave.
Lord Everard lingered. "Ravenshade is… fortunate, Your Grace," he said, addressing the Duke, though his gaze rested on me. "Not many women would sit through such a meeting."
Elias did not look up from his notes. "Then it is well she did."
It wasn't quite praise, but it was something.
When the room emptied, silence settled again, deep and steady.
"You spoke well," Elias said at last, his tone neutral.
"I listened," I replied.
"That, too, is rare."
He signed one final document and gestured faintly. "You may go. Lady Marguerite will wish to see you after luncheon."
I rose, offering a quiet curtsy. "My lord."
As I left the chamber, the sound of the sea reached faintly through the tall windows, steady, relentless, eternal.
And for the first time since my arrival, I felt something within me begin to steady too.
The south drawing room was bathed in morning light when I entered.
Chandeliers caught the sun and broke it into fragments across the pale stone floor. The air was rich with the scent of lavender and old parchment, refined, poised, and faintly intimidating.
Lady Marguerite sat by the tall windows, her figure framed by silken drapes the color of dusk. A teacup rested in her hand, her expression unreadable as she regarded the gardens below.
"Your Grace," she said, not turning at once. Her voice carried that smooth authority of someone who had spent a lifetime being obeyed. "You may sit."
I crossed the room and lowered myself onto the seat opposite hers. The porcelain teapot between us gleamed with delicate blue vines, its steam curling faintly upward.
"I trust the council did not overwhelm you," she began, her gaze finally lifting to meet mine. Her eyes were a sharp gray, softer than Elias's, but no less assessing.
"It was… instructive," I said.
Her lips curved, not quite a smile. "That is a diplomatic answer. Good. Diplomacy, I've found, is the most elegant form of armor a woman may wear."
She poured tea for me herself, unhurried, as though every movement was a lesson.
"I've had reports already," she continued. "You made a fine impression, composed, measured, appropriately silent until spoken to. That's more than I can say for most newly wed women who think a title grants them a tongue."
I inclined my head. "I tried to listen more than I spoke."
"Wise," she murmured, stirring her tea. "Though do take care not to listen so much that you disappear. Ravenshade is full of men who will mistake silence for ignorance. Let them test you, but only once."
I hesitated before asking, "And if they do?"
"Then you correct them," she said, setting her cup down with a delicate click. "But gracefully. Never with heat. Passion is a poor servant to authority."
For a moment, the sunlight caught her features, fine lines, regal bearing, and a cool intelligence that seemed almost predatory in its precision.
"You carry yourself well," she went on, "and you looked the part last night. Elias noticed it, though he'd never admit it aloud. He respects restraint. You gave him that."
Her tone softened slightly, but only just. "Still… composure alone will not keep this house. You must learn its pulse, who owes loyalty, who fears consequence, and who hides their ambition behind courtesy. The councilmen are older, but not wiser. They have teeth, and they bite at softness."
I folded my hands over my lap. "Then I'll learn quickly."
At that, Lady Marguerite allowed herself a small, approving smile. "Good. You'll need to. The household's eyes are upon you now, my dear. The servants, the courtiers, the lords. You are no longer an ornament, you are the Duchess of Ravenshade. That name commands attention."
Her eyes narrowed just slightly, sharpening like a blade. "Which is why you will be moving into the Duke's manor tonight."
I blinked, taken aback. "Tonight? But… I…"
"You will not disagree," Lady Marguerite said sharply, her voice leaving no room for argument. She set her teacup down with deliberate force. "It is final. You will live within the heart of Ravenshade, under the roof where the house can watch and test you closely. You will learn the rules of this place more quickly there than anywhere else."
I swallowed, nodding, my mind spinning with both anticipation and dread.
"Do not waste your presence, child," she continued, her tone almost predatory in its precision. "Learn quickly, watch carefully, and remember, Ravenshade is never idle. Its eyes never sleep."
Silence settled for a while, filled only by the faint ticking of the mantel clock and the slow whisper of the sea through the open window.
Finally, she rose, smoothing the folds of her gown. "That will be all, Isolde. Prepare yourself. This house will demand much from you. You may leave."
I curtsied deeply. "Yes, my lady."
As I stepped out into the corridor, Lady Marguerite's words lingered, sharp, elegant, and absolute.
I would move into the Duke's manor tonight.
And there would be no retreat.