Lyra, and then another woman Evadne assumed was Selene, the commander’s sister. They gathered around the table, sitting on cushions, and Evadne took up her wine jar.
She approached Straton first. He watched as Evadne took the first sip of wine, and she waited to feel the heat of poison seep through her, counting her frantic heartbeats between breaths. But the wine was clean. Straton motioned for her to begin pouring.
Cosima was withdrawn and pale. She only put a few morsels of food on her plate, and she did not take note of Evadne’s motions. No one did. Not Damon with his guarded face, or Lyra with her red-rimmed eyes. Evadne realized that the family would not notice her movements as long as she was quiet and did her task.
Not even Selene. She shared the commander’s height and startling blue eyes, but that was where their similarities ended. Upon first glance, Evadne would never have surmised they were siblings. Selene was a contrast to him; her skin was pale and flawless, her face round and pleasing, her hair a light shade of brown, curly with threads of copper and gray within it. She was dressed in white, her chiton trimmed in purple. And as she reached for her cup, Evadne saw the flash of silver. A ring on the thumb of her right hand.
So, then. Selene was a mage. One with the deepest well of magic.
Evadne resumed her post at the wine station, the night breeze playing with her hair. She watched and listened as the family began to converse.
“I am concerned for you, Damon,” Selene said. It sounded like she was resuming a previous conversation that had been abruptly ended.
“There is no need for it, Aunt. I will manage.” Damon granted her a small smile, but he sounded exhausted. The gravel in his voice had roughened to a burr. He did not eat, even though food sat on his plate.
“Scribes are tricky,” his aunt continued, swirling the wine in her cup. “Did you hear what happened to Orrin a few weeks ago? His scribe stole his enchantments and sold them to his rival. He is still recovering, but his reputation is ruined.”
“As I heard,” Damon said. He glanced to his father, but Straton was still detached. “I am sure Orrin will recover soon.”
“Why do you even need a scribe?” Lyra asked, her voice wavering. “You have not needed one so far, Damon. It feels too risky, for you to trust someone else.”
“Most mages hire scribes, Lyra,” Damon explained. “It is to our benefit, even with the risk of betrayal.”
“Is it because of your handwriting? Because it won’t remain on papyrus? I could scribe for you, Damon,” Lyra said. “If it is enchantments you need recorded, I could do it. I know I could.”
“No, Lyra.” The commander finally spoke, his eyes sharpening as he looked at his daughter.
Lyra appeared crestfallen by her father’s curt tone. Cosima reached out to weave her fingers with her daughter’s, trying to smile at her. It emerged more as a grimace on the lady’s face.
“You know that I need you at the infirmary, my love. There is still so much illness in the northern quadrant.”
Lyra nodded, but she refused to let the topic die. “But how can you trust them?” She looked at Damon again. Her voice dropped to a tremulous whisper. “I do not want anything to happen to you.”
“Nothing is going to happen to your brother, Lyra,” Selene said. “I am going to help him find the perfect scribe.”
Damon cleared his throat, tracing the rim of his goblet. “I appreciate that, Aunt. But I am in no hurry.”
“And why should you be? You only graduated from the Destry this past spring.”
“Yes,” Damon said. “It can wait.”
Evadne was entranced by their conversation. She did not realize that Selene’s cup had gone dry, not until it was too late.
Selene held her chalice up, lifting her gaze to where Evadne fumbled for the jar. And just like that, Evadne’s aloofness vanished.
“Is this her?” Selene asked, staring at Evadne as she filled her cup.
For a moment, Evadne thought no one would answer, and she could not move from her place beside Selene. But finally, the commander’s voice broke the stilted air.
“No. Her sister.”
Selene continued to study Evadne, saying, “I thought I smelled the blood of Isaura. The unmistakable smell of spoiled ichor, the reek of a disgraced god.”
Her words stung. Evadne felt her face warm, her hands quiver. She did not meet the mage’s eyes, but oh, how