Duke Remming Welsh of the British Empire. Circa 1800.
Darren eyed his assistant before glancing at the intricate portraiture once more. Despite collaborating with a failed monarchy, the depicted man was far from a quisling. If anything, his crime was not feeding his offspring as much as himself.
“Well?” Iris hovered over his desk, ignoring the loose curls that tickled her nose. Why she thought her relentless golden stare would provoke a faster response was beyond him.
Out of spite, he glanced around her to their guest. Skin paler than any English monarch, hair whiter than snow. Eyes blacker than midnight. Yet if she were painted with warmer tones, blond brushstrokes framing her face.
Flipping the page, he finally responded. “Maybe.”
“Maybe? Are you nuts!” Iris composed herself, lowering her tone while sitting in the armchair across from him. “Darren, royal families were exterminated during the war. If she’s a blood relative of a duke, then…”
He awaited the horrid truth.
Oh wait. None existed.
Rather than point out her flawed theory, he perused the detailed lineage of a centuries dead ruler-wanna-be. She’d soon realize on her own that a white dude with a fancy title meant very little to the War of Mages. Especially a low level duke whose only accomplishment was bearing an obscene amount of children. Children that didn’t follow in his footsteps, according to the very small family tree. They’d been snuffed out within the decades long war by disease. Meaning the writers had no clue what happened but figured it was an accurate guess.
“That’s a stupid idea,” Iris muttered, “but I’m not wrong that monarchs were wiped out. Maybe to make room for the council. Though how that would trigger them to vote early is beyond me.”
“Chapter 17: Sins of the Father.” How kind of historians to dedicate entire chapters to frivolous relational drama. What were the first sixteen even about? The life story of each child?
“Of course both events could be completely unrelated. But the timing of our guest and this vote…”
Perhaps he was a conniving quisling. According to hearsay, he plotted against his cousin in hopes of gaining power. His wife was gifted with foresight, rightly making him an outcast in the Purist-centric country. But that was to his benefit, Remming reinforcing his army before the War of Mages tore the world apart. What was his gifting?Ah, animal communication. He married up.
“I thought about burning the library.”
Darren’s head snapped forward, blood chilling.
Iris smirked. “Good to know you care about your books.”
Shoulders relaxing, he heaved a sigh. “Books have use beyond kindling, which I know you know. So I’d appreciate you not joke about torching our work.”
She leaned in the burgundy cushion, springs squeaking. “Then I’d appreciate you listening. Because the fact is she has some purpose her and I’ve got a feeling it has to do with the vote and Braggard’s being promoted.”
“Based on what I heard, you don’t have a concrete idea. And I’d rather learn more before making accusations and putting her in unnecessary situations.”
“Is she going to get a name at some point?”
Pursing his lips, he flipped to the family tree. Brain taut with frustration, he perused the lineup of stuffy, unimaginative names. “Victoria,” he hollered, irritation echoing off the glass walls.
The girl didn’t move from her spot on the floor, fingering an atlas with intricate illustrations of territories long gone.
Shrugging, Darren returned to the intriguing chapter. Yet he couldn’t focus with Iris’ heated huff. “Why don’t you try a different book, apprentice?”
“I’m pretty sure we have the right one, master. And I’d appreciate you taking this seriously.”
Rolling his eyes, he flipped back and selected another name. “Margaret.”
No movement.
“Darren.”
“If she is related to this duke, then her name would be right here. Because unlike you making assumptions, I’ve done my study and found that his family line ended way before the Reset.”
“That’d make her 500 years old, not sixteen.”
“Fourteen was my guess.”
Her chocolate skin grew red, nose flared. “Regardless, she’s too young. Maybe one of them survived and buried their heritage.”
“Individuals with bloodlines as thick as this would retain a family name.” His finger stopped on another random granddaughter in the lineup. “Mariposa.”
Nothing.
“Kind of wanted that one to work.”
Iris massaged her forehead. “Can you take anything seriously?”
“You stress too much. And stress blocks imagination, which is useful for problem-solving.”
“And shouting the names of long-dead women solves what?”
Now it was his turn to smirk. “My boredom.” Iris threw a fit while he skipped a few pages. The duke had smarts for a horse-whisperer. A bride who could see what came next, an army in a bloody war, a slew of children to ensure his legacy.
Until they died. Turned out the plague did hit his household, members dropping like flies. The historians theorized the involvement of magic, but their hypothesis had a thousand holes. Like what gifting controls diseases and why anyone would go after a small-time duke with too much ambition for his britches.
Darren hummed involuntarily.
“What?”
He turned to the family portrait again. Plump man, over a dozen children. Narrow features, slim figures, pencil-straight hair. Peachy skin, blond or brown hair, blue or brown eyes. The illustration was more life-like than their charge, an unwavering canvas awaiting a painter. Yet four of the sketched faces appeared to be the same age as their mystery girl. Flipping to the family tree, he compared the lineage to the list of confirmed deaths. He’d been right that one name was missing. But he didn’t expect the face that went with the name to be so young.
“Wysteria.”
The girl lifted her head, dark eyes meeting his.
A ghost brought to the present.