“Someone did,” Zorina muttered, pacing the polished floorboards of the Volenska drawing-room. The room, usually kept immaculate, now felt like a cage. “Someone who had access. Someone who saw my mother as an inconvenience. Someone… who Bogdana trusts.” Her eyes narrowed, fixing on the ancient majordomo, who was attempting to dust a porcelain shepherdess with a feather duster that seemed to have seen better centuries. The servant, composed entirely of hushed reverence and quivering subservience, startled, dropping the duster with a soft thud. “Old man,” Zorina began, her voice low and menacing, a stark contrast to the clatter of the falling duster. “You have served this household for… how long?” The retainer, who had the general appearance of a startled pigeon in a waistcoat, wrung his wizened hands. “Fifty-seven years, Lady Zorina. Since before your revered grandmother’s time, bless her memory.” He bowed so deeply his sparse hair nearly grazed his knees. Burak, perched on a velvet armchair that was far too pristine for a badger, let out a soft huff, the sound carrying a distinct note of skepticism. “Fifty-seven years,” Zorina repeated, stepping closer. The butler instinctively took a step back, nearly tripping over a footstool. “Then you would know every secret, wouldn’t you? Every hidden drawer, every key, every… confidant.” His eyes darted around the room, settling on a portrait of Lady Bogdana, his gaze a mixture of fear and devotion. “Secrets, Lady Zorina? This humble servant knows only the proper temperature for Lady Bogdana’s morning tea and the precise starch required for Lord Krystof's collars. No secrets, I assure you!” He puffed out his chest, a pathetic attempt at dignity. “My late parent’s private letters,” Zorina pressed, her voice rising. “Where were they kept?” “Lady Eliska’s… effects?” Radovan stammered. “In her personal escritoire, I believe. Secured with a fine brass lock, as was her preference. Most fussy about her correspondence, she was.” “And who had the key?” Zorina demanded, her temper flaring. “Who *always* had the key?” The servant's chin wobbled. “Only Lady Eliska, of course! And… and sometimes Grygor, who runs the mews. He often assisted with her riding ledgers, you see. A trusted hand.” He swallowed hard, visibly trembling. “The head groom?” Zorina spat, the notion tasting like dust. That fellow was a grizzled, taciturn man, seemingly obsessed only with horseflesh and hay. “That old goat? What use would he have for Eliska's private papers?” Before he could invent another obsequious reply, a familiar glowing text shimmered on the highly polished surface of an antique writing desk. [Docket Update: Case File ZV-1138. Sub-query: Volenska Family Financial Discrepancies. Reviewing.] Zorina clenched her fists. A financial discrepancy. It was always about the gold, wasn’t it? The butler, distracted by the sudden light, gasped and fainted with a soft thud, collapsing onto the rug like a sack of oats. Burak simply rolled his eyes, a silent commentary on the butler’s dramatic sensibilities. Meanwhile, in a quiet office at the Imperial Archives in Radomysl, Teodor Zahorski sat surrounded by stacks of ledgers, his quill scratching methodically across parchment. The air was thick with the scent of aged paper and beeswax. His earlier request, prompted by a subtle hunch, had yielded a trove of information. A junior archivist, a young man named Ovid who perpetually seemed on the verge of sneezing, placed a freshly stamped folder before him. “Archivist Zahorski,” Ovid whispered, his voice hushed. “The Volenska account summaries. Lady Bogdana’s personal expenditures, especially over the last three years.” Teodor nodded, his gaze already scanning the meticulous entries. The public image of the Volenska wealth was one of boundless prosperity, yet the numbers told a different story. Grand balls, bespoke gowns from the capital’s most exclusive modistes, extravagant gifts for her children, notably the endless string of high-stakes wagers and frivolous indulgences for Krystof and Irena. The outgoings were staggering, far exceeding the stated income from the estate’s various ventures. Bogdana was not consolidating wealth; she was hemorrhaging it. “The Volkov dowry,” Teodor murmured, a connection clicking into place. “It’s not for advancement. It’s for solvency.” Lady Bogdana’s frantic pursuit of the marriage, her desperation to secure the fortune, was not just about social climbing; it was a last-ditch effort to stave off utter ruination. Her reputation was her only remaining currency, and she was spending it as fast as she could. Back at the estate, Zorina stood over the unconscious retainer, her frustration a simmering pot. “The head hostler,” she repeated under her breath. It made no sense. Why would a gruff barn hand be involved in such a convoluted scheme? Burak nudged her ankle, then scampered towards the back exit leading out to the courtyard, looking pointedly over his shoulder. He then stopped, stared, and tapped his front paw emphatically on the worn floorboards. “What is it, Burak?” Zorina asked, following. “What are you pointing at now?” Burak continued to tap, a rhythmic thud against a plank near the outer threshold. The wood there looked marginally newer, a slightly lighter shade than the surrounding planks. Zorina knelt, running her hand along the seam. It wasn't quite flush. With a grunt, she pried at the board. It gave way with a soft creak, revealing a shallow cavity beneath. Inside, nestled amongst dried hay and a faint scent of horses, was a small, lacquered wooden box. It had no lock, just a simple brass clasp. She held her breath. This was too neat. Too obvious. Yet cold iron logic pulled her forward. She pulled the box free, brushing away the debris. Inside, resting on a bed of faded velvet, was the house crest signet. Not an impression, but the heavy, intricately carved signet itself. It gleamed dully in the dim light slanting through the threshold. The very same seal Teodor had recognized on the forged letter. Beneath it, a stack of letters, tied with a thin, fraying ribbon. Zorina’s hands trembled as she untied the ribbon. The script was coarse, unrefined, but unmistakably a man’s hand. She picked up the topmost letter, her eyes scanning the familiar, yet strangely intimate, salutation. *My dearest Irena…* Zorina gasped, a cold knot forming in her stomach. Irena? Her spoiled, vapid cousin? And Grygor? The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity. The head groom was Irena’s secret lover. He’d had access to the private papers because he was entangled with her, not just a hired hand. He was Bogdana’s pawn, a tool to secure a better future for himself through Irena. She picked up the final letter, her vision blurring with a sudden surge of fury. It was shorter than the others, written in a hurried, almost triumphant hand. Her eyes snagged on the last lines, the ultimate betrayal laid bare: *Lady Bogdana promised me a title for my help in ruining Zorina. We will be together soon.*

Secrets of the Stable Master