A raw, guttural sound tore from Kestian’s throat, a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. His gaze turned rigid as stone, fixed on the name stamped at the bottom of the illicit invoice. Cressa Lorn. He snatched the paper from Neva’s grip, his knuckles stark white as he crumpled it with a force that threatened to tear the thick parchment. The little terrier whined softly from Neva’s arms, nudging her chin with his wet nose.
“She orchestrated it,” Kestian articulated, each syllable heavy with disbelief and a fresh, searing pain. “My kin. Oryn’s child.”
“She didn’t just want your company, Kestian,” Neva said, her voice a low current of steel, an uncharacteristic seriousness replacing her usual lilt. “She wanted *everything*. And she didn’t want you to be anything but a hollow shell when she took it.” She looked at the crumpled invoice, then at Bria, who stood pale and shaken, her usual street-wise bravado stripped away.
“We need more,” Bria finally managed, her voice a little wavering. “This is good, Keva, but a single receipt from a chop-shop? Cressa will shred it in a court of arbitrators. Her family’s influence… it’s a web.”
Neva nodded, her gaze hardening. “She won’t have anything to shred if we get her personal ledger. She has to have one, a record of her true dealings.”
Kestian finally looked up, his eyes meeting Neva’s. “The east wing is locked down. She won’t let you in.”
“She won’t have a choice,” Neva declared, a bright, almost manic smile blossoming on her face. Her airhead persona, a mask she’d discarded only hours before, was snapping back into place, thicker and more polished than ever. “A true servant is diligent! And the east wing, well, it’s terribly neglected, isn’t it? I’m sure a little aggressive tidying would do wonders!”
Bria blinked. “Aggressive tidying?”
“It’s very much a *thing*,” Neva insisted, her voice bubbling with false cheer. “You’d be surprised what a good, vigorous cleaning can accomplish. And sometimes,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, though her smile remained fixed, “things just… *slip* from your grasp. Like a bowl of piping hot soup, perhaps, right onto a very expensive rug.”
Kestian watched her, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He knew this act. He’d seen it before, just as he’d seen the cracks forming in its facade. But this time, it felt sharper, more desperate. He said nothing, merely handed Neva a heavy, ornate key – the override for the east wing.
Minutes later, Neva pushed a rattling service cart laden with cleaning supplies and a steaming tureen of broth down the hushed corridor towards Cressa’s suite. Bria, her slender frame shadowed beneath a voluminous wicker hamper, trailed behind with quiet steps. The pup, tucked into a pouch beneath Neva’s apron, let out a tiny, muffled woof.
“Oh, good morning, Lady Lorn!” Neva trilled, flinging open the heavy oak door to Cressa’s rooms without knocking. Cressa, lounging on a plush velvet divan, a steaming cup of herbal infusion in her hand, nearly scalded herself. Her face, usually a study in cool disdain, contorted into a snarl.
“What in the blazes are you doing, you imbecile?” Cressa shrieked, her voice echoing off the high ceilings. “I am *confined*, not under house arrest by your incessant buzzing!”
“Precisely why I’m here, Lady Lorn!” Neva beamed, pushing the cart further into the opulent room. “Such a grand suite, and yet, not a single daily tidying has been performed! Oh, the dust! The sheer, tragic accumulation of dust! It simply *won’t* do.” She grabbed a feather duster with exaggerated enthusiasm, attacking a gleaming brass lamp with more gusto than grace, sending a flurry of invisible motes into the air.
Cressa scoffed. “You think a peasant with a feather will make a difference? This entire manor suffocates in its own decay. Just like your precious Relladon estate, wasn’t it, Neva? So grand, so ancient… so easily dismantled.”
The words were a barbed hook, tearing through Neva’s carefully constructed cheer. Her movements faltered for a fraction of a second. She remembered the night vividly, the chill in the air, the scent of damp paper and old money. Cressa, younger then, but already radiating an icy avarice, had sat across from her father in their cavernous salon, a stack of ledgers before her. *“The Relladon name,”* Cressa had purred, her eyes glinting. *“So much heritage, so little collateral. A shame, really.”* Neva, a debutante just weeks away from her own presentation, had listened as her father’s voice had broken, as Cressa had bought them, piece by agonizing piece.
“Oh, but a little elbow grease can fix anything, Lady Lorn!” Neva chirped, forcing her smile wider, a tremor running through her hands as she grabbed the tureen. “Like this lovely soup! A warming broth for a chilly day. Perhaps you’d like some?”
She swayed precariously, then with a theatrical gasp, “Oh, clumsy me!” The tureen tilted, sending a rich, golden wave of broth splashing across the Persian rug directly in front of Cressa’s divan, narrowly missing her silk slippers.
Cressa leapt to her feet, her face crimson. “You utter, incompetent fool! Do you have any idea what that rug is worth?”
“Oh, heavens, no! Not even a single idea!” Neva wailed, immediately dropping to her knees, frantically dabbing at the stain with a small, ineffective cloth. “But I’m sure it’ll come right out with a little… aggressive scrubbing! Bria, dear, do you have that special stain remover?”
Bria, who had been deftly working at the lock of a large, brass-bound steamer trunk in the corner, froze. Cressa’s attention was entirely on the ruined rug, her back to Bria. Bria’s nimble left hand slipped inside the trunk, her fingers closing around a thick, black leather-bound book. She extracted it in one smooth, silent motion, tucking it into the hamper. The click of the lock, relatched, was almost imperceptible over Neva’s feigned sobs.
“Special stain remover? What are you babbling about now? Get away from my rug, you simpering wretch!” Cressa screamed, rounding on Neva, her eyes blazing. As she turned, her gaze swept past Neva and landed on Bria, who was innocently adjusting the linens in her basket.
Cressa’s eyes narrowed. “What is that in your hamper, wash maid?” Her voice was suddenly dangerously quiet. “And what were you doing at my trunk?”
Bria froze, her face draining of color. Neva shot her a desperate look. There was no time. Cressa took a step towards Bria, her hand already reaching for the black ledger that was now barely concealed. Just as Cressa’s fingers brushed the edge of the woven hamper, a blur of brown fur launched itself from Neva’s apron.
Barnaby, a tiny, furious ball of fluff, clamped his small, sharp teeth onto Cressa’s ankle. Cressa shrieked, a sound of pure shock and outrage, hopping on one leg, flailing wildly. “Get this vermin off me! It bit me!”
“Oh, Barnaby, you naughty boy! Bad dog!” Neva cried, scooping the puppy up as Cressa stumbled backwards, losing her footing. “Run, Bria!”
Bria didn’t need to be told twice. She snatched the woven carrier, the black volume securely inside, and sprinted for the door. Neva, with a final, apologetic grimace at the enraged Cressa, followed, slamming the heavy door shut behind them.
They didn’t stop until they reached a secluded alcove several corridors away, their chests heaving, adrenaline singing in their veins. The pup, now safely back in Neva’s apron, licked her chin as if immensely proud of his contribution. Bria, still gasping, pulled the stolen register from the hamper.
“You got it,” Neva managed, a raw relief washing over her. “Quickly, open it.”
Bria fumbled with the clasp, her fingers trembling. The ledger was heavy, bound in worn leather, its pages thick with dense script. She flipped it open, scanning the first few entries with parted lips. “Oh, Keva… this is a list. Names. Debts. Obligations owed to Cressa… or people she wants… removed.”
Neva leaned closer, a cold knot tightening in her stomach. “What do you mean, ‘removed’?”
Bria’s gaze swept down the page, her face paling further. Her finger stopped, hovering over an entry at the very top, written in a stark, fresh ink. “It’s a hit list,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “And look… your name. Neva Relladon. Added this very morning.”