The scent of lilies and stale grief clung to the air, thick as the velvet drapes in the Goudhaven cathedral. Mourners, a sea of obsidian suits and veiled hats, huddled in hushed reverence around the polished mahogany casket. Each face, a carefully sculpted mask of sorrow, reflected the city’s cutthroat social strata. This wasn't mourning; it was a public accounting of power.
Then there was Beatrys Vossen, a vibrant, jarring splash of neon pink in a sea of midnight. Her raincoat, a defiant beacon against the somber backdrop, rustled softly as she sidled closer to the open casket. A few heads turned, brows furrowing at her inappropriately cheerful disposition. Beatrys offered a wide, dimpled smile, her eyes crinkling with feigned sympathy.
“Oh, poor, poor Lord Alban,” she chirped, her voice a little too loud, a little too bright. “Such a tragedy, truly.” She dabbed at a dry eye with a lace-edged handkerchief, her small, perfectly manicured hands betraying not a tremor.
The dead patriarch lay serene in his silken burial suit, his face a waxy imitation of peace. Beatrys leaned in, her full lips forming a soft ‘ooh’ of concern. The subtle lurch of the antique floorboards covered the faint rasp of her sleeve against the casket’s edge. Her right hand, concealed by the voluminous sleeve of her raincoat, dipped with practiced ease into the breast pocket of Verweyen’s suit. A small, cold rectangle met her fingertips.
It was almost too easy. The flash drive, warm from the deceased’s body heat, slipped into her palm. She straightened, her smile unwavering, and patted the dead man's shoulder with a saccharine tenderness that would have made him gag if he were still alive. Her giggle, a light, almost childlike sound, filled the momentary silence. “He always did love a good secret, didn’t he?” she murmured, then retreated, leaving a faint trail of expensive, floral perfume in her wake. No one suspected the bubbly, oblivious tourist.
The drive to the countryside estate was a gradual shedding of the metropolis. Goudhaven’s towering spires gave way to rolling hills, then to dense, ancient forests. The crisp, clean air of the countryside seeped into the car, carrying the damp scent of soil and pine. Mist hung low in the valleys, tendrils creeping up the verdant slopes like shy ghosts.
Beatrys pulled up to a weathered, stone farmhouse, its windows glowing with a soft, inviting light. Her pristine, pearl-white sedan looked utterly out of place on the muddy track. She stepped out, adjusting the wide brim of her sunhat, her designer sunglasses perched on her nose. She clutched a miniature, crocodile-skin travel bag, a stark contrast to the rough-hewn surroundings. She looked exactly like an heiress who had stumbled onto the wrong Google Maps pin.
A woman emerged from the house, her frame surprisingly sturdy despite her advanced years. Ouma Hessel, Beatrys knew from her meticulous research, possessed eyes that seemed to have witnessed the turning of centuries. Her silver hair was braided into a neat coronet, and her hands, gnarled with age, held a pair of muddy, well-worn boots.
“Welcome to Rustenveld, child,” Ouma said, her voice a gravelly murmur, like stones tumbling in a creek. She eyed Beatrys’s impossibly bright raincoat, then the designer bag. “No need for such fripperies here. We work.” She gestured with a chin to the boots. “Those are for you. Your luggage will be… stored.”
Beatrys blinked, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second before snapping back into place. “Oh, how charmingly rustic!” she exclaimed, handing over the crocodile bag with a mock sigh. “I suppose one must embrace the full farm experience, mustn’t one? Even the mud!” She slipped off her delicate leather flats and grimaced dramatically at the boots. “Are these truly my size, Ouma? My feet are so terribly dainty.”
Ouma Hessel merely watched, a faint, knowing glint in her eyes. “They’ll fit. You’ll find everything you need here, Beatrys Vossen. Or, perhaps, everything you didn’t know you were looking for.”
The boots, impossibly, fit. Beatrys spent the afternoon “exploring” the sprawling estate, her cheerful chatter echoing through the misty orchards. She admired the ancient pear trees, pretended to be fascinated by a stubborn goat, and made a point of getting delightfully lost. Her actual goal was a systematic reconnaissance of the farm’s layout and its current inhabitants.
She found him near the far end of the property, where a standalone woodshed leaned precariously. The rhythmic thud of an axe against timber drew her closer. He was broad-shouldered, with hair the color of midnight streaked with dampness, and a face smudged with honest dirt. Each swing of the axe was powerful, precise, splitting logs with an almost primal efficiency. Maartin Kest, the brooding, wealthy CEO of the formidable Kest Holdings, looked every inch the rugged farmhand.
Beatrys paused, hidden behind the thick trunk of an old apple tree, observing. He wore a simple, sleeveless flannel shirt, his muscles flexing with each swing. Sweat beaded on his brow, catching the faint afternoon light. He was everything the Goudhaven tabloids didn’t show, an entirely different man from the impeccably tailored figure who commanded boardrooms.
Then, he stopped. The axe head sunk into a stump, quivering. He reached into the pocket of his worn work pants, pulling out a small, unassuming burner phone. The screen flickered to life, illuminating his face with an icy blue glow. His thumb flew across the keypad, a silent, rapid-fire message being typed. The brief, almost imperceptible shift in his posture, the sudden intensity in his eyes, gave him away. This wasn’t a farmhand checking the time. This was a man running an empire, even here, in the secluded heart of the valley.
He pocketed the phone, picked up the axe, and began another series of powerful swings. But just as he brought it down, the burner phone slipped from his pocket, landing with a soft thud in the damp grass, its screen still faintly alight. The illuminated screen showed a short, urgent block of text before fading into the grass.
Maartin picked up the phone, his expression unreadable, and quickly turned it off. He glanced around, as if sensing eyes on him. Beatrys ducked deeper behind the apple tree, staying motionless against the bark. The facade, she realized, was strong with this one too.
As dusk began to settle, painting the sky in hues of bruised purple and soft grey, Beatrys returned to the farmhouse. Ouma Hessel was waiting for her on the porch, rocking gently in a creaky wooden chair. The old woman's gaze, usually benign, held a sharp, unnerving clarity.
“Did you enjoy your walk, child?” Ouma asked, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. “Rustenveld has many secrets. And many ears.”
Beatrys offered her brightest, most innocent smile. “Oh, it was simply divine, Ouma! I even saw the most handsome man chopping wood. What a strong back he has!”
Ouma chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone that sent a prickle up Beatrys’s neck. “I know who you are, Beatrys Vossen. And I know what you seek.” Her eyes, ancient and unwavering, met Beatrys’s. “But hunting season, my dear, hasn’t started yet.”