CHAPTER 537: SCHEMES AND CELEBRATIONS (END)

"You terrify me before breakfast."

She considered this, then allowed the ghost of a smile. "But you love me."

Josephine rolled onto her back, hair everywhere, ribbons long since surrendered. "Speak for yourself," she yawned. "I adore you. I plan to monetize you. Different verbs, same church." She reached, pinched the letter between two fingers, and pulled it close enough to squint. "Ugh, he writes like a man flirting with his own signature."

Lyan could not help noticing the doodle in the corner: a stick figure with a lopsided crown and what might have been six tiny hearts orbiting it like bees. He huffed a laugh. "He’s improving. Last time the crown looked like a hedgehog."

Josephine threw an arm over her eyes. "Time to smuggle treasure, kiss the lord, and maybe tease a few merchants." The arm fell away again. "But coffee first. Otherwise I’ll flirt with the wall and sell us for twelve buttons and a compliment."

Wilhelmina pushed herself up on one elbow. The movement pulled her hair loose from its temporary knot; a dark ribbon slid, caught his wrist, and made the smallest sound as it fell. She didn’t seem to notice. "If we sell, we choose pieces that will not be missed immediately," she said. "Nothing with a song written about it. Nothing a priest can describe from memory."

Arielle nodded, now all awake. "Agreed. Smaller artifacts with high turnover. Gem settings without the gems. Decorative fittings. Anything with duplicate makes." She chewed her lip, counting silently. "Three contacts: a Dunbridge broker who launders temple plate into merchant trinkets; a Valmere glass dealer who pays in salt certificates; and a river guildmaster who can move heavy chests without questions."

"Names?" Wilhelmina asked.

"Caldem at Dunbridge," Arielle said, ticking one finger. "Gessa of the White Flats in Valmere, though we’d send a proxy; she hates stairs. And Old Rask of the river—he calls himself old so people underestimate him. Nobody does." She glanced at Lyan. "We’ll stagger the sales. Nothing resembling a flood."

Josephine propped herself on her elbows and shot a conspirator’s grin. "And we’ll do it with flair. Decoy crates labeled ’Pickled Turnips—Fragile.’ A few strong-backs from the mountain tribes for muscle. Belle can enchant the smells so customs men cry and wave us on."

Lyan pictured it: crates rolling out under the noses of bored inspectors, vinegar illusions making eyes water while real money changed hands in back rooms. His brain began to click into its familiar grooves—schedules, escort routes, how many lanterns a two-night convoy needed to look larger than it was.

(You’re arranging stones into a wall again,) Cynthia murmured inside his mind, proud and calm.

(And leaving a window,) Eira added, cool as frost. (Good.)

He slid the letter to the table and eased out from under the tangle inch by inch. Josephine made a noise like a cat scolded for stealing cream and then, because she was Josephine, reached after him in sleep and patted the air until she found his thigh. Satisfied, she patted twice more and let go.

Lyan stood, the cool of the floor catching the heat that still clung to his skin. He tied his sash by feel. When he glanced back, the sight slowed him: Wilhelmina with her head bowed, braid half undone, the hard lines of command softened by a quiet morning; Arielle curled on her side, his handkerchief bunched under her cheek like a white flag; Josephine sprawled diagonally across the bed, occupying three people’s space with impeccable entitlement.

He smiled and decided not to move them.

On the balcony, the world spilled gold. Sunlight sheeted off the river bend beyond the walls. Laundry snapped on lines. A fisherwoman shouted a price; the buyer haggled with laughter. Flags hung limp for a breath, then flared when a higher gust rushed between rooftops. Grafen smelled of ash scraped away and new bread rising to take its place.

Bootsteps padded toward the door. Arielle, now in his linen shirt, hair hastily finger-combed, appeared with her spectacles askew. She squinted into the light, then leaned elbows to the railing beside him. "If we use Rask, we should send the Merrowmark route," she said without preamble. "He’ll complain about the extra day. He won’t risk his own boats on the lower rapids."

"We’ll pad his fee," Lyan said. "Less than a week’s delay at the mint."

She hummed. "Everything is less than a week’s delay at the mint."

Behind them Josephine groaned theatrically. "Stop seducing each other with river routes. Some of us are fragile." She slid off the bed and padded over, stealing the letter on the way. "Postscript," she read aloud, squinting. "P.S. Tell Wilhelmina I will personally duel the treasury clerk if he gives you grief." She cackled. "Flirting with his signature and with our commander. Bold man."

Wilhelmina joined them last, fully awake now and wrapped in a robe that she wore like parade armour. She accepted the letter, read the postscript, and one corner of her mouth might have moved a millimetre. "He would lose," she said. "But the gesture is noted."

"Do we tell him about the vault?" Josephine asked, peering down at the courtyard where two recruits were arguing over a broom as if it were a halberd.

"Not the selling," Wilhelmina said. "But the inventory, yes. No surprises for allies."

Arielle tapped her temple. "I’ll draft a cleaned list. Items described, not named. We do not write ’the Duchess’s comb’ if we can write ’tortoiseshell hair-piece.’ Simple."

Lyan rested forearms on the railing. "We’ll do it in three steps," he said. "Today: Wilhelmina and I open the vault. Arielle, you take notes. Josephine, you find Rask and ask him what tea he drinks. Surprise him by sending exactly that tea with the first crate. Men work harder for people who see them."

Josephine saluted with two fingers, delighted. "Bribery with courtesy. My favourite flavour."

"Tomorrow," Lyan continued, "Surena shadows the contacts. I want eyes on their houses, not their smiles. Alice drafts convoy timings and a list of excuses. If anyone asks what’s in the boxes, we’re moving temple records to the archive. Boring and sacred. Best combination."

"And the day after?" Arielle asked.

"If we’re lucky?" He exhaled. "We sleep."

Josephine leaned her hips against the rail. A breeze caught her hair and blew it into her mouth; she spat it out and sighed. "If you promise sleep, I’ll promise not to teach the baker’s children a new chant."

"No," Wilhelmina and Lyan said together.

Arielle laughed softly. "We could bribe the children to chant about proper inventory control."

Josephine slapped a hand to her chest. "I trained you too well."

A knock came at the door—two quick taps, one slow—Raine’s pattern. "Don’t open," Josephine stage-whispered. "We’re indecent by lack of coffee."

Wilhelmina opened anyway. Raine slipped in, carrying a tray with three cups and a fourth turned upside down over a hot bun to keep it warm. "I guessed," she said, cheeks pink at the sight of half-tied robes and sleeping hair. "Letter from the Prince?"

"Short, smug, and useful," Lyan said. "Like most of his letters."

Raine smiled, relieved the mood was light. She set the cups down, then hovered. "Do you want me to fetch Surena?"

"In an hour," Wilhelmina answered. "After we’ve decided which sins we’re committing."

Raine’s gaze flicked to the balcony view and softened. "It’s pretty," she said, almost to herself.

"It is," Lyan agreed.

They drank. Coffee cut through the fog in different ways: Josephine perked like a cat catching the scent of roast chicken; Arielle sobered into focus, quill already twitching in an invisible hand; Wilhelmina’s shoulders squared, the robe reading less like armour and more like a cloak she chose to wear.

"What do we keep?" Arielle asked, practical as sunrise. "Not just what we sell."

Lyan watched a pigeon land on the opposite parapet, coo, consider its place in the world, and take off again. "We keep the things with stories we’re not ready to lose," he said. "A crown shard because some girl might need to see it shine. A banner because the seamstress who stitched it outlived her sons. A child’s carved wolf because... because it’s small and brave."

Josephine breathed out. "Write that," she told Arielle. "Not in the ledger, in the part of your head that doesn’t balance."

Arielle’s mouth tilted. "It’s a small part."

"It’s getting bigger," Josephine said, bumping her shoulder.

(You’re doing it right,) Cynthia murmured in the quiet fold of Lyan’s thoughts. (You’re counting what can’t be counted.)

He finished his coffee and set the cup aside. The cup left a ring on the railing; the sun made it glow for a heartbeat before it faded. Below, the training yard yelled in uneven time as someone botched a turn and someone else laughed without malice. The city sounded like a place trying on a better future and finding that it almost fit.

"Alright," he said. "We open the vault before noon. We move the first crate at dusk. We send Erich a reply with too much courtesy and just enough insolence. And if the treasury still dithers by week’s end, I will let Wilhelmina set a meeting with their clerk."

"And I will bring mint," Wilhelmina said.

"Why mint?" Josephine asked.

"To make the last breath pleasant," Wilhelmina replied without missing a beat. It took a second, then even Arielle laughed.

Raine’s smile warmed into something like pride. "I’ll tell the kitchen to pack travel bread," she said. "And to hide the good salt before Gessa hears of it."

She slipped out, leaving quiet behind her, the sort of quiet that wasn’t empty but ready.

Lyan gathered the letter, smoothing the crease with his thumb. He could see Erich’s grin in the crooked flourish at the end. He could hear the city’s hum in the unsteady line of the e. He tucked the page into a drawer and closed it with a soft click.

He stood a moment longer at the balcony, letting the sun gild his knuckles, his wrist, the old scar on his forearm that always looked like a poorly drawn river. He pressed his palms to the warm stone and felt, absurdly, like the keep pressed back.

Peace was fragile. But for now, it was his.

And he would enjoy it—chaotic, passionate, and gloriously alive.