The Firebrand Estate | Baretree 21, 20231 | 1:17 AM

The halls have finally gone still.

Not the stillness of sleep—that belongs to mortals and servants. This is the hush that follows power once it’s been wielded and set aside, when the air still hums with what’s been left unsaid.

The last carriage rolled down the drive over an hour ago, taking with it the scent of wine, ambition, and calculated pleasantries. Selene slipped away to her wing without a hair out of place, leaving only the faintest trace of her perfume in the corridor—a perfect daughter’s exit. Mira, of course, made her retreat the moment the last spoon scraped porcelain, storming off with that stubborn grace she wears like a crown she doesn’t want. She’s likely shut away in her room now, fuming, scribbling in that little book of hers as if putting words to parchment means victory.

Sometimes I wish I could take that book from her hands and ask her what victory would look like—what peace would. But I never do. I play the role required of me, even here, where no one is watching.

I sit alone in the green salon, the quiet pressing in like a well-tailored gown. A crystal goblet of plumwine rests at my elbow, untouched beside a stack of diplomatic briefings sealed in Summer Court wax. I could read them now, but there’s no urgency—only the pull of habit, and the knowledge that politics never sleeps. Nor does motherhood. Nor does prophecy, though few remember that its weight is mine to bear as much as Mira’s.

The fire burns low, embers breathing light across my cheekbones. It reminds me of the conversation at dinner—steady enough on the surface, with heat lurking just beneath. I catalogue the room as I always do: who avoided my gaze, who held it too long, and who pretended they were not calculating their next move even as they smiled.

And then there was Mira’s guest.

Cassandra Fairborn.

A mortal girl seated at a table meant for kings, queens, and predators who know how to smile without showing their teeth. Mira sat beside her, subtly positioning herself as a shield while feigning nonchalance. I noticed the way Cassie’s gaze lingered on her when she thought no one was watching. I always notice.

Mira does not bring people into her orbit without reason. For a mortal to be here at all means she’s passed through some unspoken trial—whether she’s aware of it or not. That should concern me. Yet beneath my suspicion lies something else. Relief, perhaps, that someone else sees her. That she is not carrying her fire alone.

I’m curious. But curiosity in my position must always be tempered with suspicion. Mortals are rarely harmless in the Veil’s games. They are catalysts. Or they are casualties. And sometimes, they are the spark that forces fate’s hand before its time.

The plumwine curls its dark sweetness toward me, sharp beneath the surface. I still haven’t touched it. Tonight isn’t a night for indulgence. It’s a night for waiting. Watching. Regretting all the things I do not say aloud.

The knock comes then. Not loud, but insistent.

Three precise raps—pause—two more.

Not a servant. Not a messenger. Someone who believes they have the right to my attention at this hour.

I rise in a single motion, silk whispering over marble. I make no signal to the staff. This moment is mine alone.

I cross the marble in measured silence, silk pooling at my feet like shadows that know better than to hurry. The staff will not answer this knock; they know when to vanish. This is mine to handle.

By the time I reach the onyx doors, I already know who stands beyond them. The Veil recognizes familiar presences, and so do I. Their scent bleeds faintly through the crack—Helena’s high-end camellia perfume, sharper tonight for the way her pulse forces it into the air; Jameson’s cologne tinged with damp wool and cold asphalt.

I unfasten the lock, crafting my expression into that precise middle ground between welcome and refusal. A blade in a silk sheath.

The doors part.

Helena and Jameson Fairborn.

They are not the gleaming society pair I see at fundraisers or gallery openings. Not tonight. The tension etched at the corners of Helena’s mouth is not the kind worn for show; it is the kind that comes from hours in hospital corridors. Her eyes are lined, her posture too rigid for midnight. Her purse is clutched in both hands, knuckles white, as if she needs the anchor to keep from shaking.

Jameson stands beside her, all crisp lines and suppressed impatience, but I can read the concern in the set of his jaw. His overcoat is damp across the shoulders. They came straight from somewhere—not a party. Not home.

The hospital, most likely. Elliot Fairborn has been in and out of them his entire life, his body a reluctant tenant for whatever fragile thing keeps it alive. I know more of his condition than they realize; I always make it my business to know.

They are used to entering rooms as people to be deferred to. Tonight, they look like parents on the edge of asking for something they cannot quite name.

“Do come in,” I say, shaping the words with the weight of a High Lady greeting vassals from a crumbling province.

They cross the threshold. Helena’s purse does not leave her grip. Jameson’s eyes sweep the entry hall, not in admiration but in silent measure—assessing what this visit might cost.

“I apologize for the hour,” Helena says, her voice low but steady. “But Cassie never called.”

Jameson’s words are clipped. “We assumed she’d be home after your… dinner.”

I fold my hands, let a pause stretch just long enough to see which of them will fidget first. Neither does. “Assumptions,” I murmur, “are dangerous. But understandable. You were not informed.”

“She always calls,” Helena says, softer now, as if some of her rehearsed control is wearing thin. “Even when she’s angry. Especially when she’s angry. We’ve been—distracted. Her brother—”

I tilt my head, a movement both sympathetic and dissecting. “Yes. I heard. The boy is still not responding to treatment?”

Helena flinches. Barely, but enough. “No.”

I let my expression remain unchanged—unreadable to them, but not to myself. There is pity in me, yes, but I will not show it. Instead, I allow my voice to take on the smooth, accommodating tone I reserve for moments when pity would be insult.

“Come,” I say, stepping past them. “Let us see where she is.”

I do not look back to see if they follow. They will.

Firebrand Estate, Upper Wing – 1:23 AM

I took the grand staircase without a sound, the marble warm beneath my bare feet, the violet silk of my gown whispering in my wake. The Fairborns followed several paces behind—close enough that I could feel their worry clawing at the air, far enough that they thought they were hiding it.

The palace knew them. Of course it did. Ancient wards shifted in the walls as we passed, their hum slipping to a muted thrum—discretion, not fear. The portraits did not track their movement as they did most guests, the carved sentinels along the banister blinked themselves into stillness. The house knew better than to bare its teeth at mortals who had been allowed this deep inside.

But the house also remembered what they had purchased here.

Helena had once bent knee before a dying prince, pressing her lips to the cold iron of his signet. It had not been loyalty—it had been desperation. Her daughter had been three years old, fever-wracked, caught in an illness no mortal physician could name. The bargain was simple and cruel: the child would live, but she would never see the truth of our world. Magic would turn to smoke in her mind, its shape gone before it could settle.

The cost had been equally simple—and far crueller. The life spared would be borrowed against another. And so her son, Elliot, began his slow collapse. The wasting sickness clung to him like a shadow, beyond mortal cure. They’ve refused to seek our aid. They know altering the terms could call the debt due in full.

Cassie should not be able to see me for what I am. She should not have been able to glance up at dinner and track the shimmer of my wards breathing along the walls. Yet she had. Her gaze had caught on them like a moth to a flame—and I had seen the spark of recognition before she smoothed it away.

I know what that means.

The bindings are fraying.

And I know exactly whose presence is wearing them thin.

I glanced back, letting my eyes sweep over Helena’s clenched purse in her hands, Jameson’s coat still damp from the mist. Not from a carriage ride. From the hospital. They had come straight here from Elliot’s bedside. And yet here they were—drawn to my door in the dead of night, worried less about the son whose life bleeds away by inches than the daughter they fear is waking up to the truth.

And if Mira is the one unraveling the knot the Fairborns tied to keep their world apart from mine…

Then tonight’s little walk may be the beginning of something none of us can contain.

I paused outside Mira’s door. My fingers didn’t hesitate as I pushed it open.

Warm golden light bathed the room, cast from the soft-glow sconce still flickering in its bracket. The bed—her daughter’s bed—was tangled in a nest of books, silk sheets, and two teenage girls fast asleep.

Cassie Fairborn curled protectively around Mira like a second skin, her arm draped across Mira’s waist, her forehead resting near the curve of Mira’s neck. Mira—brilliant, stubborn Mira—slept with her mouth slightly open, her hand clenched around one of the gilded project folders.

The visual was devastating in its intimacy.

No makeup. No court posturing. No masks.

Just two girls who had fallen asleep working, one curled into the other like gravity had written them that way.

My chest tightened. Mira almost never sleeps deeply. She’s always curled like a fist, braced for a fight even in her dreams. Yet here she was—unguarded, at peace. And it was not my arms that gave her that safety. That truth cut deeper than I expected.

Behind me, Jameson stepped forward, but Helena touched his wrist—light, commanding.

“She’s… safe,” Helena whispered.

“Of course she is,” I said without turning.

“She didn’t mean to stay.”

“She did stay.” My voice, now silk over steel. “That distinction matters less than you think.”

Helena took a step into the room, but not closer to the bed—only enough to gaze at her daughter’s sleeping face. Her shoulders softened, if only for a breath. “She spends so much time at the hospital,” she murmured, voice low enough that even the house might pretend not to hear. “I didn’t know she… had this.”

There it was—the flicker of longing. And I understood it. I have thought the same too often: I didn’t know she had this. I didn’t know she had someone.

“She’s been angry,” Helena went on. “Withdrawn. I thought she was acting out… but it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

“Cassandra Fairborn,” I said gently, “has always been many things. But false? Never.”

Helena’s gaze slid to me. “And your daughter?”

I turned to face her fully, letting her see the truth she’d asked for. “My daughter was born with fire in her blood, starlight in her heart. I have spent seventeen years making certain it doesn’t consume her—or the world she’s meant to rule.” My throat tightened, but I did not let it show. And still, every night, I wonder if I have failed her by tempering what I should have nurtured.

Jameson shifted his weight, his tone clipped. “You expect us to believe this is innocent?”

“I expect you,” I said, my voice cooling, “to remember what the truth costs.”

Helena looked back at the bed. “We won’t wake them.”

“No,” I agreed, stepping back into the hall and letting the door ease toward its latch. “You won’t.”

The fire was for their comfort, not mine. I did not need warmth—but mortals steady themselves when ritual soothes them, and sometimes I forget how fragile they are without it.

The silver tray hovered between us, perfectly still, porcelain cups waiting while the teapot poured itself. Chamomile with starflower and winter pear. Helena’s preference, though she hadn’t touched hers yet.

Jameson took his cup, grateful enough to hide it in a small nod. Helena only held hers, knuckles white, as if she feared to set it down and lose her tether.

I sat back in the high obsidian chair, velvet cool beneath my palm. “We had an agreement,” I said, letting the words settle like frost between us. “Your daughter was not to be told.”

“She hasn’t been,” Helena said quickly. “We’ve kept our end. She thinks it’s just… your wealth. Your mystery. She doesn’t know.”

“She suspects,” I countered, voice low. “Suspicion is often more dangerous than truth.”

Helena started to speak, but I lifted a hand. I could not bear to hear another mortal excuse tonight. “I’m not accusing you. In fact, I’m impressed by her instincts. But we are nearing the limit of what can be hidden.”

Jameson sipped his tea, throat working. “Because of Mira?”

“She is a magnet,” I said. The words came out more weary than I intended. “For conflict. For truth. For legacy.”

He huffed a dry laugh. “So she’s yours.”

“In every maddening, brilliant way.” My lips curved faintly, though the weight of it pulled heavy on my chest. Selene had always been easy to shape, to polish into perfection. But Mira—Mira had been born wild, and the world had the arrogance to demand that I tame her without dimming her. A contradiction I have failed to solve for seventeen years.

Helena’s eyes dropped to the tea she still hadn’t drunk. “She doesn’t know what she is, does she?”

“No,” I said. “And if I have my way, she won’t—until she’s ready to fight for it. Not before.” And gods help me, I pray she never has to.

For a moment, only the fire answered, its crackle like a whispered judgment.

Then Helena’s voice cracked—just slightly. “Elliot’s getting worse.”

I didn’t move. A High Lady does not flinch. But behind my stillness, I felt it—that old pang, the one I have learned to bury beneath robes and ritual. A mother’s recognition of another mother’s grief.

“His immune system’s failing,” Helena continued. “We’ve been told he might not survive the winter. The doctors are… running out of words that sound like hope.” She gripped the cup tighter, eyes fixed on the steam curling up between us. “We can’t risk upsetting Cassie, not now. And we certainly can’t risk…” She trailed off, but the word was there all the same. Magic.

“You think keeping her away from it will keep her whole,” I said.

“We know it will,” Jameson cut in, sharp-edged with fear. “We bargained for that. It saved her life once. We won’t break it now—not when…” He didn’t finish, but the unspoken not when our son is already paying the cost rang clear.

They don’t realize it isn’t breaking. Not truly.

Cassie shouldn’t be able to see the shimmer of my wards or feel the estate breathing around her—and yet at dinner, her eyes tracked a ripple in the corner like it was alive. That wasn’t the Veil reaching for her. That was Mira. Starlight unraveling bindings that should have lasted a lifetime.

If the girl were anyone else, I’d be concerned. But Mira’s touch doesn’t carry the backlash their bargain was meant to guard against. She isn’t undoing it—she’s simply stepping past it. Even without knowing, she makes space for Cassie to see.

“You’re afraid she’ll be pulled into Mira’s world,” I said.

Helena’s gaze lifted, steady. “I’m afraid she’ll choose it.”

Her honesty struck deeper than she knew. I considered telling them that Cassie might one day be more than a guest in that world—that she might belong in it, beside my daughter. And that Mira’s power, if shaped, might heal what no bargain could. But truth, like fire, must be handled with care. Too soon, and it consumes.

“Then we’ll shield her,” I said. “For now. But I’ll keep her close enough to watch.”

Helena searched my face, perhaps realizing that I meant both girls.

…

Jameson’s jaw flexed. “And if they…”

“Fall in love?” I kept my tone unreadable, though inside the words landed like a stone dropped into water, rippling outward. It would be easier if Mira loved no one. Easier, cleaner, safer. Affection could be redirected, ambition tempered, loyalty arranged like pieces on a board. But love? Love was wildfire. It leapt fences, it devoured bargains, it burned through the careful walls I’ve spent seventeen years building around her.

And yet—gods help me—it is the one thing I have never been able to give her. Not in the way she wants. Not in the way she needs. If it is Cassie Fairborn who can, then that both relieves me… and terrifies me.

“That’s not my concern,” I said aloud, smoothing the words until they gleamed like glass.

Jameson’s brow rose, disbelief sharp as a blade.

“My concern is survival,” I continued. “For Mira. For this city. For the balance we’ve held longer than we should have.” I let the words settle, silk over stone, though inside I tasted ash. And for my daughter, who deserves a freedom I may never be able to let her keep.

“And if love disrupts that balance?” Helena asked softly.

“Then we adapt,” I said simply. “We always do.”

…

Firebrand Estate, Just Before Dawn – 3:08 AM

The halls had gone quiet.

Not silent—nothing in this place is ever truly still—but quiet in the way a predator hushes its breath before it pounces. Shadows draped themselves over vaulted archways, curling like velvet ribbons between the sconces. The chandeliers hung above, unlit, their crystals dark and dreaming.

I walked alone.

My steps made no sound as I passed through the manor, my robe trailing behind me like spilled ink. I did not look at the paintings, the statues, the ancestral relics nestled into alcoves carved before the first mortal empire rose. I knew them all. I had placed them all. And yet tonight they felt heavier, as though they too were watching, waiting to see whether I succeed or fail.

When I reached Mira’s suite, the double doors were still cracked from earlier. I’d left them that way. A sliver of moonlight slipped through, brushing against the faint shimmer of Veil-resistant charmwork in the frame. It recognized me. Of course it did.

I stepped inside.

The air was warm with the mingling of their scents—Mira’s toasted marshmallow and stargazer bloom threaded with ocean rain, dimmed now into its gentlest register: fire banked low, storm-breeze hushed, bloom softened to something almost wistful. Vulnerability, comfort, the rare moment when she allowed herself to stop bracing. Beside it, Cassie’s frosted citrus and white camellia lingered sharp and elegant, tempered by chilled vanilla musk that curled close like a protective shield. Together they twined in the room, warmth and frost layered, defiant and tender both.

Books and gilded project folders lay scattered across the bed in the careless sprawl of midnight work. The girls had fallen asleep in the middle of it, Mira curled toward the wall, Cassie fitted in close behind her, arm draped over her waist, their legs caught in an unthinking tangle.

I moved without sound, sweeping the papers and books to the desk with a flick of my fingers, letting the magic carry them gently so no ink would smudge, no edges bend. With another small gesture, the comforter slid free from beneath them, weightless until I drew it up over their shoulders.

Mira stirred, eyes half-lidded, voice slurred by sleep. “Thanks, Mom…”

The sound cracked through me like lightning against stone. My daughter’s gratitude—unguarded, instinctive. A sound I had not heard in years.

Cassie made a soft sound in answer—half sigh, half murmur—and her arm tightened around Mira’s middle, pulling her closer, as if some dream had reminded her who made her feel safe. Mira shifted instinctively, her hand brushing Cassie’s forearm before stilling again.

I stood there longer than I meant to, longer than dignity or duty would allow, watching the two of them. And in their unthinking closeness, I saw something that frightened me more than any blade at my throat: peace. Mira had found peace—and it was not in my arms.

Memory rose unbidden. Another night, another storm, Mira fever-hot and stubborn in my embrace, refusing to admit she was frightened. I had held her then, and I had sworn to myself I would let the world burn before I let it take her from me. That vow has not changed. But tonight, looking at her held by another, I realized the world may not need to take her. She may give herself away.

I left them sleeping and returned through the winding corridors, past paintings that shifted when unobserved, past the illusions wound around this palace like armor.

In the front sitting room, I settled into the high-backed obsidian chair beside the hearth. I did not summon tea. Did not call for Selene. Did not charm the fire.

Instead, I called a small orb of light into my palm—no larger than a candle’s flame. It hovered there, perfectly round, perfectly contained. Fragile and dangerous both, a truth I could extinguish at will.

Cassie Fairborn should not be able to see magic. The bargain her parents struck had ensured it. But proximity to Mira was unmaking that work without either of them realizing it. A sign of power—and perhaps, when the time was right, a possibility. If Mira could break a binding so old without knowing it, maybe she could heal the boy without dooming the girl.

But what of herself? What of the fire I have spent seventeen years teaching her to cage, when all she seems to do—without trying—is undo cages?

Until then, I would watch.

The Princess slept.

The mortal lay close beside her.

And I, High Lady of the Summer Court, held the balance between them in the palm of my hand—and prayed I would know how to let go, when the time came.