Necromancy In D Minor ✔️

A Lady's Leitmotif

"A lady does not get blood on her hands."

Beatrix bit back a yelp as the cane connected with the bottom of her foot. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to—"

"Wanted to what? Embarrass your family? Sully the noble reputation of this house?" The cane came down again, its sting worse than an angry bee's. "We're grooming you to be a proper lady. A diplomat. Not a barbarian."

Multiple thumps rang through her childhood bedroom, shaking bottles of expensive perfume from the vanity. The fell to ground with pops and crashes.

"You're an embarrassment!"

Beatrix awoke with a start, her eye flying open, and breath escaping her lips in tiny hiccups. She hazarded a glance at her wife, who slept soundly beside her. Just a dream, another dream. She squeezed her eye shut and took even breaths to calm her frantic heart.

These nightmares had been plaguing her since the night of the winter ball—when she'd handed Octavia a death sentence. All the grooming she'd received from her mother flooded her mind every time she slept.

She remembered when Hedalda sent to her home country of Carmadon for aid, her parents had seen an opportunity to get rid of her. And she'd seen an opportunity to prove them all wrong. To show them she could be both a diplomat and a warrior.

And what had her arrogance gotten her? A village on the brink of destruction and a people who were holding on to false hope. Once the priests left, the netherborne would overrun them, and the blame fell squarely on her shoulders. She thought she could turn this place around, show the rest of the world that the netherborne couldn't contend against the resilience of the human spirit. How foolish. Her mother was right. She was an embarrassment.

The thumping rang through the room, faster, louder, like a drumbeat. She untangled her limbs from Winslet's and slipped from the halo of warmth they'd created under the covers.

The floor shot needles of ice through her bare feet, and the air nipped at her skin. She grabbed her robe from the rack by the door and tossed it on as she hurried down the steps to the living room. As she ambled through the dark, her shin collided with a low table and she bit down on her lip to stifle the scream bubbling up her throat. She should've grabbed a lantern. Ambling around in the dark with her already limited scope of vision was a bad idea.

Beatrix pulled open the front door, a cold blast of air making her eyes water. Beyond her threshold stood a priest with a small cylindrical canister in one hand.

"Sorry to disturb you ma'am, but the carriers brought back a correspondence from King Jaredeth."

Beatrix wasted no time snatching it from his hands. "Thank you. Would you like to come in and warm up for a moment?" The priest obliged and found a warm spot in the room's corner. Meanwhile, she trailed her hand along the mantel of the hearth, a rattle ringing through the room as her hands collided with the box of matches. She scooped them up and pulled a lantern from the wall.

As soft, flickering light filled the room she set the canister on the table and stared at it. A lady does not get blood on her hands. If Jaredeth executed Octavia... Beatrix bit her lip. One didn't have to swing the executioners axe to get the blood on their hands.

Throwing Octavia in jail hadn't sat well with her, but she had to do what was in the best interest of the village. And her judgment told her that keeping a necromancer here was not that. But, in light of recent events, perhaps her judgment was flawed.

The entire village had been out, clearing away the heaps of snow left behind from the blizzard when chaos had descended on Hedalda. The netherborne had been quiet in their approach. It wasn't until the stone monster had burst through the village's north side that they realized what was happening. Somehow Winslet and Pilar had fought their way to the Hall and freed Octavia.