Chapter 195: The Crown Trial (1)

The day of Crown Trial Tournament.

Carl’s place at the breakfast table was empty when Misha came downstairs. A plate had been set for him, along with a cup and the small jar of jam he had been steadily working through since they arrived.

She looked toward the kitchen door before approaching her seat. Nobody emerged.

“He ate earlier,” Sebastian informed her before she could ask. He placed the teapot beside her usual cup, then adjusted its handle so it faced her. “He went outside afterward.”

Misha touched the back of the empty chair. “For his lesson?”

“For a walk, Miss Misha.”

That difference was delivered gently enough to make her feel worse. She pulled out her own chair and sat, leaving his untouched.

‘Of course, a walk conveniently scheduled for whenever I might try speaking to him.’

Carl had become surprisingly good at arranging his day around her absence. He left rooms when she entered, found errands whenever she had time to sit, and suddenly remembered things he needed upstairs if she approached him in a corridor. The first few times, Misha had dismissed it as coincidence. By the seventh time, she had begun wondering whether the child had developed some kind of detection ability specifically designed to warn him when she approached.

He had not stopped speaking altogether, which somehow made the situation more frustrating. Yesterday, he had informed her that one of his boots was rubbing against his heel, then endured the necessary inspection with the solem resignation of someone submitting evidence to an enemy.

That had been the longest conversation they had managed. He left before she could even bring up the matter that caused their distance.

Misha poured herself some tea and watched the seam curl above the cup. There were three explanations for the boy’s behavior that she could accept without becoming irritated: he was hurt, he was frightened, and he was twelve.

Unfortunately, accepting all three did not make breakfast more pleasant, especially when she knew he was deliberately keeping his distance because of something she had done.

The sound of footsteps drew her attention toward the entrance.

Astrid appeared a moment later, already dressed for the Trial, her vivid red hair gathered into its usual high ponytail. She looked more awake than Misha felt, although the faint shadows beneath her eyes suggested she had not slept particularly well either.

Her gaze went first to Carl’s untouched setting, then to Misha, and the brief pause between those two observations was enough to make Misha regret coming downstairs.

“He’s outside?” Astrid asked as she approached the table.

“Yeah… Apparently, he’s developed a sudden appreciation for morning walks.” Misha lifted her cup and took a cautious sip. “Very healthy habit. Excellent for avoiding difficult conversations.”

Astrid pulled out a seat opposite Misha and sat there. “Perhaps he really did want some fresh air.”

“Of course. And perhaps Alaric visits the Red District exclusively for its admiring the ladies, and its architectural significance.” She set her cup down.

Astrid pressed her lips together, visibly restraining a laugh. She spread jam across a slice of bread, then looked toward Carl’s chair again with a more thoughtful gaze.

“He’ll talk when he’s ready,” she said eventually.

Misha glanced at her. “You’re very confident about that.”

“I caught him asking Sebastian whether you’ve eaten already. If not yet, he’d ask to have someone check on you.”

Misha stopped moving her knife. That was new information.

She looked toward Sebastian, who had conveniently turned his attention to arranging the remaining dishes. The old butler possessed an extraordinary ability to appear completely uninvolved in conversations while somehow knowing everything that happened beneath the residence’s roof.

“I think he’s worried, even if he’s still angry.”

“I suppose I should be grateful he’s still monitoring me from a safe distance,” she muttered.

Astrid’s smile softened. “You could try talking to him after the Trial.”

For a moment, she seemed to consider saying something, then reached for the bread instead. Misha could only sigh inwardly. Everybody in the household had developed a careful manner around her, which made her want to assure them she could survive a child being angry without requiring a committee meeting.

She probably could. She would have preferred not to test it.

Misha looked at the bread on her plate. She ate anyway. According to the regulations, contenders were required to surrender their weapons before the official event began.

She had several objections to the concept, most of them practical and at least two involving the intelligence of whoever designed it. Unfortunately, complaining would not change the rules, and she had already decided that entering with a full stomach was preferable to being hungry when someone inevitably tried to stab her.

Outside the windows, Ashmoor was brighter than usual. Colored projections moved above the distant rooftops, and the broad avenue beyond the residence had been decorated with hanging strips of cloth that caught the early breeze.

The city seemed delighted with itself.

Misha had watched enough people prepare for dangerous work to recognize the difference between those going out anf those watching them leave. The watchers always found more room for celebration.

Sebastian returned with a small wrapped parcel. He placed it beside Astrid’s plate and another beside Misha’s.

“For the journey,” he explained. “The roads near the Arena will be considerably more crowded than usual.”

Misha glanced at the fruit and bread visible beneath the folded cloth. “Are you expecting us to get lost?”

“Not intentionally, Miss Misha.” A faint smile moved beneath his neatly trimmed mustache. He adjusted the parcels so neither rested too near the tea.

By the time breakfast ended, the sunlight had climbed highed against the windows. Her attention went toward the couryard door again, despite the effort she made to keep it from being obvious.

Sebastian noticed. Naturally, he noticed. “I can fetch Carl if you wish.”

Misha hesitated. She imagined him being brought inside while she stood with her cloak fastened. He would know she had asked for him. Worse, he would know there was very little time available for any answer she wanted to hear.

“No.” She smoothed a crease near the clasp at her throat and forced herself to stand from her chair. “Just tell him we’ve gone, please. And that I’ll be back before he knows it.”

Those words were easier to say. This was a Arena tournament, with recovery wards and officials and signed regulations. Coming back was the whole arrangement.

Misha held on to that thought as she followed Astrid outside to the waiting carriage. She looked back through the entrance once before stepping in.