Frustrations of a Self-Proclaimed Villain Lord

Chapter 90: The Grand Duke Prepares for Rehearsal (1)

By the time we returned to the Elysian Estate, the household had become more organized than most military garrisons. This wasn’t surprising. My mother had been left in charge.

The front hall had been converted into a controlled reception point, no one entering without identification, inspection, and the tacit understanding that lying to the guards would become a memorable physical experience. The west wing had been sealed for medical use. The south garden remained accessible only to Spiro, my mother, William, and two guards whose expressions suggested they’d personally challenge the gods if anyone made the child uncomfortable.

A sensible arrangement.

The prisoners had been moved. Marcellus remained in the blue sitting room, though the carpet had been covered. I approved of this. His sins were extensive enough without adding upholstery damage. Caldus had been placed in the eastern interview room under separate guard. Vesren, Marcellus’s deputy, had been brought from the palace under the Empress’s authority and now sat restrained in the lower ward room with every accessory removed from his person, including, according to William, his shoelaces.

Excellent.

The conductor from the Conservatory was carried in half conscious and placed in a third room. At this rate, I’d need to renovate the estate purely to accommodate prisoners who made poor life choices.

How expensive. How irritating.

Bell, Toma, and the other two rescued children were brought to the west medical wing. The moment Bell saw the clean bed, she froze at the doorway. Not admiration. Suspicion.

Toma leaned against a knight, too weak to stand alone, his throat wrapped with a warm cloth. He couldn’t speak, though the physician believed the damage might not be permanent. That was one of the few things preventing me from taking the conductor apart immediately.

The younger child Arthur had carried refused to release the captain’s sleeve. Arthur looked down at the small fist gripping him, then looked at me with unmistakable distress.

"Your Excellency."

"What?"

"He will not let go."

"Then carry him."

"For how long?"

"Until he decides otherwise."

Arthur looked as though he’d been handed a battlefield with unclear terrain. The child tightened his grip, and Arthur resigned himself to his new position as transport.

Good. Leadership required flexibility.

Bell still hadn’t entered the room. I crouched to her level, leaving enough distance that she wouldn’t feel cornered.

"You may inspect the room first," I said.

Her eyes moved to mine. "No locks?"

"No locks from the outside."

"Windows?"

"Warded. Not barred."

"Food?"

"After the physician checks you."

She frowned. "Is that required?"

"Yes."

"Will he touch us?"

"Only after explaining. If you say stop, he stops unless you’re actively dying."

She thought about that, then nodded. A negotiation had been completed. Children who’d been denied choices often treated small permissions like contracts. It was both impressive and infuriating.

My mother appeared at the end of the corridor. Bell saw her and stiffened. Mother stopped at once.

"How many?" she asked, looking at me rather than the children.

"Four removed from the Conservatory. One still unable to speak. One unconscious. Bell is alert. The biter has attached himself to Arthur."

Arthur’s face remained serious. The small child looked deeply asleep against his shoulder.

Mother’s gaze softened by a fraction. "Prepare the green room as an adjoining ward," she told William. "Children who know each other should be near enough to see they haven’t been separated. But not crowded."

"Yes, my lady."

She looked at Bell. "My name is Lady Konstantin," she said. "This is my household. No one here will force you to sing."

Bell’s mouth trembled. She nodded once, then finally stepped into the medical room. Mother watched her go, and when the door closed, she turned to me.

"The Conservatory?"

"Interrupted, not finished."

"The conductor?"

"Alive."

"Good." There was nothing gentle in the word. My mother had excellent priorities.

"The rehearsal?" I asked.

Her expression changed. "Tomorrow afternoon. The palace hasn’t canceled."

"Of course not."

"Publicly canceling would announce weakness. Privately canceling would alert the network. The Empress intends to delay final confirmation until morning."

"And the Emperor?"

Mother’s silence was eloquent.

Ah. So the Emperor remained uninformed, partially informed, or inconveniently managed by people who believed he should remain that way. Imperial marriages seemed exhausting. A pity I had no plans to marry.

Somewhere in the future, I felt a cold laugh for no reason. I dismissed it.

"Where’s Adrien?" I asked.

"In the west suite. Awake. Annoying his physician."

"Improving, then."

"Yes."

"And Spiro?"

"In the south garden. He saw the children arrive." I looked at her, and her face stayed calm. "He didn’t approach. He asked William if Toma would be able to speak again."

The question sat inside me unpleasantly. "What did William say?"

"That the physician would do everything possible."

Spiro would understand what that meant. Children who’d lived under uncertain adults learned to hear the unsaid parts of answers.

I disliked that too.

My father entered from the western hall, having finished overseeing prisoner placement. "You look as though you’re considering murder," he said.

"I’m considering logistics."

"So murder with schedule management."

"Essentially."

He smiled faintly and handed me a small report. "Marcellus has spoken."

"That was fast."

"Your mother asked."

"Ah." No wonder.

I opened the report. Marcellus had confirmed the coronation rehearsal was the next likely ritual site. The old rites required three layers: vessel, witness, and authority. The vessel had been Adrien. The witness had been unclear. The authority was the assembled court and church, gathered under coronation protocol. If the third instruction activated at rehearsal, the entire imperial order could become the audience that acknowledged the opening without knowing what they were accepting.

Very neat. Very vile. I hated efficient enemies. They made my workload heavier.

"Has Marcellus admitted who authorized the renewal?" I asked.

Father’s expression darkened. "No."

"Who does he fear?"

"Not the Emperor."

"Not the Empress?"

"No."

I closed the report. "Then someone outside the palace."

"Or beneath it," Father said.

Abi entered the corridor carrying the sealed red bell from the Conservatory in both hands, wrapped in violet light and placed inside a transparent ward box. The bell remained dull.

Its silence annoyed me. Everything about bells annoyed me now.

"The red glass is older than the Conservatory," Abi said.

"How old?"

He looked at Mother, then Father, then me. "Old enough that I dislike answering near walls."

Mother’s eyes sharpened. Good. She wouldn’t ask further in the corridor.

"Bring it to the lower ward room," I said.

"No."

I looked at him. His expression was serious.

"I won’t put this near Vesren, Marcellus, Caldus, or the conductor. The bell has eaten enough speech to become curious. Prisoners are full of words."

How unpleasantly reasonable.

"Where then?"

"The old silver pantry."

I stared at him. "The pantry?"

"It’s lined with cold silver, salt stone, and three layers of household blessing. Also, there’s no poetry there."

My father nodded. "He’s right."

I looked at Father. "Why is the silver pantry built like an anti-curse vault?"

"You were a sickly toddler for three days once, and your mother became cautious."

I turned slowly toward my mother. She looked back. "I was thorough."

"You turned a pantry into a containment chamber because I had a fever?"

"It was a severe fever."

"I was three."

"Yes."

Abi looked delighted. "Mother is amazing."

I sighed. "Take the bell to the pantry."

He smiled and left with the box. Some revelations didn’t require immediate discussion. Some could be buried forever. Unfortunately, I suspected Abi wouldn’t let this one die.

The west guest suite smelled of medicine, tea, and restrained royal panic. Adrien was sitting up again, which meant the physician had lost another argument. The Empress sat near the window with a stack of correspondence she’d no doubt decided not to trust until my mother inspected it. The Crown Prince’s knight stood by the door, looking less like he expected the walls to attack and more like he expected them to consider it.

Progress.

Adrien looked up when I entered. "You went to the Conservatory."

"Yes."

"You found children."

"Yes."

"How many?"