Penelope’s eyes widened as she followed her aunt’s trembling finger.

The cold, precise script of the parish log stared back at her. Without a word, she pulled the heavy document closer, her gaze frantically darting between the dates of her father’s long diplomatic absence and the neat, unyielding cursive detailing Mirabel’s full-term arrival.

A sudden, suffocating realization washed over her. This log hadn’t been tucked away in the Baron’s private study or hidden in the family vaults. It had been meticulously preserved inside the leather portfolio containing her late mother’s personal deeds.

Mother knew.

The thought struck Penelope like a physical blow. Her mother had held the proof.

"I could still be mistaken, Penny," Beatrice said eventually, her voice barely a whisper as she watched the color drain from her niece’s face. "Ink can fade, and old clerks make errors. You should confirm the authenticity of the record with the parish registry before making any rash decisions."

Penelope looked up at her aunt, her chest heaving, but her mind was already racing far beyond the walls of the estate.

Suddenly, Mirabel’s venomous, mocking words during her last visit to Rosehill rang out with deafening clarity in her head. The fractured puzzle pieces were shifting, locking into a terrifying new shape.

Did Mother die because of this?

A chilling sweat broke out across Penelope’s skin. If her mother had discovered that Genevieve’s child was a bastard, that the Baron was being thoroughly deceived, someone would have done anything to keep that record from seeing the light of day. Silencing a gentle, unsuspecting baroness would have been the only way to secure Genevieve’s climb to power.

Her heart drummed a fierce, erratic rhythm against her ribs.

Forcing her breathing to steady, she finally assured her aunt with a firm, resolute nod.

"I am going to do just that, Aunt," she said, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous register as she looked back down at the faded parchment.

But as she stared at the ink, a profound sense of disbelief still lingered. Could it truly be? Was the sister who had spent a lifetime tormenting her, the girl who prided herself on being the Baron’s favored golden child, in no way related to her father at all?

How much more conniving could Lady Genevieve be?

*****

When dusk arrived, painting the study in deep shades of amber and shadow, Vincent sat at his desk. The steady glow of a single candelabra illuminated the thick stacks of reports detailing everything that had transpired during the two days he had lain unconscious.

A firm knock on the heavy oak door broke his concentration. When it swung open, Elias stepped into the room.

"It seems the heavens caught wind of our grievances this morning, Your Lordship," Elias said, stepping forward to present a heavy parchment envelope. "A missive just arrived from His Majesty."

Vincent took the envelope, his fingers tracing the familiar, rigid imprint of the royal wax seal before he broke it. He skimmed the elegant, sweeping ink of the dispatch, his expression shifting into something more conflicting with every line. Finally, he looked up at Elias.

"It seems we shall be making a journey to the grand capital," Vincent said, causing Elias’s brows to instantly furrow. "The Emperor has summoned me to court."

Elias’s eyes widened in sheer astonishment, so much so that his spectacles loosened, nearly slipping down the bridge of his nose before he caught them. "You mean to say the Emperor himself? The High Sovereign?"

"No, his court magistrate," Vincent clicked his tongue in sharp irritation, tossing the letter onto the mahogany desk. "Of course I mean the Emperor, Elias. But it has been an age since I last stood before the Imperial throne. I can’t help but wonder what has prompted him to demand my presence so suddenly."

"Is it not a favorable turn, regardless?" Elias asked, adjusting his spectacles as he noted the grim, unreadable look on his master’s face. "I can scarcely recall the grandeur of the imperial citadel. It would be a welcome change to see those white spires once more."

"We are not embarking on some leisure excursion, Elias," Vincent reminded him coldly, his eyes narrowing. "If the Emperor bypasses the ordinary channels to summon me directly, the underlying matter must be dire indeed. Typically, his decrees are filtered through our own King before they ever reach my ears. To demand a face-to-face audience... does that not strike you as profoundly unsettling?"

Elias fell silent for a moment, weighing the gravity of the Marquis’s words. "Well, tracing ghosts in the dark will yield us no answers," Elias replied thoughtfully, clasping his hands behind his back. "You will simply have to journey to the capital and discern his motives for yourself."

Vincent leaned back in his leather chair, his gaze drifting up toward the shadowed expanse of the ceiling as he exhaled. It would indeed be strange to look upon the Emperor’s face once more.

After all, it was the High Sovereign who had granted him the very breath he drew today.

During the bloody aftermath of Arthur Devereux and his wife’s demises, when the entire realm clamored for his execution, the Emperor alone sat in judgment.

He had looked directly into Vincent’s eyes, fully aware of the crimson staining his hands—fully aware that he had committed the deed—and yet, the Emperor had chosen to spare his life.

Everyone had no choice but to bow to the imperial decree, which was the sole reason the treasonous scandal had been buried before it could tear the kingdom apart. But the Emperor’s mercy was not a free gift; he had forced Vincent to bleed for every inch of his redemption, making him fight on the brutal front lines to earn the right to bear his family’s name again.

Now, as the only Marquis of Vandalia, Vincent’s authority was a peculiar, formidable thing. In terms of land and military might, he was effectively equal to a duke, yet he was bound by a unique imperial shackle. The King of Vandalia was forbidden from granting him any further promotion unless the Emperor explicitly authorized it.

That was the true reason the ducal coronet had eluded him for so long. The crown he truly sought could only be granted by the man who held his life in his hands.

"So when are we leaving?" Elias asked, shifting his stance. "Considering you are still very much in the throes of recovery."

"One does not delay a direct imperial summons—certainly not one from the Emperor himself," Vincent muttered, clicking his tongue in annoyance as he shifted slightly, a dull ache reminding him of his recent ordeal.

"Shall we prepare a carriage for the Marchioness as well?" Elias asked, tilting his head. "I mean to say, would this not be the most opportune moment to officially introduce your spouse to the Imperial Court?"

Vincent paused, his gaze dropping to the ink-stained documents on his desk. "I shall have to consult Penelope first to see if she is even willing to accompany me. She seems entirely occupied with an avalanche of her own affairs at present. Not to mention the shadow of the assassin we are currently hunting."

"Ah... quite right."

Sensing the sudden weight of his master’s thoughts, Elias chose not to press the matter any further.

When he stepped out of the study chamber, closing the heavy door quietly behind him, Elias nearly collided with Martha and Francis coming down the dimly lit hallway.

"Ah, good evening. And where might you two be heading in such haste?" he asked, adjusting his spectacles.

"Just me, actually," Martha corrected, offering a quick nod. "Her Ladyship is preparing to visit the parish registry. Francis was merely assisting me in locating you, so you might pass the word along to your master."

"The parish?" Elias’s brows furrowed in confusion. "What for?"

Martha shrugged, her expression equally mystified. "She did not say, only that it was a matter of some urgency."

"Well, since you two have found each other, I must take my leave and head down to the kitchens," Francis interjected smoothly, bowing his head. "I need to ensure those lazy scullery maids have dinner prepared exactly on time tonight."

With that final word, Francis turned on his heel and disappeared down the intersecting corridor.

Both Martha and Elias stood in silence, watching as the butler’s rigid posture vanished from sight, leaving the two of them entirely alone in the quiet expanse of the hallway. For some inexplicable reason, as the silence stretched between them, a rogue memory flared in Elias’s mind, the sharp, teasing voice of Vincent, mocking him for never having held a lady’s hand before.

A sudden warmth pricked at the back of Elias’s neck as the memory annoyed him. He looked sideways at Martha, his gaze lingering a beat too long until she apparently sensed the scrutiny and turned her head to face him fully.

"Is something amiss?" she asked, her brow arching slightly. "Do you require something of me?"

"Can I hold your hand?"

"No."

Her instantaneous, flat refusal—delivered with a completely deadpan expression—left Elias entirely taken aback.

"Why not?"

"Why should I?" Martha countered, her voice entirely devoid of inflection. She didn’t even blink.

"It is hardly a matter of grave consequence," Elias muttered, trying to salvage his dignity by adopting his most professional, commander-like tone.

"It is not a big deal."

"For creeps."

Elias gasped at that, his eyes widening behind his lenses. "A creep? Me? How is that even related? I am merely trying to test a hypothesis. Out of everyone I assumed you’d be the most cooperative one."

Martha stared at him for three agonizing seconds, her expression utterly nonchalant as she adjusted the cuffs of her apron. "A hypothesis that requires touching my hand. Right. Keep telling yourself that, sir."

Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving a thoroughly mortified Elias standing entirely alone in the empty corridor, wishing the floorboards would swallow him whole.