Cameron To Candy

The carriage rocked to a halt beneath the stone steps. Hearthwind blew steam into the night, ears twitching at the lantern glow spilling from the windows. A servant opened the door with the posture of a measuring stick and the eyes of a man who judged.

“Good evening. Lord Trevain is in the parlor. He will meet you shortly.” He relieved Candy of her cloak, noted Marcus’s cut with a subtle twitch, and before he could move further-

“Marcus!” came the voice before the man appeared, “the numbers were tidy.” Lord Trevain strode up with a confident smile that had never learned the word gentle. “We will talk before dinner. I daresay we can sign.” His gaze slid to Candy and stayed there for longer than was comfortable. “And this is your wife. Very lovely," he said in a way that made Candy want to throw up.

Still, she managed to arrange the pleasant face Marcus had coached her on the last two days. Marcus stepped into the space before she could react further. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Come,” Trevain said, already turning. “Parlor first, then dining.” Marcus set a hand at the small of Candy’s back, the polite, possessive touch men used to guide women. She felt her stomach tip, then smoothed it away and let him steer, because that was what couples did, and this was a house that judged women on their poise and obedience.

The entry hall stretched long and wide, the sort of space built not to welcome guests but to intimidate them. On one wall, stern portraits of Trevain’s ancestors glared down, every jaw square, every gaze severe. Opposite, trophies loomed: the antlers of a stag broad enough to roof a shed, the stretched pelt of a coyoteshade, its mottled fur still carrying a faint musk of dust and carrion, and the mounted head of a wild grombolonk, tusks curling out like hooks, eyes polished until they caught the lanternlight.

Marcus’s eyes snagged on the next one: a massive jawpiece mounted like gate, wooden like ridges interlaced, tongue dried and twisted like rope.

“That,” Trevain said, chest swelling, “is a Threadmaw. Apex predator of the floating isles. Tongue like a loom shuttle, skin tough as ironwood. My greatest achievement.”

Marcus studied it, then glanced sideways. “With respect, my lord, I thought hunting them was illegal.”

Trevain’s smile sharpened. “Quite so. However, the law only binds within a nation’s borders. Wait long enough and the Isles wander into neutral territories. I had to track it for some time and charter a sky ship, but it was worth it. This one I brought down in the skies between Paddlewick’s patrols and that of Outer-Cone. No claims, no restrictions. Just man and beast.”

Candy kept her face mild, but inside, she rolled her eyes. Just man and beast and an ego as large as that grombolonk.

They passed beneath the skull, and the hallway ended in a more familiar prize: the snarling head of a Bra-Dragon, half her height, teeth still jagged with polish. That was the one that made Candy falter. She remembered Brassier Bay, a baby dragon the size of a wagon bounding after them, Luke clutching a stolen bra like a trophy while Cameron shouted at him to throw it before they both got scorched.

“Ha!” Trevain barked, delighted at grabbing her attention. “This one’s caught your eye, eh? Well, don’t worry little lady. I’ve seen to it that this brute won’t be stealing your brassiere.” He chuckled at his own wit, shoulders shaking.

Candy’s stomach turned, but her face stayed mild. “Yes, my lord.”

“This one is of the hooktalon-sheerburn variety, the largest Bra-Dragons known. I assume you’ve never encountered one yourself?” he pressed, clearly enjoying the stage.

“Not a hooktalon, sir,” she said carefully. “But I did have one unfortunate issue with a frillcraver, a young one. My friend and I… narrowly avoided trouble.”

“Ha! Yes, yes, I know the sort,” Trevain said, warming to the story. “Bra Dragons! They make off with a woman’s unmentionables every chance they get. Ridiculous creatures. Nests stacked with brassieres, like crows hoarding spoons.” His gaze flicked down, lingering on Candy’s chest just long enough to be uncomfortable, then slid back up with a smirk.

Candy’s nails bit into her palm inside the folds of her skirt. Out loud, she only said, “So I’ve heard, my lord.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, the kind of clench that made a vein stand out faintly at his temple. “Impressive trophy,” he said, his tone smooth but edged. “And an impressive hall. You’ve made a name for yourself in the hunting community no doubt.” He placed a hand at the small of Candy’s back again, steering her forward with finality. “Shall we continue?”

“Ha! Yes, yes,” Trevain said, puffing back up. “This way, this way.” He swept an arm toward a pair of carved oak doors at the end of the corridor. “The parlor awaits.”

The hinges groaned as he pushed them open, revealing a room arranged like an essay on masculine taste: dark leather, sharp angles, the scent of brandy and oiled wood. A crop hung decoratively above the hearth, beside a wall of decanters glowing amber in the firelight.

“Please,” Trevain said, gesturing to the settee as if granting them entry into civilization itself. “We’ll talk business before dinner. Always best to settle figures before the womenfolk get distracted by soup preparation.”

Candy felt Marcus’s hand ease away from her back. His voice stayed calm. “As you wish, my lord.”

On the other side of the room, a spaniel slept on the hearth rug, waking upon their entry just long enough to look at them and decide it wasn't worth getting up for. Various bottles of liquor were displayed at a home bar in the corner. Another sign of wealth. Paddlewick did not approve of alcohol. It caused people to lose discipline, so the taxes on anything other than low-content beer were prohibitively expensive. The only alcohol they personally kept was high-proof vodka Candy used after having to provide oral devotion to Marcus.

“Brandy.” He said, pouring without waiting. “Ladies take sherry or water. Water’s safest.”

“Water is perfect,” Candy said, mild as milk.

Trevain approved of that answer with a nod meant for Marcus. “She minds. Good. You have her well in hand," he said to Marcus, as if she wasn't there.

“She keeps our home in fine order,” Marcus said, light and bland.

Trevain sipped. “The figures you sent,” he continued, “are clean. Your competitor is sleeping alone and thinking too much. You being married means you are used to managing on a multifaceted level. It sharpens a man.” He smiled, as if he had told a joke. “I prefer family men.”

“Then I am grateful you prefer me,” Marcus said.

Trevain’s eyes flicked to the cut on Marcus’s cheek. “Shaving mishap.”

“My shave was interrupted abruptly,” Marcus said easily. “My wife called out when an early seamcada got in.”

Trevain chuckled. “Ha! Good man. Rescued her from a chair no doubt.” He lifted his brandy to Marcus and turned, raising his voice. “Wife, present yourself.”

A door on the far side opened. Lady Trevain entered with the quick step of someone who ran a kitchen while pretending not to. She wore an apron crisp enough to stand on its own and hands red from hot water. “Good evening,” she said, coming to Candy first with a small, sincere smile. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” Candy said. “Your home is beautiful.”

“It is,” Trevain said, taking his wife’s arrival as his cue, “when she minds it. She is training up nicely. Still muddles the timing on a roast if I am not watching.”

Lady Trevain’s smile did not move, but her eyes flicked toward the mantel clock for a heartbeat. “Dinner in twenty, my lord.”

“You see,” Trevain said to Marcus. “We train the dog and the wife at the same time. The dog learns faster.” He laughed at his own recycled line for the pure pleasure of it.

Candy’s pleasant face held. “Your spaniel sounds very clever,” she said, perfectly microscopic.

“Ha, exactly,” Trevain said, missing everything he should not have missed. “She pleases.”

Marcus set his untouched brandy down. “Your gardens look well, my lord. I admired the hedges as we came up.”

“The hedges,” Trevain said, puffing a little. “Yes, I designed the cuts myself. Men in town came to ask how I got the angles so clean. I told them, steady hand. Steady eye. Wife cannot learn a hedge. She can learn not to kill basil.”

Lady Trevain’s fingers smoothed her apron once. “If you would excuse me, I need to check the roast.”

“Before you go,” Trevain said, catching her with a fingertip of voice, “show the girl where she can sit. Not there,” he added, as Candy moved toward a seat near the fire. “That chair is fragile. She will have the settee. Lighter.”

“Of course,” Lady Trevain said. She gestured, and Candy adjusted without a word. Lady Trevain’s smile touched her again on the way past, a message in the smallest letters: we endure.

Trevain resumed pouring himself. “I have a dog,” he informed Marcus, as if they had not all been made aware. “Best nose in the district. Wife feeds him scraps when I am not looking. He gets ideas. Dogs get ideas faster than wives.”

“Dogs are simple,” Marcus said. “They know who feeds them.”

“Exactly,” Trevain said, delighted. “Exactly.” He sat opposite and crossed one ankle over a knee, very pleased with his own angle. “Now, your timber proposal. The road through the east copse, you will keep my hunters’ path clear.”

“We will cut around it,” Marcus said. “I drew the survey to miss your markers by thirty paces.”

Trevain nodded, approving the forethought. “And payment, schedule as we planned. If we sign after dinner, you start within the week.”

“Within the week,” Marcus confirmed.

“Wife,” Trevain called again, although she had gone. “She must be counting spoons one at a time. You married men know how it is, you ask for a fork, they give you a ramble about polish.” He grinned at Candy’s settee like it might applaud.

Candy sipped water. “Your spaniel is very handsome,” she said to the air.

“He is!” Trevain said, pleased to talk about something he owned. “He likes the cold. Hunts birds for sport in his sleep. His paws twitch.” He waggled fingers to demonstrate.

“Adorable,” Candy said, and let the word fall like a safe cushion over a spike.

“Do you cook?” Trevain asked suddenly, still looking at Marcus.

Candy turned her head to him, then back to Marcus before she remembered the rule, and answered, small and neat. “I am learning, my lord.”

“Good,” Trevain said, magnanimous. “You can burn a stew under supervision. It builds character.”

Marcus thought to himself, "Burn a stew, the toast, salads-"

"I am grateful for experience," Candy said quietly.

“See there,” Trevain said, pleased again. “She minds.”

The servant reappeared, murmured to Lady Trevain in the doorway, and withdrew. She stepped in fully, shoulders squared for another round. “My lord, the pie needs plating. Would you mind if I borrow Mrs. Elwood’s hands for a few minutes?”

Trevain waved a brandy-slicked hand as if allocating a tool. “Take her, teach her to carry without spilling. No knives.” He looked at Marcus. “Big knives make inexperienced wives nervous.”

“Big knives make most people nervous,” Marcus said pleasantly.

Lady Trevain’s eyes met Candy’s. There was gratitude there, and something like an apology for existing. “If you would,” she said.

“Of course,” Candy said, rising with care. “I will carry whatever you like.”

“Plates, gravy boat, perhaps the bread,” Lady Trevain said, already half-turned. “You are kind.”

“She is trained,” Trevain said to the ceiling, as if this proved a theory. “You see. Family men make better partners.”

Marcus stood as Candy passed him. He gave her a quick shoulder pat, nothing grand, just a shared steadying. Her pleasant face held, but her eyes gave him the tiniest look that said, I am fine, do not fuss.

“In the kitchen,” Lady Trevain said softly, too low for Trevain, “we can talk like women.”

Candy let out a breath she had been holding for twenty minutes. “Lead on.”

They left the parlor together, the servant closing the door behind them with a polite click. Trevain reached for his brandy again, already leaning toward his next opinion.

“Now then,” he said to Marcus, “about the east copse and the right to cull. We will do this properly. Bring me the map.”

_________________

The kitchen ran like a clock, if a clock could whisper instead of tick. Pans breathed, the oven clicked, and a pot of soup kept bubbling over every few minutes. Lady Trevain moved through it all with quick, precise steps, the apron looking more like armor than clothing.

“Thank you,” she said as the servant swung the door behind them. “Plates first. Then bread. Then I will reconsider the soup three times but serve it anyway,” she joked.

Candy smirked at that. “I can carry,” Candy said. “I can pour, fetch, nod on cue.”

Lady Trevain’s mouth almost smiled, then took it back. “Perfect. I am Sophie, by the way, in here. Out there I am my lord’s wife.”

“Candy,” Candy said. “In here and out there.”

“Lucky,” Sophie said, and set a stack of warmed plates into Candy’s hands. “Table for four. Two men, two women. Men first.”

Candy took the plates and laid them out, careful and quick. When she returned, Sophie was ladling soup into shallow bowls, tasting with a wooden spoon like someone trying to remember why this had ever been her favorite recipe.

“It is fine,” Candy said.

“It is adequate,” Sophie said, which in Paddlewick might be a love letter. “He prefers adequate. Adequate is less threatening.”

Candy folded napkins into simple triangles. “Your parlor is lovely.”

“The parlor is his,” Sophie said. “My kitchen is also his, but he forgets and lets me run it, all the while thinking he does.” She glanced up, a brief spark. “Small mercies.”

“Small mercies,” Candy echoed.

Sophie set the ladle down and rubbed at a red line across her wrist, the mark left by too many hot pans and a life of being told to mind the heat. “If he jokes about training dogs in front of you,” she said, voice pitched low, “I am sorry you had to hear it.”

“I have heard worse,” Candy said softly. “And I am sorry you had to live it.”

Sophie did not answer that. She turned to the spice shelf, took down a faded tin, and shook a whisper of nutmeg over each bowl. The shelf held other jars with tidy labels in a careful hand, the small tools of a woman who measured because some man was always weighing her.

Candy’s eyes caught on one jar pushed a touch to the back. Fleetleaf Powder, written in neat letters. She had heard kitchen gossip about it at market stalls. It has almost no flavor of its own. What it did was bring out the flavor of different dishes. A meaty dish had the umami sense heightened, for example. The smell was faint, the color green and lemonish, impossible to place in most dishes. The downside? Too much sent you running for the privy, and it was rather hard to tell how much would be too much.

Sophie followed Candy’s glance and gave a tiny head shake, not now, not that. Then the mantel clock pealed a small, insistent note from the parlor. Sophie winced.

“I have to tell them to sit,” she said. “Can you carry the soup to the pass and wait for me. Do not serve until I return.”

“Of course.”

Sophie wiped her hands, smoothed her apron like someone resetting herself to neutral, and slipped out through the swing door. Candy heard her voice go bright and formal in the next room. “My lord, Mr. Elwood, dinner is set.”

Candy stood alone for a breath, the kitchen hum filling the space Sophie had left. She looked at the bowls. She looked at the shelf. She thought of the spaniel on the rug and the way Sophie’s smile never quite reached her eyes.

This is petty, she told herself. This is also proportional. A man who brags about training people like dogs deserves to sprint once in his life.

She lifted the fleetleaf tin. It was light in her hand, the way dangerous things often were. She palmed it, moved to one bowl, the one Sophie had set nearest the silver-rimmed charger, the place where a lord would sit by reflex. A whisper fell from the tin, not a heap, not a storm, just enough that an attentive stomach would notice later and schedule a meeting with regret. The scent vanished into steam.

The swing door creaked. Candy slid the tin back, straightened a spoon, and lifted the tray. Sophie came in with her parlor voice still on her face and her kitchen voice muttering underneath.

“The men have been seated. The spaniel has been relocated out of the dining area.” She exhaled. “Soup?”

Candy handed her two bowls and took the other two. “Ready.”

They moved like a practiced team who had only just met, through the door, around the chairs, down with the bowls as if setting down burdens they no longer intended to carry. Trevain thanked no one, as expected. Marcus caught Candy’s eye, the question inside it small and stichari. She gave him the slightest shrug, I'm fine.

Back in the kitchen, Sophie let the door swing shut and leaned against it for a heartbeat, eyes closed, just long enough to take one private breath. Then she stood again.

“Bread,” she said.

“Bread,” Candy echoed, and reached for the basket.

Sophie paused with the knife over a loaf. “If I asked you why you looked at fleetleaf,” she said, not looking up, “would you tell me the truth?”

Candy met that careful, tired profile and weighed what could be shared. “I considered improving the evening.”

Sophie made a sound that was not quite a laugh and not quite a sob. “Then I will wait and see if it improves. Serve the bread.”

“Yes, Sophie.”

They carried the basket out together, faces polite, hands steady. Behind them, the kitchen sat quiet, the fleetleaf tin back on its shelf, no wiser than any of them.

Trevain took the carving knife himself, laid claim to the roast, and made the first slice with ceremonial gravity. No one else so much as touched a fork. The women stood by their husbands, hands folded, eyes lowered. Only once the platters were set and Trevain declared the meal in order did he nod for them to sit. Candy curtsied then took her seat as Marcus had prepped her to do on the drive over. She adjusted her hairpin, smiled the tiny smile Marcus had drilled into her, and lowered herself into her chair. If Trevain had been less preoccupied with his own sense of self-importance, he might have noticed the rage in Candy’s eyes at needing permission just to sit and eat.

The soup settled kindly, the roast even kinder. Lady Trevain’s hands knew their business, whatever her husband thought. Conversation drifted around hunts and hedges, slipped into tariffs, tried to drown in brandy, then bobbed up again with a fresh skim of Trevain’s opinions.

“Women talk too much,” he announced at one point, pleased with the sound of his own voice.

Candy set down the bread basket. “I try not to,” she said, measured and mild, forcing her nerves to stay calm.

“Ha,” Trevain said, as if she had proven a theorem. “Exactly. You have to try”

Marcus steered the talk to timber and rights of way, to the path through the east copse and the need to keep the hunters happy. Trevain held forth with a fork in his hand, gesturing like a general. The spaniel snored under the sideboard, ignorant of theory.

When the plates cleared, the servant brought coffee and a cut-glass bowl of sugared plums meant to hint at dessert. Marcus eased a leather folio from his satchel and set it on the table between the cups.

“If it suits, my lord,” he said, pleasant as a mantel clock, “we can review the pages now.”

Trevain glanced at the folio, then at the dining door, where the faintest scent of cinnamon drifted in. “After dessert,” he said. “Never sign on before dessert.”

“Of course,” Marcus said, and left the folio in easy reach.

The servant returned with a pie glossy as a lake at dusk. Slices were served, compliments were offered, and Trevain took a generous forkful like a man proving a point about plenty. He chewed, nodded at his own hospitality, lifted the fork again, then paused. Something under his waistcoat muttered.

He stared, shifted in his chair, tucked at his cuff. The spaniel from the other room opened one eye, then closed it again. Trevain tried another bite, slower this time, as if negotiating with fate. The mutter became a brief, stern knock.

“Ah,” he said lightly, face growing careful. “I have just recalled, I am due at the Magic Mirror for a quick exchange with a steward. Imports. Dreadfully dull. One hates to keep commerce waiting!”

Marcus slid the folio half an inch closer. “Before you go, my lord, the signature would spare me a second trip tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes,” Trevain said, already half rising. “The deal is yours. Family men, steady hands, all that.” He took the pen, signed with a flourish that sagged at the end, and dotted something as if a dot might solve the broader problem. “I will see you next week on site.”

“Grateful,” Marcus said, genuinely pleased.

Trevain handed the pen to the servant like the hilt of a sword, turned to the door, then to the wrong door, then to the correct door, then to the corridor at a pace that suggested both dignity and speed. “Wife, show them out,” drifted back from somewhere near the stairs, followed by the sound of a man remembering which hallway in his own house led to salvation.

Lady Trevain appeared almost at once, composed as ever, the tiniest lift at one corner of her mouth like someone had just told her a joke she intended to forget. “Thank you for dining with us. My lord is, regrettably, detained.”

“Commerce waits for no man,” Marcus said.

“So I am told,” she replied, voice smooth as fresh icing. “Your folio.”

He took it, papers signed and still damp in places where ink had not decided who it wanted to be. Lady Trevain walked them to the door herself. At the threshold she touched Candy’s elbow for a breath, not a squeeze, not a plea, only a small scribari moment between women.

“Safe roads,” she said.

“And quiet evenings,” Candy said back, just as soft.

The servant settled Candy’s cloak, returned Marcus’s hat, and the night took them without fuss.

The mare found her pace. Lantern light made a small island on the road, and everything beyond it a sea of darkness. They rode a while in the easy clatter of hooves and wheels.

“Candy,” Marcus said at last.

“Yes, husband?”

“Did you…”

“Did I what?”

“Do something?”

“Whatever could that be?”

He watched the ears of the mare swivel, as if the horse might answer for her. “You are being coy.”

“Am I?”

“You are, and you do it badly when you're proud of yourself.”

She considered that and did not contest it. “I do not believe I did anything that could be proven. And the paperwork got signed.”

“It did.” He let out a breath that had been sitting under his ribs since the brandy.

“Are you going to make this into a thing?” she asked, light as steam. “Discipline me for unspecified mischief?”

He shook his head, not taking his eyes off the ruts. “Clevendale has a phrase. No harm, no foul. We got what we came for. Just, don't do it again, whatever it was.”

She looked out at the hedges that had learned to live with winter. “No promises,” she said, and the smile in her voice lit the night more than the lantern did.

He huffed, the sound that lived somewhere between a laugh and surrender. “Tea when we get home.”

“Tea,” she said. “And maybe toast.”

“For my nerves.”

“For your victory,” she corrected. The mare carried them on, the little carriage light bobbing, the signed pages safe between them, the night stretching out behind them. Then, finally, she asked, "Hey, how about I drive for a bit?" He shrugged and handed her the reins.

"Lead on."

Late that night, as Lady Trevain finished cleaning the kitchen, she nudged the fleetleaf tin one inch deeper on the shelf and allowed herself a small, private smile. She smoothed her apron and snuffed the lamp.