Chapter 189: On our side
Trevor’s private dining room was a world away from the tension they’d just left, a narrow, quiet space at the far end of the east wing, with shelves of old ledgers along the walls and a single lamp throwing a golden pool over the table. No flowers, no candelabras, no preening relatives, just plates already laid out by the staff, steam rising from simple dishes that smelled of rosemary and garlic.
Lucas dropped into his chair like he’d been shot and immediately reached for the bread. "I think I survived a firing squad."
Trevor shed his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair, rolling up his sleeves as he sat. His voice was quieter here, stripped of performance and venom. "You did better than survive."
"Is that your way of saying I didn’t stab anyone?" Lucas tore the bread in half, tore it again, and stuffed a piece in his mouth before Trevor could answer.
Trevor smirked faintly. "Not stabbing anyone was... appreciated." He spooned stew onto Lucas’s plate, ignoring the protest in his own head about appearances. "Eat. You’ve been running on sugar and terror all day."
Lucas let out a long sigh, the kind that shed layers of armor in its wake. "I can still feel Cressida’s hand on my shoulder every time I blink. Posture corrections are trauma, Trevor."
Trevor laughed quietly, shaking his head as he picked up his own fork. "You’ll thank her when you terrify an entire ballroom just by standing straight."
They ate in silence for a few minutes, comfortable silence, punctuated only by the clink of cutlery and the occasional soft curse from Lucas when the bread was too hot.
Then the door opened, and Windstone stepped in, not with his usual silent glide but with a heaviness in his shoulders that Trevor noticed instantly. He closed the door behind him, hands folded neatly, but his eyes, pale green and sharper than his age suggested, lingered on Trevor a moment too long.
"Your Grace," Windstone said, his tone formal, but there was something underneath it. "A brief report, if you’ll allow."