Chapter 24: The Feather Vault and the Hunter’s Path
[Rynthall Estate—Mid-Morning]
The Rynthall Estate was basking in an illusion of peace.
Well... not exactly peace. Because if our dramatic baron, Lucien d’Armoire, exists within a five-mile radius, peace is nothing but a fantasy novel no one asked for.
But still, relatively peaceful—because the aforementioned baron was currently seated in the garden under a lace-draped canopy, sipping his morning tea with the blissful expression of a poet in love with a daffodil.
The birds were chirping. The tea was steaming. The chaos... was temporarily paused.
It was, as they say, too good to last.
"MYYYYYYYY LORRRRRRRRRRRRRD!!!"
Lucien choked mid-sip, spraying Earl Grey all over his cravat like a broken fountain.
A blur of black and tears came sprinting across the garden like a man possessed by theatrical spirits. It was none other than Marcel, his long-suffering butler, who ran toward him with flailing limbs and the expression of someone being chased by tax collectors.
Arms flailed. Coat tails whipped like curtains in a hurricane. His eyes glistened with tragic tears that caught the light like overly dramatic diamonds.
The maids. The gardeners. Even the swans in the pond. They all paused—too stunned to react to the spectacle of Marcel charging through the hedges like a tragic bride.