Page 38 of At the Mercy of Midnight
Silas carefully guided his horse up the street, hoofbeats clopping on the stones and reverberating around them. “What exactly does that explain?”
Amelia gestured vaguely at their surroundings. “Your excessive layering of coats. The occasional brooding. The way you sometimes look as though contemplating the meaning of life and death simultaneously.”
Silas scoffed at her assessment. “Lunarian is cold, but practical. It’s well fortified, unlike your beloved coastal cities, where everything is about aesthetics over function.”
Amelia sent him a surprised look. “Well, perish the thought that a place is actually pleasant to live in.” She scanned the icy streets, watching people bustle between buildings wrapped in heavy cloaks, faces half-hidden behind scarfs. Arcane crystals flared with golden light inside sconces, their glow trying desperately to pierce the thick mist.
Silas exhaled a breath that misted in the air. “Lunarian isn’t exactly meant to be pleasant,” he said, crestfallen by her words, “it’s meant to endure.”
Amelia eyed him. “Again. Explains so much.”
Silas ignored her.
Ahead, the road sloped towards the upper district, where the wealthiest families resided. There, overlooking the city like a sentinel, stood the Finley Estate, and Silas’ childhood home.
The entrance was marked by tall, ornate gates, the crest of the Finley family emblazoned upon them. Beyond the gates, the Estate loomed. A grand, imposing home of pale stone, its multitude of windows with black accents, glinted like shards of ice in the weak sunlight.
Not just a home, a fortress.
Amelia scrutinised the Finley crest on the iron gates, an ouroboros of a snake swallowing its own tail, encircling a single midnight star.
She let out a low whistle and cast him a humoured look. “Subtle,” she observed dryly.
Silas shrugged. “It’s just a crest.”
“It’s a statement,” she remarked, breath visible in the cold air. Amelia leaned closer to study the design. “What does it mean? We are rich, cold and have no fun?”
Silas sighed. “It represents the balance of knowledge and power. The endless pursuit of understanding.”
Amelia snorted. “I should have known your family motto would be something pretentious.”
He gave her a flat stare. “And what would your family crest be? A disorganised stack of books topped by a cold, weak cup of tea?”
“Bold of you to assume my family even has a crest.”
He raised a brow, unsure whether she was joking. All prominent families in Aethrial had a crest. Amelia’s parents practically owned the University in Ivory City.
They passed quietly through the creaking gates, tugging their horses with them.
The courtyard was lined with frostbitten hedges, a frozen fountain at its centre, standing like a forgotten relic of warmer times. Smartly dressed attendants were already approaching to take their horses.
Amelia handed her horse over with a smile before facing Silas. “What have you told your mother about me? I don’t expect a warm welcome, but should I expect a dramatic confrontation?” She trailed her gaze over the ivory walls warily. “A disarmingly stoic butler? Sibling locked in the attic?”
Silas rubbed at his temples. He should have set some expectations, possibly warned her. Procrastination was not often his enemy, but in this case, he had let it win.
“Veralind—my mother is…difficult,” he said slowly, “but she’s the only one who might have the answers we need.”
Amelia’s face pinched with bewilderment.
Silas gestured for the steps of the Estate. She paused, as though considering if she wanted to ask more. Thankfully, she relented, and walked with him to the doors. He had a feeling this visit was going to exhaust him more than the past few days.
That was saying something.
Silas led Amelia into his home, the interior as imposing as the exterior. The vast halls were made of the same pale stone as the rest of the city, but it was offset by towering, dark wooden shelving and wrought-iron chandeliers that cast its light across polished flooring. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of charring meat wafting from the kitchens below.
The entrance hall opened into the atrium, where a spiral staircase made of marble and black railing curled upwards. The walls were adorned by portraits of his stern-faced ancestors, their light, sharp eyes watching them both silently.
Amelia shivered slightly as she surveyed the portraits and the cold, clinical surroundings. “Your family sure did commit to the whole ‘intellectual dynasty’ deal, didn’t they?”
