A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 73: A Week in the Country

Chapter 73: A Week in the Country

The rain persisted in the morning. The kind that made the windows sweat and the stones slick, that soaked into wool cloaks and sent the house-elves muttering about mildew wards.

Anastasia sat up slowly, the silk sheets whispering against her bare skin. Her limbs ached—not from sleep, but from the lingering tension of restraint. Although she'd gotten alarmingly skilled at dissociation, the night still clung to her in places: in the ache in her neck, in the press of memory on her lips.

She rose and sat at the writing desk by the tall window. The rain made everything outside blur, trees bowed under the weight of it, the stone wall that lined the southern edge of the estate sinking further into its own shadow.

Tom had left early. He hadn't kissed her goodbye, but he had touched her wrist lightly as he slipped from the bed, murmuring something about an urgent meeting with Bartemius Crouch and a newly summoned division head from the International Confederation. He hadn't sounded annoyed. Only tired. And before leaving, he'd mentioned that her afternoon was spoken for—a fitting had been arranged at two o'clock for the wedding of her cousin, Eurydice.

Anastasia exhaled slowly and turned her attention back to the diary before her. The leather cover had been spelled to repel spills and spills of worse. A gift from Regulus, last year. He'd scrawled Keep pretending you're organised on the inside flap in elegant, crooked cursive. She ran her fingers over the words, then opened to the week ahead. Her quill paused above a Wednesday that was glaringly empty.

She tapped the quill twice against the page, thinking.

Dinner with Regulus.

But where?

Grimmauld Place was an option, but barely. Returning there would mean facing Walburga and Orion, which defeated the purpose entirely. She wasn't interested in another gauntlet of faux-affection and glass-clinked platitudes. And bringing Regulus here—into the manor—was out of the question. It was too dangerous. Too visible. Too easily misinterpreted. One wrong glance from Tom, one offhand remark overheard, and Regulus would be a liability she couldn't protect.

She crossed out Grimmauld with a firm line and stared at the parchment.

Lucius, then.

If he and Narcissa were free that evening, she could suggest Malfoy Manor—safer, more neutral. Lucius had a sense of occasion, and Narcissa would smooth over whatever tensions emerged. Regulus might even relax. Or at least pretend to.

She dipped the quill again and began two quick letters: one to Lucius, the other to Regulus. Simple, polite inquiries.

Darlings,

Would you be free Wednesday evening for dinner? I thought a quiet setting might suit us—perhaps the Malfoy manor, if Narcissa doesn't mind hosting for us. Let me know what suits. I'd rather not go to Grimmauld.

—A.G.

She set them aside for the owl.

The rain ticked softly against the glass.

Her eyes drifted back to the schedule. This afternoon, fittings. Tuesday morning, a visit to the South Wing—she suspected one of the lesser libraries there held the second volume of Marchand's theories. Thursday, an engagement party for one of Tom's senior allies, though she hadn't been told who yet. Friday—empty. For now. Saturday—

Eurydice's wedding.

Anastasia closed her eyes.

The wedding season had opened early this year, as if matrimony might function like protective enchantments. As if ancient names stitched together could offer defence against the world unraveling outside. There were whispers of new marriages being arranged weekly—bargains made in ivory parlours, signed not in ink but in bloodlines. Girls were being spoken for before their wands were registered, their futures sealed behind lockets and laced corsets.