CHAPTER 37: CHAPTER 37 - THREADS OF THE ESTATE

Morena slept hard for the first time in weeks. No slipping in and out of shallow dreams, no letters pressed against the inside of her skull—just dark, quiet rest until the gray edge of dawn pulled her up.

When she opened her eyes, the room felt softer, lighter. Her shoulder tugged when she stretched, but the pain was duller; the wound pain lessened over the night.

Heat, bath, clean linen—she took her time with all of it, re-wrapping the wounds so they lay flat under a practical black dress. She didn’t wear her armor, not today.

She wouldn’t be training today, at least not yet, for instead she had plans to settle estate matters.

Adolf was already at his desk, of course. The steward looked like someone had scraped the night off him and set him upright anyway: shirt neat, hair not quite, quill still wet with ink.

"You’re earlier than the sun."

Morena said.

"I’ve been racing it for forty years."

A dry twitch of a smile.

"It wins most mornings. What brings you to this old man, Lady?"

She set her palm on the top ledger.

"Numbers tell me what happened, even if details are lacking. But that won’t do, I want to know why. And I want it from people, not the margins."

His gaze stayed steady.

"You’ve a list in mind?"

"I do. Head maid, head cleaner, gardener, two veterans, a few younger guards, stablehand, cook, the scribe who signs night checks, and anyone else you think I should hear. And—set the captain for tomorrow, midday, in the hall. Empty the side aisles."

"As you wish, my Lady."

He didn’t ask why; he never did when the why was obvious.

By midmorning, they started coming.

Marta came first, apron crisp, hair tied back. Years in her posture, flint in her eyes. She half-bowed, half-nodded, and hovered until Morena pointed to the chair.

"Sit, please."

Marta sat, hands on her knees, not folded—ready to get up the second she was dismissed.

"You run the maids."

Morena said.

"You also keep the infirmary in check."

Marta’s mouth twitched.

"I keep people out of it more than I keep anything in it."

"Good. Tell me what’s different these last weeks."

"Different?" She snorted softly. "Everything’s thinner. People’s nerves, the supplies, and patience. And some strangers think a smile is a passkey. I’ve turned away three men who wanted to ’offer blessings,’ as if my medicine isn’t enough."

"Clerics?"

"They wore white sashes."

Marta’s mouth flattened.

"Maybe cloth makes a man holy, but the questions were nosy, not godly."

"Who took their coin?"

"Two of the new girls did. I dismissed them already. I’m not feeding the rats with our crumbs."

"You did right."

Morena leaned forward.

"If anyone else tries—clerk, priest, noble, I don’t care—take their name. Bring it to me. If anyone pressures you, same thing. Accept nothing, speaking to no one."

Marta’s gaze sharpened.

"You mean it."

"I do."

Marta nodded, stood, and hesitated.

"Milady... your father’s a stubborn man. Please do talk to him and try to get him to sleep more."

"I’ll talk to him, but you know how he is."

Morena said.

"That is enough, my Lady."

Marta’s chin tipped, as good as a smile.

"I’ll send Brann in."

Brann, the head cleaner, smelled faintly of lime and old soap. He lowered himself into the chair with a grunt and scratched at a scar on his knuckle.

"I hear you’re looking for lies, Lady. I’ve come across many while sweeping these halls."

"I’m listening."

"They’ve had my lads hauling water for ’visitors’ no one signed for." He said. "Men I don’t know, and I know everyone. They didn’t come through the front hall. They came round the east side, asked how often we scrub the chapel steps. One of ’em had ink on his sleeves and soft hands. Not priest’s hands. Clerk’s."

"I’m assuming by they, you’re referring to the Council?"

"If they weren’t, they practiced their manners off the same mirror." He shook his head. "And last market day, Old Tinner’s boy said a scribe bought him a drink to ask when our watch changes by the south tower. You know Old Tinner’s boy. He’d sell his mother for a second cup, but he’s not a liar."

Morena made a note; she would have to pay this boy a visit eventually.

"Thank you. Send in Olan."

Olan, the gardener, arrived with dirt under a nail he’d missed and an apology in his eyes because of it. He took the chair and did his best not to leave a smear on the armrest.

"Don’t worry about the wood. Tell me, what have you seen recently? I know your eyes linger all over."

"I don’t know what exactly you’re referring to, my Lady?" The man replied, hesitation in his voice as he fidgeted with his arm.

Morena narrowed her eyes and spoke again.

"Don’t worry, I’m not doubting you or anything, but recent rumors have been concerning to hear. I trust that someone like you, who has been with us for a long time, understands this?"

"Of course, I would do anything for the house."

"Then tell me what you’ve seen recently, suspicious things."

"Mostly men I don’t know staring at things people don’t usually stare at. Wells, mostly. Asked if the water runs clear year-round. If we’ve had sickness." He replied with a low bowed head, his arms constantly moving as he spoke.

"And what did you tell them?"

"I told them the truth, and I told them to drink somewhere else."

"Good." Morena paused. "Seed stores?"

"Short."

He blew out a breath, a heavy sigh. It seemed that the matter had been on his mind for a while; his stress was clear.

"Two sacks light from the east, and the driver swore on his mother’s grave they loaded full at dawn. I don’t know where the weight went between dawn and our gate, but it didn’t go into the sky."

"You think the driver is lying? Track the next three deliveries yourself." She said, giving him the authority to take charge of the tracking of the seeds so that he could find the issue, or if he was the issue, she would know.

"Count when they load, count when they arrive. If anything’s missing again, I want the names of everyone who touched the cart."

He nodded, relieved to have something to do about it.

"I’ll see to it."

Two veterans next—Hark and Dima—both solid, both were apprentice warriors who had just reached the beginning stage thanks to the family’s support.

They didn’t sit. They stood just inside and gave her the look soldiers reserve for people who might start giving orders.

"Hark, Dima. I believe you’re both veterans enough to know when a conspiracy is happening, and I’m sure you’ve picked up on bits of that around here. So tell me, who’s been whispering at you?"

Dima snorted.

"Depends which tavern we’re pretending we don’t go to."

Hark rolled his shoulder.

"Women buy drinks and ask about drills. They think we’re too drunk to notice, or too dumb to care, but it’s obviously odd."

"Any names?"

Hark gave two, Dima added one.

"Anyone take coin?" She asked.

Dima looked offended.

"Of course not."

"Good. If anyone keeps asking, send them to me. Or tell them to write their questions down and nail them to the gate."

That got the closest thing to a smile, and they both bowed.

"Aye, milady."

A younger guard—Kel—came in after, straight-backed but raw around the eyes. He sat, then popped back up, then sat again. Morena waited until he settled.

"Kel, relax."

She said, gentler.

"You were on night rota two days ago. Why was the south walk two men light?"

His mouth opened, closed.

"We were told the chapel needed a watch, milady." He said at last. "A cleric asked—he said there’d been a break-in at a neighboring house, and they feared thieves after the candlesticks. He had a seal. Looked real. The relief went, and then... they didn’t get replaced."

"Who told you the chapel needed a watch?"

He swallowed.

"Ellor brought the message."

Ellor. Morena wrote it and underlined it.

"Thank you, Kel. If you’re told to move men like that again, you come to me or Adolf, not a scribe."

"Yes, milady. Thank you."

Relief washed across his face like wind over a wheat field, then he left quickly, almost running to get out.

Shortly after he left, she met with both Ina, the cook, and Jory, the head stablehand, back to back. From both of them, she heard very similar rumors, but most of it was just probing.

It seemed like no one outright tried bribing them, at least not yet. It was just attempts to get information, move things, and test limits. It was clear that they weren’t ready to make a move, but they were gearing up for one.

The question was, what would that move be? Taking over the family? Killing her father? Maybe even her?

Ellor, the scribe, was last before noon. He came in with ink on his fingers and a careful expression, the kind of careful that tries not to show up as fear. He bowed, well enough to pass.

"Ellor."

Morena’s voice was clear and stern. The second the scribe heard it, his spine straightened.

"Your hand is on night checks that weren’t witnessed by the captain."

"Y-yes, milady." He perched on the edge of the chair. "The captain was delayed. I signed to keep the books current."

"By whose order?"

He hesitated.

"The... priest who visited said it was acceptable. He—he had a seal from the Council."

Morena let the silence stretch until it edged him.

"You understand you don’t take orders from visiting priests about our watches."

Color rose in his neck.

"Yes, milady. I... it seemed—he was very sure."

"Of course he was. That’s their work."

She leaned in slightly.

"Ellor, I don’t want a mistake to turn into a rope. If you are being leaned on—coin, threats, promises—you will bring it to me. If this happens again and you sign a thing that isn’t witnessed properly, you won’t be a scribe here anymore."

He swallowed.

"Understood."

"Good. You’ll help Adolf audit last week’s signatures today. Line by line."

Ellor nodded, grateful to be given something that sounded like a path to forgiveness, and fled. But Morena wasn’t one to forgive easily; she would use him to fix his mistake, then get rid of him when she was done.

By the time Adolf returned, Morena’s desk was a small field hospital of notes: names, times, directions, little arrows connecting this man to that scribe to that tavern to that gate. He scanned the mess with a long-suffering fondness he didn’t bother to hide.

"You’ve bled them quicker than I would have, but they’re better for it."

"They have many words they want to say. They just need an ear willing to listen."

He nodded.

"Captain will be here tomorrow at midday."

"Make sure the hall is clear, I don’t want anyone nearby to listen in."

"Already done."

They kept going. In the afternoon, she spoke with a shop clerk who managed the household tithes. She sent him to fetch the last three temple receipts for Adolf to confirm with a merchant friend who had no love for priests.

She walked the inner yard and observed the estate. As she moved, the AI notified her of detecting a nearby person. She caught a new maid listening at a corner and simply dismissed her.

"If you’re curious, ask. If you’re nosy, leave."

The girl flushed and chose to leave, which Morena quickly noted with Adolf to look into the girl.

By dusk, the shape of it settled in her mind. Not a plan she could stab, not yet—but a map of webs that were connecting to each other, forming a shape.

The Council was poking at weak points: debt, rumor, the bored pride of young guards. The church flowed around the edges, seemingly working with them.

She stood at the window of her chamber and watched the lanterns flicker on in the yard like small stars. The patrol passed—four men. Tomorrow she would meet with the captain, then visit the archive and see what she could find.

"AI."

[Listening.]

"Archive everything from today. Cross-link names to ledgers, visitor logs, and sellable tithes. Flag anything that stands out; maybe I missed something."

[Acknowledged. Correlations in progress.]

She rubbed the bridge of her nose. Her shoulder ached again, a reminder that bodies and houses both heal unevenly.