Chapter 17: So It Was You
Bamboo Grove, Wen Hall Gardens
A stray sunbeam pierced the bamboo canopy, glinting off the butter knife clutched in Anthony Garcia's chubby fist. The boy crouched behind a mossy boulder, his ivory robes smeared with plum jam as he smeared stolen pastries onto leaves like a squirrel preparing for winter.
"Sweet summer child," came Ella's voice from above, "when you play dead to skip etiquette lessons, perhaps don't wear white."
Anthony jerked upright, pastry flakes snowing from his hair. "Lady Ella! I'm... uh... conducting vital botany research!" He brandished a jam-smeared leaf. "Proof that peony tarts make excellent fertilizer!"
Ella arched a brow. "Your tutors must weep into their inkstones daily."
Before Anthony could retort, bamboo rustled. Ethan Davis emerged like a storm cloud in human form, his dagger tapping a rhythm against his thigh. "Ah, the imperial court's most illustrious botanist. Shouldn't you be lecturing weeds on treason?"
Anthony froze mid-bite, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk's.
Ethan crouched, tilting his dagger under Ella's chin. "Curious hobby for a cloistered rose – tutoring princelings in coded nursery rhymes." His blade caught the light between them like a silver smile. "What poison are you feeding Shadow Realm's heir, Lady Smith?"
Ella didn't flinch. "Sunflower seeds and sarcasm, Commander. Care to sample the menu?"
Anthony swallowed audibly. "She just told me foxes shouldn't weep over dead rabbits!""And rabbits shouldn't nibble royal pastries," Ethan countered, plucking the jam knife from the boy's grip. "Though perhaps that lesson requires repetition." He sniffed the blade. "Ah, bayberry jam. The Shadow Court's favorite."
Ella's laugh startled a nesting sparrow. "If feeding sticky-fingered princes were treason, we'd all hang before tea time."
Ethan's eyes narrowed. "You knew."
"Knew?" She plucked a bamboo leaf, tracing its edge. "That your 'grievously ill' Shadow Prince frequents our gardens for dessert raids? Or that his guards take three minutes seventeen seconds to circle this grove?"
The dagger stilled. "Precisely three minutes seventeen?"
"A lady counts footsteps like others count embroidery stitches." Ella met his gaze. "Tell me, Commander – when you reported Anthony's 'illness' to your generals last night... did their relief reek of arsenic or ambition?"
Anthony paled. "I don't like this game anymore."
Ethan's grip tightened on his dagger. "The cooked dogs proverb – you taught him."
"Taught?" Ella scoffed. "Children mirror what they overhear. Yours just has a flair for culinary metaphors." She leaned closer, her whisper curling like smoke. "But do inform Lord Garcia his son prefers honey dumplings to falconry. The kitchens have stocked extra."
Ethan's throat bobbed. This close, she could see the scar beneath his collar – the one she'd watched Hunnic arrows carve in another life. "Why?"
"Self-preservation." Ella tucked the bamboo leaf into his breastplate. "Even weeds thrive when storms ravage mighty oaks."
As she turned, Ethan's blade flashed – not to strike, but to catch her sleeve. "You evade like a court dancer, my lady. But every dance ends."
"Indeed." Her smile cut sharper than his steel. "Keep counting: three... two..."
Boots pounded through bamboo. Shadow guards spilled into the clearing, their leader panting.
"Young Highness! Your father bids you—"
"Right on cue." Ella curtsied. "Do mind the peony thorns, gentlemen. They bite."
As the guards dragged a jam-smeared Anthony away, Ethan caught her wrist. "Who are you?"
"Spite incarnate," she purred, slipping free. "Or perhaps just a woman who loathes poor table manners."
The wind shifted, scattering bamboo leaves between them like fractured secrets.