CH933 · Rewrite
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Chapter 933: The King’s Orders

Earl Quinn froze — and did not notice the wine glass slip from his hand until he heard it strike the floor.

Two names arrived in the same instant: one belonging to a woman who had spent more than half his life beside him, who had loved someone and, when that person was taken away, had turned inward and never come back out. The other name belonged to the one who was lost. Ten years, and the girl before him had grown taller, had grown into her face — but the resemblance was undeniable, and it had nearly made him speak the wrong name aloud.

“Father, do you know her?” Hawn’s voice brought him back.

Horford rose slowly from his chair. “Are you… Andrea?”

“What?” Hawn turned, staring between them. “Is she — the one who—”

“Master, it’s Miss Andrea!” The old butler’s composure broke entirely. “I couldn’t be mistaken. She has all of Madame’s features.”

“It seems you remember me.” Andrea’s expression gave nothing away. “Then our negotiation should be simpler.”

Horford felt the ground shift beneath him, quietly.

The fact that his daughter had awakened as a witch had been kept from everyone — from his wife Fenancy, from the extended family, from every associate and servant who might have spread it further than he could contain. When Andrea’s maid had brought him the news, he had had the maid drowned and the death made to look like an accident. He had done it himself, in his own mind, as a clean and necessary decision: better for Andrea to hate him and live than to remain in this house under that secret.

Now she was here. Now the thorn of it pressed in from a new angle.

But there were more urgent questions — why the City of Glow, why now, and what she had meant by I don’t think so — and these mattered more than the accounting of old wounds. He pushed everything inward.

He looked at Hawn. “Go out.”

“Father—”

“Do as I say.”

Hawn went, reluctantly, pulling the door behind him.

Horford turned to the butler. “Don’t raise any alarm. Close the courtyard gates and darken the hall. If the government’s watchmen ask, say I’m drafting documents and am not to be disturbed.” He paused. “And Miss Andrea’s companions — take them to the ballroom. See to them properly.”

“At once, Master. But—” The butler touched his head, uncertain. “What friends are these, exactly?”

“Take them.” He glanced once at Andrea. “I’ll ask.”

The door closed. The study went quiet. They faced each other across the distance of a decade.

The earl broke first. “Even if you closely resemble my daughter, I can’t confirm it on appearance alone. She was sixteen when she left. Ten years changes a face.” He steadied his voice. “Is there some other way to establish who you are?”

He already knew. He had known from the moment she stepped through the door. No ability to alter one’s face could alter the thing that lay under it — the manner, the bearing, the precise quality of stillness she held herself in. She was the Flower of Glow made ten years older.

But the question needed asking.

Andrea opened her hands.

A bow of magic power formed in her palms — a longbow, glittering, that contracted and shifted as he watched, resolving into a precise, familiar shape. A beginner’s longbow, small and plain. A birthday gift he had commissioned when his daughter was eight, when she had insisted she wanted to learn to shoot.

It had been destroyed with the carriage. He had never described it to anyone, because he himself could not have accurately described it.

“It’s you,” he said. The breath went out of him. “Why come back? I sent you away so you could live.”

“Was that the only reason?” She let the bow dissolve. “Or were you also afraid of what outsiders would say — that the Prime Minister’s daughter had fallen to the demons? I didn’t feel protected. It felt like abandonment. There’s no safe place for a witch. If I hadn’t had the luck to find others who shared my situation, I would have died in some ditch years ago.” Her voice was level. Controlled.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. She was not wrong, and he could not build an argument on a lie. At the time, the calculation had been simple: if Andrea’s nature became known, the Quinn family would face a choice no family should be forced to make. Better that he make it alone. The cost of that choice was standing before him now.

“But I’m not here to dig up the past.” Her tone shifted — firmer, purposeful. “You must be wondering how I entered your residence. The guards should not have let me through, and they certainly didn’t do so willingly.” She looked around the room, then at the door. “The boy who called you father — is he your heir? When did I acquire a brother?”

“He came from a branch.” The words were quiet. “Your mother died a year after you left. The Quinn family needed a successor.”

The statement landed in the room and lay there.

Something moved across Andrea’s face — not grief exactly, but its shadow, brief and quickly mastered. Silence held for a moment.

“Whatever else,” she said at last, “the family head cannot change right now. His Majesty requires you to hold your position and not retreat. In the current situation, he will deal only with Earl Quinn of the three families — no proxy, no substitute.”

Horford frowned. “Whose Majesty? What do you mean—”

“Who else.” She took a breath and said it plainly, one word after another. “His Majesty Roland Wimbledon, King of Graycastle. I’ve come here under his orders.”

She let that settle for a moment.

“My lord,” she said. “How do you feel about becoming the new King of Dawn?”

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