There wasn’t another major title attached to the family that Liam could bestow on Cameron. So without Eloisa granting Cameron a new title, Liam couldn’t have improved his brother’s rank. Only his wealth by granting him more land.
Cameron had definitely been startled when Eloisa had made the announcement at the wedding dinner, but Sophie hadn’t been in any mood to felicitate her husband on his elevation just then. Up until now she had forgotten it entirely, Cameron having so thoroughly distracted her.
So she was now Sophia Mackenzie, Lady Scardale. It would take some getting used to.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Cameron said. “How are you today?”
“Well enough, lad, well enough.”
“And the investigations?” Cameron looked past Lord Sylvain to the group of Illusioners examining a section of outer wall.
“Much the same. Nothing to disturb your week with your lovely wife.” He smiled at Sophie again, and she smiled back. Of all the erls, Lord Sylvain was her favorite. Maybe because he was now too old to be—or need to be—overly bothered with indulging in the posturing and status-proving that all the others seemed to find so fascinating. He was always amusing when he attended anything the queen invited him to and had been kind when he’d spoken to Sophie elsewhere. Old enough, too, not to worry so much about setting a foot wrong with a potential royal witch. Too old to be chosen as her husband and therefore able to treat her just as he would any other young lady he liked.
“What are they looking for exactly?” Sophie asked. “If you can tell me that,” she added hastily.
“Traces of whatever was used to set off the explosions, magical or otherwise.”
Sophie looked over at the Illusioners. But as she didn’t understand how their magic worked, she couldn’t hope to understand what it was they were actually doing. “The court seems convinced it was magical.”
Lord Sylvain nodded, leaning on his cane. “It is nearly certain. The fire was too hot to be purely natural.”
“But nothing has been found?”
“Not yet.” Lord Sylvain swept his hand across the vast room, at the rocks and rubble piled in heaps taller than Sophie herself. “As you can see, there is much to go through.”
He offered his arm to Sophie. “Let me steal you from your new husband a moment and I’ll show you what they are doing.” He pointed his cane at Cameron. “You can tag along if you keep quiet.”
“He’s very obedient,” Sophie said with a laugh. “He’ll keep quiet.”
Cameron pulled a face at her.
Lord Sylvain laughed. “I see your marriage is off to a good start, lad. You’ve learned your place already.” He patted Sophie’s hand, and they made their way over to one of the nearest piles of broken stone.
“Each pile is sorted and studied individually,” Lord Sylvain said.
Sophie tipped her head back, trying to judge how tall it was. It rose past Cameron’s height. How many stones did it contain? Hundreds? And there were how many piles to go through? The Illusioners would be here for weeks. Or months.
“How do you know which has been dealt with? There are so many of them,” Sophie asked.
“The archivists are keeping track. They have some sort of grid system. That part—Lord Sylvain grinned again—“is not my problem, thank the goddess. The memory isn’t always what it used to be.”
“Nonsense. You’ll outlive us all,” Sophie said.
“Not unless the Domina extends her newfound healing skills to men like me,” Lord Sylvain said. He tilted his head at her, his dark eyes suddenly far more serious.
“Are you ill, Your Grace?” Sophie asked, the thought making her feel suddenly sad.
“No more than any man my age, my dear.” He patted her arm again. “Don’t worry about me.” He tapped at the pile of rubble with his cane, and one of the smaller chunks, barely three inches across, came loose, sliding down the pile and rolling to a halt half a foot from the edge of Sophie’s skirts. A chill swept over her, and she shivered.
“What is it?” Cameron said, stepping forward.
“Stay where you are,” Lord Sylvain said, his voice cracking with authority. “Lady Scardale, don’t move. But tell me what you feel.”
“It’s just a chill,” she said. “Probably a draft.” But the icy feeling wasn’t receding as a draft would.
“I’m not so sure about that,” Lord Sylvain said. He scowled. “Move back, my dear.” He gestured at the stone with his cane. “I think the Illusioners should look at that.”
Sophie stared down at the stone. “Is it dangerous?”
“That is for them to decide. It made you feel odd. That should be enough to interest them.”
“It was just a chill,” Sophie protested.
“A chill in a room that’s stifling hot,” Lord Scardale said. “Some earth witches can sense Illvyan magics. Perhaps you’re one of them.” He herded them a little way away from the pile.
“Best you continue on with your walk for now. Someone will come to fetch you if the Illusioners need to hear more about what you felt.” Lord Sylvain peered at her a moment, then turned to Cameron. “Lord Scardale, I think you should bring your lady wife to take tea with me soon. Not today. I don’t think there will be any time today. But soon. Tomorrow if you can.”
“But what—” Cameron started to ask, but Lord Sylvain shook his head.
“Just bring her,” he said, and then he shouted across the hall for Master Egan.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN