Deception

Estaria paused at the inn’s threshold, his voice rough. “I’ll be back in the morning to help with arrangements.” Sara nodded, and he stepped into the cooling evening air.

The walk home stretched before him, a path he’d traveled countless times. The setting sun cast long shadows across Appledale’s streets, and despite his best efforts, his gaze drew inevitably to the blackened ruins of the Blush house. His chest tightened as the memory crashed over him.

Angel’s body had been so light in his arms, her skin cold despite the inferno around them. The doll she’d died trying to save was clutched in her rigid fingers, its once-pretty dress now charred beyond recognition. His tears had fallen onto her still face as he’d howled his grief to the uncaring sky.

Estaria squared his shoulders, forcing air into his lungs. Crying wouldn’t bring Angel back. Crying wouldn’t explain why his mother had watched him rush off to the fire with such calculated calm. Crying wouldn’t reveal what his father knew about Jeremiah’s descent into madness.

The Valens estate loomed ahead, windows glowing with warm lamplight. Such a peaceful scene. How many secrets lay behind those welcoming walls? He’d learned at his mother’s knee how to navigate social expectations, and now those lessons served a different purpose.

Inside, he let his shoulders slump, let his steps drag. He didn’t need to fake the exhaustion - that was real enough. His mother looked up from her needlework as he entered the sitting room.

“You’ve returned,” Klindon said, her voice carefully modulated to show appropriate concern. “The girls are settled?”

“As well as can be expected.” Estaria’s voice cracked - also not feigned. “Sara’s with them at the inn.”

Klindon set aside her work, studying him with those measuring eyes. “You should rest, dear. It’s been a trying few days.”

Had she caught something in his tone? Some hint that her perfectly grieving son might be harboring suspicions? If so, she gave no sign, her face a masterwork of maternal concern.

“Yes, mother.” He crossed to kiss her cheek - expected, proper, the motion of a dutiful son. Her skin was cool against his lips.

His father’s study door was closed, lamplight showing beneath. Estaria paused, considering, then continued up to his room. Direct questions would yield nothing but carefully constructed answers. His mother had taught him that, too, though perhaps not intentionally.

In his bedroom, Estaria lay atop his covers, fully dressed, staring at the familiar ceiling. How many nights had he spent here, dreaming of Angel? Now those same rafters watched him plot against his own parents. The irony might have made him laugh, if everything didn’t hurt so much.

His mother’s methods were subtle, her manipulations intricate. She’d been weaving her webs since before he was born, each strand carefully placed, each connection precisely arranged. He’d need to be equally careful in unraveling them.

Voices drifted up from below - his parents, speaking too softly to make out words. Estaria closed his eyes, remembering countless dinner conversations, casual mentions of the Blush family’s troubles, his mother’s delicate suggestions about spending time with Angel. Had every interaction been calculated? Every seemingly innocent question part of a larger design?

The night deepened around him, but sleep remained distant. In the quiet darkness, Estaria began to sort through years of memories, examining each one for hidden meanings, searching for the first threads of his mother’s web. Somewhere in that tangle lay the truth about Angel’s death. He just had to find it.

Estaria’s eyes burned as morning light filtered through his window. He’d barely slept, his mind churning through memories until exhaustion finally claimed him in the early hours. Each recalled moment felt tainted now, viewed through the lens of suspicion.

He pushed himself up, muscles protesting from lying tensely all night. The floor boards creaked beneath his feet as he crossed to his washbasin. The cool water did little to ease the redness around his eyes, but it helped clear his thoughts.

Dressing with careful attention to detail - his mother always noticed such things - Estaria arranged his features into a mask of weary grief. It wasn’t difficult; the pain was real enough. The act was in hiding the anger that simmered beneath.

Downstairs, the familiar scent of fresh bread and coffee filled the air. His mother sat at the dining table, perfectly composed despite the early hour. She looked up as he entered, her dark eyes assessing.

“Good morning, dear,” Klindon said, pouring him a cup of coffee. “Did you sleep?”

“Some,” Estaria replied, accepting the cup. The ceramic felt warm against his cold fingers. “Thank you.”

Burl entered, nodding to his son before taking his usual seat. “Sara sent word. She’s meeting with Magistrate Collins this morning about the estate.”

Estaria stared into his coffee. “The girls shouldn’t be alone today. I thought I’d take them around town, let people offer their condolences.” He glanced up, careful to keep his expression appropriately somber. “It might help them feel less isolated.”

“How thoughtful,” Klindon said, buttering a slice of bread. “Though I wonder if it might be too much, too soon?”

“They need to face it sometime,” Estaria said, remembering Clara’s accusing eyes. “Better with someone who…” He let his voice crack slightly. “Who understands.”

His mother reached across the table to pat his hand. “Of course, dear. You’ve always had such a good heart.”

Estaria forced himself to squeeze her fingers in return, though the touch made his skin crawl. How many times had those same hands guided events from the shadows?

After breakfast, he walked through Appledale’s awakening streets. Shop owners swept their storefronts, farmers headed to their fields, all carefully avoiding the scorched remnants of the Blush house. A few offered quiet nods as he passed, their eyes full of pity.

The inn’s common room was quiet when he arrived. Sara looked up from a stack of papers, her face drawn with fatigue.

“The girls are just finishing breakfast,” she said. “Clara’s still…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

“I know,” Estaria said. “I thought we might visit some people today. Let them say their pieces.”

Sara nodded slowly. “Might be good for them. Better than sitting here stewing.”

Beth appeared first, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. Clara followed, jaw set in that stubborn line that reminded him so much of Angel when he had done something dumb. Neither spoke as they left the inn.

They started at the baker’s, where Mrs. Thimbleton fussed over the girls and pressed fresh rolls into their hands. Between sympathetic clucks, she mentioned how the Valens had always been good customers, especially after old Mr. Blush’s troubles began.

At the cooper’s shop, Master Willis spoke of barrel orders that had suddenly dried up, leaving Jeremiah without work. “Strange timing,” he mused, “right when your father was expanding his orchards.”

Each stop revealed another thread, another connection. The seamstress who’d lost Jeremiah’s business after a “misunderstanding” with Klindon. The carpenter who’d been warned away from hiring him. Small things, seemingly unrelated, but forming a pattern that made Estaria’s stomach churn.

Clara watched him with growing awareness as the morning wore on. She might be young, but she wasn’t blind to the undercurrent in people’s careful words. Beth simply clung to his hand, accepting the constant flow of condolences with quiet grace.

By midday, Estaria’s suspicions had solidified into certainty. His mother’s web was vast, each strand carefully placed to guide events toward some predetermined end. But why? What could be worth Angel’s life?

The answers weren’t in these sympathetic faces or careful whispers. They lay behind his mother’s measured smiles and his father’s silent compliance. Somewhere in that house of secrets, he would find the truth.

For now, though, he had two grieving girls to protect. He bought them meat pies from the tavern, and they ate in the shade of an old oak tree, far from prying eyes and whispered stories. Clara picked at her food, shooting him occasional glances that held more questions than accusations now.

“We should head back,” he said finally, brushing crumbs from his lap. “Sara will be wondering where we are.”

Beth nodded, but Clara caught his sleeve. “You didn’t know either, did you?” she asked quietly. “About any of it?”

Estaria met her gaze steadily. “No,” he said. “But I’m going to find out.”

Estaria rubbed his tired eyes as Sara spread another document across the inn’s wooden table. The afternoon sun streamed through dusty windows, casting long shadows over the seemingly endless stack of papers.

“This one’s about the orchard ownership,” Sara explained, her finger tracing along the dense text. Clara leaned forward, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Since your father… since he’s gone, we need to establish who makes decisions about the trees.”

Beth had fallen asleep in her chair, her head resting against Estaria’s arm. He didn’t move, letting her find what comfort she could.

“But they’re our trees,” Clara said, her voice small but determined. “We helped plant them.”

Sara nodded patiently. “Yes, but there are loans to consider. When someone borrows money, they sometimes use their property as…” She paused, searching for simpler words.

“As a promise,” Estaria supplied quietly. “Like when you borrow Beth’s doll, you promise to give it back. Your father promised the trees as a way to guarantee he’d pay back the money he borrowed.”

Clara’s eyes narrowed. “Who did he borrow from?”

Estaria’s heart quickened as Sara shuffled through the papers. He’d been watching for hours, waiting for this moment. His father’s elegant signature appeared on document after document, but always hidden beneath layers of other names, other arrangements.

“Here,” Sara said, pointing to a column of numbers. “These are the amounts, and these are the dates they were borrowed.”

Clara squinted at the page. “I can’t read all the words.”

“That’s why we’re going through them together,” Sara assured her. “I won’t sign anything you don’t understand. I’m your legal guardian now, but this is YOUR home.”

Estaria shifted carefully, trying not to wake Beth as he leaned closer to the document. His eyes scanned the text, recognizing his father’s preferred contract structure. The same careful wording Burl had taught him during countless lessons in his study.

“This section,” he said, indicating a particularly dense paragraph, “explains what happens if the loans can’t be paid back.”

Sara shot him a grateful look. “Exactly. And since your father…” She swallowed hard. “Since he’s no longer here, we need to decide how to handle that.”

Clara’s small hand reached out, touching the signatures at the bottom. “Why are there so many names?”

“Sometimes people sell loans to other people,” Estaria explained, his throat tight as he recognized another familiar pattern. “Like trading.”

He’d seen it before - his father’s preferred method of acquiring property. Buy the loans, wait for default, then claim the collateral. Clean, legal, and nearly impossible to trace back directly.

“But who owns them now?” Clara pressed.

Sara rifled through more papers, comparing dates and numbers. Estaria already knew what she’d find. The web of transactions would be complex, deliberately obscured through multiple transfers and arrangements.

Beth stirred against his arm, mumbling something in her sleep. Estaria gentled her back to rest, grateful for the distraction from his churning thoughts.

The afternoon crawled by, filled with explanations and questions. Sara’s patience never wavered as she walked Clara through each decision, each signature. Estaria helped translate the legal language into terms a child could grasp, all while watching the evidence of his family’s manipulation emerge piece by piece.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Sara finally said, noting Clara’s glazed expression. “We can review the rest tomorrow when you’re fresh.”

Clara nodded, pushing away from the table. She’d signed three documents, each one carefully explained and discussed until she truly understood its meaning. Sara’s insistence on clarity would have made the process much shorter if she’d been willing to simply tell Clara where to sign.

“Thank you for helping,” Sara said to Estaria as she gathered the papers. “Your knowledge of contracts has been invaluable.”

“Of course,” he replied, gently waking Beth. “I’ll come back tomorrow, if you’d like.”

Sara nodded, her eyes knowing. “I’m sure there will be more questions.”

Beth yawned and stretched, looking around in confusion. “Did I miss anything?”

“Just boring grown-up talk,” Clara told her sister, taking her hand. “Come on, I’m hungry.”

As Sara led the girls toward the inn’s kitchen, Estaria remained at the table, staring at the scattered documents. His father’s influence was there, hidden beneath layers of careful misdirection, but present nonetheless. Tomorrow would bring more evidence, more connections.

The question wasn’t whether his parents were involved - that much was clear. The question was why they’d pushed Jeremiah so far, knowing what it might cost. What had been worth Angel’s life?

He gathered his coat, his movements mechanical. Tomorrow would bring more answers, more pieces to this terrible puzzle. For now, he needed to return home and maintain his grieving facade. His mother would be watching, measuring his reactions, looking for any sign that he suspected the truth.

The setting sun painted Appledale’s streets in shades of amber as Estaria left the inn. Another day gone, another stack of documents revealing the careful destruction of the Blush family’s livelihood. He walked home slowly, his mind full of numbers and names, each one a strand in his mother’s web.

Estaria stepped into his home, shoulders deliberately slumped with exhaustion. The scent of roasted meat and herbs filled the air - his mother’s special recipe. His stomach clenched, but he couldn’t tell if it was from hunger or anxiety.

“Welcome home, dear,” Klindon called from the kitchen. She appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. “How are the girls?”

“They’re…” He let his voice catch slightly, then cleared his throat. “Sara’s been amazing. She went through every document with Clara today, explaining everything so carefully.” He moved to the wash basin, focusing on scrubbing his hands to hide any telling expressions. “Clara’s so strong, Mother. She asks such careful questions.”

Klindon hummed sympathetically, returning to her cooking. “That’s good. Children need structure at times like these. Please, sit. Dinner’s nearly ready.”

The table was set with their best dishes - the ones reserved for harvest festivals and important guests. Estaria settled into his usual chair, noting the extra care taken with the presentation. His father joined them, nodding silently as he took his seat.

The meal was elaborate: roasted duck with cherry sauce, glazed root vegetables, fresh bread still warm from the oven. His mother had outdone herself. Was this meant to be comforting? Or was there another message hidden in the extravagance?

Estaria picked at his food, taking small bites between appropriate pauses to stare distantly at nothing. He’d eaten perhaps half his portion when he pushed his plate away, hoping it matched the appetite of someone lost in grief.

“You should try to eat more,” his mother said, her concern perfectly pitched. “You need to keep up your strength.”

“I know. It’s just…” He gestured vaguely, letting the words trail off.

His gaze drifted past her to his father’s study door. It stood open, revealing the familiar desk where Burl spent his evenings with the ledgers. A memory surfaced: himself at seven or eight, standing on tiptoe beside that desk while his father attempted to explain the columns of numbers.

“These tell the story of our business,” Burl had said, pointing to the neat rows of figures. “Each one has meaning, if you know how to read them.”

He’d been too young then, more interested in playing than learning. But now…

The legs of his chair scraped against the floor as he stood abruptly, the sound yanking him back to the present. His mother’s eyes tracked the movement, assessment hidden behind maternal worry.

“I think I’ll turn in early,” he said, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Thank you for dinner, Mother. It was…” He swallowed hard, as if fighting emotion. “It was wonderful.”

Klindon rose to embrace him, and Estaria accepted the hug without stiffening. “Of course, dear. Sleep well.”

He climbed the stairs to his room, mind fixed on those ledgers. The story of their business - and quite possibly, the story of Angel’s death - lay written in his father’s precise handwriting. He just needed to learn how to read it.