The records room was located in the western keep, directly above the armoury. It smelled of damp parchment, mouse droppings, and old wax. To Emily, it smelled like a battlefield.
She spent her first three days in Highridge buried in the rot of Vane's administration. Gareth had not exaggerated. Vane was a towering, scarred brute of a man who looked like he could carry a draft horse on his shoulders. As a steward, he was a catastrophe.
"I don't see the issue," Vane grumbled.
He stood in the doorway, his massive frame blocking the meagre light from the corridor. He was chewing on a piece of dried venison, eyeing Emily with a mixture of suspicion and deep irritation. "We have meat. We have grain. The men eat."
Emily didn't look up. She sat wrapped in her heavy shawl, her fingers stained black with ink. She deliberately dragged her quill across a fresh sheet of parchment, drawing a sharp, straight line.
"You have meat and grain for now, Vane," she said, her voice quiet but carrying the distinct, carrying pitch of the southern nobility. "But you are haemorrhaging coin."
She rotated the ledger, pointing a slender, ink-stained finger at a column of chaotic scratches.
"The Oak Haven wool, purchased at forty copper pieces a bundle. Southern market rate is twenty-two. The salt imports. You traded prime winter pelts for rock salt at a one-to-one weight ratio. Salt is heavy. Fur is light. You gave away a fortune for seasoning. The iron shipments. Three missing wagons in the last quarter. Written off as lost in snow. Iron does not evaporate."
Vane stopped chewing. His amber eyes, a shade darker than Gareth's, narrowed. The faint, low rumble of a growl vibrated in his chest. It was an involuntary sound, the instinct of a wolf being challenged in his territory.
Emily finally looked up. She set her quill down. She did not flinch. She had grown up under the heavy hand of Lord Alden. She knew how angry men looked. A wolf was just a man with sharper teeth.
"Are you going to bite me, Vane, or are you going to help me find the missing iron?"
The growl died in the steward's throat. He blinked, clearly thrown by her utter lack of fear. Human women, in his experience, usually cried or fainted when the pack showed its teeth. Emily just looked bored.
"The iron was handled by Master Hewitt's men," Vane muttered, shifting his weight uncomfortably. "They said the wagons broke axles on the pass. Left them to rust."
"Then we will deduct the cost of the lost wagons from Master Hewitt's next payment," Emily replied smoothly, dipping her quill back into the inkwell. "And we will renegotiate the wool. You will send a rider to Oak Haven today. Tell them the King of the Northern Reaches requires their chief merchant present at Highridge before the first hard freeze, or we close the trade road."
Vane stared at her. He looked from her small, pale hands to the heavily annotated ledger. A slow, grudging respect dawned in his eyes. He didn't understand the numbers, but he understood a commanding officer when he heard one.
"Aye, my lady," Vane said. He gave a stiff, awkward bow. "I'll send the rider."
When he left, Emily exhaled a shaky breath, her shoulders dropping a fraction. Her heart was beating a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She pressed her palms flat against the cold wood of the desk to steady them.
Show no weakness, she reminded herself. Not here. Not ever.
That evening the great hall was deafening. A hunting party had returned with three massive boar, and the pack was celebrating. Ale flowed from wooden casks, and men tore at roasted meat with their bare hands.
Emily sat at the high table to Gareth's right. Her plate held a modest slice of pork and boiled root vegetables. She ate methodically, watching the room. Gareth sat beside her, radiating his usual furnace-like heat. He was drinking water, not ale. He watched his men with the sharp, calculating eyes of a general, not a king lounging at a feast.
"Vane complained about you," Gareth said suddenly.
Emily paused, her fork suspended in the air. "Did he?"
"He said you looked at him like he was a slow child who had tracked mud onto a rug." Gareth didn't look at her, but the corner of his mouth was lifted. "He also said you found the missing iron."
"It wasn't missing. It was stolen through gross negligence," Emily corrected, placing her fork down. "I have drafted a summons for the Oak Haven merchants. We are going to restructure your trade agreements. If this pack is going to survive a harsh winter, we cannot afford to be swindled."
Gareth turned his head. The torchlight caught the severe angles of his face. "Master Hewitt is a slippery bastard. He comes up here with velvet cloaks and sweet wine, and my men think him a friend. He will not easily give up his margins."
"He will give them up, or he will freeze on the wrong side of your mountains," Emily said.
Gareth held her gaze. The noise of the hall seemed to fade to a dull roar. He reached out and picked up his iron goblet, his large fingers brushing against the sleeve of her woollen dress. It was the closest he had come to touching her since she arrived.
"You are ruthless, Emily."
"I am practical," she corrected. "Ruthlessness is breaking a man's legs. Practicality is checking his ledgers so you don't have to."
Gareth let out a low, rumbling laugh. It was a good sound, rich and deeply human. Several wolves at the lower tables glanced up, surprised to hear their alpha laugh.
"Eat your meat, my queen," Gareth said, his voice dropping to a softer timbre. "You'll need your strength for the merchants."