Margaux de Montvieux was not in a charitable mood.
He was ushered into the hall by her thin-lipped châtelain, that man’s gaze barely flickering in recognition. He was not offered even the courtesy of his cloak being removed, Moonshadow was left wet in the stables, and Burke did not doubt his mother’s anger.
Indeed, her eyes snapped like jewels. She sat in her great wooden chair, its arms carved in the shape of snarling griffins, her hands braced upon the knob of the cane she needed to walk in these days. Her hair had silvered completely since he last saw her, every vestige of ebony gone. But there still was a force of will that emanated from his mother, and ’twas one with the impact of a buttressed wall.
“You will ensure that my steed is brushed and dried,” Burke informed the châtelain.
