The Alpha's Unclaimed Mate novel Chapter 422

Chapter 422: Roof. Immediate. Write That Down.

DRAKENFELL — EASTMOOR ORPHANAGE

The orphanage was worse than Bellatrix had anticipated, and Bellatrix had anticipated it would be dreadful.

The building was stone. The stone was grey. The grey was the specific shade of grey that communicated institutional despair, the shade that governments selected when the budget for morale had been reallocated to a different department and the different department was also grey. The windows were small, smeared, and carrying the accumulated grime of a facility that had been underfunded since its founding and had accepted the underfunding the way old buildings accept rain.

Bellatrix stood at the entrance. Onyx was on her hip, dressed in his midnight tuxedo with gold accents, his scales freshly oiled, his gold eyes surveying the building.

Avalon was walking beside Petra, his blue-silver scales catching the light, wearing a matching charcoal waistcoat that Matthis had produced in under three hours after Bellatrix had announced that bringing one dressed dragon and one undressed dragon to a public event was "optically unbalanced." Avalon’s waistcoat had silver thread accents to complement his scales, because Bellatrix’s aesthetic standards applied to all dragons in her custody regardless of whether the custody was legal.

Petra was beside her, carrying the supply crate. The supply crate contained embroidered blankets, scented candles, a case of Nightspire reserve, monogrammed handkerchiefs, dried meats, and a porcelain dish for Onyx. Petra had also packed bread, basic linens, and practical clothing, because Petra understood orphans in the way Bellatrix understood orphans, which was to say: one of them had done research and the other had guessed.

"Petra."

"Your Grace."

"This building is an atrocity."

"It has been in operation for twenty-two years, Your Grace."

"It has been offensive for twenty-two years and nobody intervened. The walls are the color of despair. The door hinges are rusted. There is moss growing on the eastern face, Petra. Moss. As if the building has surrendered to nature and nature has accepted the surrender with a smirk."

She entered.

The interior was worse. Wooden furniture that had been repaired so many times it was more patch than original. Floors that had been scrubbed to a shine that only emphasized the cracks between the boards. A fireplace that was working but barely.

A woman appeared from the back corridor. She had been running a facility for two decades on determination and a budget that would embarrass a street vendor.

"Your Majesty. We received word of your visit this morning. I am Matron Helda. We are honored—"

"Matron, when was this roof last inspected?"

Helda blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"The roof. I can see water damage on the ceiling in two locations from where I am standing, which means there are additional locations I cannot see, which means the structural integrity of your upper level is compromised and the children sleeping beneath it are sleeping beneath a problem. When was it last inspected?"

"Three years ago, Your Majesty. The funds for—"

"Petra, write that down. Roof. Immediate." Bellatrix was already walking, her scan of the facility operating at top speed.

She had managed Drakenfell’s household accounts for thirty years and could identify a maintenance deficit from across a room the way other people identified faces. "The eastern wall has moisture penetration. The windows need resealing. The fireplace flue is partially blocked, which is why the room smells like smoke instead of warmth. And these curtains, Matron."

She stopped. Looked at the curtains. The curtains looked back with the tired defiance of fabric that had been hanging for fifteen years and had stopped trying.

"These curtains are a crime against textile."

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify