Madame Cronac's hands trembled as she pulled Hannah into the carriage without explanation.
"I bought something at the salon," she said brightly, locking the door. "Come with me quickly."
Before Hannah could protest, Madame Cronac called to the driver. "To Salon Arvo!"
The carriage lurched forward.
Madame Cronac felt cold sweat trace her spine. *Too many eyes at the theater. I can't reveal myself there.*
"Madame... Aunt Leonie?" Hannah's voice was tentative, confused.
"You recognize me," Madame Cronac whispered.
Even her own daughter hadn't. She'd dreamed for years of the moment Claudel would see her face and cry "Mother," rushing into her arms. But Claudel had merely startled, her reaction—though understandable—cutting deeper than any blade.
*How could she recognize a face so disfigured?*
Every mirror showed her the truth. But she told herself, *I am still her mother. She must remember.*
When Claudel's eyes had shown no recognition, Madame Cronac had swallowed her despair. At least Claudel had been gracious enough to apologize for her shock.
Hannah, however, had recognized her immediately.
"How?" Hannah asked, wonder and confusion mingling in her voice. "Claudel didn't—"
"Your smile is the same as before," Hannah said gently. "I would always recognize you."
Madame Cronac's heart fractured.
They arrived at the salon. In the privacy of Madame Cronac's private chambers, she finally spoke.
"The village of Plogne," she began. "Do you remember?"
Hannah's expression shifted—joy, sadness, loss flickering across her features all at once.
"I tried to see Claudel," Madame Cronac continued quietly. "As soon as my burns healed enough to travel, I went to Castle Valmonde."
"You went to the castle?"
"The Duke of Vermont turned me away." Madame Cronac's voice remained steady, though her hands shook. "He said he couldn't acknowledge that I was married to Evan. How could his niece, with her golden eyes and Vermont blood, be my daughter? Without proof of marriage, he couldn't accept my claim."
Hannah's fists clenched. A curse seemed to escape her lips.
"But you..." Hannah gestured to Madame Cronac's carefully composed appearance. "You became Salon Arvo's owner. How?"
"Survival," Madame Cronac replied simply. "And help from those who understood what I'd lost."
She studied her niece—no longer the pigtailed girl who'd begged for extra cookies, but a composed young woman who'd clearly glimpsed darker truths. At only twenty, Hannah carried herself like someone who'd seen the world's cruelty.
"They renamed you, didn't they?" Madame Cronac asked.
"Hannah Pebble." Hannah's tone was matter-of-fact. "The Duke said a princess's maid couldn't be a commoner. They gave me to a vassal family—though I never met them. I existed only as Claudel's companion."
"You sacrificed so much for her."
"I would do it again," Hannah said fiercely. "Claudel needed me. After your death, she couldn't sleep alone. She'd cry that she couldn't remember your face. The castle nobles began calling her mad."
Madame Cronac's breath caught. *She forgot me.*
"I threatened to report anyone who spoke that way," Hannah continued. "That's why I was allowed to stay with her. She needs someone beside her at night to sleep."
*Needed.* Past tense.
"Is she still having trouble sleeping?" Madame Cronac asked carefully.
Hannah shook her head. "The Duke of Temnes comes to her every night. He really cares for her. He visits several times daily just to see her."
Madame Cronac absorbed this. Her daughter—the girl who'd lost her mother and suffered insomnia, who'd been called mad and rejected by her own family—had found someone who cared enough to be present every single night.
"Go to her," Hannah urged. "Tell her you're alive. She'll be so happy."
But Madame Cronac grabbed the hem of her dress. "No."
"Why?" Hannah's voice rose. "You're her mother. She has the right to know—"
"She's the Duchess of Temnes now," Madame Cronac said quietly. "Her marriage was political—Vermont and Temnes, sanctioned by the King himself. Legally, she's registered as the Duke of Vermont's biological daughter."
"So what? That doesn't—"
"It's complicated." Madame Cronac's voice was hollow. "If it became known that her mother was alive, it could create problems. Political problems. Legal problems. The King's involvement makes it even more delicate."
Hannah's eyes filled with tears. "So you're saying she shouldn't even know? That's cruel. That's—"
"I know." Madame Cronac felt something hot build in her chest—all the longing, all the grief, all the years of separation threatening to burst free. "I know it's cruel."
She wanted to speak, to pour out everything. She wanted to hold her daughter, to cry and let go of the resentment masquerading as longing.
"If I tell her," Madame Cronac said slowly, "will she remember me?"
"Of course," Hannah whispered.
Madame Cronac closed her eyes. Her head warred with her heart—duty against desperate need.
Finally, she nodded. "Yes. I'll find an opportunity to speak with her. But you must keep this secret until then. You understand?"
"I do."
Madame Cronac pulled Hannah into a tight embrace. "It's so good to see you again."
"Aunt Leonie," Hannah murmured, holding her just as fiercely.
For a moment, at least, they were no longer separated by loss.
---
## At the Opera House
The conversation with Baron Colon, his obstinate butler, replayed in Kaian's mind.
*"Isn't it because you don't date?"*
*"Date?"*
*"You only see your wife in the bedroom. What do people usually do while dating? Various activities. Spending time together helps people know each other."*
Kaian had dismissed the suggestion as absurd. But standing in the dimly lit theater with Claudel beside him, he found himself questioning that dismissal.
The capital's winter chill required her to wear a quilted top and a puffed-back skirt, with a small hat securing her braided hair. Even in the theater's dim light, she seemed to glow.
Her eyes kept meeting his, concern evident in their golden depths, as if she worried he was uncomfortable.
"Why are you looking at me?" she finally asked softly.
Kaian turned away, perplexed by his own behavior. He'd come to this opera reluctantly, following his butler's insistence that nobles "spend time together" outside the bedroom.
He hadn't expected it to matter.
But watching Claudel's fascination with the performance, her small reactions, the way she occasionally gripped his arm during dramatic moments—it felt significant in ways he couldn't quite articulate.
Perhaps there was something to this "dating" concept after all.
---