---
"Miss Marin."
She hadn't noticed how much time had slipped away.
Buried in documents, her world had narrowed to ink and parchment—requisition forms, tax assessments, correspondence requiring responses. When Olive's voice broke through, Marin raised her head with the dazed expression of someone surfacing from deep water.
"Yes?"
He set a cup of steaming tea on her desk, followed by a plate bearing a generous slice of golden cheesecake. The dessert gleamed in the afternoon light, its surface smooth as silk.
"What's this for?"
Marin stared at the offering, then at Olive, confusion evident in her tired eyes.
"I believe it's time we begin."
"Begin what?"
"Fulfilling His Grace's orders."
Olive's gaze drifted meaningfully to her wrist.
*The wrist inspection. He means the wrist.*
Marin felt a flicker of indignation. The circle the Duke had formed with his fingers only seemed large because his hands were enormous. Her wrist was simply... *slightly* slender. Perfectly normal for someone of her frame.
"I'm not *that* thin—"
The protest died on her lips.
Olive was looking at her with such undisguised pity that the words evaporated. It was the expression one might give a stray cat caught in the rain—sympathetic, concerned, and faintly heartbroken.
*Oh.*
*I really have lost that much weight.*
Marin considered her reflection in the tea's dark surface. When had she last looked in a mirror? Truly looked, rather than simply checking that her hair was presentable?
*Apparently long enough to become pitiful without realizing it.*
"Please, eat." Olive's gentle tone brooked no argument. "When you've finished this, I'll bring more."
"I couldn't possibly eat that much—"
"Starting today, you will eat more." The warmth in his eyes gave way to something steelier. "Consider it a standing order."
Marin remembered, suddenly, that this kind-faced man was the Duke's most devoted follower. The novel had described him as someone who would walk through fire without hesitation if his master commanded it. She'd been treating him as simply a pleasant superior—a mistake, clearly.
If the Duke had ordered her fed, Olive would ensure she gained weight even if he had to spoon-feed her himself.
"...Fine."
*What choice does a subordinate have?*
She cut a small piece of cheesecake and lifted it to her lips.
The flavor bloomed across her tongue like a revelation. Rich cream cheese, smooth and slightly tangy, balanced by sweetness that didn't overwhelm. The texture was impossibly light—dense enough to satisfy, delicate enough to melt. She followed it with a sip of tea, perfectly brewed, its warmth spreading through her chest.
For a moment, she was transported.
*This is what life used to taste like.*
The memory struck without warning: lazy afternoons in her family's parlor, cheesecake served on porcelain plates, her mother laughing at something her father said. A time when treats like this were ordinary. Expected. Taken entirely for granted.
Her throat tightened.
Olive watched her carefully, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly before his expression smoothed.
"Olive..." Marin hesitated, embarrassment heating her cheeks. "I know this is presumptuous, especially after you gave me food to take home last time, but... might I bring some of this cheesecake to my mother? She would enjoy it so much."
*I'm asking for charity again. How pathetic I've become.*
"I'll inform the kitchen." Olive's smile softened with genuine warmth. "They'll prepare a portion for you each day."
"Thank you. Truly."
She ducked her head, focusing on the remaining cake to hide the moisture gathering in her eyes.
*Knock-knock.*
The sound came from the office door.
"The butler," Olive announced, recognizing the knock pattern. "Enter."
The man who stepped inside seemed carved from different stone than the elegant nobles Marin had encountered. Grey-haired and grey-bearded, with the weathered features of someone who'd spent decades outdoors, he wore his formal butler's uniform like armor rather than livery. Despite his age, his shoulders remained broad enough to fill the doorframe, his posture military-straight.
"Mr. Assistant." He bowed—precisely correct, not a degree more or less than protocol demanded.
"Welcome back, Butler Sebas." Olive rose to greet him with evident pleasure. "How was the wedding? Your grandson married at last—you must be overwhelmed with emotion."
*Sebas.*
The name triggered recognition. Marin's eyes widened as memories from the novel surfaced. Former second-in-command of the knightly order. Legendary warrior. One of the Duke's most trusted retainers, mentioned multiple times as a pillar of the household.
She'd liked this character when reading about him. Seeing him in person, she understood why—he radiated competence and quiet strength.
"Yes, indeed. Time moves faster than we'd like." A ghost of fondness softened Sebas's stern features. "It seems only yesterday I was teaching him to hold a wooden sword."
"What brings you to the office today?"
"I wish to express my gratitude to His Grace personally." Sebas's gaze flickered briefly to Marin—assessing, cataloguing—before returning to Olive. "I hoped to inquire whether such a meeting might be possible."
*He's asking permission. Even the butler can't simply approach the Duke.*
The realization illuminated the castle's power structure in stark relief. Access to the Duke flowed through Olive alone. Everyone else—regardless of rank or seniority—required his approval.
"Ah, I see." Olive's expression turned apologetic. "I'm afraid today isn't suitable."
Sebas nodded, disappointment flickering across his features before discipline reasserted itself.
"I understand. Another time, then."
"Before you go—" Olive gestured toward Marin, pride evident in his voice. "Allow me to introduce Miss Marin, my new assistant. She'll be assisting me with administrative duties and reading reports to His Grace."
Marin rose quickly, executing a proper bow.
"It's an honor to meet you. Please call me Marin."
"Miss Marin is handling the reports exceptionally well," Olive continued. "His Grace himself has acknowledged her skill."
Something shifted in Sebas's expression. Surprise, perhaps, or disbelief carefully contained.
"His Grace... acknowledged her?"
The unspoken question hung in the air: *That His Grace—who trusts no one, who accepts nothing new, who has become more closed and difficult with each passing month—accepted this stranger?*
"Indeed." Olive smiled serenely. "His Grace listened to her report with complete calm."
Sebas studied Marin with new intensity. Whatever he saw apparently satisfied him, because when he spoke again, his tone had warmed considerably.
"Miss Marin. If you require anything—*anything* at all—please don't hesitate to contact me directly." His eyes bore into hers with surprising fervor. "Since you're assisting His Grace, I would consider it my honor to assist you in turn."
"Thank you for your kindness."
"Even the most minor questions," he pressed. "Promise me you'll ask."
"I... yes. I promise."
She nodded awkwardly, unnerved by his intensity. In the novel, Sebas had been described as fiercely loyal. Experiencing that loyalty directed toward herself—simply because she'd managed to read reports without provoking the Duke—was unexpectedly overwhelming.
*These devoted followers. I need to be so careful around them.*
One misstep, one crack in her fabricated identity, and their loyalty would transform into something far more dangerous.
---
Night had fallen over the castle.
Olive waited in the corridor outside the Duke's study, a service cart beside him bearing warm wine, aged cheese, and a single candle. Wax dripped slowly as the flame flickered, marking time in amber drops.
"Enter."
The command came just as a droplet fell.
*He heard the wax hit the tray. From behind a closed door.*
Olive pushed the cart forward, its wheels silent against the thick carpet. The study swallowed him whole—darkness so absolute that even the candle seemed to shrink from it.
Since losing his sight, the Duke rarely left this room. He slept here. Worked here. Existed here, trapped in a prison of his own making. His actual bedchamber saw use perhaps once or twice a month, and even then only when Olive all but dragged him there.
"Your Grace, you must sleep tonight." Olive kept his voice low, barely above a whisper. "You haven't rested in days."
"You believe wine will accomplish what exhaustion cannot?"
The Duke's voice emerged from the shadows—weary, cynical, recognizing the drink by scent alone.
*Over a week without sleep. How is he still functioning?*
Concern wasn't proper for a servant to feel toward his master. Olive felt it anyway—a constant ache that never quite faded.
"Miss Marin suggested it might help." He poured carefully, setting the glass on the desk with practiced silence. "She mentioned that her mother drank warm wine before bed."
"The temporary worker?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"And where is she now?"
"Gone home for the evening."
The Duke reached for the glass. Olive noted the movement with carefully hidden surprise—usually, any suggestion regarding his health was dismissed or ignored. Yet tonight, he simply... accepted.
"Regarding Miss Marin..."
Silence. Which meant *continue*.
"I don't believe she's common-born."
Still no response. Olive pressed forward.
"She reads fluently—not merely adequately, but with obvious education. She knows that warm wine aids sleep, a remedy commoners rarely have access to. And the way she holds her teacup..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Every gesture reflects noble training. Deportment that can't be faked."
"So. A spy after all?"
Was that *amusement* in the Duke's voice? Olive couldn't quite tell.
"I'm uncertain about espionage specifically. But her background warrants investigation."
"Already done."
Olive blinked.
"Your Grace?"
"I had her investigated the day she arrived."
*Of course he did.* Olive should have expected nothing less. He waited, knowing more would follow if he remained patient.
"She's not a spy." The Duke swirled his wine, the liquid catching candlelight in brief crimson flashes. "She's the daughter of Viscount Schwentz—a family that collapsed into bankruptcy after a carriage accident claimed the father and eldest son. She cares for her invalid mother in a hovel at the base of the mountain."
Olive absorbed this information, his lips pressing into a thoughtful line.
"A ruined noblewoman. That explains her skills, but raises new questions." He set the cheese plate beside the wine, stepping back respectfully. "Is her goal simply money? Or something more... ambitious?"
"Meaning?"
"You, Your Grace." Olive chose his words with care. "Despite her family's fall, she remains noble-born. Marriage to a Duke would restore everything she's lost. Perhaps her approach—presenting herself as common, demonstrating usefulness—is simply an unconventional strategy for intimacy."
"You believe she seeks to become my wife?"
"It's the first time I've seen a noblewoman attempt such indirect methods," Olive admitted. "But desperation breeds creativity."
"Is she attractive enough for such ambitions?"
The question caught Olive off guard. He considered it seriously.
"Attractive? I would say... *cute*. Appealing in an understated way. Pretty features that don't demand attention but reward it when given." He tilted his head. "She's the type whose beauty grows on you rather than striking immediately."
"Olive."
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"Stop talking nonsense. Leave."
"Yes, Your Grace. Please try to rest."
Olive departed as quietly as he'd come, the darkness closing behind him like water.
---
Alone once more, Gerald raised the wine to his lips.
The first sip exploded across his heightened senses.
Sourness and sweetness in complex harmony. The tartness of tannins. An earthy undertone suggesting the soil where grapes had grown. A hint of iron buried deep beneath the fruit. Freshness cutting through richness. Each element distinct yet unified.
Before his injury, he'd been able to suppress such overwhelming input. Now, every taste became a symphony whether he wanted it or not.
"It's been a long time."
He hadn't allowed himself wine in months. The sensory assault had seemed not worth the pleasure.
Tonight, somehow, it was bearable.
*What a strange woman.*
His mind drifted to the girl who'd provided this suggestion. The temporary worker. The hidden noblewoman. The puzzle he couldn't quite solve.
Olive was, beneath his perpetual smile, one of the most suspicious and cautious people Gerald had ever known. He trusted almost no one, kept everyone at arm's length, and viewed newcomers as threats until proven otherwise.
Yet when speaking of Marin, his wariness had been... muted. Concern without true suspicion. Questions without accusations.
*A woman who inspires sympathy in everyone she meets.*
*Isn't that exactly what a perfect spy would be?*
Gerald turned the thought over, examining it from multiple angles.
If she *was* a spy, she was extraordinarily skilled. Skilled enough to fool Olive's instincts. Skilled enough to play the role of desperate poverty while maintaining perfect noble deportment. Skilled enough to offer help without seeming calculating.
If she *wasn't* a spy—if she was exactly what the investigation suggested, a fallen noblewoman grasping at survival—then her enemies had allowed something valuable to slip through their fingers.
Either way, she interested him.
The wine's warmth spread through his chest, loosening tension he hadn't realized he carried. His heightened senses, usually screaming with input, seemed... quieter. Calmer.
*Her mother drank this before bed.*
Such a simple remedy. Such an ordinary piece of knowledge to share.
Gerald finished the glass and reached for more.
---