---
Marin blinked rapidly and stared at Olive.
"Um, h-here—there seems to be a mistake." Her finger trembled as she pointed at the compensation clause. "This number. One gold coin. That can't be right."
*Please don't let it be a mistake. Please, please, please—*
"There's no mistake," Olive assured her gently.
"Did I..." Mortification flooded her cheeks with heat. "Did I just say that last part out loud?"
She slapped her free hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.
"I beg your pardon?" Olive tilted his head, genuine confusion crossing his features.
Marin forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. "Nothing! Nothing at all. Just—confirming—the salary really is one gold coin? Per week?"
"Yes, that's correct." Olive's expression remained perfectly pleasant, as though discussing obscene amounts of money was an everyday occurrence for him. "You fall into a special category of employee, Miss Marin."
"Special category?"
"Precisely. Within the duchy's household, certain positions are classified as specialized due to their unique requirements or the particular skills they demand. Such positions command higher compensation than standard roles. We've set your pay at a level comparable to what other specialized employees received when they first entered service."
The explanation flowed from him with such warmth and sincerity that his face seemed to glow with kindness.
"Specialized positions..." Marin repeated the words softly, her mind spinning.
Names flickered through her memory—characters from the novel, individuals who served the Duke in unconventional capacities. The spy embedded in the eastern territories, gathering intelligence on rival houses. Kay, the shadow who moved unseen and unheard, serving as the Duke's blade in darkness. Surenne, the master blacksmith whose weapons were legendary. Zero, the enigmatic alchemist whose concoctions defied conventional understanding.
*I'm being categorized alongside them?*
The thought was simultaneously flattering and terrifying.
"Now, if you'd like to take your time reviewing the document—"
"I sign here, yes?"
Marin's finger jabbed at the signature line with such force that Olive actually flinched.
"I—yes, but perhaps you should read through the entire contract first?" His concern was palpable. "It's important to understand all the terms and conditions before committing yourself—"
"I read it. All of it. Very thoroughly." The lies tumbled from her lips with practiced ease. "I'm ready to sign. I want to sign. *Now*, if possible."
One gold coin per week.
Four gold coins per month.
Enough to pay rent, buy medicine, purchase actual *food* instead of watery broth made from scraps. Enough to stop the constant gnawing fear that had become her companion over the past year.
The power of that single gold coin eclipsed every other consideration.
"Very well." Olive's expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced she'd read anything beyond the compensation clause, but he didn't press the matter. "The position is temporary for now, but if you perform well, you'll have the opportunity to transition to permanent status. I'm certain you'll do wonderfully."
His tone carried genuine encouragement, as though he genuinely believed she might find the temporary nature disappointing.
"Yes! I'll do my absolute best!"
Marin injected as much enthusiasm into her voice as she could muster, though truthfully, the word "temporary" barely registered as a concern.
She hadn't dared dream of a permanent position. Her goals were far more modest: work in the Duke's household until the novel's true heroine arrived. When the female lead finally appeared and healed the Duke's sight—as destined by the plot—the need for someone to read documents aloud would naturally evaporate.
Besides, protagonists attracted danger the way honey attracted flies. The Duke and his future beloved would undoubtedly find themselves embroiled in dramatic conflicts, life-threatening situations, and epic confrontations. Marin had no desire to be anywhere near such chaos when it inevitably unfolded.
Her dreams were simpler. Quieter. A peaceful life with her mother, far from the machinations of the nobility. No adventures, no intrigue, no monsters or conspiracies.
Just... peace.
Her gaze drifted back to that magical number on the contract.
*One gold coin per week.*
If she saved carefully—hoarded every copper she didn't absolutely need—she could accumulate enough to support herself and her mother for years. When Roenna recovered her health, they could move to a small town somewhere pleasant. Rent a modest cottage with a garden. Marin could find work in a shop or perhaps as a scribe. Simple, honest employment that didn't require lying about her identity or walking on eggshells around powerful nobles.
She could plant flowers in the garden. Grow vegetables. Her mother could sit in the sunshine and drink mulled wine in the evenings. They could be *happy*.
The vision was so vivid, so achingly desirable, that Marin felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes.
She blinked them away and signed her name with a flourish.
---
Marin practically floated home, her arms laden with treasures.
The book about monsters nestled against her chest, its leather binding warm from the afternoon sun. But far more precious was the wicker basket Olive had pressed into her hands before she left—a *picnic basket*, packed full of food from the ducal kitchens.
"His Grace's orders," Olive had explained, his eyes twinkling with poorly concealed amusement. "You're to eat properly. Consider this your first assignment."
The basket was heavy. Wonderfully, gloriously heavy.
Marin burst through the cottage door without bothering to knock, too excited to remember her manners.
"Mother! I'm home!"
She kicked the door shut behind her and hurried toward her mother's room, the basket swinging from her arm. Both hands were full, the book tucked under one elbow, making her entrance rather graceless.
Roenna sat propped against the headboard, her attention focused on something beyond the window. The late afternoon light painted her profile in shades of gold and grey—highlighting the elegant bone structure that illness and worry had made too prominent.
"Marin."
Her mother turned slowly, a faint smile ghosting across her lips. Even that small expression seemed to cost her considerable effort.
"I'm back, Mama." Guilt pricked at Marin's conscience. "I'm sorry I couldn't read to you today like I promised."
"It's quite all right, darling." Roenna's voice was barely above a whisper. "Don't trouble yourself."
Marin's eyes flicked toward the bedside table.
The soup she'd prepared that morning sat exactly where she'd left it, untouched and cold. Not a single spoonful missing. The sight made her heart clench, but she schooled her features into careful neutrality and turned her attention to the basket instead.
"Mother, look what I've brought!"
She set the basket on the bed with perhaps more enthusiasm than necessary, then threw back the cloth covering its contents with a theatrical flourish.
The treasures within revealed themselves one by one: a whole roasted chicken, still faintly warm, its skin golden and glistening. Delicate sandwiches filled with strawberry jam that gleamed like rubies. Thick slices of ham and cheese between crusty bread. Banana muffins that released sweet, comforting aromas. And cookies—chocolate chip cookies, studded with chunks of rich, dark chocolate.
Marin began arranging the food across the bed like precious artifacts, handling each item with reverence.
Roenna didn't squeal with delight as Marin had half-hoped. Instead, all color drained from her face, leaving her looking even more ghostly than before.
"What... what is all this?"
Fear sharpened her voice—not joy, but terror.
*She thinks I stole it. Or worse.*
Marin selected the largest chocolate chip cookie, its surface cratered with melted chocolate, and placed it gently into her mother's thin palm.
"It's been so long since you've had chocolate, hasn't it?" She kept her voice deliberately light. "You used to love these cookies."
Roenna stared at the cookie for a long moment, her expression unreadable. When she finally spoke, her voice had softened.
"You loved them more."
"Did I?" Marin scratched the back of her head, feigning sheepishness. "I suppose I did."
"Marin..."
Her mother's gaze lifted from the cookie, and what Marin saw in those eyes made her stomach twist. Sadness. Worry. And beneath it all, a bone-deep weariness that had nothing to do with physical illness.
"Where did all this come from?" The question emerged quietly, but with steel beneath the gentleness. "You're not... you haven't gone back to *those* people, have you?"
"No! Absolutely not, Mama." Marin shook her head vehemently. "I promise you, I'll never have anything to do with those vile nobles again."
She'd worked briefly for a family who had claimed friendship with her father—before the bankruptcy, before the fall. What had happened during that employment was something neither she nor her mother spoke of directly, but the experience had left scars that went deeper than bruises.
When Roenna had finally learned the full extent of what Marin had endured, her condition had deteriorated sharply. The guilt—the knowledge that her illness had forced her daughter into such circumstances—had nearly broken her entirely.
"..."
Roenna waited in silence, her expression making clear that pleasant explanations were expected.
"Please don't worry, Mama. Just listen calmly."
"Those words frighten me more than silence would."
No point in delaying further. Marin drew a deep breath and plunged ahead.
"I've been hired by the Duke's household. This food—" she gestured at the spread "—was given to me to celebrate my employment. They told me to take it home and share it with my family."
Roenna's eyes went wide.
"The Duke's household? You don't mean... the Duke of *Vines*?"
"Yes." Marin couldn't quite suppress the note of pride creeping into her voice. "That's exactly who I mean."
*"The Vines protect the West."*
The old saying was more than mere words in this territory. The ducal family had defended these lands for generations, standing between the people and the monsters that emerged from the wilderness. Every child grew up hearing stories of the Duke's valor, the family's sacrifices, their unwavering dedication to duty.
In the West, the name Vines commanded absolute respect.
"Oh, my dear girl!" Color flooded back into Roenna's cheeks—the first genuine flush Marin had seen in months. "What wonderful news! If it's Duke Vines, then of course you'll be safe. Of *course* we can trust him. The Grand Duke himself!"
Her mother's transformation was startling. Joy animated features that had been slack with despair moments ago. Her hands clasped together as though in prayer.
"Exactly, Mama!" Marin seized the momentum, injecting deliberate confidence into her words. "This is the *ducal* family we're talking about. So please don't worry about me anymore. Just focus on getting well. I've signed an employment contract. I'll earn good money, and we'll live happily. I promise you."
She forced brightness into every syllable, painting a picture of certainty she didn't entirely feel.
"Oh, thank God. Thank you, Lord, thank you!"
Roenna's hands flew to cover her mouth, her eyes glistening with tears. She whispered prayers to a deity she'd stopped addressing after her husband and son died—prayers of gratitude, of relief, of desperate hope.
"But, Mama..." Marin hesitated, then pressed forward. "There's something I need to confess."
"Go on, darling."
"I told them I was common-born."
The words hung in the air between them.
Roenna's expression shuttered slightly, worry creeping back into her eyes. "You... must have had your reasons?"
"If I'd revealed I was a viscount's daughter—even a disgraced one—I wouldn't have been hired." Marin spoke quickly, anxious to explain before her mother could spiral into concern. "Too many noblewomen have tried to get close to the Duke with ulterior motives. Schemes and plots and romantic ambitions. I'd have been lumped in with them immediately and dismissed out of hand."
"Ah." Understanding dawned on Roenna's face. "Yes, I see."
"If I'd told the truth, they would have assumed I was just another fortune hunter. Or worse."
The Duke's unmarried status had become something of a problem over the years. Noblewomen threw themselves at him with increasing desperation, employing tactics that ranged from embarrassing to outright dangerous. One particularly bold lady had allegedly bribed her way into his private chambers in the dead of night, hoping to compromise him into marriage.
After that incident, the Duke's avoidance of women had become absolute.
Of course, Marin knew the *real* reason he remained unwed: he simply hadn't encountered the novel's heroine yet. Once that fated meeting occurred, everything would change.
"Still..." Roenna's brow furrowed. "Deceiving the ducal family. It worries me, Marin. If they were to discover the truth—"
"Don't worry yourself into knots over it." Marin rushed to reassure her. "As soon as I've earned enough for us to live comfortably, I'll leave. Before there's any chance of discovery. I promise."
"Very well." Roenna studied her daughter's face for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "You're a clever girl. I trust your judgment."
Something in her mother's trust—in that simple declaration of faith—made Marin's nose prickle with threatening tears. She turned away quickly, pushing to her feet before emotion could overwhelm her.
"I already ate plenty at the castle," she announced, too brightly. "So this is all for you, Mama. Be sure to chew thoroughly. I'll fetch you some warm water."
"Thank you, darling."
The worry had melted from Roenna's face, replaced by cautious contentment. She reached for a banana muffin with an expression approaching happiness—genuine pleasure at such a simple luxury.
Marin escaped to the kitchen before the tears could fall.
She found the battered kettle and filled it from their water barrel, her hands moving through familiar motions while her mind spun.
*Even just a single muffin makes her so happy.*
The observation struck her with the force of revelation. Her mother—once accustomed to fine wines and elaborate meals, to comfort and plenty—now found joy in a piece of sweetbread. The contrast was almost unbearable.
*This is why I need money. This is why I can't fail.*
Marin hung the kettle over the kitchen's small fireplace, watching flames lick around its base. She leaned against the wall, letting its solid presence ground her.
"When I receive my first salary," she whispered to the empty room, "I'll buy a bottle of wine. The good kind Mama used to drink before bed."
Mulled wine had been one of Roenna's small pleasures before their world collapsed. Every evening, she would warm a cup with cinnamon and cloves, sipping it slowly while reading or embroidering. Such a tiny luxury. Such an impossible expense now.
*But not for much longer.*
The water in the kettle began to simmer.
"Six months," Marin murmured, making a covenant with herself. "I need to hold this position for at least six months. Even though it's temporary, I'll find a way to stay. I'll make myself indispensable. I'll do whatever it takes."
Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
"I *can* handle this. I *will* handle this."
The kettle started to whistle, steam rising in delicate spirals toward the soot-stained ceiling.
Marin pushed away from the wall and set about preparing her mother's water, her resolve hardening with each small movement.
*Whatever it takes.*
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