Perido's face crumpled with fear. He squeezed Daya's hand so tightly his knuckles went white and retreated behind the shield of her skirts.
"...Yes. Hello."
Daya fought to conceal her own discomfort. After a slight pause—just long enough to be noticeable—she returned the greeting.
"Hm."
Garnet, standing at her sister's shoulder, raked Marin with a sharp look before turning away with deliberate disdain.
Only Rubiena continued gazing up at Marin with open curiosity, her light green eyes unguarded.
"Then I believe we'll be going."
Daya inclined her head and began to turn away.
"Lady Adria..."
Marin's voice was cautious, careful—the kind of tone one might use to approach a wounded animal.
Daya paused mid-turn. Slowly, reluctantly, she looked back. Every line of her posture announced that she had no desire to continue this conversation.
"...Yes?"
"I also live in the outbuilding."
Daya's pale face seemed to freeze before Marin's eyes, hardening into marble.
"Yes. I've already heard from the maid."
"You won't feel uncomfortable?"
"Uncomfortable with *what*, exactly?"
Only now did Daya lift her head fully, meeting Marin's gaze with those deep green eyes—cool as forest shadows, impenetrable as stone.
"You've just arrived after a long journey. You probably want to rest in peace, but instead you have to live next to a stranger." Marin kept her voice gentle, unthreatening. "If it bothers you, I can ask the Duke—or rather, Gerald—about moving somewhere else."
Daya listened in silence, her expression utterly composed.
"No. From what I understand, you moved into the outbuilding before us. We'll do our best to remain... unobtrusive."
Her words were polite enough, but the distance in her tone was unmistakable—a wall constructed from vowels and consonants.
"Daya, let's *go* already." Garnet's voice was tight with impatience, her frown deepening.
"Very well. Goodbye, then."
"Yes. Take care."
Marin nodded encouragingly—*go ahead, it's fine*—and watched them walk away.
Rubiena, trailing behind her sisters, glanced back over her shoulder. She raised her hand in a small, secretive wave.
Marin's face brightened instantly. She waved back with equal warmth.
The moment Garnet noticed, she seized Rubiena's arm and yanked her forward—a sharp, possessive gesture that made her feelings perfectly clear.
"*Ow!* That hurts, Garnet."
"Don't wave at strangers."
"But she's not a stranger—"
"Do as I said."
Their whispered argument faded as they disappeared around the corner, leaving Marin standing alone on the path.
She smiled crookedly, but the expression held no humor.
Anxiety crept through her chest like frost spreading across glass. *Will I ever be able to befriend them?*
*I have to*, she told herself firmly. *No—I* want *to.*
These children, who had lost their parents overnight, were so painfully similar to her own past. Her heart clenched involuntarily at the recognition.
---
## — Day Two —
The next morning, Marin deliberately descended to the second floor and began wandering the corridors with no apparent purpose.
*They say attachment grows from frequent encounters*, she reasoned. *Then I'll simply make sure we cross paths as often as possible.*
She strolled slowly, her footsteps unhurried, when the central door swung open.
Garnet emerged, her face puffy with sleep, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.
"Hello—"
***BANG.***
The door slammed shut before Marin could finish the word.
*Steel defense*, she thought wryly. *Noted.*
---
## — Day Three —
By late afternoon, Marin was lingering near the outbuilding's entrance with studied casualness. Perhaps, like yesterday, the nephews would venture out for a walk.
Right on cue, all four emerged together—still draped in mourning black, moving as a single unit.
"Hello!" Marin called out brightly. "What lovely weather we're having today."
***CRACK-BOOM!***
Thunder split the sky without warning, fracturing the afternoon silence.
Marin looked up. Dark clouds were rolling in from the horizon with alarming speed, swallowing the pale winter sun.
*You have got to be joking.*
"Daya, the weather's turned *awful*. Let's go back inside." Garnet's voice carried a note of triumph as she cast a pointed glance at Marin.
"Yes. Farewell, then."
Daya nodded briefly and vanished back through the doors, her siblings following like ducklings.
Rubiena, casting a furtive glance at her older sisters' backs, waggled her fingers in another secret wave.
Marin responded quickly with a smile and a matching gesture.
But her concern only deepened as she watched them go.
Daya and Garnet's faces had grown noticeably gaunt since their arrival—cheekbones sharper, chins more pointed. And Perido, still clinging to Daya's hand, looked even worse. The boy was only six years old, yet his frame seemed skeletal, dark circles carved beneath his hollow eyes.
*Is it possible he's suffering from more than just shock-induced mutism?*
Lost in thought, Marin stood rooted to the spot until the outbuilding doors clicked shut behind them.
---
## — Day Four —
Marin made her way to the kitchen with Julia at her side.
When only she and her mother had occupied the outbuilding, Julia brought their meals from the main castle. Now, with the Duke's nephews in residence, three cooks from the main kitchen worked on-site.
The moment Marin stepped inside, the head chef—a broad man in a pristine white hat—halted his preparations and bowed. The others followed suit, greeting her in chorus.
"Good day, my lady."
"Welcome, my lady."
"Hello. Please, continue your work."
She crossed to the head chef while responding.
"Everything you've prepared has been wonderful. Thank you."
"It brings me great joy to hear you're satisfied, my lady."
The chef beamed. Praise from the masters was the finest fuel for diligence.
"I understand you're busy, but might I have a moment of your time?"
He inclined his head respectfully, agreeing at once. The Duke's bride, the servants said, was genuinely kind to the staff—and so far, every account had proven true.
"Of course, my lady. I'm at your service."
"I wanted to ask about His Lordship's nephews. How have their meals been? Are they finishing their plates?"
The chef's bright expression dimmed like a snuffed candle.
"Forgive me, my lady. It seems... I simply cannot please the young ladies and the young gentleman."
"They're eating poorly?"
"They leave more than half of every dish."
He admitted it with obvious shame, his head bowing low.
For a cook, an empty plate was practically a medal of honor. But the Duke's nephews only picked at their food, eating next to nothing.
"Have you tried preparing Southern cuisine?"
"Yes, my lady. That young man there—" He gestured toward a cook stirring a pot of soup. "—he's from the South."
The young cook bowed. Marin acknowledged him with a nod before turning back to the chef.
"And when he prepares dishes in the Southern style? Still untouched?"
The chef's shoulders sagged further. "Still untouched, my lady."
"What about desserts?"
"They eat a *little* dessert, at least."
"Well... that's something."
Marin fell silent, thinking.
*If Southern cuisine doesn't help, then the problem isn't homesickness for familiar flavors. It's either a matter of health... or a matter of the soul.*
"Oh—one more thing. Do you have any bananas?"
"Yes, my lady. We do."
Bananas were a fruit that grew only in the deep jungles of the South—rare and expensive this far north. Marin recalled a scene from the novel where the original heroine had shared the exotic fruit with her nephews, and their delight had been one of the first cracks in their armor.
"Then please make pancakes for this afternoon's snack. Top them with finely chopped bananas and drizzle honey over everything. Serve them to the nephews."
"It will be done, my lady."
"And please—don't mention that this was at my request."
"Understood."
The chef nodded with evident comprehension.
*The servants are already gossiping about my relationship with the nephews*, Marin realized. When children so obviously avoided someone, rumors were inevitable.
---
Leaving the kitchen behind, Marin walked directly to Olive's office.
Even if the nephews loved the banana pancakes—and even if that love matched the novel's account perfectly—one couldn't survive on bananas alone.
A real solution was needed.
She knocked on the assistant's door and entered.
"Mr. Olive."
"Yes, Lady Marin?"
"I'd like to ask your advice on something."
"Of course. I'm listening."
Olive rose from behind his desk and gestured toward the sofa, inviting her to sit.
Marin had declined to step back from reading the Duke's reports aloud, but she had withdrawn from her daily duties assisting Olive. At his insistence, really—he'd argued it was improper to make the Duke's fiancée perform clerical work.
"The nephews aren't eating properly," she began without preamble. "They've lost considerable weight since their arrival. I'd like to have them seen by their personal physician."
"We were already considering bringing a doctor in because of Perido, but..." Olive hesitated, discomfort flickering across his features.
"They're refusing to see one?"
His grimace was answer enough.
"Yes. Apparently, many physicians examined them back at the Count's estate. Every single one concluded that their symptoms stemmed from psychological trauma." He sighed. "Since then, the children have refused all medical attention."