"Ah..."
Marin absorbed this information slowly.
Mutism from shock was certainly a disease of the soul—but was the inability to eat, the inability to *function*, also rooted in the same wounded place?
"It seems that not only the youngest nephew, but the sisters as well have grown dangerously thin."
"The blow struck all of them severely." Olive's voice was heavy with concern.
"Yes. I imagine it did."
*Disease of the soul.*
She knew better than most that no illness was more terrible.
Her own mother, Roenna, had suffered mentally for years after losing her husband and son. Even now, she hadn't fully overcome the trauma of that carriage accident—the nightmares still came, the panic still seized her without warning.
And these children? Left parentless overnight, thrust under the guardianship of an uncle they barely knew, forced to attend his *engagement ball* while still dressed in mourning black...
Their sense of betrayal must have been immediate. Absolute.
No wonder their wounds were growing rather than healing.
---
To clear her head, Marin made her way to the library.
Between preparing for the ball and engineering "chance" encounters with her nephews, she hadn't visited in quite some time. The moment she stepped through the doors, the familiar hush wrapped around her like a comfortable shawl.
Quiet. Cozy. *Hers.*
She walked directly toward the fairy tale section—and stopped.
A warm, honey-colored head was peeking out from behind the shelves.
Marin softened her footsteps, approaching as silently as a cat.
Rubiena sat with her back against the bookcase, utterly absorbed in a picture book. In the winter light streaming through the tall windows, the little reading nook felt almost impossibly warm and soft.
Marin selected a book at random and lowered herself to the floor nearby, settling quietly beside the girl.
Rubiena glanced up from her page—and her light green eyes went wide.
"Oh? *Oh!*"
"Hello." Marin offered an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to startle you."
Rubiena shook her head vigorously, honey-blonde curls bouncing with the motion.
She looked around quickly, confirming they were alone, then cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered:
"It's all right."
When Rubiena closed her book, the cover became visible:
***The Snow Princess and the Seven Elves***
Marin's breath caught.
It was a loose adaptation of *Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs*—and she recognized it instantly. Weeks ago, Olive had approached her asking if he could transform the bedtime story she'd invented for the Duke into a proper book.
And here it was. In Rubiena's hands.
"Do you like the fairy tale?"
"*Yes!*" Rubiena's face lit up like morning sun. "I love it so much! Have you read it?"
She thrust the book toward Marin with eager hands.
"I have." Marin accepted it gently. "Which part is your favorite?"
"The princess is so *brave*—it's wonderful! She doesn't just wait to be saved. And the elves are all so kind, even the grumpy one." Rubiena's cheeks flushed pink with enthusiasm as she recounted her favorite scenes, words tumbling over each other.
Marin watched her with a warm smile, genuine pleasure spreading through her chest.
*My revised story. She actually likes it.*
"Do you enjoy books, Ruby?"
"Yes! That is—" Rubiena caught herself mid-sentence and dropped her gaze. "No... not really..."
Her honey-colored head hung low, and she shook it slightly—a small, defeated motion.
Marin recognized that posture instantly. She'd worn it herself, once.
Among noblewomen, pursuits other than reading were considered more appropriate—music, embroidery, social graces. Apparently, someone had taught this girl that loving books was something to hide.
"I love books," Marin said deliberately—clearly, confidently, loud enough to echo slightly in the quiet library. "Very, *very* much."
Rubiena's head snapped up. "Really? Is it... is it *all right* to just say that?"
She leaned closer, whispering the question as though confessing a crime, her light green eyes swimming with worry.
"Of course it's all right. There's nothing wrong with loving stories."
"But my governess always forbade me from saying such things in public..." Rubiena's voice dropped even lower, uncertain and small.
"Someone told me the same thing, once." Marin held her gaze. "So let's make a deal, just between us."
The girl straightened, attention sharpening.
"You can talk to me about books whenever you like. As much as you want. And when I read something wonderful, I'll tell you all about it."
Rubiena's eyes blazed as though stars had ignited behind them.
"*Really?* We can do that?"
"Really. I'm Marin Shuvents, by the way."
Marin inclined her head in a small, formal bow.
Rubiena blushed and returned the gesture shyly.
"Rubiena Adria. But—please call me Ruby. And you don't have to be so formal with me."
*Oh, how sweet.*
Unlike her older sisters, Rubiena wasn't rejecting her. The relief was almost dizzying.
"May I really?"
"*Yes.*" Ruby smiled so wide her dimples appeared, nodding vigorously. She was even prettier when she smiled—soft and open and genuinely sweet.
"Then may I ask you to call me by my name as well?"
Ruby's expression shifted instantly to scandalized shock. "I *couldn't!*"
"Why not?"
"Because you'll soon be..." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "...*Auntie.*"
"Oh." Marin's smile flickered slightly. "Yes, that's... that's true."
*Awkward. Very awkward.*
"Can I call you Auntie?" Rubiena looked at her hopefully.
"Hmm..." Marin considered. "Lord Gerald and I are only engaged for now. What about... 'Teacher Marin'?"
"Teacher?"
"I'll be serving as governess to you and your younger brother. At least temporarily."
Ruby's face transformed with joy. Her hands flew together as if in prayer. "*Really?* You'll be our teacher?"
"If Ruby doesn't mind."
"I don't mind at all! I'd *love* that! It's just..." The light in her eyes dimmed suddenly. "My sisters..."
She looked down at her lap.
"Garnet told me not to even *talk* to you if we crossed paths."
Marin studied the girl's bowed head, her heart twisting.
She couldn't ask Rubiena to disobey her sisters—and she wouldn't. For a child who had just lost her parents, older siblings became *everything*: mother, father, protector, authority.
*So I need to convince the sisters first. But how?*
While Marin wrestled with the problem, Rubiena continued in a small, worried voice:
"And Perido—that's my brother's name—Perido is very sick right now. He doesn't talk at all, and he barely sleeps. Because of him, Daya and Garnet can hardly sleep either. They take turns sitting with him through the night."
"The young gentleman is wakeful?"
"Yes..." Ruby nodded, her anxiety palpable.
*There it is.*
*The way forward.*
---
Leaving Rubiena to finish her fairy tale, Marin walked purposefully back to the outbuilding.
She climbed the central staircase at a measured pace and stopped in the second-floor corridor.
Daya—responsible, vigilant Daya—had taken the room at the very end of the hall, positioning herself like a sentinel guarding her younger siblings.
Marin approached the door, a fairy tale book tucked under one arm, and knocked.
A moment passed. Then, softly:
"Yes?"
Daya's voice was muted through the wood—tired, perhaps.
"This is Marin Shuvents. Might I have a moment of your time?"
Silence.
Marin set her jaw. She was prepared to stand at this door all day if necessary.
Fortunately, the door opened sooner than expected.
Daya's deep green eyes appeared in the gap, asking without words: *What do you want?*
"May we speak inside?"
For a long moment, Daya simply looked at her—weighing, considering. Then, as if seeing no alternative, she stepped back and opened the door wider.
"Come in."
"Thank you."
Entering the room, Marin's gaze immediately caught on the large, unpacked trunks lining one wall. She glanced at them and asked carefully:
"Do you need additional maids to help with settling in?"
Daya's posture stiffened. Her eyes flickered toward the luggage before returning to Marin's face.
Something shifted in those green depths—a flash of raw grief, quickly suppressed.
"These are my parents' belongings. I want to sort through them myself."
"I understand."
Marin kept her expression neutral, burying her compassion where it wouldn't show. *Don't pity her. She doesn't want pity.*
"Please, sit."
Daya gestured toward the small table by the window, where two chairs waited.
"Thank you."
Marin settled into the offered seat. Daya took the one opposite.
In the pale afternoon light, Marin studied the young woman's face more closely.
Still beautiful—that hadn't changed. But her complexion had grown dull and papery, and dark crescents had carved themselves beneath her eyes. The unmistakable marks of exhaustion.
*She's barely sleeping. Sitting up with Perido night after night.*
*That's why none of them can eat. Grief alone is devastating enough—but add sleep deprivation, and even the most delicious food turns to ash on the tongue.*
An uncomfortable silence stretched between them.
Marin broke it first, keeping her voice gentle:
"Are you finding the room comfortable? Is there anything you need?"
"Everything is adequate. Thank you for your concern."
Daya's response was smooth, practiced—polite enough to satisfy courtesy, distant enough to discourage further questions.
Marin held her gaze.
This young woman was on the cusp of her social debut—no longer a child, but not quite an adult. At roughly the same age, Marin had lost her father and brother in a single terrible afternoon.
She tried not to think about the carriage accident. She'd buried those memories as deep as they would go. But whenever she looked at the Duke's nieces and nephew, the past came flooding back unbidden: the screaming horses, the splintering wood, her mother's endless weeping.
*Stop.* She shook her head imperceptibly. *This isn't about me. Not now.*
When she looked up again, Daya was watching her with calm, almost indifferent eyes.
"I came because I want to talk with you," Marin said quietly. "If you'll allow it."