Gerald lifted the glass of mandrelson juice to his lips and took a measured sip.
The liquid spread across his tongue—tart and bitter, with an astringent edge that never softened no matter how many times he drank it. Once a day, every day, and still the taste caught him off guard.
He set the glass down with a soft click.
Kay materialized from the shadows and swept it away without a word.
The fact that Gerald consumed mandrelson was a closely guarded secret. He hadn't even told Marin. The same poison that had made her stomach revolt had no effect on him whatsoever—a peculiarity of his constitution that he'd long since stopped questioning.
Since the mandrelson juice had begun to affect his eyes, he could only hope that continued consumption would deepen the improvement.
As Kay dissolved back into the darkness, Gerald reached out from habit and felt for his blindfold on the table's surface.
His fingers brushed paper instead.
The butler's report lay nearby—the results of the former Viscount Norman's interrogation. The man had confessed everything. The fortune he'd stolen from House Shuvents had long since vanished, spent down to the last copper coin.
His son Gobius, upon inheriting the title, had hemorrhaged money like water—cards, entertainment, frivolous pleasures. The coffers dwindled. Debts mounted. The fool had apparently been counting on his marriage to the Wares heiress to save him; her dowry would clear his obligations and fund fresh investments.
*Pathetic.*
At that moment, Gerald sensed Marin's presence outside the study door—the familiar rhythm of her heartbeat, the soft displacement of air as she approached.
"Come in."
She rolled a cart inside, and even before she spoke, he could hear the smile in her breathing.
"Lord Gerald, it worked! I just put your nephews to sleep!" A triumphant pause. "*Ahem.*"
"The children are asleep?"
A soft smile touched his lips unbidden.
Even Olive had failed to notice that the children weren't sleeping properly. But when Marin had come to him and proposed putting them to rest *her* way, Gerald had agreed immediately.
He knew the torment of sleeplessness far too intimately. The children had already suffered enough. He refused to let them suffer more.
"...Thank you," he said, and meant it completely.
"Yes! Thanks accepted."
Her deliberately playful tone deepened the smile on his face.
"Make a wish."
"Out of the blue?"
Marin laughed—bright and surprised—and echoed words she'd once spoken before:
"*Reward.*"
He answered just as literally. The memory of that day surfaced: walking together through the garden, the conversation that had veered between joy and unexpected sorrow.
"You won't start a countdown this time?" she asked, mock-suspicious.
"No. Think about it as long as you like. Tell me when you're ready."
"Okay!"
Her cheerfulness was almost tangible—a warmth radiating through her voice.
"You're in a good mood."
"Of course I am!"
"I see."
Gerald's hand moved almost unconsciously, sliding his forearm over the report on the table. He didn't want to ruin her brightness with such papers. Not yet.
"Why the sudden interest in how I'm feeling?"
"What's wrong with a groom taking interest in his bride's mood?"
"Mm."
He heard her footsteps shift—cautious, curious, approaching.
"What is it?"
"You're hiding something from me right now, aren't you?"
"Why the sudden display of insight?"
She snorted quietly at his sharp deflection.
"Because I *saw* you cover something with your arm."
Gerald paused.
Then, slowly, he pushed the report toward her.
"What are you hiding from me?"
The rustle of pages filled the quiet study as Marin leafed through the documents.
*Shurk-shurk. Shurk-shurk.*
She stopped.
Silence.
Gerald waited, his throat dry, for her to speak.
*Will she cry?*
He couldn't even imagine the hardships that had befallen Marin and her mother because of the forged contract. The years of struggle, the creditors, the slow erosion of everything they'd once had.
A moment later, she set the report back on the table.
Still no sound.
He listened closely. Her heartbeat was accelerating—faster and faster, like hoofbeats building to a gallop.
*Of course she's angry.*
"...And what happens now?"
Her voice was steady. Too steady.
"I intended to confiscate the Norman family's fortune and return it to you," Gerald said carefully. "But there's nothing left. It's become a debt trap—the money cannot be recovered. The former Viscount will rot in prison for the rest of his days, as will his son."
He paused.
"Do you want them dead?"
Marin shook her head slowly.
"I won't let them off that easily." Her voice remained calm, but something trembled beneath the surface—a hairline fracture in glass. "Death is too quick. Let them live miserably. Let them suffer constantly. Give them the hardest labor available—let them work until their bodies break, and at least work off some fraction of what they stole from my family."
She drew a breath.
"And food—once a day. *Maybe.* When they've earned it."
The words were measured, precise. But Gerald heard the tremor she was fighting to suppress.
*Holding back tears.*
"So it will be."
The sound of crumpling paper reached his ears.
Gerald lifted his head toward where she stood.
"Won't you show this to the Viscountess?"
"No." Marin's voice was firm. "I won't show her."
*Crumple. Crumple.*
She was destroying the report sheet by sheet, methodically, thoroughly.
---
*This cannot be shown to Mother.*
While Marin had hovered between life and death—lost in fever dreams, drowning in memories of another existence—Roenna had fought alone. Fragile and ill, she had faced the moneylenders by herself, losing everything piece by piece.
By the time Marin opened her eyes, it was already over. Everything had been taken.
There had been no time to investigate where the debts originated—survival demanded every scrap of energy she possessed. She'd had to earn money *now*, keep them alive *now*, find a way forward *now*.
If her mother learned the truth—that the entire nightmare had been built on forgery and fraud—she would blame herself. She would believe she should have *known*, should have *seen*, should have *fought harder*.
And then her fragile heart might not survive the revelation.
*She's finally recovering. Her health is improving. I won't let anything destroy that.*
The guilty Viscount would pay for the rest of his miserable life. And Marin would earn more than he ever had—would build something from the ashes he'd left behind.
*This is enough.*
*It should be enough.*
But the tear that had been gathering in the corner of her eye finally fell.
*Luckily, the Duke can't see.*
It would be shameful to put on a brave front and then crumble into weeping.
---
Gerald stood abruptly.
Two long strides brought him directly before her. Before she could react, his large palm rose and covered her eyes completely.
Everything went dark—black as a moonless night.
"...Unfortunately, I didn't prepare a handkerchief," he murmured, almost apologetically.
His hand was so large it covered nearly her entire face. The warmth of his palm pressed gently against her eyelids, her cheeks.
Marin reached up and clasped his hand in both of hers.
He smelled of something green and wild—*mandrelson*, she realized distantly. The same bitter herb from the garden.
"Your scarf is kind of dark," she whispered, her voice catching.
"That's the point."
His even tone was permission.
Marin buried her face against his palm and let go.
The tears she'd been holding back for so long—years, perhaps—finally found their release. When you couldn't see the light, shame lost its power.
She wept for her father, who would never walk through their door again. For her brother, whose laughter had been silenced too soon. For her mother, who had suffered so much at the hands of swindlers and thieves.
She wept for all of it—one pain at a time—until the well ran dry.
---
## — The Outbuilding, Dawn —
Daya woke feeling something she hadn't experienced in what felt like an eternity.
*Refreshed.*
She blinked, disoriented, and looked around.
The room was flooded with the soft blue light of early dawn—that hushed hour before the sun fully rose.
A weight pressed against her thigh. She looked down and found Garnet curled against her, cheek pressed to her leg, still deeply asleep.
And Perido?
On the bed, breathing slowly, snoring peacefully.
*What happened?*
She tried to remember. They'd entered the room late in the afternoon. Now it was dawn. That meant they'd slept for nearly half a day—*without waking once*.
She wanted to shift Garnet and stand, but something stopped her.
A blanket.
She didn't remember covering herself.
*The Duke's bride. Marin.*
Had she covered all three of them? But *how* had she put them to sleep?
When Marin had begun reading the fairy tale, Daya had found herself listening despite her intentions to stay alert. That gentle voice had wrapped around her like the warmth of a fire in winter—soothing, enveloping, impossible to resist.
The last thing she remembered was noticing that Perido's breathing had finally evened out. He'd been drifting off at last.
And then... nothing.
"Mm... mmm..."
Garnet stirred slightly, burrowing deeper against Daya's leg.
Carefully, Daya stretched her legs out along the sofa to make her sister more comfortable and tucked the blanket around her again. She wanted to wake Garnet and move her to a proper bed—but she couldn't bring herself to disturb such deep, healing sleep.
Instead, she rose silently and approached Perido.
He lay on his back, utterly peaceful. No grimace twisted his features. No tightly clenched fists. Even when he'd managed to doze in fitful snatches before, nightmares had always lurked beneath the surface—jerking him awake with tears streaming down his face.
But now...
*Nothing.*
Just calm.
Daya lowered herself onto the mattress beside him, positioning herself so she could be there instantly if he stirred.
For the first time in weeks, she could stop worrying.
She gazed at his sleeping face and thought about the Duke's bride.
*She asked me to believe her.*
Daya couldn't give the kind of trust Marin wanted—not yet, perhaps not ever. Too much had been broken. Too many promises had proven hollow.
But she could give thanks.
She brushed a strand of dark hair from Perido's forehead, her touch feather-light.
And for a long, long time, she simply watched him sleep.