"I don't want a debut. Or is that an *order*?" Daya's voice cut through the darkness like a blade. "But I'm not Your Lordship's subject, so I see no reason to obey."
She stared coldly at the Duke, who sat motionless behind his desk, eyes closed as though she weren't worth the effort of acknowledgment.
"My bride will serve as your chaperone."
*Does he even hear me?*
Sharp, jagged thorns seemed to sprout in Daya's chest. She ached to drive them into him—to make him *feel* something.
"Are you ignoring my words?" Her voice rose, trembling. "Just like the day we arrived—when you simply didn't *notice* us? Why did you even take us under your guardianship? If you'd left us alone, whether we lived or died would have been none of your concern."
The words poured out like poison she'd been storing too long.
"For *years*, you didn't so much as acknowledge Mother. And now that she's dead, suddenly your conscience troubles you?"
Silence.
The Duke sat like a statue carved from shadow.
"Please—" Daya's voice cracked. "Just don't *pity* us. We'll live quietly. Unobtrusively. The moment I come of age, I won't need a guardian anymore. I'll take my brother and sisters and return south."
She was shaking now—trembling with fury she couldn't contain.
Every time she looked at the Duke's face, her mother's image surfaced unbidden. He resembled her so strongly that the grief sharpened into something unbearable, twisting the ache in her chest tighter and tighter.
"You don't want Marin as your chaperone?"
His voice was infuriatingly calm. Level. *Unmoved.*
"No—" She caught herself. "Yes. I don't want her. I don't want His Lordship's *fiancée* playing nursemaid to me."
"If there's someone else you'd prefer—"
"*Enough!*" The word exploded from her. "Why do you care so much about my debut? Why does it *matter* to you?"
"Because a noblewoman of your standing is expected to make her entrance into society."
"*Why?*" She was almost laughing now—bitter, brittle laughter. "So I can be married off? So I can bear *heirs*?"
The words tumbled out before she could stop them, and then—realization struck like ice water.
*He wants to marry me off. Separate me from my brother and sisters.*
"Of course."
The Duke's response was immediate. Blunt. *Indecently* straightforward.
Daya's hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palms. The pain helped. Without it, she would have burst into tears right there.
"No." Her voice steadied into cold resolve. "Whatever happens, I will *not* go to the capital for this debut."
She gathered her skirts and dropped into a perfunctory curtsy—proper in form, frigid in execution.
"With that, allow me to take my leave, Your Lordship."
She turned and walked toward the door without waiting for dismissal.
She knew how impolite it was—leaving without permission he hadn't granted. But the anger was too vast to contain. It flooded every rational thought, drowning courtesy and caution alike.
The Duke made no move to stop her. No reproach. No command.
Just silence.
---
The door was slightly ajar. Daya pushed it open—
And found Marin standing directly on the threshold.
Their eyes met.
Marin smiled softly.
Daya's hand flew to her mouth, pressing against trembling lips.
*She heard.*
She had just screamed—in that very office, loud enough to carry—that she didn't want Marin as her chaperone. That she didn't *like* her. And now this woman stood before her with nothing but kindness in her gaze.
Daya didn't know how to respond to that kindness. She'd never learned. But hostility wasn't what she felt anymore.
"I..." The words stuck in her throat. "I didn't mean—"
Marin raised a gentle hand, stopping her.
"Lady Adria. Everything is fine."
*So she did hear. Everything.*
Fear gripped Daya's chest. What if Marin refused to help Perido now? What if this moment of weakness cost them the one person who could make her brother sleep?
As though reading the panic written across her face, Marin spoke again—calm, reassuring:
"Don't worry. I'll continue looking after Ruby and Perido. Nothing has changed."
Their eyes held.
And despite everything—despite her anger, her grief, her inability to trust—Daya thought: *She would have made a reliable chaperone.*
"...Thank you."
"Go on, now." Marin's voice warmed. "The little ones must be waiting."
"Yes."
Daya wanted to apologize. Wanted to explain that her words hadn't come from the heart. But she couldn't do it here—not where the Duke might hear.
So she simply nodded and forced her leaden legs to carry her away.
---
Marin watched Daya's retreating figure—shoulders hunched, spine curved with exhaustion—until she disappeared around the corner.
Then she turned and entered the Duke's study.
She made no effort to soften her footsteps. Each one landed deliberately, announcing her displeasure like a drumbeat.
She crossed to the desk, slapped the report she'd been carrying onto its surface, and planted both hands on her hips.
"What?" The Duke's voice was maddeningly calm.
"Are you competing for the title of *Most Graceless Speaker in the Empire*?"
"Is there such a competition?"
*What competition?*
He fell silent, as though genuinely waiting for an answer.
"...No," Marin muttered.
"Fortunate. It sounds tedious."
A low chuckle escaped him.
Marin's eye twitched.
"Why do you speak so... *badly*?"
"I was merely being frank."
*Now* she understood why Olive had thrust this report into her hands and practically shoved her toward the study. He must have heard the confrontation building and known intervention was needed.
"That's exactly my point!" Her voice rose. "Why only give her *half* the truth? Do you understand how society treats a noblewoman who doesn't debut? Do you understand how they'll torment her—whispers, exclusion, rumors that she's *damaged* somehow? Why didn't you explain any of this?"
She stared at him with mingled frustration and sorrow.
*This clumsy man.* So focused on protection that he couldn't see how deeply his silence wounded. How could he ever hope to repair his relationship with these children if he refused to *speak*?
A pause stretched between them.
"Was it difficult for you?"
The question caught her off guard.
"...For whom? Me?"
"You."
Marin hesitated, then sighed.
"A little. But I was pushed out of aristocratic circles fairly quickly. Started living as a commoner. They didn't have time to trample me for long."
"Who humiliated you?"
Before he'd even finished the sentence, the temperature in the room seemed to plummet. An icy, predatory aura began radiating from him—cold enough to raise gooseflesh along her arms.
Marin's hands dropped from her hips immediately, folding nervously in front of her.
*Yes, fine. She was intimidated. She admitted it.*
"That was a long time ago. Lord Gerald, please—remove this... this *ferocious* presence..."
The dangerous cold vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
He pushed the report across the desk toward her.
"Write."
"Write *what*?"
Marin's eyes widened.
"A list. Everyone who humiliated you."
*Is this a death note?*
"But this is a financial report—"
"Is there not a single blank space? Write over it if you must."
His tone left no room for argument.
Despite herself, Marin laughed.
"What amuses you?" The words were dry, almost sulky.
"You've already defended me once." She pressed her lips together, trying to contain the laughter still bubbling up. "With Gobius, remember?"
For so many years, she had been alone—carrying everything herself, caring for her mother, asking nothing of anyone because there was no one to ask.
And now, suddenly, someone stood ready to fight for her. Someone far too powerful for the battles she faced. It brought an indescribable sense of peace. Of *safety*.
*If only the nephews could understand this man's heart.*
The Duke lifted his head, angling it as though looking directly at her.
Marin drew a slow breath, schooled her expression, and picked up the report.
"I'll read it to you."
"Go ahead. And if you remember anyone else—write their name."
*What a tenacious man...*
---
## — The Garden —
Roenna hadn't ventured outside in longer than she could remember.
Now she sat on a weathered bench near the outbuilding, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, watching winter hold its grip on the world.
The air stung her nose with cold, but the sun fell warm across her face—gentle, forgiving.
Sparse green leaves clung stubbornly to bare branches, refusing to surrender to the season. Through the window, they'd looked like painted decorations. Out here, they seemed like small miracles.
"Julia."
"Yes, madam?"
Julia had been hovering anxiously behind the bench, watching her charge like a hawk guarding its nest.
"I told you to go inside."
"Absolutely not, madam. I'll fetch you another blanket. Just a moment—"
"There's no need—"
But Julia had already darted into the house like an arrow loosed from a bow.
Roenna sighed faintly.
She was already wrapped in enough wool to insulate a small cottage. Sometimes Julia's devotion exceeded even Marin's.
The only trouble was that her fragile health genuinely *did* worry everyone around her. She couldn't fault them for their concern, even when it felt excessive.
A faint smile touched her lips. She closed her eyes and let the sounds of the world grow clearer.
The Duke's nephews had settled in the outbuilding, she'd been told. Indeed, she could hear more voices now—young ones, occasionally sharp with argument, occasionally bright with laughter.
The Duke himself... she had only glimpsed him once, from a distance. He had kept his eyes closed the entire time.
*Perhaps he experiences the world this way too*, she thought. *Listening rather than watching.*
The thought that this man was her daughter's fiancé still unsettled her. There was so much she didn't understand about the arrangement.
"Excuse me... are you feeling unwell?"
Roenna's eyes fluttered open at the timid voice.
A young girl stood before her—sweet-faced, with light green eyes swimming with concern. She seemed to have mistaken Roenna's peaceful repose for illness; the pale face and closed eyes must have looked alarming to a child.