Waking up wasn't easy.
Sweat trickled down my spine, my heart pounding so violently it felt like it might burst out of my chest at any moment. I raised a trembling, pale hand and examined it — the skin was pristine. No festering wounds, no blue silk ribbon tightly binding two fingers together. But the phantom sensation of pulsing flesh still drove me mad with fear.
I hated those nights filled with nightmares. The bitter aftertaste they left behind in my mouth couldn't be scrubbed away, not even with a steel sponge.
By eight, I had made it downstairs for breakfast. The cream-colored silk shirt I wore clung a little too snugly around the waist. I stopped in front of the hallway mirror, poking my stomach with mild suspicion. Shit, if I started getting fat, that would be a problem. In previous cycles, I usually stuck to light exercises — jogging around the estate, push-ups next to the bed when no one was watching, lifting things like wooden buckets filled with grain or water.
But now? I didn't want to do anything at all. Just...nothing. Apathy?
Sweeping a few annoying light strands away from my face, I turned and kept walking. A group of maids stood by the tall windows — I knew each one by face and was honestly a bit relieved the household staff hadn't changed. They bowed and went back to scrubbing pollen off the sills.
Spring in Vaukh Ton was always overwhelming. The estate sat nestled beside a willow grove and two thousand yards of clean flower fields, blooming with poppies and daisies. Behind it sprawled a labyrinthine garden surrounded by tightly trimmed yew hedges. From the second-floor landing, I could see three gardeners battling a swarm of May beetles that were ravaging the white peonies.
The dining table sparkled under the sunlight when I entered. Eighteen feet of polished redwood, perfectly set with twelve crystal goblets — one for each hereditary duchy under the crown. A long-standing family tradition.
"Philipp," I said, watching the silver-haired man carefully adjust the tilt of a dessert fork by millimeters. "Where's the hurricane that usually blows our silverware off the table?"
He didn't look up.
"Lady Margarita and Lady Livia are sculpting swans from river clay in the glass pavilion. They asked not to be disturbed, even in case of a giant dragonfly invasion." A maid's elbow bumped a soup spoon. Philipp sighed and corrected it with a cold expression, though his hooded black eyes twitched ever so slightly. "They also requested an additional bucket of rose petals."
"You gave it to them?"
Philipp's lips curved faintly.
"Of course, my lord."
I snorted, settling into the chair he'd pulled out for me. The porcelain clinked softly as servants brought in boiled quail eggs and smoked herring, artfully arranged on white china. The scent of rye bread teased my empty stomach.
"I asked the valet to prepare your rifle," Philipp said as he unfolded a linen napkin over my lap. "Or would you prefer your father's shotgun for the hunt?"
I pierced an egg, watching the yolk spill across the plate.
"Neither. I'm not hunting."
Philipp's powdered wig shifted slightly.
"Ah. The captain will be disappointed."
"He can shoot the poor pheasants by himself. I plan to enjoy the fresh air, sip some wine, and take a nap."
Simple plan. Arrive, greet everyone so I don't come off as some recluse, ride through the woods while the others boost their egos with dead animals, sign whatever documents Captain Oberon brings in the evening, and go to bed. Same tomorrow, with the added hope of going home sooner.
The butler gave a frosty nod.
"Of course. Shall I gather the mail from last week for your journey?"
No phones here, so I had to entertain myself the old-fashioned way. The newspapers were mostly garbage, but occasionally amusing. I especially liked the columns where people screamed at each other over the magic ban. Last time, there was a headline claiming minor spells could only be used for agricultural purposes.
I slapped the fish onto the bread and stuffed the sandwich into my mouth. My stomach growled with approval. Okay, maybe the food here wasn't so bad after all. The fish, in particular, was excellent.
"Also grab the papers from this week," I said, chewing dryly. "There were supposed to be some scandalous pieces about the royal family."
Philipp raised an eyebrow.
"As you wish, my lord."
I kept eating without a care. Oberon had sent a letter last night, saying he'd be waiting by the east gates at noon. I had just enough time to get ready and check on my horse.
When they brought the tea, the butler slid a small crystal bowl of pink marmalade toward me.
"You like this, so I ordered extra," he said, hands clasped behind his back.
I dabbed my mouth with the napkin and smiled.
"Thank you, Philipp."
The man was solid. In every scenario, his loyalty held so strong it actually made something twist inside me. It felt like all we had was a contract and the monthly payments I kept increasing. Even that one time, when I told him to leave and never come back during one of my more dramatic breakdowns — he refused.
A diamond of a man.
"Enjoy," he said, then turned and exited the dining room.
I picked up a piece of marmalade, turning it between my fingers. It looked like some kind of wooden toy. A horse, maybe? If so, it was definitely missing its hind legs.
I popped the sweet into my mouth and washed it down with hot, unsweetened tea. The estate's silence slowly pulled me into a kind of melancholic haze. Reminded me of the first time I came here. Back then, everything had felt...different.
Like I'd stepped into one of those fairytales they used to show on TV late at night.
I was such an idiot. Who the hell deserves a fairytale like that? Maybe a true sinner. And me?
What did I ever do to earn it?
***
At eleven, I finally made it down to the stables. The black vest fit snugly over my shoulders, just like the white shirt with wide sleeves. I'd tied my white hair back with a tight ribbon.
Inside, the stable looked even more spacious. Only three stalls — the first two for Margarita's ponies, the last for Biscuit.
I walked in deeper, straw crunching loudly under my leather boots. Biscuit neighed weakly when he saw me, his chestnut coat dull under the oil lamps. The stable boy knelt by his front leg, rubbing something in with rhythmic strokes. I frowned, adjusting my gloves.
"What happened?"
The boy — sixteen, maybe — flinched and scrambled up, spooking the horse. Biscuit backed into his stall with a snort.
"Fever last night, my lord," he mumbled. "And the leg's inflamed. He's barely standing."
"What?" I stepped closer, crouching to touch the swollen skin. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"
The boy shrank, visibly wishing to disappear.
"Sorry, my lord. We made him compresses, and now we're applying ointment…"
I exhaled sharply through my nose and leaned back, pressing against the wooden beam. Maybe this was a sign. That I shouldn't go anywhere. Maybe I should just stay home and sign the documents tomorrow.
Approaching the steed again, I stroked his taut, muscular neck, feeling the coarse bristle of his coat. Biscuit leaned down and nudged the back of my head, breathing heavily.
A shadow fell across the stable doors.
"Problems, Duke Alder?"
Captain Oberon stood framed in sunlight, wearing cavalry boots polished to a lethal shine. His black stallion snorted impatiently behind him, hooves scuffing the gravel.
I turned sideways, folding my arms across my chest, and glanced at the stableboy.
"Who gave him permission to enter?"
The boy went pale.
"He had a magistrate's seal, my lord!"
"We agreed to meet at noon by the gates," I reminded him firmly.
Oberon removed his gloves with deliberate slowness.
"My apologies for the intrusion. I arrived ahead of schedule and decided to come fetch you."
Today his uniform was simpler — deerskin breeches, a dark blue coat with minimal trim and a high collar. His scarred lip curled slightly.
He walked deeper into the stable, and I immediately stepped aside to let him pass. The captain seemed to notice, but chose not to comment. He crouched on one knee and prodded the afflicted tissue. Biscuit flinched and pinned back his ears.
"Chronic synovitis. Common in geldings his age," he said, rising and brushing straw from his trousers. "Riding him is completely inadvisable."
"I know."
Outside the stable, I drew a resigned breath of the hot May air. The captain straightened beside me and pointed ahead with a gloved hand.
"Take my spare. Bucephalus has a half-brother — younger, stronger. You're not going to ride in a carriage like some lady, are you?"
Oh, I would if I could. Better to be in a carriage reading some magazine and sipping lemonade than roasting alive under this sun.
"Why?"
Oberon tilted his head, puzzled.
"Pardon?"
I impatiently jabbed the toe of my boot into the dry grass.
"Why are you lending me your horse? I could just not go. I'll stop by the department tomorrow, sign whatever's needed."
The captain's pale blue eyes drifted past me. Toward the willow grove unfurling nearby, its drooping green boughs sheltering the earth. Then he looked back at me, pausing for a moment before giving a curt shrug of his squared shoulders.
"Call it…professional courtesy between gentlemen."
He stared at me like I'd personally stolen his favorite fur coat.
"What's his name?"
"Bastian. He bites, but only if provoked."
I squinted as a cloud passed and let the sun strike my face again with scattered, blinding rays.
"If he throws me, I'm billing your regiment for the coffin."
Something that might've been a laugh scraped out of the captain's throat.
"Duly noted."
Turning away, I trudged ahead, scratching at my wrist until it turned red.
That man was starting to get on my nerves.