The morning sun, filtered through the leaded glass of the bedroom window, felt like a personal assault. Ethan's head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a brutal, percussive reminder of his predecessor's final binge. For a terrifying moment, he was back in his sterile apartment, the silence a heavy blanket. Then the scent of woodsmoke and lavender, the feel of coarse linen sheets, and the weight of a heavy woolen blanket grounded him in his new, impossible reality.
He was in a four-poster bed in a chamber that was both grand and shabby. The rug was worn thin in paths to the door and fireplace. A portrait of a stern-looking ancestor with a truly impressive nose glared down at him, the gilt frame chipped. This was the master bedroom of Rosewood Manor.
And he was not alone.
A soft, regular breathing came from the other side of the bed. He turned his head, a movement that sent fresh spikes of pain through his temples. Evangeline lay on her side, facing away from him, a respectable distance between them. The blanket was pulled up to her chin, and her mousy brown hair was splayed across the pillow. She was still in her simple woolen nightdress.
A wave of relief so potent it made him dizzy washed over him. He hadn't… the previous Ethan hadn't… The memories were a blur of shouted vows and draining tankards, but they held no intimacy, no violence. It seemed the drunken lout had passed out before he could inflict himself on his new bride. Another debt of gratitude to a dead man.
He lay still, watching the rise and fall of her shoulders, the absolute stillness of her sleep. In the quiet of the morning, she seemed even more fragile. The calculated plainness of her disguise, which he of course perceived only as her natural state, struck him as a defense mechanism. A woman from a small village, married to a notorious noble against her will… she must be terrified.
I will make you feel safe, he vowed silently. I will make this a home for you.
The thought was a catalyst. The hangover, the disorientation, the sheer scale of the situation—it all receded before a simple, burning purpose. He had a wife. He had a title, however minor. He had a chance to build something. The emptiness of his past life was a void he never had to face again.
He slipped out of bed as quietly as he could, his bare feet cold on the stone floor. He found a robe of thick, embroidered velvet—garish and impractical, perfectly in character—and shrugged it on. He needed to think. He needed to understand what he now possessed.
He padded out of the room and into the hallway. The manor was a rabbit warren of cold stone and dark wood. Tapestries depicting hunting scenes, faded by sun and time, did little to warm the atmosphere. He found a staircase and descended into the great hall where last night's revelry had taken place. Servants were already at work, clearing the detritus of the feast with quiet efficiency. They avoided his eyes, their movements becoming stiff and hurried as he passed.
They're scared of me, he realized. The Hooligan Noble. The memory of their mocking laughter during the toast was now contextualized. It wasn't just ridicule; it was the schadenfreude of those who served a master they despised. This was his first, and perhaps greatest, challenge. He couldn't simply become a kind, competent baronet overnight. That would raise questions he couldn't answer. Suspicion, in this pre-industrial, seemingly magical world, could easily lead to accusations of possession or witchcraft.
He needed a strategy. An act.
He found a door that led outside and stepped into the brisk morning air. The Barony of Rosewood sprawled before him. The manor itself was situated on a gentle rise, overlooking a village of perhaps fifty thatched-roof cottages nestled along a slow-moving river. Fields, mostly fallow at this time of year, stretched out towards a dark line of forest in the distance. The air was clean and sharp, filled with the smell of damp earth, woodsmoke, and baking bread.
It was… beautiful. And it was his. Theirs.
A man was approaching the manor, his stride long and purposeful. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in worn but serviceable leather armor, a longsword at his hip. His hair was cropped short, and his face had the weathered, perpetually unimpressed look of a career soldier. Memories supplied a name: Captain Korbinian, the head of the manor guard. A veteran of the Eastern Marches wars, loyal to Baron Alistair, and consequently, deeply skeptical of the baron's son.
This was his first test.
Ethan straightened his shoulders, adopting the slouch he remembered from the memory-fragments. He let a bored, petulant expression settle on his face as Korbinian came to a halt before him and gave a curt, minimal bow.
"My lord," Korbinian's voice was a low rumble. "You are awake early."
"The sun is a dreadful nuisance, Captain," Ethan drawled, waving a dismissive hand. "It insists on shining through the windows. We must have thicker curtains installed. See to it." He infused his tone with a whining, entitled energy that felt alien and disgusting.
Korbinian's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I will… look into it, my lord. I came to report that the wedding guests have departed. The manor is secure."
"Splendid. All that noise, finally over." Ethan yawned theatrically. "This place is a dump, Korbinian. A absolute dump. My father has a cruel sense of humor, exiling me here."
"The barony is productive, my lord. The river provides good fishing, and the forests are rich with game. The soils, while rocky, can yield a decent harvest with proper care."
"Riveting," Ethan interrupted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Tell me, Captain, does the tedium ever end? Or does it just… continue?" He began walking aimlessly, forcing Korbinian to fall in step beside him. "I need a diversion. Something to break the monotony."
"My lord?"
"An project!" Ethan declared, snapping his fingers. The "Hooligan" persona was taking shape in his mind—a creature of sudden, irrational whims. "I've decided I shall become a… a patron of the arts! Yes! We shall have a garden! Not one of these boring, practical herb patches. A proper garden! With roses! And a maze! A labyrinth of hedges! It shall be my masterpiece."
He watched Korbinian out of the corner of his eye. The captain's expression was a masterpiece of controlled disdain. This was exactly the sort of frivolous, expensive, and utterly useless endeavor the old Ethan would have proposed.
"A garden maze, my lord?" Korbinian repeated, his tone flat. "The winter is approaching. The ground will be hard soon. The labor and cost…"
"Are my concern, not yours!" Ethan chirped, his voice rising to a pitch he hoped conveyed unhinged enthusiasm. "I am the Baronet of Rosewood, am I not? I shall have my maze! I want the plans drawn up by week's end. Use the villagers. Pay them… I don't know, a copper a day or whatever it is peasants earn. It will give them something to do besides… whatever it is they do. Muck about in fields, I suppose."
He was laying it on thick, but he needed to establish the pattern. The "Hooligan's" whims were to be obeyed without question, no matter how absurd. This project, under the guise of pointless luxury, would serve multiple purposes: it would inject coin into the local economy, give the people paid work, and—his real, hidden goal—allow him to survey the entire estate and its boundaries under the pretext of choosing a location. He could identify drainage issues, weak points in the defenses, and potential for other improvements, all while playing the part of the feckless fool.
Korbinian looked like he'd bitten into a lemon. "As you wish, my lord."
"Excellent! Now, I'm famished. See that breakfast is brought to my solar. And where is my wife? She should be present. A man must have some pleasant scenery with his meal, even if it is as bland as the porridge doubtless will be."
He turned and strode back towards the manor, leaving a speechless Captain Korbinian in his wake. The act was exhausting, and a part of him recoiled at the contempt he was deliberately cultivating. But it was a shield. Behind the mask of the "Hooligan," the new Ethan could observe, learn, and plan.
Evangeline's POV
Evangeline had been awake the moment Ethan left the bed. Her vampiric senses, even suppressed in this human form, were far superior to any human's. She had lain perfectly still, listening to his movements, her mind a whirlwind of confusion.
His conversation with Korbinian had drifted up through the open window. She had heard every word.
A garden maze?
It was such a profoundly stupid, typically noble thing to want. A massive expenditure of resources for a frivolous decoration. It was exactly the sort of behavior her briefing had prepared her for. She should have felt vindicated, her contempt reinforced.
So why did she feel… unsettled?
The Ethan von Gutenberg in the reports was a brute, given to drinking, gambling, and lechery. He was lazy and short-tempered. The man outside, while playing the part of the idiot fop, had a strange, manic energy to his pronouncements. There was a sharpness in the way he'd delivered his commands, a calculated precision beneath the frivolous words that didn't match the profile of a simple-minded wastrel.
And then there was the way he had looked at her when he thought she was asleep.
She had cracked an eyelopen when he'd first stirred. The expression on his face as he watched her had been… reverent. It was the look a devout man might give a holy relic. It was not the look of a man evaluating a possession or a piece of flesh. It was utterly disconcerting.
She rose and dressed in her simple grey dress, her movements automatic. She needed to report to the Demon Queen. A simple message, encoded via a minor scrying artifact hidden in her luggage: Subject married. Situation nominal. Subject's behavior erratic but within projected parameters of incompetence. No immediate strategic threat detected. Continuing observation.
It was mostly true. Yet, the word "erratic" felt inadequate.
She descended to the solar, a small room off the great hall that served as the lord's private sitting and dining area. Ethan was already there, picking at a plate of cold cuts and cheese. He had changed into a flamboyant doublet of deep blue velvet slashed with yellow silk, an outfit that screamed both wealth and a complete lack of taste.
"Ah! My rose of Rosewood has bloomed!" he announced as she entered, gesturing grandly with a piece of bread. "Come, sit. Break your fast. We have a thrilling day of… being in Rosewood ahead of us."
She took a seat opposite him, keeping her eyes demurely lowered. "My lord."
"I've had the most magnificent idea," he said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "A garden maze. A labyrinth to confound and delight our guests."
"Guests, my lord?" she asked, playing her part. "I was not aware we were expecting any."
"Well, we're not! But we shall be, once word of my magnificent maze spreads! It will be the talk of the… well, the talk of this barony, at least." He took a bite of cheese. "You shall help me plan it. A woman's touch, and all that. You must know about… flowers and things."
It was a command, disguised as a request. Another piece of the puzzle. He was including her, drawing her into his world, however absurd that world seemed. Was this a new form of manipulation? Or was he simply so bored and isolated that even a plain commoner wife was a candidate for audience participation in his folly?
"I know very little, my lord," she said softly. "But I will assist as I am able."
"Splendid!" His smile was brilliant, and again, it didn't quite reach his eyes. There was an intelligence there, a watchfulness, that was at odds with his flamboyant exterior. He was performing. But for whom? For her? For the servants? For himself?
Evernight Abadeer, who had faced down Imperial battle-mages and led charges against armored knights, felt a prickle of unease. This assignment was not going as planned. The human was an enigma wrapped in velvet and poor life choices. And enigmas were dangerous.
She would watch him more closely. She would learn his rhythms, his tells. Every man had a weakness. She would find Ethan von Gutenberg's, even if she had to endure talk of hedge mazes and suffer his bewildering, awe-struck gazes to do it. For the Demon Queen. For Lord Sepheron.
But as she looked at him, chattering animatedly about the type of rose bushes he wanted, a treacherous thought whispered in her mind: What if his weakness is not what I think? What if it is something far more complicated?