Warmth.
That was the first thing she felt - the heat of a body pressed against hers, the steady thump-thump of a heartbeat beneath her ear.
She was wrapped in something soft, a woolen shawl that smelled faintly of rosemary and woodsmoke.
The world swayed.
Her head lolled to the side, cheek brushing against rough linen. A woman's voice hummed low and off-key, each note trembling like it might break.
"She's awake, Your Grace."
The voice came from above, shaky.
A deeper, calmer tone answered.
"Bring her here, Margaret. You're trembling."
The swaying stopped. The air changed - cooler, perfumed with roses and something sharper, like polished silver.
The shawl loosened. She felt herself being passed from one pair of arms to another.
These new arms were steady. They held her not too tight, not too loose.
A gloved thumb brushed her cheek.
"There now..." the calm voice murmured. "Look at you. So small."
She blinked. The world above was a blur of gold and cream - hair like spun chestnut, a collar of lace, eyes the color of storm clouds.
"You are mine now," the voice said. "Not of my blood, but of my heart. Do you understand, little blossom?"
She didn't, not really. But the heartbeat she now rested against was slow and sure, and for the moment, that was enough.
Somewhere behind them, the maid sniffled. "She's all you have now, my lady."
The woman - the Duchess - only tightened her hold.
"No. She's all I will ever need."