The Everhart drawing room was a study in excess — velvet drapes, crystal decanters, and a chandelier that sparkled even in daylight. Colden sat stiffly in the high-backed chair, fingers laced, watching Elaine pace in front of the fireplace.
She was dressed in pale lilac today, her gown trailing like smoke. Her voice, however, was sharp and clear.
"We need more hands in the castle," she said, not bothering to sit. "The engagement announcement is weeks away, and the staff is barely adequate. I want the tapestries cleaned, the silver polished, and the gardens trimmed before the nobles arrive."
Colden blinked. "We already have a full staff."
Elaine scoffed. "Then expand it. Pull from the town. The lower class is good for something, aren't they?"
He flinched at the phrasing. "You mean… conscript them?"
"I mean employ them," she said, waving her hand. "Though I suppose it's all the same. They should be grateful for the opportunity."
Colden didn't answer. His mind drifted — to Marco's quiet smile, to the warmth of the inn, to the way his hand had lingered just a moment longer than necessary when passing the stew.
Would Marco be asked to work at the castle? Would he be forced to?
Would he see Colden not as Cole, but as the man behind the name?
Elaine was still talking, listing fabrics and floral arrangements. Colden excused himself with a nod and left the room, the weight of her words pressing against his chest.
Across town, Marco sat at the kitchen table, his fingers tracing the rim of a chipped teacup. His mother, Livia, stood by the window, her sewing kit untouched.
"No orders again," she said softly. "Not even for mending. They say the nobles bring their own seamstresses now."
Marco didn't speak.
"We could ask your uncle," she offered, hesitant. "He still has connections in the capital."
Marco's jaw tightened. "He also has opinions. About us. About you."
Livia sighed, brushing a strand of gray hair behind her ear. "I know. But we can't keep waiting."
Outside, the wind stirred the laundry line. Inside, silence settled like dust.
Marco's face was calm, but his eyes betrayed him — distant, troubled, afraid of what was coming.
He didn't know that Colden was thinking of him. He didn't know that the castle might soon reach for him, not with kindness, but with command.
But he felt it — the shift in the air, the way the world seemed to lean toward something he couldn't name.
And in that quiet moment, he wished for Cole. Not the noble. Not the stranger.
Just the man who made him feel like the world could be gentle.