The secret garden was never truly secret.
It lay hidden behind crumbling stone walls at the far edge of the palace grounds, accessible only through a narrow iron gate rusted by years of neglect.
Once, it had belonged to my mother. I remembered her laughter there, the way she used to touch the petals as though they were living things that might answer her back.
Now, it was where unwanted things were sent.
I knelt beside a dying rosebush, my skirts damp with evening dew, my fingers stained with soil.
The servants thought gardening beneath my station. I thought it grounding. Plants did not lie. They grew where they were permitted, and withered where they were not.
Behind me, footsteps crunched softly against gravel.
I did not turn.
Servants often forgot themselves in this place, believing I was deaf to their whispers simply because I never responded.
"She doesn't know yet," one voice murmured.
"Of course she doesn't. Why would anyone bother telling her?"
A short laugh followed. "Imagine her face when she finds out. Marrying him."
My fingers stilled.
Another voice lowered conspiratorially. "The Count of Ravenshade. They say his first wife died within a year."
"Second within two."
"Third?"
A pause.
"Buried on his estate. No one asks questions there."
Cold spread slowly through my chest.
I rose quietly, stepping behind the stone archway as their voices drifted closer.
"He's old, cruel, and rich," one servant continued. "Exactly the sort of man Her Majesty would choose."
"It's a mercy, really," the other replied. "At least she'll be gone."
Their footsteps faded.
I stood alone, the garden suddenly unfamiliar.
The Count of Ravenshade.
I had heard the name before, spoken only in murmurs. Count Lucien Morvayne — a widower thrice over, lord of the northern territories where winter ruled most of the year. His estate was said to be vast, his influence dangerous, his temper unpredictable. Men said he rewarded loyalty generously and punished disobedience without restraint.
Women, however, said very little.
Those who entered his household rarely returned.
It was said he preferred wives young enough to mold, pliant enough to endure, and isolated enough to disappear without notice. The court called him necessary. My stepmother called him useful.
I understood then.
This was not marriage.
It was removal.
Later that evening, Queen Seraphine summoned me.
Her solar was warm, perfumed, and impeccably ordered — unlike the garden, which she despised. She did not invite me to sit.
"Elara," she said smoothly, "you are of age."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"It is time you fulfilled your duty to this family."
I met her gaze. "I was unaware I had one."
Her smile sharpened. "Do not be clever. You will be married within the month."
The words settled heavily between us.
"To whom?" I asked.
She leaned back, examining her nails. "Count Lucien Morvayne."
There it was — spoken plainly, without apology.
I felt no urge to cry. No need to beg.
Only a quiet, hollow understanding.
"I see," I said.
She frowned, clearly disappointed by my composure. "You are fortunate. He has agreed despite your… circumstances."
"My circumstances?"
"You have no dowry worth mentioning. No political value. And yet, he is willing."
Willing.
As though I were an offering placed on a table.
"And my father?" I asked softly.
Seraphine's eyes flickered with irritation. "Your father agrees this is best."
That hurt more than I expected.
"When?" I asked.
"In three weeks."
I bowed. "As you command."
Her eyes narrowed. "You do not protest?"
"What good would it do?"
She studied me, as though trying to find cracks in stone. Finding none, she waved me away.
"See that you behave until then. I will not tolerate scandal."
I returned to my chambers that night and locked the door.
Only then did I allow myself to sit on the edge of the bed, hands trembling slightly in my lap.
Count Morvayne.
A man known for breaking wives and burying them quietly.
A man chosen not because he wanted me — but because no one would question what became of me.
I thought of my mother then.
Queen Evelyne Valencrest, deposed in everything but name long before her death. Gentle, brilliant, and inconvenient. She had taught me to read bodies the way others read books, to understand pain, to heal quietly.
They had taken her crown.
They would not take her lessons.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling.
If they believed I would go to Ravenshade as a lamb…
They were mistaken.
This marriage was meant to end me.
Instead, it would be where everything began.