I stole a glance at the marble balcony on the upper floor of the palace. Mrs. Clara had told us this morning that Duke Alaric had left for the capital. The news spread through the servant quarters like a draft of cool air in a stifling room. Even the strict housekeeper seemed less tense, her movements a bit more fluid as she barked her orders. In the kitchens, the girls whispered that he had gone to chase after some noblewoman who had caught his eye. It was the only occupation I found believable for a man like him. He lived to hunt, whether the prey wore fur or silk.
I pressed my nails into my palms until the skin nearly broke. The memory of that kiss still felt like a burn on my lips, a physical weight I could not shake. I wanted to scrub it away with lye, to tear the very thought of him out of my mind. I refused to let that split second of weakness define who I am. I worked the gardens until my muscles ached and my back felt like it would snap, then I took my small pouch of coins to the pharmacy in the village.
The list of medicine for my father's heart was long, written in a cramped, clinical hand. As I counted the copper pieces onto the counter, a cold weight settled in my stomach. I prayed it would be enough to buy us a little more time, but the apothecary's pitying look told me otherwise.
The mill was silent when I returned. The great wooden wheel was still, and the air was thick with the scent of old grain and damp stone. My father lay in a deep, heavy sleep, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven jerks. Leo was still away, likely trying to find odd jobs at the docks. I sat at the wooden table, the grain of the wood rough and splintered under my elbows. I chewed on the end of my pen, staring at the yellowed paper where I had scribbled the numbers over and over.
Nine months. Nine months of debt he had kept hidden, buried under a tired smile and a "don't worry, little girl." My mind raced. Could I take extra shifts? I could scrub floors until my fingers bled and my knees gave out, but it would not be enough. The interest alone was a mountain I could not climb.
We had one week. One week before the heavy boots of the bailiff would sound on our floorboards to cast us out. I wiped my face with my sleeve, the fabric rough against my skin, and went to my father's bedside. He looked so small under the heavy wool blankets, as if the illness was shrinking him from the inside out.
"Father," I whispered, taking his hand. His skin felt like dry parchment, thin and ready to tear.
He opened his eyes slowly, the pupils clouded. "The Archduchess," he rasped. His voice was a mere thread of sound. "She owes me, Lydia. Long ago, before you were born... I did something for her. A service of great risk. Go to her estate. Tell her my name. She is noble. She will help an old friend."
I nodded, feeling a tiny, desperate spark of hope flicker in my chest. I kissed his forehead. It was hot, far too hot for a man who was supposed to be resting.
Two days later, I stood before the iron gates of the Archduchy. I adjusted my hat and straightened my apron, trying to look presentable despite the knots of hunger and fear in my stomach. She is Alaric's aunt. She had the title and the blood, though the gossip said she lacked his vast, predatory wealth. Still, she was our last chance. I had to beg a servant just to get past the outer gate, swallowing a bitter lump of pride as the young girl looked at my worn shoes with a mixture of disgust and pity.
The gardens here were beautiful, but the smell of the old roses made me feel sick. The air was too sweet, too perfect, like a funeral shroud made of flowers. On the terrace, the Archduchess sat with her tea. Her blue silk dress looked like moving water, and her fingers were long, pale, and weighted down by rings. But when I stepped closer, the blood in my veins turned to ice.
Alaric was there.
He sat beside her, draped in black velvet and gold lace. He looked like a king from a dark story, ancient and unmoving. My heart did not just beat; it hit against my ribs with a dull, heavy thud that made my vision blur. I kept my eyes fixed on the stone floor, my breath hitching in my throat.
"Lydia, dear," the Archduchess said. Her voice was musical, but it lacked any real warmth.
I bowed so low my back hurt, my forehead nearly touching my knees. "Your Excellence. My father, Thomas the miller, sent me. He said you owed him... a service. From the long years ago."
She looked at me for a long time. Her eyes were a sharp grey, just like his. "Thomas? Yes. I remember the man. What does he want after all this time? I thought he had vanished into his flour dust."
"He is dying," I said, the words catching in my throat like a shard of glass. "We cannot pay for his medicine. We are being evicted from the mill. Please... I beg of you. For the sake of what he did for you."
The Archduchess sighed. The sound was as fake as a glass diamond. She set her porcelain cup down with a sharp click that made me flinch.
"A sad story, truly. But I cannot help you, child. My own accounts are thin this season. The crown takes much, and the estate yields little. I have nothing to give to a miller's daughter."
The floor beneath me seemed to tilt. My hope did not just fade; it died right there on the expensive stone tiles. I felt the weight of the debt crush me.
"I... I understand. Thank you for your time," I managed to say. My voice was a broken, pathetic thing.
I looked up for a single second and caught Alaric's eye. He was silent. He held his cup with a slow, deliberate grace, watching me over the gold rim. He did not say a word to defend me or to mock me. He simply sat there and watched me beg, his gaze heavy and dark, savoring the exact moment I realized I was truly alone in the world. He knew the Archduchess would say no. He probably expected it.
I turned and walked away, my legs feeling like lead. The tears were hot on my cheeks now, blurring the path. I am a nothing to them. I am just dust on their expensive leather shoes, something to be brushed off and forgotten.
I walked through the garden, but the splashing fountains sounded like they were laughing at my misery. Every step felt like I was walking toward the edge of a cliff. I thought of Arthur, but he has nothing but his flour and a kind heart. Kindness does not pay the apothecary. Kindness does not stop a bailiff from throwing a dying man into the mud.
I left the estate, my eyes burning with shame. I reached the dirt road and stopped, my breath coming in jagged, painful gasps. I am standing at the edge of the abyss, and there is no one left to catch me. Behind me, the palace and the estates loomed like giants, and ahead, there was only the cold, silent mill and a father who would not wake up to see the sun again.