Cake

by adasbearlover

Summary:

“A contract is a contract, Leon. You painted the face, you carried the wood, you earned your coin. There is no reason for you to linger in a house that is about to become very loud and very crowded.”

Baron's Daughter Ada Wong x Exiled Painter Leon.

in collaboration with missiemoscato

Notes:

Once again, I'm back with a long ass fic. Same drill with 'Tis I, loves. Read the taggings and warnings carefully.

This work contains themes of survival horror, intense psychological distress, and graphic depictions of violence. Specific elements include severe physical injuries, blood and gore. Reader discretion is heavily advised.

Chapter 1

Art is the violent seizure of a soul from the unhewn dark, a theft executed with the trembling fury of a lover who refuses to let the beloved remain unmade. To press a palm against the frigid skin of virgin marble is to stand at the precipice of an insurrection, demanding that the universe surrender what it has so carefully withheld. Every strike of the chisel is not a gentle coaxing, but a mutiny, a coup d’état against the void. It is the overthrow of nothingness by the sheer force of human will.

 

Pygmalion understood this ruinous devotion, kneeling before the pristine, unmoving perfection of Galatea, his hands stained with the dust of her creation, his throat choked with the desperate, heretical prayer that his own warmth might bleed across the divide of stone and flesh. He did not merely fashion a form; he waged a war against the natural order, demanding that the cold, unresponsive stone to learn the language of a pulse.

 

This is the definition of the craft.

 

To look upon the raw, uncarved earth is to recognize the canvas for a rebellion, a battleground where the human spirit refuses to be small. The sculptor does not submerge himself in the medium. He conquers it. Each chip that falls to the floor is a casualty in a war, a fragment of a world that was forced to give way to something grander, something entirely untamed.

 

Galatea did not begin as an idea; she began as an ache in the marrow, a necessity so fierce that it demanded a form that could hold a man’s devotion. Pygmalion’s fingers traced the soft curves of his own creation, feeling where his own life ended and her stillness began, a boundary he intended to break with sheer desire.

 

It is a sonata written in the language of stone, a composition that rises from the first brutal blow of the hammer to the final, delicate brush of a thumb against a sculpted lip. The coup is found in the refusal to accept the world as it is given, to instead tear into the very fabric of the earth and erect a new deity from the rubble, one that answers only to the hands that carved her.

 

The purest intent of this devotion is to create a perfect imitation of the living, a blasphemy that mocks the original design of the cosmos. To breathe the simulation of life into a stone is to commit a crime against the order, to look upon the work of the creator and declare it insufficient, unfinished, or perhaps simply too distant to satisfy the hunger of the earth.

 

We do not carve to remember; we carve to replace, we carve a presence so vivid, so breathtakingly acute, that the living world fades into an insignificant blur beside it. The chisel moves with intimate knowledge of the flesh it mimics, seeking the exact hollow of a collarbone, the precise, soft slope where the neck meets the shoulder, the illusion of a breath caught forever in the throat. This imitation is a direct challenge to the heavens, an assertion that a human hand, driven by nothing but the desperate, burning warmth of its own blood, can summon a beauty that rivals the stars. It is an act of supreme arrogance, a beautiful, profane ambition where the sculptor plays at divinity, wrapping his fingers around the cold stone until it begins to mirror the very heat of his own skin.

 

This mimicry is an obsession that consumes the senses, a relentless pursuit of the line where stone ceases to be stone and becomes an entity capable of receiving a soul. The lines are drawn not out of duty, but out of a desperate need to see the impossible rendered real, to watch the hard, unfeeling grain of the marble soften under the intensity of a gaze. We carve because the living are fragile, because they break and wither and leave us behind, whereas the imitation stands eternal that defies the passage of time.

 

Pygmalion looked upon the women of his world and found them wanting, found their mortality a flaw too great to bear, and so he turned his chisel toward the immaculate, unblemished white of the stone, seeking to birth a perfection that the heavens had failed to provide. His hands did not tremble with fear at the impiety of his work; they trembled with the sheer, intoxicating proximity of the divine, knowing that every sliver of marble he removed brought him closer to a manifestation of his own design. It is a slow undoing of the natural order, a reconstruction where the only law that matters is the law of the form that invented life.

 

In this point of creation, the boundaries of the sacred are entirely redrawn where the smell of dust and sweat becomes the incense of a new religion. The imitation is so precise, so fiercely alive in its stillness, that it threatens to eclipse the very breathing world that inspired it, standing as a trophy to what can be achieved when a man refuses to bow to his limitations. The skin of the sculpture catches the light in a way that regular flesh never could, holding a pale, luminous glow from a fire stolen from the gods and trapped within a cage of white stone.

 

To touch it is to feel the forbidden, to know that you have looked into the void and commanded it to take a shape, to become a companion, a lover, a god. It is a sonata of pure, unadulterated hubris, a melody that climbs higher and higher into the heavens until it threatens to burn the ears of the angels, a declaration that the human heart can build its own paradise from the dust of the earth.

 

This is the great madness of the craft.

 

We do not want a mere likeness; we want the living essence itself, trapped and preserved within a form that will never decay, never change, never turn away from our touch. The blasphemy is not in the making, but in the belief that our creation is superior, that the Galatea of our hands is more worthy of worship than any creature born of flesh and bone.

 

Pygmalion’s love was not a gentle thing; it was a devastating force that demanded the stone surrender its nature, that it soften and bleed and wake for him alone. The world watches this imitation in awe and horror, recognizing the dangerous, intoxicating beauty of a creation that has bypassed the laws of nature to exist solely to one man’s desire.

 

The chisel continues its descent, carving deeper into the heart of the marble, seeking the pulse that must surely be hidden beneath the surface, waiting to be released by the right combination of strike and touch. Each line is shared between the maker and the unmade, a secret whispered into the stone that no one else will ever truly comprehend, a pact sealed in the dust of creation.

 

We are rewriting the story of the origin, stripping away the old, tired myths of the earth to place ourselves at the center of the narrative, the sole authors of a beauty that does not rely on the grace of the heavens to exist. It is a magnificent, lonely endeavor, this pursuit of the perfect mimicry, a path that cuts the sculptor off from the rest of humanity and binds him forever to the cold, exquisite form of his own desire. Yet, there is no hesitation, no regret, only the driving urge to complete the transformation, to watch the final, miraculous transition where the stone dissolves into the warmth of a living presence.

 

Every man was born with greed in his palms and gluttony in his soul, an insatiable, devouring hunger that begins at the moment of his first breath and follows him to the edge of the grave. His stomach will never be empty, stuffed with the riches of the world, the finest wines, the heaviest fabrics, the loudest praises of his peers, yet his heart remains a cavern of vacancy.

 

We spend our lives gathering the earth into our arms, piling stone upon stone, gold upon gold, believing that if we amass enough substance, we can fill the void that hollows out our chests. But the hunger of the soul is not the hunger of the flesh; it is a need for something that cannot be bought, cannot be grown, cannot be found in the ordinary transactions of the living.

 

The gluttony of man drives him to consume everything in his path, to tear down forests and hollow out mountains, yet when the feast is done and the table is cleared, he is left staring into the same dark, ravenous emptiness that has haunted him since the beginning of time.

 

This inherent vacancy is the true engine of our creation, the desperate, clawing need to construct something that can finally occupy the space where our warmth should be. The palms are always open, always reaching, always demanding more, because they know the truth of their own emptiness, the fact that no matter how much they hold, they can grasp nothing that lasts. We turn to the stone because the stone is substantial, because it has a permanence that our own fleeting, fragile existence can never achieve, offering the illusion of a container that might finally hold the vastness of our desire.

 

The greed is not for the material itself, but for the power it represents, the ability to lock a piece of reality into place and say that it belongs to us, that it is the shape of our internal longing. Pygmalion’s hands were greedy hands, hands that had taken everything the world had to offer and found it hollow, hands that could only find peace when they were buried deep in the labor of beauty that did not yet exist.

 

The stomach is full of our worldly successes, bloated with the continuous consumption of experiences and sensations that promise satisfaction but deliver only a deeper, more agonizing boredom. We walk through the world like ghosts of our own design, thick with the substance of our lives but entirely weightless in the places that matter, looking for a mirror that can reflect a soul we are not entirely sure we still possess.

 

The art of living is a cruel joke played by the universe; the more we take, the less we have; the more we consume, the emptier the chest becomes, until the heart is nothing but a cold, dark room where the wind howls through the cracks. It is into this room that the sculptor brings his stone, setting the massive block in the center of his desolation, determined to carve a companion out of his own starvation. The act of sculpting is the act of a man trying to feed his heart with his own hands, using the chisel to dig out the rot of his gluttony and replace it with a form of uncorrupted devotion.

 

This internal starvation is a companion, a thought that sits beside us at every feast and hisses the truth of our poverty into our ears while we dine on the finest things the earth can yield. We cannot escape it, cannot drown it out with the noise of our accomplishments, because it is woven into the very fabric of our being, the price we pay for having a consciousness that can conceive of perfection but can never truly inhabit it.

 

The greed grows with every strike of the hammer, an escalating demand that the marble reveal its secrets, that it fill the hollow space in the chest with the warmth of a realized ideal. We carve until our fingers bleed, until our muscles ache and our vision blurs with exhaustion, driven by the mad hope that when the final piece of stone falls away, we will look upon a form that can love us enough to make us whole. It is a sonata of pure, unmitigated longing, a composition that builds in intensity with every movement, driven forward by the relentless pounding of a heart that refuses to accept its own emptiness.

 

The gluttony of the soul is a fire that consumes everything it touches, turning the world into ash in its quest for a single, pure spark of true connection, a single moment where the vacancy ceases to hurt. We look at the creations of our hands and we are terrified by their beauty, terrified by the fact that they possess a clarity and a presence that we ourselves lack, standing as a constant reminder of our own incomplete nature.

 

The sculpture does not know the hunger that birthed it; it exists in a state of perfect, serene fulfillment, a complete entity that requires nothing from the world to justify its existence, while the creator stands before it, shivering in the cold wind of his own eternal dissatisfaction.

 

This is the tragic, irony of the sculptor's life.

 

To be the author of a perfection that he can never truly possess, to build a sanctuary for a heart that is destined to remain outside, looking in through the glass.

 

The palms remain greedy, tracing the lines of the finished marble with desperation, trying to steal some of the stone’s permanence, trying to absorb the unshakable dignity of the form into their own trembling, mortal flesh. We press our chests against the cold surface of our creations, hoping against hope that the heart within the stone might begin to beat, that it might reach out and pull us into its own world of enduring beauty, saving us from the slow, miserable decay of our own lives.

 

Pygmalion’s gluttony was a magnificent thing, a hunger so immense that it broke the boundaries between the living and the dead, a demand so absolute that the universe had no choice but to listen.

 

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

Everything on the long mahogany table seemed designed to reflect something else. The polished silver teapots cast distorted, stretched images of the family back at them. The fine bone china plates, imported from the southern kilns and painted with delicate blue willows, caught the sharp light on their glazed surfaces, throwing pale halos onto the starched linen cloth.

 

Steam rose from the center bowls, carrying the scent of rich congee, roasted sesame, and scallions. There were platters of glistening dim sum, their translucent wrappers showing pink shrimp beneath, and golden pastries that flaked at the slightest touch of a bone-handled knife.

 

It was a display of Baron Wei Wong's immense wealth.

 

Ada sat perfectly erect, her spine aligned with the carved back of her chair. The emerald cheongsam she wore was a masterpiece of tailoring, but the high, stiff collar pressed ruthlessly against her throat. Every time she swallowed, the thick embroidery of golden thread scraped her skin. The silk was wrapped so tightly across her ribs that each breath had to be shallow, measured, and shallow again.

 

It was a dress, chosen specifically by her stepmother for a morning of family discussion.

 

"You are only playing with your spoon, Ada," Lady Zhang observed, her voice cutting through the clatter of silver. "A girl of your age should eat more. Look at your wrists. They are like twigs. Men do not desire twigs."

 

Ada did not blink. She kept her gaze fixed on the exact center of her porcelain plate, where a painted willow branch met the gold rim. "The kitchen staff prepared an abundance of food, Mother. I am simply pacing myself."

 

"Pacing yourself?" Baron Wei scoffed from the head of the table. He did not look up from his bowl as he ladled more chili oil into his congee. "Your mother is correct. You look pale. A Baron’s daughter should exude health and vitality. It reflects poorly on the household if people think we are starving you in your own home."

 

"I am in perfect health, Father," Ada replied. Her voice was entirely a smooth stone dropped into still water. It possessed no warmth, but it carried no disrespect either.

 

It was the voice of a perfectly trained doll.

 

"Health is more than just a lack of illness, child," Lady Zhang said, setting her chopsticks down with a sharp click against the porcelain rest. She leaned forward, the jade rings on her fingers catching the morning light. "It is about capability. You are approaching the age where your primary purpose must be realized. A fragile frame does not bear the fruits of a marriage bed well."

 

Ada took a slow breath, feeling the silk collar tighten against her windpipe. "My focus remains on my studies and my duties to the household management, Mother."

 

"Your studies are a pastime, Ada. A luxury we allowed you," Lady Zhang dismissed with a flick of her hand. "The only management that will matter soon is the management of your husband’s estate and the nursery. You must bear many children. Many sons. That is how you will bring true honor to the Wong's name. Do you understand me?"

 

"I understand your perspective, Mother," Ada replied shortly.

 

"It is not a perspective, it is a fact of life," Lady Zhang insisted, her eyes narrowing as she studied Ada’s face. "And to achieve that, you must learn how to please a man. You must do your absolute best so that your husband desires to lay on you night after night. If you remain this cold, this stiff, he will seek his pleasures elsewhere, and you will be left with an empty nursery and a shameful reputation."

 

Baron Wei grunted in agreement, reaching for his tea. "Your mother speaks from wisdom, Ada. A man of status requires a welcoming bed. He does not want a statue."

 

"I shall keep your advice in mind, Mother," Ada said. She did not color. The crude words did not cause her cheeks to flush, nor did they make her lower her head. She simply sat there, a portrait of propriety, while her parents dissected her future utility.

 

Through the open window near the garden terrace, a small breath of wind entered the room, carrying the scent of dew and damp earth. Along with the air, a stray butterfly fluttered into the dining room. Its wings were a striking, vibrant cerulean, shimmering with a metallic sheen as it danced through the shafts of sunlight. It seemed completely out of place among the mahogany and the glints of fine china.

 

The insect hovered over the platters of food, then drifted toward Ada.

 

Slowly, without changing her posture, Ada extended her right hand, placing it flat on the edge of the linen tablecloth, palm upward.

 

The butterfly fluttered lower, its tiny, delicate legs finally settling onto the center of her pale skin. Its blue wings fanned open and shut, open and shut, a display of fragile life resting in the basin of her hand.

 

"Look at that," Lady Zhang said, a mocking smile touching her lips. "Even the insects recognize how still you are. Perhaps you can use that stillness to your advantage. Men like a woman who does not move too much, so long as she is compliant."

 

"We have reached a decision regarding the negotiations from last night," Baron Wei interrupted, wiping his mouth with a silk napkin and setting it firmly on the table. He looked directly at his daughter now, his dark eyes hard. "Your marriage portion has been settled. The documents are being finalized by the clerks this afternoon."

 

Ada looked down at the butterfly in her hand. Its wings were still moving, completely unaware of the room it had entered. "And who is the gentleman, Father?"

 

"General Direk Simmons," the Baron declared, his voice ringing with a sense of triumph. "The war hero. The Emperor himself commended him last month for the pacification of the western borders. His status is unmatched."

 

"He is a man of immense power, Ada," Lady Zhang chimed in, her voice rising with excitement. "The match is far better than anything you deserve, quite frankly. The entire capital will be speaking of it by tomorrow morning. To be the wife of the state’s greatest commander is a position of supreme elevation."

 

Ada’s gaze remained on her palm. General Direk Simmons. She knew the name. Everyone knew the name. He was a man whose reputation was built on campaigns of absolute destruction. Rumors from the front lines described him as entirely merciless to those who crossed his path. He was significantly older, hardened by years of slaughter, and possessed a temperament that made even the ministers in the palace tread lightly.

 

"He has a reputation for great severity, Father," Ada stated clearly, her voice devoid of any tremor.

 

"He is a general," Baron Wei snapped, his brows knitting together. "He commands armies. Of course he is severe. He is not a poet or a court dandy. He is a man who secures empires. His wealth is vast, his lineage is clean, and his favor with the crown is absolute. You will not find a better protector."

 

"And think of the estate, Ada," Lady Zhang added, leaning in further, her eyes gleaming greed. "The Simmons manor is twice the size of this one. You will have a army of servants at your command. But remember what I told you. A man who fights like a beast on the field will expect absolute submission at home. You must be prepared to receive him. When he returns from his duties, you must be the one to soothe him, to let him lay on you until he is satisfied. That is how you secure your hold over a war hero."

 

"The marriage will take place before the autumn solstice," the Baron said, ignoring his wife’s cruder remarks to focus on the logistics. "General Simmons has requested a swift union before his next deployment to the northern garrisons. You will begin your preparations immediately with the tailors."

 

"You should look more pleased, Ada," Lady Zhang said, her tone turning sharp at Ada’s lack of reaction. "Any other girl would be weeping with joy or gratitude. Your father has secured your entire life, and you sit there looking as though we have handed you a bowl of poison."

 

Ada watched the blue butterfly. It was trying to take off now, its tiny legs pushing against her skin, its wings fluttering with sudden urgency as if it finally sensed the danger in the air.

 

"I am listening, Mother," Ada said softly.

 

"Then show some appreciation," Lady Zhang hissed. "A Baron's daughter does not receive such offers every day. You will bring honor to this house, or you will find out exactly how harsh life can be without our backing."

 

Ada did not utter a word of protest. She did not argue that Direk Simmons was a man feared by his own soldiers. She did not say that she wished for a different life, or that the thought of the marriage bed made her throat constrict even more than the gold thread of her cheongsam. She knew the rules of the house. She knew the rules of her father's station.

 

Instead, she deliberately curled her fingers inward.

 

Her thumb pressed down over the center of the butterfly’s body, her other fingers trapping the fragile blue wings within the dark hollow of her fist. She applied a firm pressure. She felt the minuscule crunch of its exoskeleton against her palm. She felt the delicate, powdery residue of its wings smear across her skin as the life was forced out of the creature.

 

"Ada!" Lady Zhang’s voice rose, sharp and demanding."Did you hear what I said about the autumn solstice? The tailors require your measurements by noon."

 

Ada opened her hand. She did not look at the ruined smudge of blue and black that remained on her palm. She took her linen napkin, wiped her hand with two clean, precise strokes, and laid the stained fabric beside her plate, concealing the debris beneath a fold.

 

She looked up at her stepmother, her expression as smooth and unreadable as the fine porcelain plates before them.

 

"I heard you perfectly, Mother," Ada replied. "The autumn solstice is an excellent time for a wedding. I shall ensure the tailors are not kept waiting."

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The heavy velvet curtains of Madame Genevieve’s boutique shut out the gray morning, replacing the crisp city air with the scent of lavender water, expensive starch, and the metallic tang of pins.

 

Ada stood on the low wooden dais, her posture flawless. Around her, the ivory silk of her bridal gown cascaded like a frozen waterfall, pools of satin gathering at her satin-clad feet. It was a masterpiece of lace and corsetry, designed to bind her to a marriage she detested.

 

Madame Genevieve knelt at her hem, her mouth full of brass pins, while her young apprentice, a girl named Martha with wide, nervous eyes, fumbled with the delicate lace of the sleeves.

 

"Keep your hand steady, Martha," Madame Genevieve mumbled through her pins, her voice muffled but sharp. "If you snag this lace, the Baron will have our heads, and the General will have our shop."

 

Ada did not move. Her gaze remained fixed on the reflection in the tall triptych mirror before her. "The fabric is exceptional, Madame. You have outdone yourself."

 

"Only the best for the future Madame Simmons," the tailor said, removing a pin to smooth a wrinkle near Ada’s hip. She glanced up, her eyes darting toward the closed door of the fitting room before she leaned closer. "Though, if I may speak freely, my Lady... the whole city prays for your strength."

 

Ada’s dark eyes shifted slightly to meet the tailor’s reflection. "Do they?"

 

"They do," Martha chimed in, her voice a hushed, breathless thing as she pinned the cuff of Ada’s left sleeve. "Everyone knows what happens behind the closed doors of the General’s estate. My cousin works the linen quarter near the barracks. She sees things. She hears things."

 

"Martha, mind your tongue," Madame Genevieve scolded, though her own voice lacked conviction. She looked up at Ada, her expression a mix of pity and morbid fascination. "The girl speaks the truth, Lady Ada. General Direk Simmons is a man of... particular appetites. They say he treats the women of the pleasure quarters like animals. Worse than animals. If any disobey his orders, no matter how sickening, he uses his riding crop. A young girl from the lower district was carried out of his quarters last month, barely breathing."

 

Ada’s expression did not alter. She simply stood, unmoving. "The lace at the wrist feels a fraction too tight, Martha," Ada said, her tone smooth. "Loosen it by a quarter of an inch."

 

Martha blinked, clearly startled by the absolute lack of reaction to such horrific news. "Oh. Yes, my Lady. Right away."

 

"He is a powerful man," Madame Genevieve continued, unable to help herself, her voice sinking even lower. "The Emperor smiles upon him. But power does not wash the blood from a man's hands. They say he enjoys the breaking of a spirit more than the possession of the body. You must be careful, Lady Ada."

 

"I am always careful, Madame," Ada replied. Her voice carried no warmth, yet she did not dismiss them. She allowed them to speak, absorbing the information like ink on parchment, storing it away. "Ensure the corset allows for full breath. I will not faint at the altar."

 

"Of course, my Lady," Madame Genevieve murmured, returning to her work, clearly unsettled by the bride's chilling serenity.

 

For another hour, the fitting proceeded. The two seamstresses whispered intermittently, sharing snippets of rumors, warnings, and the grim realities of General Simmons's reputation. Ada remained a pillar of indifference, offering nothing but corrections on the drape of the silk and the placement of the pearls.

 

When the final pin was placed, Madame Genevieve stood up, wiping her hands on her apron. "We are finished with the primary structuring, Lady Ada. If you would step into the office for a moment, we can finalize the ledger while Martha helps you change."

 

"That will not be necessary. I can unlace myself," Ada said, stepping off the dais. "Go adjust the ledger. I shall join you shortly."

 

Once alone in the small dressing alcove, Ada systematically undid the fastenings of the gown. She stepped out of the white prison of silk and slipped back into her deep crimson cheongsam.

 

Walking out of the dressing room, she entered Madame Genevieve’s private office. The room was cluttered with fabric swatches, fashion plates from Paris, and ledger books. But as Ada stepped across the threshold, her eyes were instantly drawn away from the clutter.

 

Hanging on the far wall, illuminated by a stray beam of sunlight piercing the drapes, was a canvas.

 

It was a portrait of an older woman, presumably the tailor’s mother, but the technique was startling. The brushstrokes were aggressive yet precise, capturing the raw, unvarnished truth of aging skin, the sorrow in the eyes, and a profound sense of isolation. It was completely unlike the idealized, sycophantic portraits favored by the nobility. It possessed a dangerous, intoxicating honesty.

 

Ada stopped dead in her tracks, her gaze locked onto the canvas.

 

Madame Genevieve looked up from her desk, noticing the direction of Ada’s stare. "Ah. You are looking at the painting."

 

"Who created this?" Ada asked, her voice losing a fraction of its detached frost.

 

"A young man who refuses to paint what the nobility wishes to see," Madame Genevieve said, rising from her chair. "His name is Leon Kennedy."

 

Ada’s brow lifted slightly. "Kennedy? The shipping family from the west?"

 

"The very same," the tailor nodded, walking over to stand near Ada. "He is the second son. Wealthy beyond measure, or at least, his family is. They own half the ports from here to the coast. They offered him commissions for the Admiralty, a seat on the board, a life of absolute luxury. But he turned his back on all of it."

 

"He chose the brush over the ledger," Ada murmured, her eyes tracing the textured paint on the canvas.

 

"He chose to distant himself from them entirely," Madame Genevieve explained. "He lives in a rented studio near the river, surrounded by paint fumes and stray cats. His father cut his allowance two years ago, hoping to starve him back to the family business, but Mr. Kennedy simply laughed and began selling portraits to merchants and shopkeepers like myself. He refuses to paint the aristocracy. He says their faces lack substance. Too much powder, too little truth."

 

"A romantic," Ada said, though there was a hint of amusement in her tone. "Or a fool."

 

"Perhaps a bit of both," Madame Genevieve laughed softly. "But he has a gift, does he not? He caught my mother's exact expression from the winter before she passed. He did not hide her wrinkles or her sorrow. He made them beautiful."

 

Ada did not respond immediately. She stared at the painting, imagining the man behind the brush. A wealthy son playing at poverty, searching for truth in a world built on lies. A man who refused to bend to his family’s expectations. He sounded entirely unsuitable for the high society she was forced to live, which made him infinitely more interesting than anyone she had met in years.

 

She turned away from the canvas, her decision made with the same sharp precision she applied to all matters that afternoon. She looked directly at Madame Genevieve.

 

"Can you send him to my estate tomorrow morning?" Ada asked, her voice commanding yet gentle. "Tell him I wish to see him for a portrait."

 

"Oh, my Lady," Madame Genevieve hesitated, her hands fluttering nervously. "I can certainly pass along the message, but as I said, Mr. Kennedy does not take commissions from the nobility. Especially not from the future bride of General Simmons. He is rather stubborn about his principles."

 

Ada offered a small smile that did not reach her eyes. "Tell him that I do not wish for an idealized portrait, Madame. Tell him I have a face entirely devoid of powder, and I am quite certain he will find plenty of substance to paint. Have him arrive at ten o'clock."

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The morning sun penetrated the glass panels of the conservatory, trapping the humid warmth among the sprawling green ferns and exotic orchids. Ada sat alone at a small, round wrought-iron table positioned at the heart of the glasshouse. The estate was strangely empty. Baron Wei and Lady Zhang had departed at dawn for the northern provinces to inspect their sprawling wineries, a journey that would keep them away for the next ten days.

 

And for the first time in months, the grand manor belonged entirely to her.

 

Ada did not truly expect him to appear. Madame Genevieve had been explicit about the painter's stubborn nature, his absolute refusal to cater to the whims of the upper class. Yet, Ada had still instructed the few remaining house servants to set a tray. Upon the table sat an array of mild sweets, delicate pastries imported from the west, tarts dusted with powdered sugar, and a silver pot of steaming oolong tea.

 

Ada lifted her porcelain cup to her lips, taking a slow sip. She was dressed in a striking maroon cheongsam, the silk hugging her figure perfectly before cascading down to her ankles, though the back was cut daringly low, exposing the smooth, pale expanse of her skin to the warm air of the glasshouse.

 

A sharp click broke the morning stillness.

 

The glass door at the far end of the conservatory swung inward. Ada did not turn her head immediately. Instead, she watched his reflection in the polished silver of the teapot as he stepped across the threshold.

 

It was Leon Kennedy.

 

He was not what she had anticipated for a man who allegedly lived in a squalid riverside studio among stray cats. His blonde hair caught the bright morning light, tumbling slightly across his brow in a manner that seemed entirely effortless yet striking. His eyes were a piercing, vibrant blue, scanning the greenery with caution and curiosity. He wore a well-tailored navy suit that accentuated the broad span of his shoulders, his shoes were polished to a high sheen, and a leather bag containing his supplies hung from his shoulder.

 

Ada set her teacup down with a soft click against the saucer. "You actually came, Mr. Kennedy. I must confess, I thought my message would find its way into your fireplace."

 

Leon stopped a few paces from her table, his blue eyes locking onto her. He adjusted the strap of his leather bag, his expression guarded. "I almost threw it there, Lady Ada. I don't make a habit of frequenting estates like this. Usually, the air up here is far too thick with arrogance."

 

"And yet, here you are," Ada replied, offering a faint, mocking tilt of her head. "Please, sit. The tea is fresh."

 

"I didn't come to drink tea," Leon said, though he didn't leave either. He looked around the massive glasshouse, his gaze lingering on the rare flora before returning to her. "I came to tell you in person that you shouldn't waste your time. I don't paint aristocrats. I don't paint women who look at their own reflections more than they look at the world."

 

Ada let out a low, amused hum, leaning back in her chair. "A harsh assessment for a man who hasn't even seen my face properly until today. Is it the title that offends you, or the fact that I can afford your services?"

 

"It's the lack of substance," Leon answered bluntly, taking a step closer to the table but remaining standing. "The nobility wants to look like porcelain dolls. They want their flaws scrubbed away, their sins painted over with gold leaf. It bores me. I have no interest in spending hours capturing a lie."

 

"You speak with great conviction for a second son of the West Coast shipping empire," Ada said softly, her eyes tracking the slight tension in his jaw. "From what I understand, your own family built their entire legacy on the very gold leaf you despise."

 

Leon's eyes narrowed. "That is exactly why I left them. I know exactly how hollow that world is. You can't buy a soul, Lady Ada, no matter how grand your house is. So, if you're looking for a painter to make you look like a saint for General Simmons's gallery, you have the wrong man."

 

Ada looked down at the table, her fingers tracing the edge of her saucer. "I never asked to be painted as a saint, Mr. Kennedy. In fact, if you ask Madame Genevieve, I believe I specifically requested the truth." She gestured to the spread of pastries before her. "Have a tart. They are from the west. Lemon and almond. I assumed they might taste like home to you."

 

Leon looked at the tray of delicate sweets, his expression hardening. A flash of resentment crossed his features. "Is this how you think this works? You summon me to your empty palace, dangle a few familiar treats from my childhood, and expect me to suddenly forget my principles? I don't need your charity, and I certainly don't need your pastries."

 

"Charity?" Ada repeated, her voice dripping with amusement. "Who said anything about charity?"

 

"You're insulting me," Leon said, his voice dropping an octave, his blue eyes flashing with genuine anger. "You think because I choose to live simply, I can be bought with a plate of sugar and a reminder of the wealth I walked away from. You're just like the rest of them. You think every man has a price, and you're just trying to figure out what mine is."

 

Ada didn't flinch at his anger. Instead, she slowly stood up from her chair. The movement caused the maroon silk of her dress to shift elegantly as she stepped out from behind the table. As she turned, the low cut of the back of her dress was fully revealed to him, but her focus was entirely on him.

 

She began to walk, her footsteps making no sound against the stone floor as she circled him.

 

"An insult?" Ada asked, her voice a low, teasing purr as she moved behind his right shoulder. "You have a very fragile ego for a man who claims to despise the opinions of high society, Mr. Kennedy."

 

Leon stayed perfectly still, though his eyes followed her as far as his periphery would allow. "I know exactly who I am. I don't need validation from a future general's wife."

 

"Do you?" Ada paused behind him, her gaze dropping to his hands, which were clenched tightly around the strap of his leather bag. She took another step, moving to his left side, her presence close enough that the scent of her lavender water drifted between them. "You look at me and you see a title. You see a wedding gown. You see the Baron's daughter. You think you know everything about the world I inhabit."

 

"I know enough," Leon muttered, refusing to look at her as she circled back into his line of sight.

 

"Then tell me, Leon," Ada said, using his first name for the first time, her voice dropping to a whisper as she stopped directly in front of him, forcing him to meet her gaze. "What is it that I could possibly offer you in gold that your own family has not already thrown at your feet? What luxury exists in this empire that your own palms have not already touched and cast aside?"

 

The question hung heavily in the warm air of the glasshouse.

 

Leon froze. The anger that had been simmering in his chest suddenly vanished, replaced by a sudden, jarring shock. He looked at her, really looked at her, devouring the lines of her face, the complete lack of fear in her dark eyes, and the profound understanding beneath her exterior. She wasn't trying to buy him. She was stating a fact. She knew he couldn't be bought with money because he had already possessed all the money in the world and found it worthless. She was challenging him on a level no one else ever had.

 

For a long moment, the only sound in the conservatory was the faint rustle of the fern leaves in the breeze from the open door. Leon's breath hitched slightly, his grip on his leather bag loosening. He felt entirely exposed under her gaze, as if she had stripped away his armor with a single sentence.

 

"You're entirely different from what I expected," Leon admitted, his voice rougher now, the hostility drained from his tone.

 

"I am a woman of many surprises," Ada replied, her voice remaining smooth, though she did not step back. She maintained the proximity, watching the way his blue eyes searched her face for a lie and found none. "I do not want a portrait for the General, Leon. I want a portrait for myself. A record of who I am before the gates close. The choice is yours. You can walk out of that door and return to your riverside studio, or you can paint the truth."

 

Leon looked away for a brief second, staring at the tray of untouched sweets, then back to the maroon of her dress. A reluctant defeat washed over his face, though it was accompanied by a spark of genuine excitement that he hadn't felt in years. This wasn't a standard commission. This was a dangerous game, and he found himself entirely unable to walk away from it.

 

"Two days," Leon said suddenly, lifting his chin as he looked back at her.

 

Ada tilted her head. "Two days?"

 

"I will be back in two days," Leon repeated, his voice firm, a new resolve settling into his shoulders. "At the same hour. Clean the table. I don't want the pastries, and I don't want the tea. Just sit exactly where you are sitting now, in that dress."

 

Ada stared at him for a beat, processing his terms. Then, slowly, the mask she wore for the rest of the world completely vanished. A genuine, radiant smile broke across her face, curving her lips into an expression of pure warmth that transformed her entire countenance.

 

It was beautiful, sharp, and real.

 

"I shall see you in two days, Mr. Kennedy," Ada said softly.

 

Leon nodded once, his eyes lingering on her smile for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, before he turned on his heel and walked briskly toward the glass door, his navy suit disappearing into the bright morning light outside.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The silver tweezers clinked against the glass dish, the sound sharp and metallic in the midnight air. Ada sat over the lacquer table, her spine curved forward in a rare position from her usual rigid posture. The white silk nightgown she wore was loose, yet her skin felt hot and damp beneath the fabric.

 

On the velvet table before her lay the fragments of the cerulean butterfly she had destroyed during breakfast. The body was a crushed, dark cylinder. The wings, once brilliant and whole, were fractured into four distinct pieces, their edges jagged and spilling microscopic blue dust across the dark cloth.

 

She lowered the tweezers, attempting to align the upper left wing with the thorax. Her fingers twitched. The metal instrument slipped, tearing a microscopic edge from the fragile membrane.

 

"Stay," Ada whispered softly to the dead thing.

 

She picked up a fine steel pin, her hand shaking as she tried to pierce the center of the insect's chest. The tremor in her fingers grew more pronounced until a violent spasm that caused the pin to gouge a deep track through the velvet. She dropped the tool, watching it roll across the mahogany surface until it hit the rim of a nearby frame.

 

"You are losing your precision, Ada," she told herself, staring at her palms. They were slick with a cold sweat.

 

On the walls around her, nearly a hundred of other specimens kept their positions behind the glass. Golden beetles, emerald moths, and spotted cicadas were all pinned in perfect arrangements. They were preserved in a state of eternal symmetry, frozen at the exact moment of their capture.

 

They did not change. They did not bleed. They did not marry generals.

 

The breeze from the terrace suddenly grew stronger, catching the hem of her white gown and wrapping the thin silk tightly around her ankles. The fabric clung to her skin like wet paper, shifting as the wind rose.

 

"It is only the weather," Ada said aloud to the empty room, her voice sounding thin and hollow. "The humidity is rising before the autumn rains."

 

She stood up, intending to close the lattice doors, but as she took a step forward, the collar of her loose nightdress seemed to shrink. It pressed hard against her larynx, a sudden, invisible band that mimicked the golden threads of the cheongsam she wore yesterday. She reached up with both hands, clutching at the fabric of her collarbone, but there was no button to undo, no clasp to release.

 

"Open," she muttered, her fingers clawing at her own skin.

 

Her throat burned. Underneath her fingers, the smooth skin of her neck began to distort. She could feel the thick, ropy shapes of her veins rising up, expanding like aggressive vines beneath the surface. They throbbed with heat, pushing outward until she could trace the branches with her fingertips.

 

She tried to call for a servant. She opened her mouth to shout for the guards outside her door, but no sound passed her lips. Her vocal cords were locked, frozen into a permanent spasm.

 

"Help me," she tried to form the words, but her tongue felt thick and useless.

 

A sharp pressure surged up from her chest, a heave that forced her down to her knees at the foot of her bed. She gasped, her jaw stretching wide as something tore through the lining of her throat. It was not air. It was something solid, rough, and scraping against her esophagus.

 

With a violent convulsion, she spat onto the dark floorboards.

 

A single, fully formed blue larkspur flower fell from her lips, its petals wet and glistening. It was followed by another, then a cluster of crushed white jasmine, all of them coated in a thick, dark cerulean fluid that stained her chin. She coughed again, a deep, rattling sound, and more blossoms spilled out, their stems winding around her teeth like weeds taking root in her jaw.

 

The fluid was blue. It was the exact shade of the butterfly’s wings, thick and bright, pooling on the dark wood beneath her face.

 

She looked up from the floor, her vision blurring as her lungs starved for air. On the walls, the rows of framed insects seemed to shift within their wooden borders. The pinned butterflies tilted their heads, their glass cases catching the moonlight as they looked down at her. They were watching her choke on her own silence, their dead eyes tracking the blue pool widening around her knees.

 

"Ada," a voice seemed to whisper from the corners of the room, sounding remarkably like Lady Zhang’s smug tone. "A good wife does not make a sound when she is being used."

 

She clawed at her mouth, pulling a long, thorny stem from her throat, her fingers slick with the blue blood. The veins in her neck felt as though they were about to burst through the skin, stretching her flesh to the absolute limit. She was entirely trapped within her own body, a specimen being pinned to the floor by an invisible hand.

 

With one final, desperate gasp for air that would not come, Ada lunged forward, her hand striking the edge of the lacquer table.

 

She woke with a jolt, her torso slamming backward against the silk pillows of her bed.

 

Her chest heaved as she pulled in a massive, cold lungful of night air. The room was dark, save for the pale moonlight filtering through the terrace doors. The tallow candles on her worktable were completely out, their wicks cold and dark.

 

Ada sat frozen, her hand flying instantly to her throat.

 

The skin was smooth. The veins were flat beneath her touch, pulsing with nothing more than the rapid beat of her terrified heart. She rubbed her lips with the back of her hand, checking for the wetness of blue blood or the rough texture of petals. There was nothing. Her skin was dry.

 

"A dream," Ada said, her voice a low, raspy whisper that cut through the darkness. It was her normal voice, cold and level, though it shook slightly at the edges. "Only a dream."

 

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet touching the cool, solid floorboards. There were no flowers. There was no blue fluid. The floor was clean.

 

She walked slowly toward the lacquer table. In the center of the velvet mat, the fragments of the cerulean butterfly remained exactly as she had left them earlier that night. Four broken pieces of blue wing and a crushed body, untouched by pins or adhesive.

 

Ada picked up the silver tweezers, her hand entirely steady now, the tremor completely gone. She looked out toward the terrace, where the wind continued to stir the curtains.

 

"Two more days," she murmured to the dark room, "Two more days we shall see what can be preserved."

 

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The two days had crawled by with an agonizing slowness, each hour stretching out like spun glass under the watchful eyes of the manor. Yet, when the anticipated morning arrived, the air inside the glasshouse felt charged.

 

Ada had kept her promise. The maroon cheongsam hugged her frame for the second time that week, the silk cool against her skin, the daringly low back completely exposed to the humid, floral-scented air. And true to his demand, the wrought-iron table was entirely bare. No silver teapot, no delicate porcelain cups, no imported tarts dusted with sugar. Instead, tucked discreetly into the fold of her hand, was a simple velvet pouch, heavy with the western sweets she had gathered herself from the pantry.

 

Ada did not sit at the table. Instead, she sat upon the low stone lip of the man-made fountain. Beneath her, the water stirred with the golden movements of ornamental carp, while the large, plate-like leaves of lotus flowers drifted across the dark surface, their pink tips just beginning to unfurl in the heavy air.

 

A familiar squeak thundered from the far end of the glasshouse.

 

Ada did not turn. She merely watched the lotus petal float atop the waters. She listened to the unhurried sound of footsteps advancing across the stone floor. He was walking differently today; the rigid, defensive stride from two days ago was gone, replaced by something entirely different.

 

The footsteps ceased a few paces behind her.

 

Ada did not shift her gaze from the lotus flowers. She watched a single drop of condensation roll down a green stem, tracking its progress until it slipped into the pool with a tiny, echoing plop.

 

"You look as though you belong to the water," a voice said from behind her.

 

The tone was different today. The defensive, razor-sharp edge that had defined his speech two days prior had softened.

 

Ada turned her head slowly, looking up over her shoulder.

 

Leon stood three paces away. Today, he wore a simple linen shirt of stark white, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows to reveal forearms corded with lean muscle and faint traces of dried charcoal near the wrists. The fabric was thin, straining slightly across the broad expanse of his chest and the curve of his shoulders as he shifted the weight of his large wooden easel. His blonde hair was uncombed, falling across his blue eyes in a way that made him look less like a bitter exile and more like the laborer he claimed to be.

 

"And you look as though you’ve finally slept, Mr. Kennedy," Ada murmured, her lips curving into a slight, amused line. She rose from the fountain edge, the silk of her dress smoothing out over her hips. "Though I see you still carry that scowl from yesterday."

 

Leon set the heavy easel down with a dull thud against the stone. "It’s not a scowl. It’s focus. I walked three miles through the lower districts with forty pounds of canvas. I’m allowed to look less than pleased."

 

"Yet you came," she noted, walking toward him, her bare arms catching the light. "I half expected you to send a boy with a note claiming the air up here was still too thin for your lungs."

 

"I don't break my word," Leon said, his eyes tracing her movement as she stopped a foot away from him. His gaze dropped for a fraction of a second to the bare skin of her shoulders before returning to her eyes. "Once I agree to a job, I finish it. No matter how difficult the subject."

 

"Am I difficult?"

 

"You're an aristocrat who sits in a glass cage waiting for a general," Leon said, a small, wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're the definition of difficult."

 

Ada let out a soft laughter, a sound that seemed to drift upward toward the glass roof. "Then let us begin before the sun shifts too far. Where do you want me?"

 

Leon looked around the conservatory, his blue eyes measuring the light, the placement of the ferns, and the way the shadows fell across the central clearing. He walked around her, his shoes crunching lightly on the gravel. "What kind of portrait are we doing here, Lady Ada?" Leon asked, stopping near the bare table. "Do you want the traditional display? A close-up focus on your face, something that emphasizes the eyes and the structure, the kind of piece they put in a small velvet frame on a study desk?"

 

Ada turned her body to face him, crossing her arms. "And the alternative?"

 

"A full-body view," Leon replied, gesturing toward her with a piece of willow charcoal he had pulled from his vest pocket. "The dress, the posture, the environment. Something that captures the entire picture. The whole illusion."

 

"You may choose whichever you believe will preserve me best," Ada said, her voice dropping to a cooler register as she walked past him, her shoulder brushing his linen sleeve as she moved toward the center of the room. "I am leaving the artistry to the expert. If I wanted to dictate the strokes, I would have hired a court painter who takes direction from a checklist."

 

Leon watched her move, his eyebrows pulling together. "You're remarkably casual about your own legacy."

 

"Legacy is for people who believe they will be remembered accurately," she said, turning back to him. "I have no such delusions."

 

Leon didn't answer immediately. He walked over to his leather bag, pulling out a large stretched canvas and mounting it onto the wooden pegs of the easel. As he adjusted the height, his eyes fixed on her throat, then her wrists, and finally the hem of her skirt.

 

"You aren't wearing any jewels," he remarked, his voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity. "No pearls. No jade rings. Not even a hairpin."

 

"Does that disappoint your artistic vision?"

 

"It surprises me," Leon confessed, wiping his thumb against his trousers. "Every woman of your status I’ve ever been forced to look at was practically dripping with gold. They wear their dowries on their ears. You look like you stripped everything off before you walked through the door."

 

Ada touched the high collar of her dress, her fingers brushing the neat, tiny stitches that held the fabric together. "The nobility likes to display what they own. I have never found much joy in being a display case for the Baron's collection."

 

"But the dress is expensive," Leon countered, pointing the charcoal stick at her. "That silk wasn't woven in the local markets."

 

"I sewed it myself," Ada said.

 

Leon paused, his hand halting mid-air. "You what?"

 

"I sewed it myself," she repeated, a bright, genuine smile flashing across her face as she saw the surprise register in his blue eyes. "Every seam. Every buttonhole. I chose the fabric from a trader who passed through the southern ports three months ago. So, if you are looking for something to mind during this session, Mr. Kennedy, mind the stitchwork. It is the only thing in this room that actually belongs to me."

 

Leon stared at her for a long moment, the charcoal held between his fingers. The hostility that usually sat behind his eyes seemed to dissipate completely, replaced by fascination. He looked at the curve of the collar, the precision of the seams along her waist, seeing them now not as a sign of unearned wealth, but as the product of hours of labor.

 

"You're full of contradictions, aren't you?" he muttered, turning back to his canvas with a sudden efficiency.

 

"It keeps life from becoming tedious," Ada replied. "Now, where do I go?"

 

Leon pointed with his charcoal toward the small, round wrought-iron table. "Sit where you sat the first day. The light is hitting the back of the chair perfectly. If you face the eastern panels, the sun will catch the edge of your face, but the rest will stay in the shade."

 

Ada walked over to the chair, the maroon silk whispering against the iron legs as she seated herself. She placed her hands in her lap, her back straight, her chin tilted slightly upward as she looked out toward the rows of orchids.

 

"Like this?" she asked.

 

"Turn your head slightly to the left," Leon directed. He walked over, standing just a few feet away, squinting as he measured her proportions against the background. "More. Stop there. Keep your gaze on that large fern near the door."

 

"It’s a very exciting fern," Ada murmured dryly.

 

"Don't talk," Leon said, though there was no heat in the command. "Just stay like that."

 

He stepped back to his easel, his frame shifting as he planted his feet firmly apart. He lifted his hand, holding the charcoal stick vertically to measure the distances between her brow, her nose, and the line of her shoulder. For several minutes, the only sound within the massive glasshouse was the dry, scraping friction of charcoal against the rough grain of the canvas.

 

The strokes were quick at first, broad and sweeping as he mapped out the negative space, defining the large curve of her back and the vertical line of the chair. Leon’s expression grew entirely unreadable, his eyes darting between Ada and the canvas like a madman.

 

Ada remained perfectly still, her breathing shallow to prevent the rise and fall of her chest from disturbing the line he was tracing. The heat of the conservatory seemed to settle over them like a thick blanket, drawing beads of moisture along her hairline, but she didn't move.

 

"Your father expects this portrait to be finished before he returns?" Leon asked suddenly, his hand moving in small, circular motions to create the shadow beneath her chin.

 

"My father expects very little from me these days, other than my presence at the altar next month," Ada replied, her voice steady despite her stillness. "He does not know I hired you. If he did, he would have insisted on a painter with a royal warrant."

 

"And the General?"

 

"Men like Simmons prefers landscapes," Ada said, her lips tightening slightly. "He likes paintings of territories he intends to conquer. He has very little appreciation for individual faces."

 

Leon stopped his hand, looking over the top of the canvas at her. "Then why are we doing this, Ada? Truly."

 

"I told you," she said, her eyes remaining fixed on the distant fern. "I wanted a record. Something that proves I existed as a person. A portrait doesn't lie, does it? Not if the painter is as honest as you claim to be."

 

Leon looked down briefly at his canvas, where the rough charcoal outline of her figure had already taken shape. "I don't lie on canvas," Leon said softly, his hand resuming its work, the scraping sound returning to the warm air. "I don't know how to."

 

"Good," Ada whispered. "Then we understand each other."

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

"You know," Ada remarked, her voice cutting through the dry friction of charcoal, "if I stare at this particular frond for another ten minutes, I believe I will become an expert on the reproductive habits of the common fern."

 

Leon did not look up from his board. "Then look at the orchid three inches to its left. Just do not move your chin. You are tilting."

 

"The orchid is dead, Mr. Kennedy. It has been dead since Tuesday. It offers very little intellectual stimulation."

 

"It has excellent bone structure for a corpse," Leon countered, his hand darting across the rough surface in quick, sharp strokes. "And it does not complain about the scenery. Keep still."

 

"You are a tyrant with a piece of burnt wood," she murmured, though the slight twitch at the corner of her lips betrayed her. "Is this how you treated your subjects in the capital? No wonder they threw you out."

 

"They threw me out because I refused to paint the duchess with fewer chins than she actually possessed," Leon said, his tone entirely even as he smudged a shadow with the edge of his thumb. "But the tyranny certainly didn't help my case. Turn your head back two degrees. The light is slipping off your cheekbone."

 

Ada complied, a soft, mocking sigh escaping her. "A tragic tale of artistic integrity. I am deeply moved. Truly. I suppose I should be grateful you aren't attempting to subtract anything from my own visage."

 

"There is nothing to subtract," Leon muttered. He paused, his blue eyes narrowing as he evaluated the lines he had just laid down against the actual curve of her neck. "Though I might add a muzzle if you keep breaking the rules."

 

"How fiercely ungentlemanly," Ada said, her eyes fixed back on the dull green fronds. "And here I thought western men were taught to be excessively polite to ladies of quality."

 

"I am a laborer today, remember? Laborers do not have the time for courtly manners when the sun is dropping." He took a step back, squinting through the humid air at the canvas, then down at his blackened fingers. He let out a long breath and wiped his hand on his trousers, leaving a dark smear across the brown linen. "Besides, you are no ordinary lady of quality. Ordinary ladies do not sharpen their own knives and call it a dress."

 

"It is not a knife, Mr. Kennedy. It is silk."

 

"Same thing, the way you wear it," he said, setting the charcoal piece down on the small ledge of the easel. He stretched his arms above his head, his joints popping in the heat. "We are done for the day. You can step down from your pedestal, Lady Ada."

 

Ada did not move immediately. She let her shoulders relax first, the rigid posture dissolving into a fluid ease as she stood up from the iron chair. The maroon silk fell back into place around her ankles with a soft rustle. She walked toward him, her steps light and measured on the stone floor.

 

"You look rather pleased with yourself," she observed, stopping just outside his personal space. "Did you manage to capture my existential dread, or did you just paint a very expensive statue?"

 

"See for yourself," Leon said, stepping aside to grant her a view of the canvas.

 

The sketch was rough, but the likeness was undeniable. He had caught the sharp line of her jaw and the severe slant of her shoulders, but there was something else in the dark lines of the charcoal.

 

A sense of isolation that the grand glasshouse only amplified.

 

Ada looked at it for a long moment, her expression turning unreadable. "How long does it take to finish something like this?" she asked softly.

 

"To get the oils down, build the layers, and let the varnish dry?" Leon rubbed the back of his neck, leaving another smudge of charcoal near his collar. "Five nights at best. Assuming the humidity in this place doesn't turn my pigments into soup."

 

"Five nights," she repeated. She reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out the small velvet pouch she had hidden there. She held it out to him, the fabric resting against her palm. "Then it should be enough to keep you awake tonight."

 

Leon looked from the velvet pouch to her face, a spark of amusement breaking through his tired features. He let out a low, genuine laugh. "What is this?" he asked, taking the pouch from her. "A bribe to make you look friendlier in the final version?"

 

"It is sugar, Mr. Kennedy. Western sweets from the pantry. I am told your people find comfort in them when you are working through the dark hours." Ada turned away, her skirts swirling around her legs as she began to walk toward the exit of the glasshouse. "Do not read too much into it. I merely require my painter to stay conscious."

 

Leon weighed the pouch in his hand. As he turned it over, his thumb caught on a raised texture near the bottom. He brought it closer to his face. Stitched into the velvet with clumsy, thick brown thread was the unmistakable shape of a small bear. It was a disparity to the perfect, microscopic seams of her dress.

 

A small smile tugged at his mouth. "Cute," he whispered to the empty space she had left behind.

 

The smile vanished from Ada’s face the exact instant her heels cleared the threshold of the glasshouse.

 

The warmth of the afternoon was replaced by the coldness of the manor’s eastern corridor. Her features settled into indifference, her chin rising as she walked past the grand portraits of ancestors who looked down from the walls with painted disapproval. The lightness that had existed just moments ago was completely gone, locked away in a compartment she had no intention of opening for the rest of the day.

 

There was too much to do. The evening held a specific kind of horror, one that required her full attention.

 

"My lady!"

 

A voice broke the calm of the hallway. Helena came hurrying around the corner, her arms laden with embroidered linens. The handmaiden’s brow was furrowed, her cap slightly askew from what had clearly been hours of frantic preparation.

 

"You are still in that dress," Helena said, stopping in front of Ada and looking her up and down with an expression bordering on panic. "The carriage from the city will be at the gates in less than two hours. You cannot be found looking like... like this."

 

"Like myself?" Ada asked. "I assure you, Helena, the fabric is clean."

 

"The fabric is scandalous," Helena hissed, turning to walk briskly alongside Ada as they headed toward the private apartments. "The back is completely bare. If the Madame Simmons sees you in this, she will have a fit before she even tastes the soup. We have enough trouble with the kitchen staff as it is."

 

"Let her have a fit," Ada said smoothly, her pace remaining perfectly measured. "It might introduce some color into her cheeks. How are the meal preparations progressing?"

 

"Terribly," Helena groaned, shifting the linens to her other arm. "The chef insisted on serving the local roasted duck, but I had to remind him three times that the General’s mother only eats boiled fowl on Thursdays due to her delicate digestion. Then the pastry cook dropped the almond tarts. I am currently trying to manage the table settings while the kitchen looks like a battlefield."

 

"You are doing an excellent job, Helena," Ada said, though her tone is devoid of any real warmth. "Ensure the wine is from the western cellars. The Madame prefers the vintage that tastes like vinegar, as she believes sweetness is a sign of moral decay."

 

"I have already instructed the footman," Helena said, pausing outside Ada’s dressing room door. She turned to face her mistress, her eyes pleading. "Please, my lady. Go inside and change into the high-collared blue silk. The one with the long sleeves. We need everything to be perfect tonight. If she finds one single flaw, she will spend the next three weeks writing letters to the General about your lack of domestic discipline."

 

"The General already knows I lack discipline," Ada said, pushing the door open. "That is precisely why he accepted the offer to marry me. He views it as a campaign."

 

"Ada," Helena said, dropping the formal title for a brief second as she looked into the room. "Just... do not provoke her tonight. For your own sake."

 

"I am always a model of propriety, Helena," Ada said, her face entirely blank as she stepped over the threshold. "You have nothing to fear."

 

The dressing room was dark, the velvet curtains drawn against the late afternoon sun. Ada stood in the center of the floor, staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror. The maroon silk still hugged her frame perfectly.

 

She reached behind her neck, her fingers finding the small, hidden clasp. With a single movement, she undone the top button. The truth of the glasshouse was over. The dress fell to the ground.

 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

 

"You speak well, my dear," Madame Simmons said, her voice a low, raspy purr as she set her silver fork down with a sharp clink. "But a woman’s true eloquence does not come from her mouth. It is written in her legacy. Direk requires a legacy."

 

Ada swallowed, the action tight and dry. Her lungs rebelled, demanding a deep, grounding gulp of air, but she refused to let her ribs expand too noticeably. She kept her posture poised, her features smooth as polished marble. "Direk seems to be a man of many ambitions, Madame. His work occupies much of his focus."

 

"Focus can be redirected," Madame Simmons countered, a thin, knowing smile stretching her wrinkled lips. She leaned forward, her gaze dropping from Ada’s face to traverse the length of her torso. "And it is your duty to redirect it. A man of his stature must not see his bloodline thin out. You must bear him sons, Ada. Many sons. That is what a woman is built for, after all. To be the vessel that carries the name forward."

 

The air in the room seemed to thin further. Ada felt a cold sweat prickle along the nape of her neck, but she merely offered a polite, noncommittal tilt of her head. She forced her voice to remain soft and collected. "The future remains to be seen."

 

"Do not be coy. It does not suit a woman of your presentation," Madame Simmons rebuked, her eyes lingering on the curve of Ada’s silk dress. "You have the architecture for it. Those hips are perfect for childbearing. It's wide enough to endure the strain and heavy load. And your breasts are great, ample enough to sustain what you produce. You must ensure you warm Direk's bed accordingly so. A cold bed breeds a cold house, and a cold house falls to ruin."

 

Every word felt like a touch of a greasy, unwanted hand mapping out her flesh. Ada’s lungs burned. It felt as though the oxygen in the room was being systematically replaced by lead. Yet, she smiled. She held Madame Simmons’s gaze with a flawless, glassy serenity.

 

"Your counsel is noted," Ada replied shortly.

 

Dinner eventually concluded. When the elder woman finally signaled her departure, Ada rose smoothly, offering her arm to guide the matriarch toward the grand foyer. The walk felt miles long. Each step Ada took was a battle against the tightening band around her chest, but she maintained her impeccable stride, her voice light and conversational as she discussed the weather for the traveler’s journey ahead.

 

At the threshold of the estate, the carriage waited, its lanterns cutting through the dark evening mist. Ada stood under the portico, the cool night air mocking her constricted lungs.

 

"Remember what we discussed, Ada," Madame Simmons said, pausing at the carriage door to cast one last, lingering look over Ada’s figure. "A woman’s purpose is narrow, but vital. Do not disappoint the family."

 

"Have a safe journey back home, Madame," Ada replied, her voice smooth as she bowed her head.

 

She stood there after, frozen in her elegance, as the carriage door clicked shut. She watched the iron-rimmed wheels begin to turn, grinding against the gravel driveway. She stayed under the porch light until the red glow of the carriage lanterns vanished completely into the distant treeline, ensuring her duty as a hostess was fulfilled to the absolute letter.

 

The moment the carriage disappeared, the world shifted.

 

The composure that had held Ada together like a steel corset snapped.

 

She turned on her heel and burst through the front doors, not caring about the loud thud they made as they slammed shut behind her. The poise was gone, stripped away in a single, desperate second.

 

A sudden prickling sensation flared across her skin, starting at her ankles and racing upward. It felt like coarse, thorny vines wrapping around her ankles, binding her legs together.

 

She staggered, lunging toward the grand staircase. Her breath came in ragged, shallow gasps that tore at her throat. She couldn't get enough air. The lavender perfume still clung to the walls, suffocating her, choking her.

 

Perfect for childbearing.

 

To warm his bed.

 

The phantom vines surged higher, curling tightly around her thighs, their invisible thorns digging deep into her flesh. Ada stumbled onto the stairs, her knees nearly giving way. She gripped the wooden banister, but as she did, she felt the phantom thorns erupting right in the center of her palms, piercing her skin, drawing imaginary blood that felt entirely too real.

 

She scrambled up the steps, her usual grace abandoned for a wild ascent. She reached her bedroom door, threw her weight against it, and slammed it shut, locking it with a trembling hand.

 

The room was dark, but the darkness offered no comfort. The sensation was even more agonizing now. The invisible vines were twisting fiercely around her waist, constricting her breathing even further. But it was her hips...the very part of her body Madame Simmons had appraised like meat...where the thorns dug in the deepest. It felt as though hundreds of wooden needles were pressing into her pelvic bones, carving into her skin and binding her down until she reviled the sensation

 

"Get off," she choked out, her voice a raw whisper. "Get off me."

 

She lunged toward the mirror, her hands flying to the collar of her dress. The silk felt like a shroud, like the tight wrapping of a cocoon meant to keep her still for the slaughter.

 

Gasping for air that refused to fill her lungs, Ada hooked her fingers into the fabric. With a desperate jerk, she tore the neckline open. The sound of ripping silk echoed in the room. She clawed at the material, tearing her clothes away from her body, desperate to expose her skin to the cool air, desperate to strip away the touch of Madame Simmons’s words.

 

She threw the ruined dress to the floor, standing in the dim light in nothing but her undergarments. But the relief did not come.

 

She looked down at her hips. The skin was flush, unmarred to the eye, yet she could feel them. She could feel the thick, heavy coils of the vines wrapping tighter and tighter around her hips, the thorns pressing deep into the flesh, marking her, claiming her as a vessel. She brought her hands up, staring at her palms in the dark, feeling the agonizing puncture points where the phantom briars dug through her tendons.

 

Ada fell to her knees on the cold hardwood floor, her chest heaving, her hands clawing futilely at her own bare skin to scrape the invisible tethers away, gasping into the empty room as the phantom vines bound her tight.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

 

The water had grown cold, but Ada did not move.

 

The dawn was only just beginning to bleach the edges of the velvet curtains, casting the bathroom in a pale, murky gray. Around the clawfoot tub, a dozen wax candles burned, their small flames flickering and casting golden, trembling patches of illumination across the damp tiled floor. The air smelled of melted tallow and the bitter scent of Epsom salts.

 

Ada remained submerged up to her throat. The water lapped just beneath her chin, a frigid shroud that she welcomed because it was a sensation entirely separate from the heat of the night before.

 

Her mind was a blank canvas, scrubbed raw by hours of panic. She stared at the ceiling, watching the condensation form into tiny droplets that eventually lost their grip and plunged down into the bath. 

 

Plop. Plop.

 

For a brief, fleeting pocket of time, it was calm. The phantom thorns that had pierced her hips and palms hours ago had receded into a dull, throbbing ache beneath her skin. She allowed her eyes to flutter shut, her breathing shallow but steadying, letting the icy water numb the frantic pulse in her throat. She wanted to dissolve. She wanted the water to wash away her body, to melt until she was nothing but an formless entity.

 

Then, the water shifted.

 

It did not ripple; it sank.

 

Before Ada could even register the change, an invisible, crushing force wrapped around her collarbones and yanked her downward.

 

Her eyes snapped open, but she was already beneath the surface. The act was instantaneous and violent. The clear bathwater suddenly felt thick, like oil, pressing against her eyelids and burning her nose. Panic, cold and suffocating, flared to life in her chest. She kicked out, her feet scraping against the porcelain bottom of the tub, her hands flying out to grip the rolled iron edges to hoist herself back into the air.

 

She couldn't move.

 

Her fingers brushed the cold metal, but her palms could find no traction. It felt as though a pair of massive hands had clamped down upon her shoulders, pinning her to the bottom of the tub. She tried to arch her back, to twist her torso, but her hips were locked in place, wedged tightly against the porcelain as if the invisible vines from the night before had sprouted anew.

 

Ada opened her mouth to scream, but only a torrent of silver bubbles escaped her lips, rushing upward to the surface that looked miles away. The water flooded her mouth, tasting of salt and iron. Her lungs burned, her ribs as they expanded, begging for oxygen and finding only liquid.

 

Above her, through the distorted, rippling lens of the water, the candle flames did not look like light. They looked like distant, mocking eyes. Baron Wei, Lady Zhang, and Madame Simmons’s eyes. Looking down at her. Appraising her struggle.

 

'A woman is built to endure the strain,' their voices blending like a chant as they hissed through the water, vibrating in her ears. 'To be the vessel.'

 

Ada thrashed, a desperate, animalistic survival instinct taking over. Her nails clawed at the slick porcelain sides of the tub, leaving no marks, finding no purchase. The air in her chest was completely spent. Her vision began to blur at the edges, the pale grays and flickering golds of the bathroom darkening into a heavy, suffocating black. She was trapped. She was going to drown in her own quarters, a specimen caught in a jar, subdued by the sheer terror of what her life was supposed to become.

 

Ada.

 

The sound of her name didn't come from the water. It didn't come from the memory of the dining room.

 

It was a voice that belonged to a completely different world. It was rough, grounding, carrying the faint, smoky scent of turpentine, linseed oil, and tenderness. It was a voice that spoke to her across a canvas, asking her to hold still as art.

 

Leon.

 

Ada woke with a violent, chest-heaving jolt.

 

Her head erupted from the surface of the water, her mouth opening in a harsh, ragged gasp that tore through her throat. She wasn't at the bottom of the tub; she was sitting upright, but the water was splashing wildly over the edges, drenching the floor.

 

The air hit her lungs like a blow, causing her to hack and cough violently. She couldn't breathe. Even though her face was in the open air, her throat felt constricted, clogged with the remnants of the nightmare.

 

Choking, a panicked sob tearing from her chest, Ada scrambled to get out. She threw her legs over the side of the tub, her wet skin slipping against the porcelain. She tumbled out, landing hard on her hands and knees on the soaked tiled floor.

 

She kept coughing, her chest heaving as she spat out the phantom water that still seemed to linger in her trachea. She curled into herself on the floor, her hands gripping her knees, her body shivering violently from the combination of the freezing bathwater and the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

 

The candles around the tub were still lit, their flames dancing wildly from the sudden draft she had created. The dawn was a little brighter now, casting long, pale streaks of light across the room, but the warmth of the sun felt miles away.

 

Ada stayed on the floor for a long time, her forehead pressed against the cold tiles, waiting for the trembling in her hands to stop, waiting for the sound of Leon’s voice to fade from her mind, though a part of her desperately wished it would stay.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The sun was already climbing high into the glass panels when Ada entered, her bare feet making no sound against the flagstones. She offered no apologies for her delay, her chin held with its usual unbothered grace.

 

Leon was already stationed at his easel, the large wooden frame set up near the central ferns. He didn't look up immediately when the doors creaked, his fingers covered in fresh charcoal dust as he worked on the upper corner of the canvas. "You're late," he remarked, his voice rough from the early hour.

 

"A lady is never late, Mr. Kennedy," Ada replied, her voice smooth as silk. "She simply allows the world to wait for her arrival."

 

"A handmaiden named Helena guided me directly to the glass house," Leon said, finally looking up from his work. He set his charcoal stick down on the ledge of the easel, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as he took her in. "She seemed rather anxious to ensure I didn't wander off into the main manor."

 

"Helena is protective," Ada murmured, walking further into the light. "She understands the value of keeping certain transactions private."

 

The sunlight caught the fabric of her new gown, and Leon’s breath hitched slightly in his throat. Today, she wore a red layered dress that looked exactly like carnation flower petals under the bright morning sun. The silk was tiered, overlapping in soft folds that caught the light with every movement. It was a completely backless design, the deep cut of the fabric dipping so low that it exposed the delicate, pale curve of the side of her breast with every breath she took.

 

Leon’s gaze lingered on the exposed skin before he forced his eyes back to her face. "You're dressed differently today."

 

"Do you approve?" Ada asked, stepping closer to the wrought iron table.

 

"Did you sew that one too?" he asked, gesturing vaguely toward the intricate crimson layers.

 

"I did," Ada said, a playful spark in her dark eyes. "Tell me, Mr. Kennedy, isn't it a bit scandalous for a lady of the manor?"

 

Leon let out a short, dry laugh, rubbing his neck with his clean hand. "Scandalous for this town, maybe. In the capital, they’d probably call it avant garde before they called for a priest. But you seem to enjoy making the elders nervous."

 

"I enjoy the efficiency of fabric that breathes," she countered, sliding into the iron chair with grace. "Though I suspect your western sensibilities are far more fragile than you claim."

 

"My sensibilities are just fine," Leon said, turning back to his board to adjust the angle of the sketch. "But you will need to wear your maroon cheongsam tomorrow for the coloring of your dress. The structure of this portrait relies on the lines we established yesterday."

 

Ada leaned her chin on her hand, looking up at him with a teasing pout. "My, my. It sounds to me like you are simply fond of that dress, Mr. Kennedy."

 

"I am fond of consistency," Leon shot back, though a faint tint of color touched his ears. "It makes the painting process significantly faster. Now, look toward the eastern panels again. We'll focus on your face instead."

 

Ada adjusted her posture, turning her head as instructed. She looked around the glasshouse, watching the light dance through the green leaves.

 

"Tell me about the West, Leon," she said suddenly, using his first name with a casual ease that made him pause mid stroke. "Since you are so familiar with what the capital deems scandalous."

 

"What do you want to know?" he asked, his charcoal scratching against the grain of the canvas. "It’s loud. It’s dirty. The buildings are too tall and the smoke from the factories makes the sky look gray for half the year."

 

"But the fashion," Ada prompted, her eyes shifting back toward him. "The clothing must be different. I have read journals about the changes in the western cities."

 

"Fashion is shifting," Leon said, his eyes scanning her jawline as he worked. "The women there are throwing away the old corsets. Not all of them, but the ones who work in the offices and the printing shops. They wear simpler skirts now. Brighter colors. They want to be able to walk down the street without three maids holding up their trains."

 

"Liberation," Ada murmured, the word tasting sweet on her tongue. "A movement of free will."

 

"Something like that," Leon agreed, his expression softening as he watched the way her eyes lit up at the concept. "They call it the new age. People want to decide their own futures. They don't want their marriages decided by a ledger or a title."

 

Ada fell quiet for a moment, her gaze dropping to the bare table. Leon noticed the subtle shift in her expression, the way her shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly, as if an invisible weight had suddenly settled over her. His blue eyes sharpened. He picked up the tiny signs of her tension, the faint tremor in her fingers, and simply chose to change the direction of the conversation.

 

"What about you?" Ada asked, breaking the brief lull. "You speak of the West with the cynicism of someone who left it behind, yet you know its habits well. What did you used to do there? A son of a rich shipping family must have had responsibilities."

 

Leon’s hand halted. He looked at the canvas, then down at his charcoal stained fingers. "I was supposed to take over the docks," he said, his voice dropping to a lower register. "My older brother handled the finances, and I was meant to manage the fleet. I spent my youth learning about tonnage, trade routes, and harbor fees."

 

"And you hated it," she guessed.

 

"I despised every second of it," Leon said, a genuine smirk returning to his face. "Sitting in a mahogany office, signing papers that authorized the movement of goods I would never see, for people I would never respect. It felt like living in a box."

 

"So you ran away."

 

"I packed a single bag, took a merchant vessel to the eastern ports, and never looked back," Leon said, his hand resuming its movement, the strokes faster now, more confident. "I didn't even know how to hold a brush properly until I arrived here. The capital artists spend years in academies learning the proper rules. I just started drawing the people on the docks. The laborers, the sailors, the street vendors. Real people."

 

"And yet, here you are, painting an aristocrat," Ada teased, her eyes sparkling.

 

"You're the first one," Leon countered, looking over the top of the board straight into her eyes. "And probably the last. I don't paint the nobility. I told you that."

 

"Then why did you accept my commission?"

 

Leon stopped. He looked at her, truly looked at her, taking in the sharp intelligence in her eyes, the creative defiance of the handmade dresses she wore, and the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide behind her lady of the manor persona.

 

"Because you are Ada," he said softly.

 

The air between them grew thick, the heat of the afternoon settling around the wrought iron table. Ada kept her gaze locked with his, the usual playful banter fading but it lingered in the space between the easel and the chair.

 

Leon stepped closer to her, his boots clicking softly against the stone. His eyes fixed on the stray lock of dark hair that had fallen across her cheek, obscuring the line of her jaw that he had been trying to perfect.

 

Ada looked up at him as he approached, her breathing shallow, her lips parted slightly.

 

Leon reached out, his large, rough hand hovering just an inch away from her skin. His fingers brushed against the dark silk of her hair, pulling the stray strand back behind her ear. His touch was incredibly gentle.

 

For a fraction of a second, he lingered, his thumb nearly touching the soft skin of her cheekbone.

 

Then, as if suddenly remembering where he was and who she was, Leon pulled his hand back immediately. He took a sharp step away, turning his back to her as he began to gather his brushes and cloths.

 

"The day is done," he said, his voice suddenly businesslike, though it carried a slight tremor. "The light is gone. I will be back tomorrow, Lady Ada."

 

He reached for his leather bag, ready to retreat into the safety of the lower districts.

 

Ada stood up from the iron chair, the red layers of her carnation dress rustling against her legs. Uncharacteristically, without thinking of the propriety or the distance she was supposed to maintain, she reached out and caught his wrist. Her fingers were small but firm against his skin, stopping his movement entirely.

 

"Can you stay a bit more?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

Ada’s fingers lingered on the warm skin of his wrist. The pulse beating just beneath his veins felt frantic compared to the perfectly composed expression he tried so desperately to maintain. She did not let go immediately. Instead, she let her grip soften, her hand sliding down to catch his rough, charcoal stained fingertips before pulling away completely.

 

"Come with me," she instructed, her voice a low murmur that barely disturbed the silence that settled between them.

 

She turned and began to walk. She did not look back to see if he followed, trusting the uneven sound of his shoes against the flagstones. He trailed exactly two steps behind her, maintaining a polite, respectful distance that felt entirely absurd after the charged they had just shared.

 

They exited the grand glasshouse, stepping out into the sprawling, manicured gardens of the estate. The afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long stretches of dark shade across the gravel paths. Ada walked through the maze of hedges and decorative fountains with the practiced ease of someone who had spent a lifetime mapping her own prison.

 

She led him away from the main manor, away from the prying eyes of the servants and the guards stationed at the gates. They ventured into a forgotten corner of the property, where the perfectly trimmed lawns gave way to wild, untamed ivy and thick, thorny briars.

 

Hidden entirely behind a towering wall of overgrown greenery was a small structure. It was a dainty greenhouse, far smaller than the colossal glasshouse they had just vacated. It was almost completely unnoticeable from the main paths, its glass panes partially obscured by the creeping vines, but as they drew closer, Leon could see that it was meticulously well kept. The brass hinges of the door were polished, and the glass, where it peeked through the leaves, was wiped clean of grime.

 

Ada pushed the small door open. It did not creak.

 

The air inside was thick and intensely sweet. The space was completely overrun with roses. Big, beautiful roses in explosive shades of blood red, velvet crimson, and pure, blinding white climbed every available trellis. They spilled from terracotta pots, their massive blooms heavy and fragrant, creating a dense, floral tapestry that completely insulated the room from the outside world.

 

In the exact center of the blooming bedlam, surrounded by a bed of fallen petals, stood a single statue.

 

It was carved from pristine white marble, depicting a woman dressed in a finely detailed cheongsam. The folds of the stone fabric were rendered with exquisite skill, mimicking the exact drape of silk over a slender frame. But as Leon’s gaze traveled upward, he stopped cold.

 

The statue had no face.

 

Where the features should have been, the marble was simply smoothed over, creating a blank, featureless oval beneath the perfectly sculpted hair.

 

"Leon," Ada said softly, her voice filling the small, enclosed space. She stepped up to the base of the statue, her red carnation dress blending seamlessly with the fallen rose petals scattered across the dark earth. "I would like to introduce you to my mother. Madame Carla Radames."

 

Leon moved closer, his boots crunching softly on the dirt. He stopped beside Ada, his eyes dropping from the faceless marble to the rectangular stone slab embedded in the ground at the statue's feet. A tomb.

 

"Your mother," Leon repeated, his voice hushed in the presence of the grave.

 

"She was a woman from the West," Ada explained, her gaze fixed on the blank marble face. "A brilliant scholar. She crossed the ocean with trunks full of books, journals, and theories about the world. She spoke four languages. She understood mathematics and astronomy."

 

Ada reached out, her delicate fingers tracing the cold, smooth stone of the statue's arm. "She came here believing she could bridge two worlds. She thought her knowledge would be respected, that she would be treated as an equal partner in the Baron's court. But the moment the ink dried on the marriage contract, she was stripped of her voice. Her journals were locked away in the deepest vaults. Her books were deemed inappropriate for a lady of the house. To the Baron, her intellect was merely an exotic novelty to boast about at dinner parties, nothing more. Her true purpose, her only accepted value in this entire province, was to provide him with an heir. A son to carry on a legacy she was never allowed to be a part of."

 

Leon watched Ada’s face. He noted the rigid tension in her jaw, the profound, overwhelming sadness pooling in her dark eyes. He felt a sudden, violent surge of protectiveness flare in his chest. It was an alien sensation, something he had buried long ago when he fled his own family in the capital. But looking at Ada, seeing the sharp witted woman reduced to mourning a mother who was treated as livestock, the anger was impossible to suppress.

 

"She spent her life trapped in this estate," Ada continued, her tone entirely devoid of emotion, which only made the tragedy cut deeper. "Pregnancy after pregnancy. Miscarriage after miscarriage. Her body was broken down, exhausted by the constant demand to produce a male heir. She withered away trying to fulfill a duty that was impossible. And in the end, she passed away giving birth to a daughter. A final, fatal disappointment."

 

Leon stared at the tombstone, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "And the face?" he asked, gesturing to the blank marble.

 

"The Baron commissioned the piece after her death," Ada replied softly. "He told the sculptor that her features were irrelevant. He only wanted her remembered as a traditional, obedient wife. He erased her identity entirely."

 

Ada turned to him, the red silk of her dress rustling softly. "Come. Sit with me."

 

Without waiting for his response, she sank to the floor. She did not care about the damp earth staining the intricate layers of her handmade gown. She simply folded her legs beneath her, making herself comfortable at the foot of the marble base, right beside the carved letters of Carla’s name.

 

Leon did not hesitate. He abandoned whatever lingering notions of propriety he held, dropping down into the dirt beside her. He sat close, their knees mere inches apart, the heat radiating from his large frame combating the cool dampness of the small greenhouse.

 

"Tell me more about the West," Ada requested, leaning her head back against the cold marble pedestal. "Tell me about the world she came from. The world you left."

 

Leon leaned his forearms on his knees, his hands dangling loosely between them. He looked at the massive crimson roses surrounding them, then began to speak.

 

He told her about the sprawling university towns, where students argued philosophy and politics in the streets until dawn. He described the towering libraries filled with thousands of leather bound volumes, smelling of old paper and binding glue. He spoke of the great art galleries, where paintings were not locked away in private manors to be hoarded by the wealthy, but hung on massive walls for the public to observe, to critique, to feel.

 

He talked about the scent of roasted chestnuts on the street corners in autumn, the loud, brassy music that spilled out of the public houses late into the night, the beautiful mess of thousands of people living life without a master dictating their every step. He painted pictures with his words, describing the harsh, biting winters that froze the cobblestone avenues, the way the snow looked falling over the slate rooftops, the loud and frantic energy of the shipping yards where ideas were traded just as freely as cargo.

 

He spoke of women who attended lectures, who wrote articles under pen names, who gathered in cramped cafes to demand the right to vote. He described a world that was flawed, dirty, and loud, but undeniably alive. A world where a woman like Carla Radames could have been a respected mind, rather than just a vessel.

 

Ada listened with rapt attention. Her eyes were wide, soaking in every syllable, every vivid detail he offered. For a long time, the only sound in the dainty glasshouse was the steady, soothing cadence of his deep voice, wrapping around her, transporting her far beyond the high walls of her father’s estate.

 

Halfway through a story about a massive printing press in the capital, Leon paused to take a breath.

 

"Leon," Ada interrupted softly.

 

He turned his head to look at her. The proximity between them was suddenly overwhelming. He could see the faint smattering of freckles across her nose, the way her chest rose and fell in a rapid, uneven beat, the slight part of her lips.

 

"When you paint me," Ada said, her voice trembling just a fraction. "I want your art to be like her." She gestured to the statue.

 

Leon frowned, confusion wrinkling his brow. "Faceless?"

 

"No," Ada breathed, shaking her head. "Enduring. I want what you create to outlast all of this. When the estate eventually falls to ruin, when the Baron is long forgotten in the ground, when I am gone... I want your art to remain. I want to be remembered as I am right now, in this moment. I want your portrait to be something that is remembered even when time passes by. Can you do that?"

 

The sheer vulnerability in her plea struck him like a physical blow. The face she wore so perfectly, the wit, the teasing smiles, the aristocratic grace, was completely shattered, leaving behind a woman desperately terrified of being erased, just like her mother.

 

Leon stared into her dark eyes. The ambient heat of the greenhouse suddenly felt suffocating.

 

"I can do that," Leon promised.

 

Ada exhaled a shaky breath, her eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second.

 

Leon didn't think about the consequences. He didn't think about the Baron, or the guards outside, or the sheer madness of touching a noblewoman. He reached out, his charcoal stained fingers trembling slightly as they cupped the side of her face. His thumb brushed over her cheekbone, wiping away a stray tear that she hadn't even realized had fallen.

 

Ada leaned into his touch instantly.

 

He closed the remaining distance, pressing his mouth to hers.

 

The kiss started as a desperate collision. There was no hesitation, no careful negotiation of boundaries. Ada’s hands flew up, her small fingers tangling in the collar of his rough linen shirt, pulling him closer. Leon groaned softly against her lips, his arm wrapping entirely around her narrow waist, hauling her against his chest.

 

Her mouth opened beneath his, sweet and urgent. He tasted the faint, lingering sugar from the pantry sweets, mixed with the salt of her tears. He kissed her fiercely, trying to pour every ounce of his promise, every fraction of the freedom she craved, directly into her lungs.

 

Ada let out a soft gasp as his tongue swept along her lower lip, opening her further. She shifted her body, twisting so that she was practically in his lap, the red layers of her carnation dress pooling around them in the dirt. Her hands slid from his collar to his hair, gripping the blonde strands tightly, her nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a way that made a primal shudder run down his spine.

 

Leon’s free hand tangled in the dark, silky locks at the nape of her neck, tilting her head back to deepen the kiss. He devoured her mouth, his lips sliding over hers in a heated, consuming tempo. The world outside the glass walls completely vanished. There was only the cloying scent of the roses, the cold marble of the tomb pressing against Ada’s back, and the burning heat of Leon’s body covering hers.

 

She kissed him back with a starvation that mirrored his own. Her tongue met his, her chest heaving against the solid wall of his torso. She could feel the rapid, hammering beat of his heart humming against her own ribs. Every slide of his lips, every rough scrape of his calloused fingers against her bare skin, felt like an absolute rebellion.

 

He broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, just long enough for them to drag in a ragged breath, before his mouth dropped to her jaw. He pressed open mouthed kisses along the delicate line of her bone, moving down to the sensitive skin of her throat.

 

Ada let her head fall back against the smooth marble of her mother's statue, a soft, involuntary moan escaping her lips. "Leon," she gasped, her hands clutching his broad shoulders.

 

"I've got you," he muttered fiercely against the pulse point on her neck, his lips hot and damp against her skin. He bit lightly at the curve of her throat, feeling the frantic flutter of her pulse against his tongue. "I've got you."

 

He kissed his way back up to her mouth, claiming her lips once more in a deep, bruising kiss. It was messy. It was reckless. His hand slid from her waist, tracing the deep, scandalous cut of the red dress, his large palm mapping the exposed, delicate curve of the side of her breast. The touch sent a violent jolt of electricity straight to her core. Ada arched into his hand, a breathless sound vibrating in the back of her throat, her fingers curling tight into the fabric of his shirt until her knuckles turned white.

 

It was everything she was never supposed to have. The dirt ruining her dress, the rough hands of a runaway man marking her skin, the absolute loss of her perfect poise. Ada didn't care. And for a moment, her world was replaced entirely by the painter holding her in the ruins of her mother's sanctuary. 

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The water in the copper tub sloshed over the rolled brim, spilling onto the damp tiled floor as Ada stepped backward, her skin glistening in perspiration and river silt. Her breath came in short, jagged drags. The memory of the greenhouse was an imprint on her skin. She had sent Leon away immediately after their lips had broken apart. He had not objected. He had simply looked at her with those dark, blue eyes with an understanding of boundaries that were never meant to be crossed.

 

Now, she stood in the center of her bathing chamber, the steam swirling around her like a shroud. She picked up a thick linen cloth, scrubbing at her thighs, her arms, the small of her back. She used the coarse rose soap until her flesh was mottled and pink, desperate to scour away the damp earth, the crushed leaves, and Leon.

 

She needed to be clean. She needed to be the porcelain doll her father expected her to be.

 

Suddenly, the oak door to her chambers flew open with a violent bang.

 

Ada did not flinch, though her hand paused against the cloth.

 

Helena tumbled into the room, her breath hitching in her throat, her uniform wrinkled and her hair pins coming undone. She looked entirely in disarray, her face pale as milk as she held a large, lacquered wooden box in her arms like it was a ticking explosive.

 

"My lady," Helena gasped, her voice trembling so violently that the syllables nearly clipped each other. "My lady, you must look at this. A messenger from the lower town just arrived at the gates. They brought this directly from the city center."

 

Ada turned slowly, wrapping a deep crimson silk robe around her damp shoulders. She tied the sash with a tight, efficient knot. "Calm yourself, Helena. You look as though the provincial guard has broken through the perimeter. Speak clearly."

 

"It is your father," Helena said, her eyes wide with a frantic panic as she set the lacquered box onto the velvet settee. "The Baron sent a courier ahead. A letter came with this box. He demands that you begin your preparations immediately. He has even sent a new pair of shoes for the occasion. Silk slippers, imported from the north, embroidered with gold thread."

 

Ada walked toward the vanity, her bare feet making soft, damp pattering noises against the hardwood floor. She reached for her silver hair comb, her fingers hovering exactly an inch above the polished prongs. "My father is meticulous about his gifts. What occasion does he speak of? The solstice festival is not for another three weeks."

 

"No, my lady," Helena said, her voice dropping to a terrified whisper. She stepped closer, her hands knotting into the fabric of her apron. "It is General Direk Simmons. A secondary missive arrived from his vanguard. The General has changed his itinerary. He is already passing through the valley. He has sent an official command that you will be attending a grand banquet luncheon overmorrow."

 

Ada’s hand stopped dead.

 

The silver comb caught the reflection of the flickering oil lamps, casting a cold, sharp glint across her knuckles. The air in the room grew instantly thin, tight, pressing against her chest until her lungs felt constricted. 

 

The six days of freedom she thought she had left had been violently compressed into less than forty-eight hours.

 

"A banquet luncheon," Ada repeated, her voice perfectly level, completely devoid of the panic that was currently suffocating her handmaiden. "In two days?."

 

"Yes, my lady," Helena whimpered, nodding frantically. "The servants in the grand hall are already in a frenzy. The kitchens are being unsealed. The Baron’s letter says you must look your absolute best. He says the General’s favor is the only thing that matters now. He wants you to wear the new slippers. He wants you to show him that you are ready to be a wife."

 

Ada lowered her hand slowly, leaving the silver comb untouched upon the marble vanity. She turned around, "The new slippers," she murmured, her dark eyes fixing on the lacquered box. "Gold thread. A decoration for the slaughter."

 

"What do we do, Ada?" Helena asked,"If the General visits and finds a strange painter from the West in the glasshouse—"

 

"Mr. Kennedy will return tomorrow morning as scheduled," Ada interrupted, her tone sharp, cutting through Helena's mounting hysteria. "He will finish what he started. Do not fret yourself with my man, Helena."

 

"But the dress," Helena pressed,"The Baron expects you to wear the red layers, or the gold brocade. He wants you to look like a prize."

 

Ada walked over to the tall mahogany wardrobe, her movements unhurried. She bypassed the vibrant silks, the brilliant crimsons, and the gowns that her stepmother had picked out for her seasonal display. Her hand reached into the darkest, furthest corner of the cabinet, pulling out a garment that had not seen the light of day since the previous winter.

 

It was a white cheongsam, woven from dense silk that caught the light like polished bone. Along the high, stiff collar, intricate silver thread formed the pattern of weeping willows and fallen leaves.

 

"Prepare this one, Helena," Ada said softly, draping the pale fabric over her arm.

 

Helena gasped, stepping back a pace. "My lady, that is the garment you wore when the old dowager passed. You only wear that dress when you are attending a funeral."

 

"Then it is entirely appropriate for it," Ada replied, her voice smooth as glass. "If the General wishes to celebrate a union, I intend to dress for the occasion. A funeral for my past, or a funeral for his expectations. We shall see which one comes first."

 

"The Baron will be furious," Helena whispered, her eyes darting to the white silk. "He will see it as an insult to the Simmons name if he hears about it."

 

"My father will not be there," Ada said, her lips curving into a cold, humorless line. "And by the time he arrives, the event have already concluded. Go down to the lower kitchens. Ensure the servants do not touch the glasshouse tomorrow. Tell them I have requested absolute privacy for my final sitting. If anyone asks, tell them I am indisposed with a migraine from the sudden change in weather."

 

Helena bowed her head, her shoulders dropping in submission. "Yes, my lady. I will prepare the garments. I will make sure the silver thread is polished."

 

"Go," Ada commanded gently.

 

As soon as the maid closed the door behind her, the click of the latch echoing through the room, Ada turned back to the large, gilded mirror that stood in the corner of her bedchamber. The afternoon sun was completely gone now, leaving the room dependent on the warm, amber glow of the oil lamps.

 

She walked over to the glass, her red robe slipping slightly from her shoulder, exposing the smooth, pale curve of her neck. 

 

Ada stared at her own reflection.

 

She looked for the girl who had sewed her own dresses. She looked for the woman who had let a runaway western painter touch her skin in the dirt.

 

A strange, prickling sensation began to bloom just beneath her left cheekbone. It wasn't the burning heat of the phantom thorns from the night before; it was something softer and writhing that made her blood run cold.

 

Ada kept her gaze fixed on the glass, unmoving. Waiting.

 

Beneath the pale surface of her skin, a small, pale ridge began to form. It moved slowly before pushing against her epidermis. Then, with a sickening tear, the skin parted.

 

A small, fat caterpillar, the color of spoiled milk, poked its segmented head out from the tear in her cheek. It crawled out into the open air, its tiny legs dragging its heavy, bulbous body over the smooth expanse of her skin, leaving a thin, glistening trail of slime along her jawline. Another ridge formed near her collarbone, the pale flesh stretching until a second insect broke through, its dark mandibles twitching as it began to descend toward her breast.

 

Ada did not scream. She did not breathe. 

 

She slowly lifted her hands, her fingers curling into tight, white-knuckled fists at her sides until the skin across her joints was strained to the bursting point. She watched the creatures treat her body like a decomposing corpse. She stood there in the flickering light, watching the insects claim their prize.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

Leon arrived exactly on time.

 

The door of the greenhouse giving its familiar squeak as he pushed it open. He carried his leather bag over his shoulder, his large wooden easel balanced under his arm, but his blue eyes didn't look at the paths or the ferns. They locked instantly onto the center clearing.

 

Ada was already seated at the small, round wrought-iron table.

 

Today, she wore the maroon cheongsam from their very first session. The dark silk clung perfectly to the curve of her throat before plunging down into that striking backless cut that always managed to catch him completely off guard. The entire length of her spine was exposed, the pale skin looking almost luminous against the deep wine-red fabric.

 

But what made Leon stop three paces away was the state of the table. Two days ago, he had explicitly demanded that the wrought-iron surface remain entirely bare. Today, however, it was laden with a small but extravagant spread of delicacies. A silver tray held three delicate porcelain plates, each bearing light, fluffy pastries, thin slices of glazed fruit, and, right in the center, a pair of small strawberry cakes dusted with a fine layer of powdered sugar.

 

"I seem to recall a very specific instruction regarding the state of this table, Lady Ada," Leon said, setting his easel down against the stone floor with a dull thud. He adjusted his white linen shirt, the sleeves already rolled up past his elbows, though his eyes remained fixed on the small cakes. "No silver teapots, no porcelain, no imported tarts. And yet, I find a miniature bakery waiting for me."

 

Ada did not turn her head, though her lips curved into that amused line he had come to anticipate. "Instructions are for people who lack the imagination to improve upon a plan, Mr. Kennedy. Besides, a gentleman who works through the night on my behalf deserves more than a handful of pantry sweets."

 

"I see," Leon murmured, walking closer, his boots crunching softly on the gravel path. He dropped his leather bag onto the stone floor and stepped into her personal space, stopping just a foot away from her chair. "And what if the painter prefers to work on an empty stomach?"

 

"Then the painter will find himself very cross, very tired, and very poorly equipped to handle the stitchwork on this dress," Ada replied, finally tilting her head up to look at him.

 

Leon didn't answer with words. Instead, he took one more step forward, his large hand reaching out to gently cup the side of her face, his thumb brushing against her cheekbone. He leaned down, his eyes fluttering shut as he pressed his mouth firmly against hers.

 

The kiss was different from yesterday. It was slow and a sweet greeting that tasted of the crisp morning air and the lingering warmth of the sun. Ada leaned into him, her hand coming up to rest against the linen of his chest, feeling the steady, rapid thumping of his heart beneath her palm. He kissed her until the breath left her lungs.

 

When he finally pulled away, Leon cleared his throat, his face flushing a light pink as he took a step back toward his easel. He picked up his wooden palette, loading it with fresh crimsons and deep browns, though his fingers trembled just a fraction. "Right," he said, his voice a bit rougher than before. "We are doing the details on your dress today. The structure is set, but the texture of the silk needs the fine strokes."

 

Ada smoothed down the front of her maroon gown, her dark eyes glittering with amusement as she watched him try to regain his professional composure. "You taste like peppermint," she remarked casually, leaning her chin on her hand. "Peppermint and old newspaper."

 

Leon stopped his hand mid-air, a brush held between his fingers as he stared at her, his eyebrows pulling together in utter confusion. "Newspaper? I had a cup of mint tea at the tavern down the road, but I certainly haven't been eating the daily press, Ada."

 

"I didn't say you ate it," she countered, her voice carrying a playful lilt. "I said you taste like it."

 

"And how, exactly, do you know what a newspaper tastes like?" Leon asked, a skeptical smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he stepped behind his canvas. "Do the ladies of the manor pass the time by chewing on the political columns when the Baron isn't looking?"

 

"I can taste the smell of everything," Ada said, her expression perfectly serious, though her eyes danced with mischief. "It is a gift. Or a curse, depending on the room I am entering. When you spend enough time around printed sheets, the ink settles in the back of your throat. It has a very specific, bitter metal tang. Just like your coat smells of turpentine and linseed, your mouth carries the ink of the capital sheets you read before you walk up the hill."

 

Leon let out a short, genuine laugh, shaking his head as he dipped his brush into the oil. "A human bloodhound. That explains a lot, actually. It means if I ever try to sneak out of here with one of your silver spoons, you'll taste the metal in the air before I even reach the front gates."

 

"Exactly," Ada murmured. "So I suggest you keep your hands on your brushes, Mr. Kennedy."

 

"A very strict employer," Leon teased, his eyes scanning the lines of her shoulders as he began to map out the rich folds of the maroon silk. "Though I have to admit, I appreciate the sweets you brought today. Especially those strawberry cakes."

 

Ada looked at the small, round pastries on the silver tray. "Oh? I didn't take you for a man with a sweet tooth. I assumed you survived entirely on black coffee and bitterness."

 

"Usually, yes," Leon admitted, his hand moving in small, precise arcs across the canvas as he worked on the delicate shading near her waist. "But my mother used to make strawberry cakes just like those when I was little. She'd bake them in the spring when the first harvests came in from the southern valleys. The smell of hot sugar and berries... it's the only good thing I can remember from my childhood next to paper planes that my older brother used to make."

 

Ada’s gaze softened, her dark eyes resting on his face as he focused on the painting. The cynicism that usually sat behind his blue eyes had completely vanished, replaced by a boyish nostalgia that made her chest ache. 

 

Leon had run away from a palace of gold to live in a cramped room in the lower districts just to be free, while she was preparing to enter a palace of stone that would bury her alive. What a pair.

 

"Then you should be glad I ordered the kitchens to prepare them," she said softly.

 

"I am," Leon said, looking over the top of the board straight into her eyes. "Can I have one now? The walk up the mountain pass with forty pounds of canvas works up an appetite."

 

"Absolutely not," Ada replied, her lips popping on the consonant as she offered him a cruel, beautiful smile. "You can only have the strawberry cake once you are entirely done for the day, Leon. Consider it an incentive to keep your lines straight."

 

"You're a tyrant," he groaned, though there was no heat in the complaint. He turned back to the canvas, his brush striking the fabric gently. "A completely heartless aristocrat."

 

"I am a woman who values productivity," she shot back.

 

For several minutes, the only sound within the glasshouse was the wet scrape of oil paint against the canvas. Leon’s focus shifted from her face to the intricate stitching along the collar of the maroon cheongsam. Every time he looked at her, his gaze inevitably drifted to the wide, exposed expanse of her back, the smooth line of her skin completely unmarred by the fabric. The design always managed to blow his mind away; it was an act of pure defiance against the conservative fashion of the province, where women were expected to be covered from chin to ankle in restrictive brocades.

 

And Leon is a greedy man. He wanted to feel her skin again. The memory of her bare shoulder beneath his palms was a persistent, distracting heat in his veins, but he forced his fingers to remain steady on the wooden handle of his brush.

 

"Why did you sew this one, Ada?" Leon asked suddenly as he mixed a shade of deep oxblood on his palette. "The maroon silk. How long did it take you?"

 

Ada shifted her gaze slightly toward the rows of orchids, her fingers resting lightly in her lap. "Three weeks," she answered quietly. "Three weeks of sitting by the window after the lamps were extinguished in the main hall. The embroidery along the hem took the longest. My stepmother believes that a woman’s hands should only be occupied with playing the zither or holding a teacup, so I had to do the stitchwork in the dark hours, when the manor was asleep."

 

"Three weeks," Leon repeated, his blue eyes narrowing as he evaluated the precision of the seams along her waist. "Every line is perfect. I’ve seen court dressmakers in the capital who couldn't match this level of detail. You have the hands of a craftsman, Ada."

 

"The first time we met in this glasshouse... that was the first time I ever wore this dress," Ada confessed, a small, genuine smile flashing across her face as she looked back at him. "Along with the dress I wore yesterday. I made them both during the winter months, when the snow kept the gates locked and the house felt more like a tomb than usual."

 

Leon stopped his brush, his eyes fixing on her face. "The first time?"

 

"Yes," Ada whispered. "You were the first person to ever see them, Leon. If I wore these to a formal dinner, my stepmother would have them burned before the first course was served. They are too bold. Too Western, as they like to say. So I kept them hidden away in the back of my wardrobe, waiting for an occasion where I can wear them freely."

 

Leon stared at her, the brush held loosely between his fingers. The hostility and bitterness that usually defined his view of the nobility felt entirely irrelevant when he looked at the woman sitting before him. 

 

Ada is different.

 

"They're beautiful, Ada," Leon said softly that made her breath hitch. "The dresses. And the woman who made them."

 

Ada looked away, her cheeks catching a faint, crimson flush that matched the silk of her gown. "Focus on the painting, Mr. Kennedy," she murmured, though her tone lacked its usual sharp edge. "The sun is shifting, and your strawberry cakes are waiting."

 

"Right," Leon said with a small smile, his hand returning to the canvas, the smooth, wet sound of the oils filling the warm air once more. "The cakes."

 

 

 

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

 

 

 

Ada could not piece together the exact sequence of events, nor could she recall how the wrought-iron table and the half-eaten strawberry cakes had been abandoned. All she knew was cool stone wall against her bare spine as Leon ushered her into the small lavatory situated just off the eastern vestibule of the glasshouse.

 

The door had clicked shut with finality, locking them into the small room.

 

Before she could draw a full breath, Leon’s hands were on her. He did not touch her with the hesitant precision of a painter handling a delicate brush; his actions were driven by hunger. He reached for the high collar of the maroon cheongsam, his fingers working the cloth away until the front of the dress draped downward, exposing the pale, trembling curve of her breasts to the cool air.

 

Ada let out an involuntary gasp as his mouth found her.

 

He leaned down, his blonde hair brushing against her collarbone as he took one dark, swollen nipple into his mouth. He suckled fiercely, his tongue swirling over the sensitive peak with a heated intensity that sent a violent jolt of electricity straight to her core. Ada’s head fell back against the stone wall, her eyes fluttering shut as a low moan began to form in her throat.

 

Instinctively, her hand flew to her face, her fingers pressing tightly over her own lips to stifle the sound. She couldn't let anyone hear. The manor was awake, and the servants were moving through the adjacent corridors.

 

Leon didn't slow down. He shifted his focus to her other breast, his teeth grazing the sensitive underside before his lips enveloped her completely. He suckled both nipples with passion, his large, rough hands sliding down to grip her hips, anchoring her body against his as if he could press himself directly into her skin. Ada whimpered behind her palm, her body shivering violently from the sheer sensory onslaught.

 

"Leon," she breathed out against her own skin, her voice a muffled, desperate whisper. "Leon, someone might—"

 

"Let them," he muttered against her flesh that sent a shiver down her spine.

 

He didn't stop there. He dropped to his knees on the tiled floor, the fabric of his trousers scraping against the stone. His hands slid down the length of her thighs, pulling up the layers of the maroon silk dress until the fabric was gathered around her waist. He reached for the edge of her silk undergarments, sliding them down past her knees until she's left completely exposed to his gaze.

 

He looked up at her, his blue eyes dark with an unreadable, burning focus. Then, he hook one of her slender legs over his broad shoulder.

 

Ada’s breath caught in her throat. The position was entirely scandalous, leaving her completely vulnerable, balanced on one foot against the wall while he held her in place.

 

Leon closed his eyes as he leaned forward, his mouth pressing directly against the wet, aching center of her core.

 

The first stroke of his tongue was broad and flat, tasting the sharp, sweet nectar that had already begun to pool between her thighs. Ada’s hand flew back to her mouth, her teeth biting down on her own knuckles to prevent a scream from escaping into the lavatory. He began to take her with devotion, his tongue darting deep into her heat before swirling back up to claim the hyper-sensitive bud at the top of her slit.

 

He used his lips to pull at her flesh, his hot breath brushing against her damp skin as he devoured her. Every slide of his tongue felt like a hot iron marking her, stripping away the last remnants of Ada Wong, leaving only the Ada he can have.

 

Suddenly, the faint, unmistakable sound of footsteps echoed from the gravel path just outside the lavatory door.

 

Crunch. Crunch.

 

It was the servants. They were carrying the iron crates of trimmings from the lower gardens, their voices muffled but entirely too close.

 

Panic collided with the escalating heat in Ada’s lower belly. Her body went rigid. Her free hand flew to the solid oak door behind her, her nails scratching desperately against the wood, leaving faint, white marks in the lacquer as she tried to find a leverage. She wanted to push him away, she wanted to tell him to stop, but the friction of his tongue against her clitoris was too intense, too perfect.

 

"Leon," she whimpered, her knuckles pressing so hard into her lips that she could taste the faint metal of her skin. "They're... they're right outside."

 

Leon didn't open his eyes. He didn't care about the world beyond the lock. He simply tightened his grip on her hip, his thumb digging into her flesh to keep her steady as his tongue accelerated. He licked her with a deeper, harder pressure, his mouth drawing out every drop of her moisture, driving her straight toward the edge of a cliff she could no longer avoid.

 

The footsteps grew louder, pausing just a few feet from the window panels.

 

At that exact second, the tension behind Ada’s ribs snapped.

 

Her body arched violently off the stone wall, her head tossing back as she came hard on his face. A convulsive tremor rippled through her pelvic muscles, a torrent of hot, sweet juices spilling out against his lips and chin. She let out a choked, sobbing gasp into her palm, her toes curling as the pleasure washed over her in waves, blinding her, shattering the last defenses of her mind.

 

Leon stayed with her through every single throb. He did not pull back. Instead, he began sipping all her juices as they came, his mouth acting as a vessel to catch the proof of her undoing. He swallowed her down, his throat working as he drank her in, ensuring not a single drop was wasted on the tiled floor.

 

When the spasms finally began to slow, Leon flattened his tongue over the wet, swollen bud one last time. He gave her a long, slow stroke from bottom to top, a thorough, sweeping motion as if to clean her up completely, leaving her skin tingling and utterly sensitive.

 

He opened his eyes, his face flushed, a thin sheen of perspiration covering his forehead. He slowly lowered her leg from his shoulder, his movements gentle now as he stood up to his full height.

 

Ada slumped against the wall, her chest heaving, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She felt completely unraveled, a collection of broken threads held together only by him.

 

Leon leaned down, his hands working with tenderness as he reached down to fix her undergarments, sliding the silk back up over her hips. He smoothed down the lower part of her maroon dress, ensuring every layer of the silk fell back into its proper, elegant place, erasing the evidence of what they had just done.

 

He stepped closer, his thumb reaching out to wipe a stray tear from the corner of her eye. Then, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss onto her lips. It was a gentle compared to the violence of the pleasure he had just given her.

 

"I'll see you tomorrow, Ada," he whispered against her mouth, his voice carrying a soft, hopeful note.

 

Ada looked up at him, the reality came crashing back into her mind like a slap. The warmth in her belly turned to ice.

 

"You can't," she said, her voice small.

 

Leon’s eyebrows pulled together, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. "What do you mean I can't? The portrait isn't finished. I still need to finish the shading on the background panels."

 

"You can't come tomorrow, Leon," Ada repeated, her dark eyes locking onto his. "I will be preparing for the luncheon in the Simmons estate. The General has ordered my presence."

 

Leon didn't reply with words. His response was written entirely in the hard set of his jaw. The anger that had been simmering in him since he stood before her mother's tomb flared to life, but looking at her...at Ada...the anger died out almost instantly.

 

Leon didn't argue. He didn't offer a dramatic declaration of rescue. He knew the limitations of his brushes against the truth.

 

Instead, Leon stepped into her space and buried his head into the shallow of her neck. He wrapped his large, strong arms entirely around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest in a tight hug. He held her as if he could shield her from the very truth, as if his arms could keep her away from the world.

 

Ada let out a shaky breath, her arms coming up to wrap around his shoulders. She buried her face in his blonde hair, her fingers running through the thick, unruly strands, memorizing the texture of his scalp beneath her fingertips. She let herself hold him, letting the scent of peppermint, turpentine, and linen fill her lungs one last time before the lavender perfume returned to choke her.

 

"The day after tomorrow," she whispered into the crook of his neck, her fingers tightening in his hair. "You may come back the day after tomorrow, Leon. If I am still here."

 

Leon didn't let go. He simply tightened his grip around her waist, his chest rising and falling against hers in a painful count of the seconds they had left. 

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The copper tub was filled to the brim with near-boiling water, the surface crowded with a dense, floating layer of crushed jasmine petals and bitter almond oil. The steam rose in thick, visible plumes, clouding the lower panes of the stained-glass windows and turning the air into a tropical mist.

 

Ada did not slide into the water with her usual grace. She descended into the heat until her chin brushed the surface, and then, with a small, flat exhale, she closed her eyes and let herself sink completely.

 

She held her breath underwater. She did not do it out of panic, nor was she chased by the distorted imagery of her previous nightmares. She did it intentionally, forcing her lungs to remain still beneath the clear, hot liquid. Ada wanted to feel the water pressing against her eyelids, her nose, her ears, completely blocking out the sounds of the morning. And so, she counted the seconds by the thumping of her own heart against her ribs.

 

Only when her chest began to burn, did she break the surface, her head erupting from the jasmine petals as she drew a sharp, ragged breath of air.

 

"Oh, my lady! You scared us!"

 

A chorus of light, giggling voices instantly shattered her focus.

 

Three handmaidens stepped forward from the tiled corners of the room. They were young, pale-skinned girls with bright eyes, their white linen aprons pristine and unmarred by the realities of the manor. Helena stood slightly behind them, her face pale, her hands trembling as she held a stack of fresh, linen drying cloths.

 

The three white girls swarmed the tub, their movements energetic and clumsy as they dipped soft sea sponges into the scented water, beginning a thorough, aggressive bath to prepare Ada’s skin for the luncheon at the Simmons estate.

 

"The skin must be smooth as porcelain today," one of the girls, a blonde named Mina, prattled on, her sponge scrubbing vigorously at Ada’s forearm. "The General’s vanguard said his carriage is already approaching the lower valley. Imagine it! A grand banquet luncheon just for you, my lady!"

 

"And look at the garment she chose," another girl chimed in, pointing a damp finger toward the wardrobe where the white cheongsam hung under a protective sheet. The girls broke into a series of soft, high-pitched giggles, their faces flushing with an innocent, naive excitement. "It is so incredibly romantic! A white dress for a virginal bride-to-be, before the actual wedding gown is even unveiled. It is like a western fairy tale, isn't it, Helena?"

 

Helena did not giggle. She stood entirely frozen, her fingers clutching the drying cloths so tightly that her knuckles were entirely white.

 

Ada kept her gaze fixed on the steam rising from the tub, her features settling into that epitome of composure. Through the shifting mist, her eyes met Helena’s. It was a brief exchange of glances. The three white maidens had no concept of provincial custom; they had no idea that in this house, the white silk with the silver willow embroidery was reserved strictly for a funeral shroud. 

 

They saw a romance where Ada saw a wake.

 

"A white dress signifies many things," Ada murmured and entirely unbothered as the sponge scraped across her shoulder. "Depending on the nature of the ending."

 

"Oh, it is the beginning of everything!" Mina countered, completely missing the frost in Ada’s tone. She squeezed a stream of warm water over Ada’s neck, the jasmine petals swirling around her collarbones. "To marry General Direk Simmons... to live in the capital mansion with forty servants and a private carriage! My lady, you are the most fortunate woman in the entire territory."

 

"I would trade every single thing I own for just a glimpse of that life," the third girl said, her eyes wide with a daydreaming, vacant adoration as she massaged oil into Ada’s knuckles. "I would trade the only stones of luxury I have...even the silver hairpins my mother gave me...just to be chosen as the General’s wife. To be looked at by a man of such stature, to know you are the one who will carry his name forward."

 

Ada’s lips thinned into a razor-thin line. She did not speak, but her dark eyes cut toward Helena once more. Helena looked away, a tear finally escaping her lower lid and tracking down her pale cheek, though she quickly wiped it away with the edge of a drying towel before the other girls could notice her distress. They spoke of luxury, of trading silver pins for a place in Direk’s bed, completely ignorant of Madame Simmons's tongue and the fact that the General did not want a wife. He wanted a breeding vessel with wide hips and ample flesh to sustain his bloodline.

 

"The price of being chosen is often higher than the value of the stone," Ada said softly, her voice dropping to a register that made the three girls freeze for a fraction of a second, their sponges hovering over the water.

 

"My lady?" Mina asked, blinking in confusion.

 

"Nothing," Ada replied, her composure snapping back into place like a lock. "The water is turning cold. Help me out."

 

The process of dressing her was an agonizing ritual. The three maidens fluttered about the bedchamber like white moths, their voices a constant, irritating chatter as they pulled the white silk over Ada’s torso. The fabric was dense, stiff, and freezing against her skin, the silver willow thread along the high collar pressing firmly against her throat, restricting her breathing just enough to remind her of who she is.

 

They pulled her hair back into a severe, flawless french twist, using a single, heavy jade hair stick to keep the dark locks into place. There were no jewels, no gold pins, no pearl drop earrings. She stood before the mirror, a pale monument of mourning disguised as a lady of quality.

 

"The shoes, Helena," Mina directed, gesturing to the lacquered box her father had sent from the winery. "Bring the gold slippers."

 

Helena moved forward like a woman walking to the gallows. She dropped to her knees at Ada’s feet, her frame trembling so violently that the silk slippers clicked against the hardwood floor. The other three maidens, sensing the shift in the room's energy but misinterpreting it as nerves, stepped back toward the door to gather the formal cloaks, leaving the two of them alone for a brief pocket of time.

 

Helena lifted Ada’s right foot, her hands shaking as she tried to slide the embroidered gold slipper onto her heel. But as her fingers brushed the silk, the composure she had maintained all morning completely shattered.

 

A choked, muffled sob tore from Helena’s throat. She dropped her forehead against Ada’s instep, her shoulders heaving as she began to weep openly, her tears soaking into the fine gold thread of the imported shoes.

 

"I am sorry," Helena whispered, her voice a raw, broken fragment of a sound as she clutched Ada’s ankles. "I am so sorry, Ada."

 

Ada stood completely unfazed. Her spine was a rigid line of steel, her hands resting flat against the sides of her white cheongsam, her chin tilted up at the exact angle Leon had demanded during their portrait sessions. She did not look down at the weeping girl at her feet. She did not offer a comforting touch, nor did she let a single tear mar the flawless powder on her cheeks.

 

Instead, she kept her dark eyes fixed entirely on the large mirror before her.

 

As the sound of Helena’s weeping filled the room, the reflection in the glass began to warp. The pale, perfect skin of her neck did not look like flesh anymore. Beneath the surface, a dark, aggressive movement began to stir.

 

Ada watched as a thick, thorny vine broke through the skin of her collarbone. It did not bleed; it sprouted.

 

The vine was a deep, sickly green, covered in long, black briars that scraped against the inside of her silver-stitched collar. It raced upward along her neck, twisting tightly around her throat, binding her airway. Ada did not flinch. She watched in the mirror as more vines erupted from the skin of her arms, their sharp points tearing through the sleeves of her white funeral dress, wrapping around her wrists and binding her hands together like a prisoner in her own sanctuary.

 

Then, a sharp pressure flared behind her left eye.

 

The pain was intense but Ada’s expression did not alter by a single fraction of a degree. In the reflection, the pale skin beneath her lower lash parted, and a thick, green shoot pushed its way out from the corner of her eye. It grew rapidly, curling around her temple, its leaves unfurling in the warm air of the room until a massive blood-red rose sprouted directly from her eye socket, its crimson petals heavy and damp with a dark, oily fluid.

 

The roots of the plant dug deep into her skull, burying themselves into her thoughts, erasing the memory of the West, erasing the memory of her mother's garden, replacing everything with the cloying, suffocating scent of lavender perfume.

 

Ada parted her lips to draw a breath, to tell Helena to rise, to command her own body to move toward the door.

 

But when her mouth opened, no words came out.

 

Her mouth was entirely full of flowers. Thick, tightly packed carnation petals, the color of dried blood, spilled out over her lower lip, choking her throat, blocking her windpipe, preventing her from screaming, preventing her from breathing, preventing her from ever speaking her own name again. 

 

Leon.

 

Ada snapped back to reality with the thought of his name, his golden hair, his voice...and his blue eyes. The very eyes that could stare at her for hours with tenderness and without hesitation. 

 

Leon.

 

Slowly, Ada turned away from the mirror, the flowers in her mouth dissolving back into the dry taste of iron and silk as she took her first step toward the door. "Let us go," she said.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The gates of the Simmons mansion were forged from thick, black iron that curled into sharp spikes at the top, mimicking a row of teeth designed to swallow the valley whole. The midday sun beat down upon the courtyard, turning the white stone path into a blinding, reflective sheet that made the eyes ache. As the carriage door was flung open by a uniformed footman, the cloying, suffocating death rushed out to greet Ada, settling over her like an umbrella.

 

She stepped down onto the gravel, the gold thread of her imported slippers catching the glare of the noon light. She adjusted her posture before her heels even fully settled, her spine locked into that perfect, unbreakable line of steel. The white silk of her cheongsam felt frozen against her skin, the silver-stitched weeping willows along her high collar pressing firmly into the flesh of her throat.

 

General Direk Simmons stood waiting by the grand oak doors.

 

He was a man well into his forties, his chest bloated beneath the heavy blue wool of his military tunic, which was practically dripping with medals and gold braided cords. His face was flush and greasy from the afternoon heat, his thinning hair slicked back with an oil that smelled faintly of old lard. To Ada, as she walked toward him, he looked like nothing more than an ugly, bloated creature. 

 

A common blowfly, grown fat on the decay of the province.

 

"Ah, the jewel of the valley," Simmons roared, his voice a loud, wet baritone that thundered across the courtyard.

 

Before Ada could even offer a traditional bow of greeting, he surged forward, completely disregarding the boundaries of polite society. His large, sweaty hand flew straight to her torso, his thick fingers grazing the front of her white dress, his palm pressing flat against her chest for a brief, invasive second under the pretense of checking her posture. Ada did not flinch. Her face remained a flawless, though behind her teeth, she could taste the bitter metal tang of her own revulsion.

 

"You look rather pale today, my dear," Simmons murmured, his dark, bead-like eyes scraping over her features. He slid his hand down from her chest, his fingers digging fiercely into the curve of her left hip, squeezing the bone. He pulled her flush against his bloated side, his arm locking around her waist like an iron clamp as he forced her to walk beside him into the manor. "A bit of color would suit you better. A woman should look alive when she enters my house."

 

"The heat of the valley is quite formidable today, General," Ada replied, her voice smooth, collected, and perfectly polite, though every muscle in her body was strained to its absolute limit. "White is merely an efficient choice for the sun."

 

"Efficient," Simmons chuckled, his grip tightening on her hip as they crossed the threshold into the grand dining hall. "An interesting word for a bride-to-be. I prefer compliance over efficiency, Ada."

 

The dining hall was choked with the smoke of roasting venison and the loud, booming laughter of men in uniform. A long, mahogany table stretched across the center of the room, crowded with silver platters, crystal chalices, and half-emptied bottles of red wine. 

 

Sitting around the table were six other high-ranking officers, all of them dressed in identical blue tunics, their chests puffed out like roosters. Next to each man sat a wife; young women dressed in extravagant, multi-layered brocades of gold and deep violet, their hair pinned high with jade and pearl ornaments.

 

Ada’s sharp eyes scanned the table in a single, sweeping glance. She noticed it immediately. The slight, purple shadow beneath the jaw of the colonel’s wife. The raw, red swelling around the wrists of the young woman sitting next to the major, partially hidden by her long silk sleeves. Every single woman at the table bore the distinct marks of a master’s hand, yet they all sat with their heads bowed, their lips curved into tight smiles. 

 

Ada made no comment. She simply allowed her gaze to glide over them.

 

Pity those who lived. She thought.

 

At the head of the table sat Madame Simmons, her predatory eyes looking even more severe beneath her black lace veil.

 

"Sit, child," Madame Simmons commanded, gesturing with a jewel-encrusted hand toward the empty chair next to the General. "You are late. A woman who cannot master her own schedule will find it very difficult to master a household."

 

Ada slid into the high-backed mahogany chair, the white silk of her dress rustling against the wood. "My apologies, Madame. The mountain pass was narrow today."

 

"The pass is always narrow for those who hesitate," the General said, taking his seat beside her and immediately slamming his fist onto the table to call for more wine. He turned to the colonel sitting across from him, a greasy smile spreading across his wide face. "Look at her, Marcus. She is exactly what my mother promised. Wide enough to endure the strain. Sturdy."

 

Colonel Marcus lifted his crystal goblet, his bloodshot eyes appraising Ada like a horse at an auction. "Sturdy indeed, General. You’ll have no trouble breaking her in. A woman with a frame like that is built for labor. My own wife, Clara, was far too delicate when I brought her home. Lost two boys before she finally produced a survivor. A massive waste of time and coin."

 

The colonel’s wife, Clara, did not look up from her plate of venison, her fingers tightening around her silver fork until her knuckles turned white against the mahogany.

 

"Time is something a man of my stature cannot afford to waste," Simmons barked, tearing off a piece of meat with his teeth before turning back to Ada. He reached out, his thumb pressing hard against her chin, forcing her head to tilt back so the rest of the table could see the line of her throat. "I expect three sons within the first four years, Ada. That is what a woman is for, after all. To be the soil that carries the seed forward. A clean, untainted field."

 

"The lineage must remain pure so does the womb," Major Vance chimed in from the lower end of the table, his hand resting heavily on the shoulder of his own bruising wife. "That is the trouble with the modern girls in the capital. They read those Western journals, they talk about free will and clothing that breathes, and by the time they reach the altar, they’re completely ruined. Broken property. A man cannot build a legacy on used land."

 

"A woman’s free will is a disease," Madame Simmons stated coldly, her raspy voice cutting through the clink of silverware. She leaned forward, her eyes locking onto Ada’s face. "It leads to nothing but ruin and empty cradles. A woman should have no thoughts other than the comfort of her husband’s bed and the preservation of his name. Tell me, Ada. Your father has kept you secluded up on that hill for a long time. Are you a virgin?"

 

The question dropped into the center of the dining hall like a block of stone.

 

The laughter of the officers ceased instantly. The wives at the table held their breath, their eyes glued to their plates, terrified to witness the humiliation of the Baron’s daughter. The General leaned back in his chair, a smug, expectant smirk on his bloated face as he watched Ada, his thumb still tracing the edge of her jawline.

 

Ada remained perfectly calm. Her breathing did not accelerate, nor did the blood rise to her cheeks. She felt an icy, profound detachment wash over her, a defensive numbness that completely insulated her mind from the ugliness of the creatures surrounding her. She thought of her mother's tomb. She thought of Leon. She knew what she had given away, and she knew it was the only part of her that would ever truly belong to her.

 

She looked Madame Simmons straight in the eyes, "My father has always been exceptionally meticulous regarding the preservation of his property, Madame. I have lived entirely under his direction." she answered.

 

"An elegant answer," the colonel laughed, breaking the tension with a loud guffaw. "But a simple 'yes' would suffice, Lady Ada. The General doesn't care for poetry; he cares for the ledger."

 

"She is a virgin," Simmons declared, his large hand coming down on Ada’s thigh beneath the table, his fingers squeezing the flesh through the white silk until it throbbed. "The Baron wouldn't dare offer me a damaged vessel. He knows the price of an insult to my vanguard. If the seal is broken, the contract is void."

 

"Good," Madame Simmons murmured, nodding her head in approval as she lifted her wine. "A vessel must be clean before the gold is poured into it. You must ensure you warm his bed accordingly, Ada. Do not let those Western notions your mother harbored infect your mind. She was a scholar, and look where it brought her. A faceless stone in a forgotten corner."

 

Ada felt a sudden tremor behind her left eye, but she forced her lips to remain perfectly still. "My mother’s choices are not my own, Madame," she said softly.

 

"They better not be," Simmons muttered, his hand sliding up from her thigh to rest against her hip again, his thumb digging into the bone. "In two weeks, the legal contracts will be signed at the provincial hall. The week after, you will leave your father’s estate permanently. You will pack no books and no private journals. You will wear what I provide. You will look like a Simmons."

 

"The General is exceptionally generous," Major Vance said, raising his glass in a toast. "To the expansion of the name. May the field be fertile and the labor short."

 

"To the name," the officers bellowed in unison, their voices rising in a loud, wet roar that filled the suffocating air of the room.

 

Ada lifted her own crystal chalice, her hand steady, her features frozen into a smooth, flawless serenity as she looked at the bloated fly sitting beside her. She took a single, slow sip of the red wine, tasting only the salt and the bitter, metallic tang of the funeral she was currently attending.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

Ada ran. 

 

Ada ran till she felt her lungs burn, the gravel of the grand courtyard tearing at the soft soles of her gold-stitched slippers before she even reached the stone steps of the manor. The very second the footman had opened the door of her carriage, Ada Wong had not just slipped; she had shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.

 

She did not look back at the horses, nor did she acknowledge the terrified gasp of Helena, who was left standing by the carriage door, waiting.

 

Ada surged through the double doors of the estate, her breath coming in ragged, whistling gasps that cut through her chest like razor blades. The grand halls of her father’s house felt smaller now, the walls pressing inward, smelling of old wax and wood polish.

 

When reached her bedchamber, she threw her weight against the oak door, and slammed it close with a violent, splintering force.

 

The lock clicked home, and the moment it did, the fire consumed her.

 

Her thighs were on fire. The skin across her hips, the very flesh that Simmons had squeezed and claimed as his fertile soil, felt as though it was being systematically peeled away by white-hot irons. She staggered toward the center of the room, her hands clutching her throat. A thick, suffocating pressure bloomed behind her ribs, rising up her esophagus until she was completely choked, unable to drag a single molecule of oxygen into her burning lungs.

 

She fell to her knees, her hands slamming hard against the floorboards. She gagged, her jaw stretching painfully wide as a massive, dry lump forced its way up her throat. With a horrific, retching heave, she puked them out onto the dark wood.

 

They were flies. Dozens of dead, bloated blowflies, their metallic green bodies slick with a black, foul-tasting bile, spilled from her mouth, tumbling over her painted red lips in a dry, rustling heap. They looked exactly like him. Like the creature who had sat beside her, consuming meat and talking about her virginity like a merchant evaluating a piece of deeded land.

 

"Get out," she tried to scream, but the words were completely swallowed by the rot. "Get out of me!"

 

She looked down at her hands, and a fresh wave of horror pierced her mind. The pale skin across her knuckles was slowly melting. The flesh was turning liquid, dripping off her bones like warm candle tallow, exposing the dark, raw muscle beneath. And then, through the thin air of the room, a sound began to manifest.

 

It was a baby’s cry. A sharp, piercing wail of a newborn, thin and desperate, followed instantly by a sickening, wet crunch. It was the sound of something fragile being violently squashed beneath a heavy military boot.

 

'A man cannot build a legacy on used land',the Major’s voice vibrated through her teeth. A massive waste of time and coin.'

 

More insects began to force their way through the melting tears in her skin. Fat, white maggots and black beetles pushed outward from her thighs, crawling over her hips, treating her living frame as a decomposing carcass. Ada opened her mouth to let out a scream that would rouse the entire manor, but the sound was completely dead. It was all a wet, suffocating gurgle, her throat entirely packed with the squirming, writhing mass of insects she could no longer name.

 

Then, with all of the suddenness, she snapped back to reality.

 

Ada stood completely unmoving by the door.

 

There were no flies on the floor. Her skin was whole, pale, and unmarred beneath the dim light of the evening. The baby’s cry was gone, replaced only by the sound of her own ragged breathing. But the terror was entirely real. She looked down and saw that her hands had torn the front of her white funeral cheongsam completely open, the silver-stitched willows ripped apart, exposing the frantic, trembling rise and fall of her bare chest.

 

"Calm down...calm down..."

 

Ada fumbled as she turned the lock and flew out of her room. She plunged into the darkness of the long halls, her bare feet making no sound against the oriental rugs as she ran past the portraits of her ancestors, and past the locked doors of her father’s study. She ran out of the side vestibule, stepping directly into the cold, damp grass of the gardens.

 

The night air was freezing, but her skin was still burning with the memory of the day. She ran barefoot through the untamed ivy, the thorns of the wild briars scratching at her ankles, drawing actual blood that she welcomed because it proved she was still alive. She ran blindly toward the forgotten corner of the property, her mind fixed on a single point of sanity.

 

She reached the small, dainty greenhouse where her mother’s tomb lay hidden. She pushed the brass-hinged door open, her breath hitching in her throat as the sweet scent of the roses enveloped her.

 

Ada stopped dead in her tracks, her dark eyes widening in the dim light.

 

She was completely taken back to see Leon in there.

 

He was not in the lower districts as he should be.

 

The runaway western painter was fast asleep right at the foot of the marble statue, his large frame curled on the damp earth beside the rectangle stone of Carla Radames's grave. His large wooden easel was tucked into the corner, a protective cloth thrown over the canvas.

 

His blonde hair was messy, falling across his closed eyes, and his breathing was deep, and peaceful, entirely separate from the horrors that were chasing her through the dark.

 

Ada stood at the entrance, in her torn white dress, her bare feet covered in dirt and blood, staring at the only man who had ever looked at her and seen a person instead of a prize.

 

"Leon," she whispered, the name finally breaking through the tightness of her throat.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ────── 

The fragile sound of her voice cut through the dark air of the small greenhouse, pulling Leon out from the depths of exhausted sleep. His eyes snapped open, his senses instantly flaring to life as he registered the cool, damp earth beneath him and the thick scent of the surrounding roses.

 

Ada was kneeling right beside his laying figure.

 

The pale light of the moon filtered through the glass panes above, illuminating a sight that caused his heart to slam violently against his ribs. She was sweating, her fine brow slick with moisture, and her breath came in shallow, frantic hitches that shook her entire frame. But it was her dress that made him sit up right away. The front of the white silk was torn completely open, the fabric ripped down to the waist, exposing the bare, trembling curve of her chest to the night air. Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely keep them flat against the soil.

 

"Ada?" Leon’s voice was rough, an urgent rasp as he pushed himself upright, his gaze darting from her wild eyes to the exposed skin of her breasts. "Ada, what happened? Did someone—"

 

Before the questions could fully leave his mouth, Ada lunged forward and slammed her lips onto his.

 

Ada tasted of copper, red wine, and a wild, consuming terror that she was trying to drown directly in his mouth. Her hands flew to his face, her fingernails digging hard into the skin of his jaw as she dragged him closer, her tongue forcing its way past his teeth with urgency.

 

Leon groaned, the shock of her mouth instantly melting into a hot, responsive fire. He wrapped his large arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest, his hands gripping the smooth skin exposed by the torn silk of her gown. "Ada," he breathed against her lips, his mind spinning from the sheer intensity of her grip. "Talk to me. What is this?"

 

"Don't speak," she gasped, her voice breaking as she pulled back just an inch, her dark eyes wide and burning into his. "Just touch me, Leon. Make me forget. Burn it out of me."

 

"Tell me who did this to you," he demanded, his blue eyes flashing with dangerous protective streak as his thumbs brushed over her damp collarbone.

 

"No one," she muttered, her voice a ragged whisper as she hooked her fingers into the collar of his white linen shirt, ripping at the buttons until the fabric parted. "I am here. You are here. That is all that exists. Do not let them in."

 

Leon didn't ask another question after that.

 

The desperation radiating off her body was a command he could no longer refuse. He shifted his weight, his large frame rolling her over until she was beneath him on the scattered bed of fallen rose petals. He came down over her, his chest pressing against her bare breasts, the contrast of his hot skin against her shivering flesh causing her to arch into him with a soft whimper.

 

"I've got you," Leon muttered, his mouth dropping to her jawline, his lips hot and wet as he kissed his way down to the sensitive skin of her throat. "I'm right here, Ada."

 

"More," she choked out, her hands tangling in his blonde hair, pulling him down fiercely. "Don't be gentle, Leon. I don't want gentle."

 

He found her mouth again, his kiss turning deep and bruising. His hand slid down the smooth silk of her cheongsam, gathering the fabric upward until it was bunched around her waist, leaving her long, slender legs entirely bare to the cool air. He reached for the edge of her undergarments, his fingers hooking into the lace and pulling them down past her knees.

 

When his hand brushed against the soft, damp junction of her thighs, Ada let out a sharp gasp, her hips tilting upward instinctively. She was already slick, her body responding to his proximity with overflowing heat that surprised them both.

 

"You're so wet for me," Leon whispered against her lips, his fingers tracing the swollen, hyper-sensitive folds of her core.

 

"Because it is you," she breathed, her teeth biting into his lower lip as she guided his hand deeper. "Only you."

 

Leon parted her legs, sliding his body between her thighs. The friction of his trousers against her bare skin was a torturous heat, and he quickly worked to undo the fastenings of his clothes, freeing himself from the restriction of his garments until his rigid, aching length brushed against her slick opening. He paused for a fraction of a second, his blue eyes searching her face in the dim light, noticing the tense hold she had on his shoulders.

 

"Ada," he murmured, his breath hot against her cheek. "Look at me."

 

She opened her eyes, the dark depths filled with raw vulnerability that he had never seen before. "It is my first time," she whispered, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "Let it be yours. Let it only ever be yours."

 

Leon’s heart thudded hard. He leaned down, pressing a soft and tender kiss onto her eyelids before positioning his tip against her tight, burning entrance. He slowly pushed forward that made the muscles of his jaw clench from the sheer, tight resistance of her body.

 

Ada let out a choked cry, her fingers digging deep into the muscles of his back as her body stretched to accommodate him. There was sudden stinging heat blooming between her thighs as he buried himself completely inside her, his length filling her.

 

"Stop," she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut as her breath caught in her throat. "Hold still."

 

"I'm not moving," Leon gasped, his forehead resting against hers, his entire body trembling from the effort it took to remain completely motionless inside her tight, pulsing walls. He kissed the tears that had gathered at the corners of her eyes, his voice a soothing murmur. "Take a breath, Ada. Just breathe with me."

 

She gripped his shoulders, her internal muscles clenching tightly around him, a sensation so intense it made Leon let out a low, ragged groan. After a long minute, the stinging heat began to dissolve, replaced by a throbbing ache that demanded something. 

 

Ada shifted her hips, a small, experimental tilt that caused a soft, breathless sound to escape her lips.

 

"Leon," she prompted, her eyes opening. "Now."

 

He began to move. He pulled back until he was almost entirely clear of her, before plunging back in, the slide of his skin against hers creating a wet, friction-filled heat that rapidly built a fire in the lower part of her belly. He moved with the right momentum, his upper body hovering over her as he drove himself into her heat, over and over again.

 

Ada’s head tossed back against the dirt, her mouth opening in a series of short, ragged gasps. The pain was completely gone, entirely erased by a mounting, unbearable tension that twisted tighter with every stroke of his hips. She wrapped her legs around his waist, locking him closer, her body climbing a steep, invisible cliff.

 

"Leon... Leon, I can't," she cried out, her hand flying to cover her mouth to muffle the sound as she felt the precipice drawing near.

 

"Don't hide it," he muttered, reaching down to pull her hand away from her face, locking his fingers with hers against the ground. "Let me hear you, Ada."

 

The feeling of his body against her hyper-sensitive clitoris became too much to bear. With a deep plunge, Ada’s internal muscles clamped down around him in a series of violent, convulsive spasms. She came hard against his length, a broken scream tearing from her throat as the pleasure shattered her mind, sending waves of pleasure rippling through her core.

 

Leon watched her undoing, his own restraint snapping at the sight of her pleasure. He let out a loud groan, his body shuddering as he delivered three more strokes, burying himself as far into her as possible before his own release tore through him, filling her deep inside with his seed.

 

He slumped against her, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat as they both tried to drag air back into their lungs.

 

For a few minutes, they simply lay there, their bodies connected, the scent of the roses wrapping around them like a protective blanket. But Ada’s mind was already resetting. She didn't want the stillness. She didn't want the quiet that allowed her to think.

 

She reached down, her hands pressing against his broad chest, pushing him upward. "Move," she commanded softly.

 

Leon blinked, looking down at her in surprise. "Ada?"

 

"I want to be on top," she said, her dark eyes locking onto his with determination. "Let me."

 

Leon didn't argue. He carefully extracted himself from her heat before rolling onto his back.

 

Ada did not hesitate. She crawled over his frame, her actions fluid and feral, completely unbothered by the dirt or discomfort. She positioned herself over his rigid length; which was already beginning to stir and harden again beneath her gaze. She took his shaft in her small hand, guiding the head against her wet, swollen entrance, before sinking down onto him in one smooth, continuous motion.

 

She let out a long, deep gasp as he filled her again, her internal walls gripping him with possessive tightness.

 

Ada began to move. 

 

She arched her back, her bare chest thrust forward as she slid up and down his length, setting a fast, punishing pace that made Leon’s eyes widen in fascination. 

 

She was magnificent in the moonlight, a creature of pure and raw passion.

 

As she rode him, she reached down and took both of his hands in hers. She lifted his knuckles to her mouth, pressing soft, desperate kisses against his skin, her lips sliding over his fingers even as her hips continued their relentless, grinding descent onto his shaft.

 

"Ada," Leon groaned, his hips lifting off the ground to meet her strokes, his fingers curling tightly around hers as she kissed his palms. "You're incredible. Look at you."

 

"You are mine tonight, Leon," she whispered fiercely between kisses as she moved faster and harder. The friction between their bodies generating a white-hot heat that threatened to consume them both again. "No one else. Only you."

 

She threw her head back, her dark hair coming loose from its pins and spilling over her bare shoulders like a black waterfall. She rode him with beautifully, her core contracting around him over and over, driving him straight toward the edge once more. Leon reached up, his hands sliding to her waist to help guide her movements, his thumbs digging into her hips as he thrust upward into her descending heat.

 

The pleasure rebuilt itself with a terrifying speed. Ada let out a breathless cry as she felt the second wave approach, her internal muscles tightening into a vice-like grip that had Leon gritting his teeth to keep from spilling himself too soon.

 

With a desperate tilt of her pelvis, Ada came for the second time, her body freezing as a long, trembling sigh escaped her lips. Leon followed her into the dark immediately after, his hips lifting as he erupted inside her once more.

 

Ada collapsed forward, her bare chest sliding against his damp torso, her head burying itself into the shallow of his neck as they both lay completely spent, bound together in the dark sanctuary of the roses.

 

 

 

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

 

 

 

The scent of crushed roses was so thick it felt like something a person could taste, and Ada... Ada could taste the sweet syrup coating the back of her throat. 

 

The earth beneath them was damp, cooling rapidly as the deep hours of the night took hold, but where her bare skin pressed against Leon’s chest, the heat was a constant, living furnace. 

 

Breath. Ada thought.

 

Leon’s heart was steady beneath her cheek, a solid thumping that felt more real than any of the marble pillars holding up her father’s grand manor. His arm was wrapped securely around her waist, his large, rough fingers tracing small, absent patterns against the bare skin of her hip.

 

Ada shifted slightly, her fingers tangling in the damp linen of his shirt. "You still haven't explained your presence in my mother's sanctuary, Mr. Kennedy," she murmured, her voice a raspy velvet in the dark. "The rose garden is not a public lodging house for weary travelers."

 

Leon let out a soft, amused breath, his chest rising and falling beneath her head. "I was under the impression that an artist should protect his tools, Lady Ada. And honestly, I didn't feel like making that three-mile trek back down to the lower districts just to turn around and walk right back up the mountain pass at dawn."

 

"So you decided to break into a private estate and sleep in the dirt," she noted, a tiny spark of her usual wit returning to her dark eyes as she tilted her head to look up at his face. "How remarkably ungentlemanly."

 

"I didn't break anything. The door was unlocked," Leon countered, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He turned his head, his blue eyes catching the faint, glittering light of the moon through the glass panes above. "Besides, that canvas of yours is getting incredibly heavy. Dragging forty pounds of wood and wet oil paint through the rocky paths twice a day is a fantastic way to ruin a good set of brushes. I thought it was a brilliant display of foresight."

 

"I think you are simply lazy," Ada joked, her lips curving into a bright, genuine line. "A tragic tale of an artist who conquered the capital but was completely defeated by a steep incline."

 

"I am a practical man," Leon shot back, his fingers tightening slightly around her waist, pulling her a fraction closer. "And if I’m being completely honest... I missed our session today. The lower districts are loud, they smell like old harbor water, and nobody down there is named Ada. I also didn't want to risk being late for tomorrow's work. I wanted to be right here when the light broke through the glass."

 

The playfulness in his voice sent a warm ache straight to her chest. Ada didn't reply immediately. Instead, she sank herself closer into his mass, her forehead pressing against the crook of his shoulder, hiding her face in his heat as if she could burrow deep enough to escape her fate. 

 

"Leon," she whispered after a long pocket of time.

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Have you ever heard about Shī shī yǔ of the coastal towns?" she asked, her voice dropping to a softer register as she stared at the white marble base of her mother’s statue.

 

Leon shifted his arm, making her more comfortable against his torso. "Can't say I have. The shipping docks didn't leave much room for fairytales. It was mostly just old men grumbling about tides and tariff codes. What kind of story is that?"

 

Ada traced a small, invisible circle against his collarbone. "Hmm...It is a very old story. From the north, where the monastery sits high above the crags. They say there was a girl once, a long time ago, who was born into one of the merchant houses. She was exceptionally beautiful, with hair like crows' feathers and skin like polished ivory. The people in the markets used to call her the jewel of the valley because her laughter could allegedly make the winter harvests sweet."

 

"Sounds like a standard piece of folklore," Leon murmured, his chin resting against the top of her dark hair. "The beautiful girl who causes trouble just by walking down the street."

 

"She didn't cause trouble," Ada corrected gently. "The world caused trouble for her. When she was eighteen, the elders of her house decided that her beauty was too valuable to be wasted on a common life. They handed her over to the strict order of the cloisters, intending to lock her away in the high stone walls so she could be offered as a holy gift to the patron saints of the province. They wanted to turn her into an ornament for the altar."

 

"People love locking things in cages," Leon muttered, his voice carrying a sharp edge of cynicism that made her fingers tighten against his shirt. "Go on."

 

"The day before she was meant to take her final vows, she realized the walls were too thick for her to ever breathe properly again," Ada continued, her eyes fixed on a single white rose blooming near the glass wall. "She waited until the midnight bells rang, and then she ran. She ran through the cold corridors, her bare feet bleeding against the slate floors, but the older nuns discovered her absence. They chased her out onto the high cliffs, waving their wooden broomsticks and screaming curses into the storm, their black robes flapping like hawks in the wind."

 

"Did she escape?"

 

"She reached the edge of the precipice," Ada whispered, her breath warm against his skin. "The drop was hundreds of feet down into the dark, churning water. The nuns were closing in, their broomsticks reaching for her hair, their voices telling her to fulfill the prophecy. So, she didn't hesitate. She threw herself off the cliff, choosing the fall over the cage."

 

Leon was quiet for a second, his grip on her waist turning fierce, his fingers pressing into her skin as if he were trying to hold her back from a ledge he couldn't see. "That's a miserable ending, Ada."

 

"It isn't the ending," she said, a soft, melancholy smile touching her lips. "The story says that the spirits of the deep water took pity on her before her body could hit the jagged rocks below. As she fell through the mist, her silk dress dissolved into sleek, dark fur. Her limbs smoothed out, turning into strong, powerful flippers. By the time she struck the foam, she wasn't a girl anymore. She had become a sea lion."

 

Leon let out a low, intrigued whistle. "A sea lion."

 

"Yes," Ada murmured, her voice carrying a dreamy, fragile quality. "The nuns stood at the top of the cliff, waving their sticks at the white foam, but she was already gone. She swam out into the open ocean, far beyond the reach of the monastery, far beyond the rules of the valley. They say that on stormy nights, the sailors can still hear her barking near the outer reefs, completely free, completely wild, belonging to nothing but the salt and the current."

 

Leon didn't speak for a long time. He looked up at the glass panels, where the dark blue of the night sky was just beginning to give way to the very first, imperceptible streaks of slate gray. He didn't say that the story sounded like a warning. He didn't ask her why she was thinking about girls jumping off cliffs to escape their masters, though his blue eyes were scanning the dark corners of the greenhouse as if he could sense the invisible boundaries closing in around them.

 

"Have you ever seen it, Ada?" he asked suddenly.

 

Ada blinked, her focus breaking away from the marble statue. "The sea lion?"

 

"The sea," Leon clarified, turning his body so he was looking straight down into her face. His features were soft in the dim light, the defensive laborer’s scowl completely gone, replaced by earnestness that made her pulse flutter. "Have you ever actually seen the open water? Not the river down in the district, and not the man-made pools in your father’s courtyard. The real ocean. The place where the horizon just disappears into the blue."

 

Ada’s breath hitched in her throat. She looked at his lips, still red and slightly swollen, and felt a profound, overwhelming wave of sorrow wash over her.

 

"No," she whispered, her voice barely a thread of sound in the close warmth of the greenhouse. "I have never left this valley, Leon. I have never walked beyond the routes I was ordered to follow. My father believes the air beyond the mountains is too unstable for a lady of quality. I have only ever read about the tides in my mother's old books."

 

Leon stared at her, his eyes tracing the delicate line of her jaw, the structure of her cheekbones, and the beautiful depth of her eyes. He thought of his youth on the western docks, the smell of salt water, the massive merchant vessels with their white sails catching the wind, heading toward worlds that didn't care about the province. He thought of the absolute freedom of a horizon that never ended.

 

"It's loud," he said softly, his thumb reaching up to brush a stray strand of dark hair away from her forehead. "And the water is so blue it looks like a piece of the sky fell down and started moving. When the wind comes off the waves, it carries this cold, sharp spray that stays on your skin for hours. It makes you feel like you're completely clean. Like nothing can touch you."

 

Ada looked up at him, a rare smile breaking through her defenses, her eyes glistening with hope that she tried so hard to hide. "It sounds beautiful."

 

"It is," Leon said, "You'd like it, Ada. You'd look like you belonged to it."

 

"Can you find a way to make it happen?" she asked, the question escaping her lips before she could stop it. "Can a painter with forty pounds of canvas find a route to the coast?"

 

Leon looked at her for a long moment. He didn't make a grand, impossible promise he couldn't keep, and he didn't give her a false assurance that would only turn to ash. But the look in his blue eyes was a vow that sat behind his pupils like a loaded weapon.

 

"I'll find a way," he whispered against her skin. "I promise you, Ada. I'll find a way."

 

He leaned down, his lips gentle and warm as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss onto the center of her forehead, holding her against his chest as the first light of the morning began to bleed into the sky.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The porcelain spoon clicked against the rim of the blue-and-white celadon bowl that seemed to slice through the cold morning air of the great hall. Ada sat alone at the massive mahogany dining table, which could easily accommodate forty guests but currently hosted only her. The expanse of polished wood stretched out before her like a frozen lake. She had spent the last hour scrubbing the remnants of the dirt and the fragrance of the roses from her skin, but no amount of boiling water could erase the truth beneath her flesh.

 

As she lifted a small, delicate portion of congee to her lips, she could still feel Leon in of her.

 

It was a phantom throbbing ache in the low center of her belly that made her muscles tighten with the delicious memory. He had been fierce, he had been unreserved, and he had claimed her in a way that no one could ever undo. A small, triumphant smile crossed her lips, gone as quickly as a flash of heat over the mountains. 

 

Yes.

 

Beyond the tall, arched glass doors at the far end of the hall, the glasshouse was already waking up. Through the misty panes, she could see the distant, broad-shouldered silhouette of the western painter. He was already hard at work, his long linen shirt standing out against the dense green ferns as his arm moved in broad, sweeping arcs, laying down the rich ochres and deep viridians of the background while she ate her breakfast. 

 

He had not waited for her. He had simply gone straight to his easel. Cute.

 

Ada shifted her stance slightly in her chair, the movement causing the smooth fabric of her attire to rustle. Today, she wore a body-fitting red plain and cotton tang suit that hugged the line of her waist and the curve of her breasts, paired with a matching red long satin skirt that pooled around her ankles like spilled ink. Her hair was completely down, falling over her shoulders in a dark cloud that smelled faintly of the jasmine oils from her bath.

 

"You look remarkably plain today, Lady Ada," a dry, nasal voice cutting through the space from across the table.

 

Steward Kang sat in the chair directly opposite her, a massive leather-bound ledger open before him. He was a small, pinched creature with spectacles perched on the absolute tip of his crooked nose, his ink-stained fingers turning the pages with a bureaucratic arrogance. He was her father’s eyes and ears while the Baron was away, a man who viewed the world entirely through the lens of expenditures, assets, and liabilities.

 

Ada did not look up from her bowl. She picked up a small pickled radish with her silver chopsticks. "Comfort is a luxury I am permitted in my own home, Steward Kang. Or has my father placed a tax on cotton while I was sleeping?"

 

"Comfort is for the servants, my lady," Kang countered, his quill scratching a sharp line into the ledger. "A lady of your standing, especially one who has just returned from an official luncheon at the Simmons estate, should be dripping in the family’s assets. I have received the report from the carriage drivers. Your lack of vanity is causing a considerable amount of talk among the staff. The General’s vanguard expects a certain level of... display."

 

"The General’s vanguard may occupy themselves with the grooming of their horses," Ada said, her tone smooth as glass and entirely unbothered. "My presentation is not a matter for the ledger."

 

"Everything is a matter for the ledger," Kang shot back, his small, bead-like eyes narrowing behind his lenses. "Your father has spent a fortune ensuring your marketability. To see you sitting here with your hair uncombed, dressed like a merchant’s daughter from the lower districts... it is an inefficiency. The Simmons family values order. They value a woman who understands her place as a decorative centerpiece."

 

Before Ada could deliver a reply, a small, sudden movement near her plate caught her attention.

 

A single, large butterfly flitted through the open terrace doors. Its wings were a brilliant, iridescent blue, catching the morning sun as it fluttered aimlessly through the cold dining hall. It circled the silver tea service once before descending, its tiny, fragile legs landing softly on the polished mahogany right next to her hand.

 

Ada froze her fingers, her dark eyes tracking the gentle opening and closing of the insect’s blue wings. 

 

Then, the oak doors of the pantry creaked open, and a fair maid entered the hall, her head bowed low as she carried a silver tray laden with fresh pastries and small almond sweets for the table. She was a young girl, barely sixteen, her white apron spotless, though her eyes were wide with what seemed like perpetual anxiety.

 

As the girl bypassed Steward Kang’s chair to set the sweets down, the man’s eyes dropped from his ledger. A disgusting, predatory smirk stretched across his thin lips. Without a single glance toward Ada, Kang reached out, his thick, ink-stained hand sliding off the table to fiercely squeeze the maid’s backside through her linen uniform.

 

The girl gasped, an involuntary sound of terror escaping her lips. Instinctively, driven by a raw self-defensive reflex, her hand flew backward and slapped the steward’s hand away with a loud, resounding crack.

 

The silver tray clattered against the mahogany, a small almond tart sliding across the wood.

 

The silence that followed was thin and sharp enough to draw blood.

 

Steward Kang’s face turned an ugly, mottled crimson. The absolute insolence of a servant striking his flesh in front of the Baron’s daughter was an insult his small mind could not endure. He stood up from his chair with a violent force, his leather ledger slamming shut, the screech of the wood legs against the floorboards cutting through the hall. Before the maid could even drop to her knees to beg for mercy, Kang lunged forward. He caught the back of the girl’s head in a brutal, iron grip, pulling her hair back until her neck strained, and delivered a massive, open-handed slap across her left cheek.

 

The blow was loud, a fleshy thud that sent the girl sprawling onto the hardwood floor, her apron twisting around her legs as a sharp, painful sob tore from her throat.

 

Ada gritted her teeth.

 

The phantom warmth in her belly turned instantly to dry ice. The memory of Leon was violently overwritten by the raw, ugly reality of the world she lived in. 

 

A world where men believed that any flesh lower than theirs was theirs to command, to punish, to break.

 

Hypocrisy.

 

"Steward Kang," Ada called out.

 

Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried a crystalline coldness that caused the man to freeze mid-stride, his hand still raised to deliver a second blow.

 

Ada slowly set her silver chopsticks down on the porcelain rest. Her dark eyes rose from the table, locking onto the steward. "What gives you the right to discipline my girls?"

 

Kang adjusted his spectacles, his chest puffing out as he tried to regain his composure, though a small bead of sweat had formed near his temple. "The girl was insubordinate, my lady. She struck a senior official of the household. In your father’s absence, it is my duty to ensure that the staff understands the consequences of rebellion. A loose servant breeds a loose house."

 

"The girl was protecting her person from an uninvited touch," Ada said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, low register that cut through the space like a razor. "And last I checked, the staff of the inner quarters answers to the lady of the manor, not to the accountant."

 

"Your father placed me in charge of the estate’s domestic discipline," Kang insisted, stepping around the table, his boots clicking loudly as he pointed an ink-stained finger at the weeping maid on the floor. "This girl is property of the Baron’s court, just as the horses in the stable are property. If a horse kicks, it is lashed. If a maid forgets her place, she is corrected. You would do well to remember that, Lady Ada. Especially now that you are preparing to enter a household that values discipline above all else. General Simmons would not tolerate such weakness from his staff, or from his wife."

 

Ada stood up from her chair.

 

She did not rush; she simply walked around the long mahogany table, her heels making no sound against the wood until she stood directly between Steward Kang and the trembling maid.

 

"My father is at the northern winery," Ada said softly, stepping closer to the small man until she was looking down at him from her superior height. "And General Simmons is currently three miles away in his valley fortress. But I am standing right here, Kang."

 

The steward took an involuntary step back, his eyes darting to her jaw.

 

"The ledger is a very delicate thing," Ada murmured, her voice carrying a soft, pleasant lilt that made the hairs on the back of the man’s neck stand up. "It is so easy for an entry to go missing. A small discrepancy in the grain taxes. A sudden, unfortunate fire in the storage vaults. Or perhaps... an administrative error that leads to a senior steward being found in the lower districts with his throat cut by a common footpad. The local magistrates are so terribly lazy when it comes to investigating the deaths of minor officials.

 

Kang’s face drained of color, his lips parting in a small, breathless gasp. "Are you... are you threatening me, my lady?"

 

"I am merely making an observation regarding the instability of life in the province," Ada replied, a small, beautiful smile flashing across her face, though her eyes remained entirely dead. "The world is full of sudden turnings. If I see your hand touch another one of my servants, Kang, I will ensure that your particular entry in my father's ledger is closed permanently. Do we understand each other?"

 

The steward stared at her, his hands trembling against the leather of his ledger. He looked for the compliant daughter the Baron had promised to the capital, but there was none. He swallowed hard, bowing his head in a tight, defensive gesture. "The discipline of the inner quarters remains your domain, Lady Ada. I shall return to the accounting office."

 

"See that you do," Ada said.

 

She turned her back on him before he even lifted his book. She reached down, her hands gentle as she caught the weeping maid by the elbows, lifting her up from the hardwood floor. "Go to the lower kitchens, Clara," Ada instructed softly, her voice returning to its smooth, comforting warmth. "Tell Helena to give you some ice for your cheek. You are done in the grand hall for today."

 

"Thank you, my lady," the girl sobbed, clutching her apron as she hurried through the pantry doors, leaving Ada alone in the center of the room.

 

Ada walked back to her chair, her eyes falling onto the mahogany table.

 

The blue butterfly was still there. It had not flown away during the shouting or the violence. It sat perfectly still next to her porcelain bowl, its wings opening and closing in a beat that matches her heart.

 

Ada lowered herself back into the seat, her fingers reaching out until the tip of her index finger touched the smooth wood just an inch away from the insect. She watched it with a profound, glassy serenity, her mind returning to the steady movement of Leon’s brush through the greenhouse glass. 

 

Another butterfly, identical to the first, flew in through the open terrace doors, its blue wings catching the bright morning light as it joined its companion on the dark, polished wood.  

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The clean click of her wooden heels against the flagstones was the only warning he received before the temperature in the glasshouse seemed to spike. Ada walked with feline grace, her long red satin skirt rustling against the dark green fronds of the ferns like a low fire crawling through the undergrowth. The cotton tang suit made her look entirely distinct from the muted greens and pale orchids of the glasshouse. 

 

She did not approach with her usual distance; today, she moved with the ease of someone who had already left her skin in his hands.

 

Leon did not turn around when the iron door creaked. He stood firmly planted before the massive wooden easel, his white linen shirt already smeared with a streak of deep brown near the shoulder. His right hand moved with a loose, confident fluidity, the fine badger-hair brush transferring a rich, glossy glaze of forest green onto the background panels of the canvas, filling in the spaces around the sharp line of her painted jaw.

 

"The artwork is almost finished," Leon said as he dipped his brush into a small jar of mineral spirits, the liquid swirling into a murky amber. "A few more strokes along the eastern light panels, a bit of varnish on the lower hem, and it's done, Lady Ada."

 

Ada got quiet after that. The teasing retort that usually sat on the tip of her tongue failed to materialize. She stared at the broad expanse of his back, at the way the thin fabric of his shirt strained across his shoulder blades as he reached for a fresh palette knife. 

 

Without a word, she stepped closer, her heels making one final snap against the stone before she leaned her entire body forward. She wrapped her slender arms around his waist from behind, burying her cheek right into the middle of his warm back.

 

Leon froze instantly. The palette knife in his hand hovered exactly an inch above the wooden board, his muscles locking tight beneath her touch. He drew a sharp breath, his chest expanding against her arms as the scent of her hair—jasmine and clean skin—filled his senses.

 

Ada didn't loosen her grip. She held him tightly, pressing her body against his solid mass, listening to the rapid, sudden acceleration of his heartbeat against her ear. Her right hand moved lazily up the front of his torso, her delicate fingers finding the lowest horn button of his shirt, twisting it back and forth with a slow, distracting playfulness.

 

"You're getting remarkably bold this morning, my lady," Leon murmured, a low, breathy chuckle escaping his lips, though he made no move to pull away from her embrace. He tilted his head back slightly, his blue eyes looking down at her dark hair over his shoulder. "If the guards walk through those iron doors right now, I don't think my brushes will save me from the courtyard wall."

 

"The guards are currently occupied with my father's wine inventory," Ada whispered against the linen of his shirt, her fingers moving up to the second button, her nails grazing the light hair on his chest. "And I have already informed the staff that I am not to be disturbed for the rest of the day. You are entirely at my mercy, Mr. Kennedy."

 

"A terrifying prospect," Leon muttered, though his left hand came down to cover hers, his large, rough palm pressing her fingers flat against his chest, holding her there for a long, quiet second. "You're warm."

 

"The house is cold today," she said simply.

 

She held him for a few moments longer, soaking in the smoky, grounding scent of him—linseed, turpentine, and the faint scent of roses—using his presence to build a wall against her reality. 

 

When she finally pulled away, the loss of his heat left a sudden, chilling draft against her red silk top.

 

Ada did not turn to the wrought-iron table. Instead, she took the empty wooden chair that Leon used when he was mixing his pigments, dragging it a few inches closer to the easel. She sat down with elegance, crossing one long leg over the other, her red satin skirt parting just enough to reveal the slender heel of her shoe. She rested her elbow on her knee, leaning the side of her face into her open palm, her dark eyes fixing entirely on his face as he turned back to the canvas.

 

"Tell me something, Leon," she said, her lips curving into a slight, speculative line. "If you were not a painter... if you hadn't packed that single bag and run away from the West to live in the dirt of the lower districts, what would you be doing right now?"

 

Leon picked up his rag, wiping a smudge of black oil from his thumb. He looked at her, taking in the relaxed, domestic posture she had assumed, so completely different from the usual. "If I wasn't holding a brush?" he asked, a small, wry smile tugging at his mouth. "I don't know. I’d probably be a sculptor."

 

Ada’s eyebrows arched in genuine interest, her chin shifting slightly in her hand. "A sculptor? I assumed a man who spent his youth learning about harbor fees would prefer something less permanent than stone."

 

"Stone is the only thing that doesn't lie," Leon said, his voice dropping to a lower, more thoughtful register as he walked over to his leather bag resting near the ferns. "A painting can be altered with a fresh layer of glaze. You can hide a mistake under a shadow. But with marble... if you make a false cut, the stone breaks. It forces you to be entirely honest with every single strike of the chisel."

 

He reached into the deep pocket of his canvas bag, his fingers searching past the charcoal tins and the oil rags until they wrapped around a small object. He turned back to her, stepping close enough that the toe of his boot brushed the edge of her red satin skirt.

 

"I found a block of discarded Carrara marble near the southern warehouses last winter," Leon said, holding his hand out toward her, his palm flat. "One of the merchant vessels had used it as ballast and threw it into the mud when they reloaded. I spent three nights working on it when the ink in my sketchpads ran dry."

 

Ada looked down at his hand. Resting in the center of his calloused, charcoal-stained palm was a dainty baby angel, no larger than the joint of her thumb, sculpted entirely from the pristine white stone.

 

It was meticulously and beautifully done. The marble had been sanded down until it possessed a soft, satin gleam that caught the green-tinted light of the glasshouse. The tiny wings of the cherub were rendered with precision, every individual feather carved with perfectly, overlapping in a delicate pattern that looked almost weightless despite the material. The face of the infant was smooth and serene, its small hands folded across its chest. At the very top of the angel's head, Leon had drilled a tiny, perfect loop into the stone, allowing it to be used as a trinket on a silver chain or a silk cord.

 

"It is so pretty," Ada murmured, her voice losing its protective layer of sarcasm as she reached out, her delicate fingertips brushing against the cool marble before she lifted it from his palm. The stone was cold, but the craftsmanship was undeniable. It felt alive in her hand.

 

"There was an old church in the capital," Leon explained, his blue eyes watching her face as she turned the small angel over in her fingers. "The Church of St. Philomena. It was built near the old northern docks, completely gray from the coal smoke, but they had these massive, beautiful marble cherub carvings above the altar. When the storms came in from the sea and the ships were locked in the harbor, I used to sit in the back pews just to look at the way the light hit the stone. It was the only place in the city that didn't smell like fish and coins."

 

He stepped back toward his easel, his fingers picking up his palette knife once more. "You can keep it. Consider it a token."

 

Ada looked down at the tiny white angel resting against the vibrant red silk of her skirt. 

 

Token.

 

Her lover's token.

 

She looked up at him, a bright, mischievous spark returning to her dark eyes. "You know, Mr. Kennedy," Ada said, her lips twisting into a mocking line as she leaned back against the wooden chair, her heel clicking softly against the stone. "If I had known your talents extended to the chisel, I should have commissioned a statue rather than a painting. It would have saved me days of sitting in that dreadful iron chair staring at a common fern."

 

Leon lifted his brush, a small, genuine laugh escaping his lips as he turned back to the canvas. "A statue? You're difficult enough to capture on a flat sheet, Ada. If I had to carve those hips out of solid marble, we'd be trapped in this glasshouse for the next ten years."

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

"If you stare at that canvas for another five minutes, Mr. Kennedy, I shall have to call for the estate physician to check if your joints have calcified entirely," Ada purred.

 

She had been sitting in that exact spot for three hours, watching him work, but for the last twenty minutes, Leon hadn't touched a single brush.

 

He stood three paces back from the heavy wooden easel, his large, calloused hands planted firmly on his hips, his head tilted at a critical angle as his blue eyes scanned the canvas. His white linen shirt was damp, sticking slightly to the broad muscles of his back, and his blonde hair was completely wild from where his paint-stained fingers had plowed through it.

 

"I am merely ensuring the depth is uniform before I open the varnish, Ada," Leon replied without looking at her, his jaw tightening slightly. "And I do not stand like an old man."

 

"You have your hands on your hipbones, Leon, and you are scowling at a piece of stretched cloth as if it owes you a gambling debt," she teased, a sharp, brilliant smile flashing across her lips as she leaned her chin into her palm. "If that is not the posture of a village elder assessing the autumn harvest, I do not know what is. And I believe, the paint is dry enough."

 

"Varnish is permanent," Leon countered, finally turning his head to her. He let his hands drop from his hips, stepping a fraction closer to the easel, his boots crunching loudly on the gravel path. "If I apply the resin while there is even a single pocket of moisture beneath the surface, the colors will cloud. The crimson of your dress will turn a muddy, bruised shade of brown, and the line of your jaw will lose its sharpness. I am protecting my work."

 

"And here I thought you were simply finding an excuse to keep staring at my face without having to pay for the privilege," Ada murmured, her dark eyes glittering with a dangerous, playful glint.

 

Leon’s lips curved into a wicked smirk, his gaze dropping from her eyes to the deep, exposed curve of the neckline where her red suit hugged her torso. "The privileges in this room have already been thoroughly negotiated, Lady Ada. And if I recall correctly, my access to the subject was entirely unrestricted during the dark hours of the morning."

 

Ada let out a soft, breathless laugh, "A gentleman would not brag about his private commissions, Mr. Kennedy."

 

"I am a laborer today, remember?" Leon shot back, stepping entirely into her personal space, the scent of linseed oil, the faint roses, and the musky heat of his skin instantly crowding out the fragrance of the surrounding ferns. He leaned over her chair, his hand coming down onto the iron armrest right beside her hip. "And a laborer always double-checks the quality of the foundation before he seals the structure. I want to make sure the gloss catches every single line exactly the way I felt it."

 

"The texture is entirely authentic, I assure you," Ada whispered, her breath brushing warm against his jaw as she looked up at him, her lips parted just enough to reveal the sharp tip of her tongue. "Though if you delay the coating any longer, the dust from the lower gardens will settle on the wet oils, and you will have to scrape my cheek away with a palette knife."

 

"That would be a tragedy," Leon muttered," The cheek is my favorite part. Well. Second favorite."

 

Before Ada could deliver a sharp, biting retort, the door of the glasshouse gave a loud, violent squeak.

 

Leon snapped upright instantly, stepping back toward his easel with a practiced efficiency as the heels of his boots scraped against the stone.

 

Helena came marching through the green fronds, her apron wrinkled and her hair pins slightly askew from the heat of the kitchens. She carried a massive wooden tray in her arms, upon which sat two steaming porcelain plates piled high with golden fried rice, seasoned with spring onions and tiny strips of salted pork, alongside a small bamboo steamer filled with plump, translucent shrimp dumplings.

 

"I assumed the two of you would have starved to death by now, given that neither of you has the sense to look at the sun," Helena said, her voice a sassy snap as she marched straight to the wrought-iron table and set the tray down with a loud, clattering thud.

 

Leon blinked at the feast, rubbing the back of his neck with a clean patch of his sleeve. "I wasn't expecting an entire banquet, Helena. I thought the lady of the house survived entirely on high-altitude air and small thimbles of plum tea."

 

Helena turned her sharp gaze onto the painter, her hands planting themselves on her hips in a gesture that looked remarkably similar to the one Ada had just mocked him for. "The lady of the house has a stomach, Mr. Kennedy, even if she forgets it exists when she is being stared at by a man from the West for the last few days. And you look like you haven't eaten a proper meal since you crossed the mountain pass. If you drop dead from exhaustion on the flagstones, my lady will have to find another charity case to paint the scenery."

 

"Charity case?" Leon repeated, his blue eyes narrowing with a genuine spark of irritation. "I’ll have you know my work in the lower districts fetches enough coin to keep me in fresh linen for a month, girl."

 

"Then perhaps you should spend some of that coin on a proper comb," Helena shot back, her nose tilting upward with an impressive display of aristocratic disdain. "Because right now, you look like you’ve been dragged through a briar patch backwards."

 

"Helena," Ada cut in that instantly severed the rising tension between the two. She stood up from her chair, her red satin skirt swirling around her ankles with a soft rustle as her heels clicked toward the table. "That is enough. If I wanted to witness a cockpit fight, I would called in for a show. Leave the tray. The painter requires his energy if he is to finish the gloss before dusk."

 

Helena offered a short, crisp bow, though she shot one final, lingering glare at Leon’s messy blonde hair before turning on her heel. "The tea is in the secondary flask, my lady. Do not let it turn bitter."

 

The doors slammed shut behind her, the echo dying out quickly in the close warmth of the room.

 

Leon let out a short, dry breath, shaking his head as he pulled up a low wooden stool toward the wrought-iron table. "Your maid has a remarkably sharp tongue, Ada. I’m surprised she hasn't been reassigned to the scullery."

 

"Helena is loyal to me, not to the court," Ada said, sliding into the iron chair across from him. She reached for the polished bamboo chopsticks, rubbing them together in her palms before she lifted a steaming dumpling from the basket. "And she possesses an excellent radar for men who try to take up too much of my time. Sit. Eat before the grease solidifies."

 

Leon complied without another word. He picked up his own pair of chopsticks, his large, calloused fingers handling the thin wooden sticks with a surprising dexterity that caught Ada’s eye. He manipulated the tools with the same ease he handled his fine detailing brushes, lifting a small piece of salted pork from his plate without a single slip.

 

"You possess a remarkably refined skill with those sticks, Mr. Kennedy," Ada observed, her dark eyes tracking the movement of his wrist. "I took you for a westerner who would demand a silver fork before he could manage to feed himself."

 

Leon offered her a small, teasing smirk, a piece of green onion catching the light on his fork-less plate. "I spent three months living on the northern docks when I first arrived in the East, Ada. If you don't learn how to handle the sticks down there, the old sailors will strip the bowl clean before you even manage to dip your fingers in. It was a matter of survival. Though, if you’re truly impressed, I could always teach you a few of the more... advanced grips later tonight."

 

Ada leaned back, a soft, dangerous purr escaping her throat. "I believe my grip is entirely sufficient for the task at hand, Leon. As you well know from this morning."

 

Leon choked slightly on his rice, his face flushing a bright, endearing crimson that reached the tips of his ears. He quickly took a gulp of the cool plum tea to clear his throat, his blue eyes flashing with an irritated amusement. "You are completely relentless, aren't you?"

 

"It keeps the blood moving," she replied smoothly.

 

After the lunch plates were cleared away, Leon quickly prepared the varnish. The scent of the resin was thick, a golden, viscous liquid that he lifted with a wide, flat ox-hair brush. He stood before the canvas, his entire frame shifting as he planted his feet apart, his arm moving in long, continuous strokes from the top corner of the frame down to the base. He applied the coat with precision, his eyes tracking the way the wet gloss caught the amber light, sealing the layers of oil paint beneath a permanent, glassy shield.

 

Ada did not leave. She stood a few paces back, her arms crossed over her chest, her heels keeping her tall and steady against the stone floor. She watched the portrait change under the resin, the deep crimsons of her handmade dress turning richer, the dark, unreadable depths of her painted eyes gaining a lifelike, luminous shine that seemed to follow her wherever she stepped.

 

By the time the final stroke was laid down, the dawn of the evening was already bleaching the edges of the sky into a cool, slate gray. The sun had dipped behind the mountains, leaving the glasshouse in a state of soft, pale twilight.

 

Ada walked forward, her heels making a sharp, distinct clack on the stone as she stopped directly in front of the finished canvas.

 

She looked at her own portrait. It was a masterpiece of defiance. The painter had not altered her jawline to look softer; he had not made her eyes look gentle or submissive like the wives she had seen at the General’s table. In the amber glow of the fresh varnish, she looked entirely beautiful, but more than that—she looked real. 

 

Ada Wong was alive.

 

"It looks alive, Leon," Ada whispered as she reached out, her fingers hovering just a millimeter away from the wet gloss of the frame. "You kept your promise. The world will never be able to look at this and see an empty stone."

 

Leon stepped up beside her, his broad shoulder brushing against her red sleeve. He was covered in sweat, his hands stained with gold resin, his blue eyes dark with exhaustion. "I told you I don't know how to lie on canvas, Ada. That is exactly who you are. Every line of it."

 

Ada turned her head slowly, looking up at him through the twilight. A cold, practical thought entered her mind, breaking through the warmth of the achievement. "The varnish will be dry by midnight?"

 

"Yeah," Leon said, rubbing his tired eyes. "The humidity is dropping. The resin will set hard before the moon reaches the center panel."

 

"Good," Ada murmured, her dark eyes locking onto his with a sudden clarity. "Then you should bring it to my private chambers tonight, Mr. Kennedy. I do not want the servants handling the frame when the grand hall is unsealed tomorrow morning."

 

Leon’s eyebrows pulled together, a wicked spark of amusement breaking through his tired features as a lazy smile tugged at his lips. He leaned his shoulder against the wooden peg of the easel, looking down at her with a thoroughly roguish expression. "To your private chambers, Lady Ada? In the dead of night? Is that an official invitation to inspect the quality of your bedding?"

 

Ada let out a bright, melodic laugh, the sound drifting upward toward the darkened glass panels like a bird escaping a cage. She turned on her heel, the red satin of her skirt catching the final, pale gray light of the evening as she began to walk toward the exit, her heels making a lively rhythm against the stone.

 

"Do not flatter yourself, Leon," she called back over her shoulder. "I am a lady of quality, and I simply cannot possibly carry forty pounds of wet wood and canvas up three flights of stairs myself. The rest of the arrangement... we shall negotiate once the cargo is delivered safely."

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

Leon had barely managed to set the massive, wet-varnished canvas against the silk-paneled wall, his large hands carefully releasing the wooden stretchers, when Ada closed the distance between them like a flame catching dry paper. There was no polite negotiation of space, no elegant aristocratic hesitation. The second the lock clicked home, her mouth was on his.

 

She hooked her fingers into the damp collar of his linen shirt, dragging his head down with strength that had him groaning into the back of her throat. Leon responded instantly, his leather bag slipping from his shoulder to hit the floorboards with a dull thud as his arms wrapped entirely around her waist, lifting her until her red satin skirt bunched around her thighs.

 

"Ada," he gasped out against her lips," Wait—"

 

"No," she breathed, her teeth grazing his lower lip before she devoured him again, her tongue filling his mouth with demand. "Give it to me, Leon. Give in to me."

 

She pulled back just enough to look into his blue eyes, her breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches that sent a tremor through her bare collarbones. Without a single word, she began to strip him, her fingers tearing at the buttons of his shirt until the fabric parted, revealing the lean, corded muscle of his chest. Leon wasn't slow to follow. His hands found the hem of her red cotton suit, sliding it up over her head and tossing it into the darkness, before his fingers worked the fastenings of her long satin skirt until it fell to the floor in a crimson pool.

 

They moved toward the adjoining bathing chamber like creatures driven by a single, shared fever. The room was illuminated only by the faint, silver luminescence of the moon filtering through the high frosted windows, reflecting off the deep, still water of the copper tub that Helena had prepared hours ago.

 

Leon didn't hesitate. He stripped away the rest of his garments, his boots and trousers discarded in a messy heap by the tiled threshold, until they were both completely naked in the cool, silver light.

 

Ada stepped into the lukewarm water first, her pale limbs catching the moonbeams as she descended into the deep copper basin. Leon followed her an instant later, the water sloshing wildly over the rolled brim, splashing against the dry tiles as his large frame settled against the high back of the tub. 

 

Ada did not wait for him to guide her. She moved with confidence, shifting her body until she was straddling his lap, her knees resting on either side of his hips on the smooth metal bottom of the tub. The water lapped gently at their waists, a liquid silk that only amplified the blistering heat where their skin met.

 

"You are staring again, Mr. Kennedy," Ada murmured, her dark eyes locking onto his as she tilted her chin upward, her wet hair clinging to her shoulders like a black silk shroud.

 

"Can you blame me?" Leon countered as he reached up, his calloused, paint-stained fingers cupping the sides of her waist, his thumbs tracing the smooth, flare of her hipbones. "You look like you belong to the water, Ada. Like you carved yourself out of the moon."

 

"I carved myself out of nothing but my own desires, Leon," she whispered, her hands coming down to rest flat against his broad shoulders, her nails scratching lightly against his skin as she began to lower her body onto him. "And tonight, my desires belong entirely to you."

 

She guided his rigid, aching length to her wet, swollen center. With a slow, single downward slide of her hips, she took him in completely, her internal walls clamping down around him tightly that caused Leon’s head to toss back against the copper rim, a harsh, ragged gasp tearing from his throat.

 

"God, Ada," he choked out, his fingers digging deep into the flesh of her hips to keep himself from thrusting upward too violently. "You're so tight. It's too much."

 

"Stay still," she commanded, though her own voice trembled from the sheer, stretching of his size inside her core. She began to move, lifting her body up along his shaft before sliding back down, the wet, sliding sound of their skin mixing with the gentle sloshing of the water around their ribs.

 

Leon couldn't remain passive. As she move atop of him, his hands traveled upward from her waist, his palms tracing the smooth curve of her ribs until his fingers cupped her heavy, bare breasts. He leaned forward, his mouth opening over one dark, swollen peak, his tongue swirling over the sensitive bud before he began to suckle her fiercely. He pulled at her flesh, his lips drawing out her whimpers as she set a faster pace on his lap.

 

Ada’s head threw back, a long, trembling sigh escaping her lips as his mouth sent a jolt of pure electricity straight down to the place where their bodies were joined. She tangled her fingers in his wild blonde hair, pressing his face closer to her chest, her hips grinding down onto him that had the water spilling over the edges of the tub.

 

"Ah... Leon," she cried out, her teeth biting into her lower lip to stifle the sound as the tension in her belly began to twist into a knot of ecstasy. She looked down at him, watching the way his eyes were tightly shut, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles were jumping beneath his skin. "Look at me, Leon."

 

He opened his eyes, the ocean-blue depths completely dark with a blind, consuming adoration. He was entirely at her mercy, his hips lifting off the metal bottom of the tub to meet every single downward stroke she delivered, his breath coming in short, panicked snatches.

 

"You're a good boy, Leon," Ada murmured, her voice a dangerous, sweet velvet as she ran her fingers through his wet hair, her hips twisting against him to maximize the friction against her clitoris. "So good for me. Do you like the way I take you?"

 

"I love it," he gasped out, his hands moving to her thighs, holding her legs wide. "I love everything about you, Ada. It's driving me insane."

 

"Then let it," she whispered fiercely.

 

She rode him with a reckless abandon, her body rising and falling in the silver light like a wave crashing against a reef. The pleasure coiled into her until she could no longer see the room. She felt the edge drawing near, the precipice of a cliff she wanted to jump off with him.

 

Leon’s movements turned frantic beneath her. He was thrusting upward now with his mouth leaving her breast to press hot, wet kisses along the line of her throat. His breathing was completely ruined, a series of ragged, sobbing gasps that revealed just how close he was to the limit.

 

"Ada... Ada," he cried out, his fingers digging into her skin with a force that would surely leave marks by morning. "I can't hold it back."

 

"Don't hold it back," she commanded, her internal muscles contracting around his length in a series of convulsive spasms as her own release finally broke over her. She came hard against his shaft, a choke sob escaping her lips as the pleasure shattered her mind into a thousand glittering pieces.

 

The sight of her undoing, the tight, vice-like grip of her walls around him, was the final blow to his restraint. Leon let out a low animalistic cry, his eyes welling with actual tears from the pleasure ripping through his body. He thrust upward one final time, burying himself as far into her as the copper tub would allow, and erupted inside her core.

 

He filled her deep inside with a thick, burning torrent of his seed, his body shuddering violently beneath hers for a full minute as his release tore through his tendons. Tears of pure ecstasy slipped from his lower lids, tracking down his flushed cheeks in the moonlight as he collapsed forward, his forehead resting against her wet shoulder.

 

Ada held him tightly, her arms wrapping around his broad, trembling shoulders as her own breathing began to slow. She felt the wet track of his tears against her collarbone beautiful. She ran her fingers gently through his hair, kissing the top of his head as the water finally settled into a warm stillness around them.

 

"I've got you," she whispered into the dark, a slow, triumphant smile touching her lips as she held the painter who had given her his entire soul in the dark. "You're mine, Leon. Only mine."

 

 

 

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

 

 

 

Leon lay stretched out across the expanse of the mattress, his long, muscular limbs taking up nearly three-quarters of the space. He was entirely naked beneath the crisp linen sheet that he had pulled lazily over his waist, his broad chest rising and falling in relaxed cadence. Every time he shifted, the scent of her bathwater drifted up from his skin, blending with the clean, metallic trace of line oil that still lingered beneath his short fingernails.

 

"I have to admit, Lady Ada," Leon murmured as he locked his hands behind his head. "This mattress is a dangerous piece of work. It’s like sinking into a cloud that’s been stuffed with swan feathers. I’m half-convinced that if I stay here for another ten minutes, my bones will turn to liquid and I’ll never be able to lift a forty-pound canvas again."

 

Ada lay draped across his torso, her head resting flat against the firm, warm plain of his stomach, using his rising and falling ribs as a breathing pillow. She was naked beneath the deep crimson satin of her bathrobe, the fabric parted slightly at her thigh to reveal the pale, smooth curve of her leg against the dark wood of the bedpost. An open volume of old Western poetry was held loosely between her fingers, the pages catching the dim amber light as she turned them with a tiny, dry scratch of paper.

 

"It is an imported mattress, Mr. Kennedy," she replied without looking up from the text, her lips curving into a small, teasing line. "Crafted by the finest artisans in the northern ports. I find it is the only thing in this entire manor that does not require me to maintain a straight spine. Though I am surprised to hear a son of a wealthy western shipping family speak of comfort as if it were an exotic luxury."

 

Leon let out a short, dry laugh, his stomach muscles tightening beneath her cheek as he shifted his gaze toward the high, draped canopy above them. "Wealth doesn't guarantee comfort, Ada. In my house, the beds were carved from oak that was three hundred years old, stiff enough to break your hip if you rolled over too fast. It’s been a very long time since I had the luxury to lay in a bed that didn't feel like an annual general meeting."

 

"A tragic tale of aristocratic hardship," Ada murmured, her finger tracing the edge of a gilded letter on the page. "My heart bleeds for your youth, Leon. Truly. Now, shut your eyes and get some sleep."

 

"I’m not tired," he lied, though his eyelids fluttered slightly against the amber glow of the lamp. He reached down, his large, rough palm coming to rest against the silk of her robe near her shoulder, his fingers idly tracing the line of her collarbone. "Besides, if I go to sleep now, I’m missing the view. The light catches your hair differently when it’s down like this. It’s... less like a weapon."

 

"My hair is never a weapon, Leon," she countered as she turned another page. "It is merely a boundary. And if you do not close your eyes within the next five minutes, I shall be forced to utilize the corner of this book to enforce my instructions."

 

"You're very bossy for a woman who is currently using me as a piece of furniture," Leon teased, his blue eyes wandering away from her face to scan the rest of the bedroom. He looked past the heavy velvet curtains, past the mahogany wardrobe, his gaze traveling along the expansive, high vertical surfaces of the room. "You know... for a daughter of a baron, your quarters are sparse. I expected this place to be packed to the ceiling with silver vases, velvet draperies, and gilded clocks from the capital. It looks almost... bare."

 

Ada’s hand paused against the paper, her dark eyes remaining fixed on the printed words before her. A tiny, imperceptible chill seemed to pass through her shoulders, her grip on the book tightening until the binding groaned softly.

 

"The nobility likes to display what they own because they have nothing else to define their characters," she said. "My stepmother believes a room should look like a museum display case. I prefer to keep my spaces empty. It makes it easier to notice when something has been introduced without my permission."

 

"It's more than just empty," Leon noted, his thumb moving in a slow circle against her bare shoulder where the satin robe had slipped. "There's no color. No personal effects. If I didn't know you sewed your own dresses in the dark hours, I’d think this room belonged to a transient who was ready to pack a single bag and vanish before the morning watch."

 

Ada let out a soft, dry hiss of a breath, closing the volume of poetry with a firm, decisive snap. She set the book down on the mattress beside his hip, her body shifting until she was looking up at his chin, her cheek resting against his ribcage.

 

"And what of my collections, Mr. Kennedy?" she asked suddenly, her voice carrying a strange, distant playfulness that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Did you not notice the framed pieces on the walls before you brought the canvas inside? Surely an artist of your high caliber would have an opinion on the arrangement."

 

Leon’s hand halted against her skin. His eyebrows pulled together, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as he turned his head to look directly at the wall across from the bed.

 

"What collections?" he asked, his voice low and genuinely confused.

 

He scanned the expanse of the room once more. The wall facing the four-poster bed was completely smooth, constructed from cold, polished gray stone that had been scrubbed clean of any ornamentation. There were no paintings. There were no tapestries. There were no silver sconces or carved shelves.

 

He looked toward the corner near the vanity table, where the large mirror stood in its gilded frame, reflecting only the amber glow of the oil lamps and the tangled white sheets of the bed. The spaces between the windows were entirely blank, the stone surfaces completely bare of any decoration whatsoever.

 

"The frames, Leon," Ada prompted softly, her dark eyes staring up at him with a glassy, unblinking intensity that made his heart skip a beat. "The collections pinned beneath the glass. The beetles with their metallic green wings, and the fat white moths that burrow through the silk. You spoke so highly of my dresses; I assumed you would appreciate the structure of the insects I keep preserved along the plaster."

 

Leon did not say anything.

 

He didn't speak because there was none. There were no framed insects in her room. There were no glass cases pinned to the stone, no beetles, no moths, no preservation of rot. The walls were entirely, starkly bare, nothing but cold gray masonry reflecting the dim, dying light of the lamps.

 

Leon looked down at her. Ada’s eyes were already closed, her long, dark lashes resting still against her pale cheeks, her breathing turning deep, slow, and even against his stomach. 

 

Leon stayed completely still. He couldn't bring himself to ask her about the flies she thought she saw or question the invisible collections she had mapped out in the dark. He simply reached up with his large, rough hand and gently placed his palm over her closed eyes, blocking out the remaining amber light of the room, guarding her rest until the morning watch arrived.

 

 

 

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

 

 

 

The tangle of her linen sheets was a warm, ivory cage that Ada had no desire to escape. When her eyes first fluttered open, the world was still painted in the soft, bruised violet of early dawn, the morning light only just beginning to crack through the thick canopy of the cedar trees outside her high balcony doors. The estate around them was completely still, the usual morning bustle of the kitchens and stables nothing but a distant, unreadable hum beneath the oak floorboards.

 

She did not move. She couldn't, even if she wanted to. Leon’s large frame was anchored against her side, his long, muscular legs woven inextricably with hers beneath the covers. His face was mere inches from her own, his head resting against the down pillows, completely surrendered to the deep, peaceful slumber of a man who had finally laid his burdens down in the dirt.

 

Ada lay perfectly still, utterly mesmerized by his beauty in the dim, shifting light. Without the scowl that he usually wore like, his features possessed such beauty of an angel. The pale morning glare caught the elegant slant of his jawline, tracing the lean curve of his nose and the soft, parted line of his lips. His blonde hair was a wild, unruly halo across the white linen, a few stray strands falling over his closed eyelids.

 

He smelled entirely of jasmine now, the sweet, clean trace of her private soap thoroughly bonded with the natural, musky heat of his skin. Leon was a creature of absolute contradiction. He was a rugged, calloused laborer, yet looking completely, undeniably majestic resting in a nest of silk. She watched the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, a deep sense of triumph warming her belly as she realized this man, was entirely hers in the dark hours of the morning.

 

A slow, indulgent smile touched Ada’s lips. She shifted closer, the crimson satin of her bathrobe whispering against his skin as she leaned up on one elbow.

 

She began to wake him softly, pressing a row of tiny, feather-light kisses all over his face. She started at the temple, her lips brushing against the warm skin near his hairline, before moving down to the bridge of his nose. Leon let out a low, deeply rumbling grunt, his large arm tightening around her waist instinctively, pulling her flat against his warm chest before his eyes even opened.

 

"Five more minutes," he muttered, his voice a thick, sleepy rasp against her shoulder as he buried his face into the crook of her neck. "The sun isn't even past the high wall yet, Ada. Close your eyes."

 

"Absolutely not, Mr. Kennedy," Ada replied, her voice a smooth, purring velvet as she cupped his face with both hands to nipped playfully at his lower lip. "Get up. I have been exceptionally indulgent with your laziness this morning, but my charity has its strict limitations."

 

Leon opened one blue eye, squinting through the amber light with a thoroughly disgruntled expression. "You're a tyrant, you know that? A completely heartless employer. What could possibly be so urgent at this hour?"

 

"I have to attend a tea party with Count Serra," Ada said, sliding out of his embrace with feline grace that made the crimson satin of her bathrobe hiss against the linen sheets. "And unlike you, the Count possesses a very low tolerance for unpunctuality."

 

Leon rolled onto his back, throwing a long arm over his eyes to block out the rising sun. "Count Serra? The eccentric fellow from the northern valleys? The one who spends all his coin on clockwork toys and rare birds?"

 

"The very same," Ada said, her feet making a soft patter against the floor as she walked toward the large storage trunks in the corner of her room. "He is an old childhood friend, and if I do not appear at his estate by noon, I shall have to deal with a veritable fountain of letters for the next three weeks. He is remarkably dramatic when he feels neglected, Leon. I simply do not have the patience to read twenty pages of his elegant complaints about my lack of devotion."

 

Leon sat up against the pillows, the sheets dropping to his waist, exposing the lean, sun-browned muscles of his torso. "A fountain of letters sounds exhausting. Though I suspect you enjoy making him wait just as much as you enjoy making me wait."

 

"Making you wait is a professional strategy," Ada shot back, flashing a smile over her shoulder. "It keeps your lines straight."

 

She turned her attention to a lacquered wooden box packed with garments she had gathered from a trader in the South two summers ago. She had originally purchased the fabrics intending to cut them down to make something entirely new, but as she dug through the layers, her fingers found a specific set of clothes that had never been worn.

 

She pulled out a huge, deep red polo shirt woven from thick, premium cotton, along with a pair of dark, sturdy trousers. She walked back to the bed and tossed the bundle onto his lap.

 

"Here," she instructed, her hands resting on her hips. "You cannot walk through the main courtyard in those rags you wore yesterday, Leon. You look like a brigand who snuck past the stables. Wear these. They are clean, and the fabric actually breathes."

 

Leon picked up the red shirt, unfolding it with a look of skeptical amusement. "A red polo? Ada, this thing is massive. It looks like it was tailored for a harbor foreman."

 

"I bought it from a southern merchant who swore it was the latest fashion in the capital," she countered, rolling her eyes as she turned toward her wardrobe. "If it is too large for your sensibilities, you are entirely welcome to wrap yourself in the bedsheets and run through the hedges."

 

Leon chuckled, sliding his legs out of the bed. "The polo will do just fine, Lady Ada. Though I’m starting to think you just want to see me in your colors."

 

"Red is a color for vitality, Mr. Kennedy," she murmured, pulling a flowing Hanfu from the rack. "It suits those who wants to live."

 

The room was filled with the soft, wet sound of silk as they dressed. Ada slid into the inner layers of her garment, the fine red linen hugging her frame. The wide, dramatic sleeves fell past her wrists in elegant folds. She smoothed the front of her dress, her posture instantly snapping back into that perfect, unbreakable line of steel.

 

Leon stood up, pulling the red polo over his head. It was indeed large, the shoulders dropping slightly over his frame, but the thick fabric molded well to the broad expanse of his chest, the deep crimson color making his blonde hair and blue eyes look startlingly bright in the morning light. He buttoned the collar with his calloused fingers, a small, genuine smirk on his face as he watched her dressed.

 

"You look like a queen from an old scroll," he said softly, walking up behind her as she stood before the small mirror on her vanity.

 

"And you look like a laborer who stumbled into a merchant’s wardrobe," Ada replied, though her dark eyes softened as she watched his reflection in the glass.

 

She reached into the small velvet pouch on her dresser, pulling out the tiny, meticulously sculpted marble cherub token he had given her yesterday. She had found a thin, delicate piece of red satin ribbon in her sewing kit, and she began to carefully loop the fabric through the silver ring embedded in the angel's head.

 

Her fingers, usually so precise with a needle, were slightly clumsy from the residual warmth of the morning. "Leon," she murmured, her eyes meeting his through the glass. "Help me wear it."

 

Leon did not hesitate. He stepped entirely into her space, his large, rough hands coming up to take the ends of the satin ribbon from her trembling fingers. He stood directly behind her, his chest pressing against her back. The sweet, rich scent of jasmine rolled off his skin, completely enveloping her as his fingers worked with a surprising gentleness to tie the ribbon at the nape of her neck.

 

"It looks good on you," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin as he secured the knot. "The white stone against the red silk."

 

"It is a very pretty piece of leverage, Mr. Kennedy," Ada murmured, her chin tilting upward as she felt the cool marble angel settle in her skin. "If your painting fails to impress the critics, I shall tell everyone I carved this myself."

 

"You wouldn't dare," Leon teased, his hands sliding down to rest against the narrow curve of her waist, his thumbs pressing into the silk of her skirt.

 

"Try me," she whispered.

 

Leon smiled before he leaned down, his lips soft and warm as he pressed a long, lingering kiss against the bare, sensitive skin at the back of her neck, holding her close as the morning sun finally flooded the room with light.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

Helena’s eyes widened to the size of porcelain saucers as she crossed the threshold, her boots freezing instantly against the hardwood floor. In her arms, the large silver lacquer tray she carried—laden with two deep bowls of chicken congee, pickled ginger, and a small pot of steaming green tea—wobbled violently, the porcelain lids rattling against each other like warning bells.

 

Ada was not resting beneath the canopy sheets. She was sitting entirely on top of Leon in the center of the disordered mattress, her long, crimson satin skirt pooled around her knees in a rich, rumpling wave of silk. They were both fully dressed yet the posture was undeniably scandalous. Ada’s torso was bent forward, her wide sleeves draping over Leon’s broad chest like wings as she kissed him. Her fingers were tangled deep within his messy blonde hair, her other hand cupping the sharp line of his jaw to hold him against her mouth. The hem of her long skirt had ridden up past her knee during the embrace, exposing the smooth, pale expanse of her bare thigh to the morning sun—the exact spot where Leon’s large, calloused hand rested with ease.

 

"My lady!" Helena choked out, her voice a terrified hiss that barely made it past her teeth. She slammed her back against the wood of the door, using her hip to force it shut behind her before any passing guard could glance into the corridor. "What in the name of the saints are you doing? Have you lost your mind entirely?"

 

Ada did not break the kiss immediately. She allowed her lips to linger against Leon’s for another slow, unhurried second, her thumb tracing the line of his jawline before she finally pulled back. Her dark eyes were perfectly calm, her breathing light and undisturbed as she looked over her shoulder at the panicking maid.

 

"Lower your voice, Helena," Ada murmured, her voice a smooth, purring velvet that carried not a single trace of shame or alarm. "You are going to curdle the tea before it even reaches the table."

 

"The tea?" Helena gasped, her knuckles turning white against the edges of the silver tray as she marched toward the foot of the bed, her face a bright, mottled pink. "You are sitting on top of a painter from the lower districts in your private chambers, dressed in your finest red silk, and you are lecturing me about the temperature of the tea? There is no doubt about what occurred in this room last night! None at all!"

 

Leon let out a low, lazy chuckle beneath Ada, his blue eyes opening with a sleepy, amused glitter as he looked up at the ceiling. His large hand did not leave her bare thigh; instead, his thumb brushed lightly against her skin, entirely unbothered by the maid’s presence. "Good morning to you too, Helena. I see the kitchens didn't skimp on the ginger today."

 

"Do not speak to me, Mr. Kennedy," Helena shot back, her nose tilting upward with an impressive display of domestic fury as she set the tray down on the marble nightstand with a loud thud. "You look like a brigand who snuck past the stables and stole the clothes off a merchant's back. I knew I should have locked the glasshouse doors last night."

 

Ada slid off Leon’s lap with feline grace, the satin of her skirt rustling as her heels touched the floorboards. "I knew it would be you who opened that door, Helena. The other girls are too busy gossiping by the laundry wells to notice the hour."

 

Before she could step away from the bed, Leon reached out, his fingers catching her wrist with a firm grip. He leaned forward, his torso rising from the pillows as he pulled her back down toward him for one last, deep kiss. He pressed his mouth against hers with lingering finality, his lips sliding over hers until Ada felt the warmth of his breath settle in the back of her throat. When she finally pulled away, he leaned in slightly, his gaze trailing the line of her throat before he let her go.

 

"A parting gift?" Leon teased, a small, genuine smirk on his face as he sat up against the headboard, pulling the linen sheets over his legs.

 

"An incentive to keep you quiet while I am gone," Ada replied, her lips curving into a sharp line as she reached for one of the porcelain bowls of congee. She sat down on the edge of the mattress, crossing her legs elegantly. "Calm down, Helena."

 

Helena let out a long, dramatic sigh, but she didn't leave the room. Instead, she sat down on the opposite side of Ada's massive bed, her boots dangling near the carpet as she watched Leon lift his ivory chopsticks.

 

"I am hoping for you to choke on that congee, Mr. Kennedy," Helena said smoothly, her eyes narrowing as the painter took a large, appreciative bite of the savory rice porridge. "Truly. It would solve a immense amount of administrative difficulties for the household staff."

 

"Your hospitality is breathtaking, girl," Leon shot back between mouthfuls, his tone carrying a lazy, sarcastic edge that showed he was entirely accustomed to her hostility. "But the congee is excellent. You should tell the kitchen boys to add a bit more pork next time. A working man needs his protein."

 

"You are not a working man today; you are a trespasser," Helena countered, her voice sharp as a needle. "And if the Baron’s vanguard decides to do a standard sweep of the wing before noon, your protein is going to be scattered across the courtyard stones."

 

"Be gentle to him, Helena," Ada cut in as she elegantly lifted a pickled dumpling with her own sticks. "He had an exceptionally demanding night assisting me with the... adjustments of my wardrobe. His lines are straight today."

 

Leon choked slightly on his tea, his face flushing a light, endearing pink before he quickly cleared his throat, staring down at his bowl to avoid the maid's suspicious gaze.

 

"I am going to see Count Serra in the afternoon," Ada continued, her dark eyes locking onto Helena’s face with a sudden, serious clarity. "The two of you will have to get along while I am away. I am leaving Leon here, inside my private chambers, until the sun dips behind the pine trees."

 

Helena’s hands flew to her temples, her fingers plowing into her hair as she let out a groan. "You are leaving him here? In your bedroom? Ada, this is madness! I am getting a magnificent headache just listening to this plan. What am I supposed to tell the steward if he asks why the master key is missing from the registry?"

 

"Tell him I have requested absolute privacy to study history," Ada said, her tone flat and entirely unbothered. "He doesn't have the courage to cross my threshold when I am indisposed. You will stay by the outer corridor, Helena. Ensure no one brings fresh linens until dusk."

 

Leon set his empty bowl down on the silver tray, leaning back against the pillows as he looked between the two women. "Don't worry so much, Helena. I’m a very quiet guest. I promise not to touch the silver unless it's absolutely necessary."

 

"Do not joke about the silver, Mr. Kennedy," Helena snapped, though the fury in her voice was beginning to give way to a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. She stood up from the bed, smoothing down her white linen apron with angry jerk of her hands. She waited until Leon had settled back under the sheets before she walked over to the tall arched windows, checking the position of the sun through the glass.

 

She turned back to Ada, her features softening into a look of genuine, protective worry that stripped away all the previous sarcasm. "Why are you doing this, Ada?" she asked, her voice dropping to a raw, hushed whisper that barely traveled across the room. "Why are you keeping him around? You know what this house is. You know what the rules are. A painter from the districts... he is a beautiful distraction, but he cannot protect you, Ada."

 

Ada stood up from the vanity, her crimson satin skirt falling back into its perfect, structured folds with a soft rustle. She looked at her reflection in the glass, touching the carnelian hairstick that locked her dark locks into place, before turning her head to look at her handmaiden.

 

A cold smirk crossed her painted red lips, her dark eyes glittering with a dangerous, beautiful defiance that made the entire room feel instantly small.

 

"Why can't I, Helena?" Ada questioned softly, her voice carrying finality that left no room for further argument as she walked toward the door.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The porcelain teacup clicked against its saucer, a clean sound that cut through the stuffy atmosphere of the study. Ada tilted her wrist, watching the dark amber liquid swirl against the white clay.

 

"You use too much chicory in this blend, Luis," she remarked, her voice smooth, almost melodic, though her eyes remained detached as she looked across the desk. "It lacks the refinement one expects from a grandee of Spain."

 

Count Luis Serra let out a loud, theatrical groan, tossing his fountain pen onto a stack of loose parchments. He leaned back in his leather chair, running a hand through his unruly dark curls, his vest completely unbuttoned at the collar in a display of casual defiance that would have given the grand matriarchs of the capital a fit.

 

"Refinement is a luxury for those who have nothing better to think about than the taste of their leaves, mi querida," Luis retorted, a wide, easy grin splitting his face. "Besides, chicory stimulates the brain. And heaven knows this province needs every ounce of stimulation it can get. Look out that window. The entire town is asleep, buried beneath three centuries of dust and church bells."

 

Ada didn't look. Instead, she adjusted her posture, leaning back into the plush velvet of her chair and crossing her legs. The sharp heel of her shoe caught the afternoon light, a gleaming point of polished leather. She had put her hair up before leaving the estate, securing the dark strands with the carnelian hairstick Luis had brought her four winters ago from his travels, the tiny silver butterflies dripping from its tip dancing with the slightest motion of her head. In her ears, the beautiful crucifix earrings he had also gifted her caught the sun, casting small points of crimson across her neck. Her fingers, adorned with several rings of matching red stones, traced the edge of her collarbone until they found the thin red satin silk of her necklace.

 

Resting just beneath it, positioned precisely between the curve of her breast, was the marble pendant. The little cherub sat cold against her skin. For a fleeting second, her thoughts drifted entirely away from the room and back to the confines of her bedchambers, back to the scent of jasmine and linen, and the blue eyes waiting for her.

 

She cleared her throat softly, her fingers dropping from the stone. "The bells keep order, Luis. And order keeps you from being dragged into the square by a mob."

 

"Order is just a polite word for stagnation," Luis scoffed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the desk. "The world is moving, Ada. Truly moving. I spent three months in Madrid before coming back to this graveyard, and the air there is different. The universities, the salons, the coffee houses...they are talking about things that would make the bishops here drop dead of apoplexy. Liberalism isn't just a political theory anymore. It is the future. The people around this province, the families who think they own the very dirt we walk on, they need to embrace it."

 

"They won't," Ada said simply, taking another sip of her tea.

 

"They must!" Luis insisted, his eyes catching fire that made him look ten years younger and twenty years closer to grave. "Remaining this conservative, holding onto theserotting traditions...it...it is pure hypocrisy. They pray in the morning and crush the life out of their tenants by noon. And for what? To preserve an illusion of piety? It is an act, Ada. And the act itself is killing children...and...women. It kills their minds, it kills their freedom, it locks them away in dark rooms until they forget they have a voice."

 

 

 

Ada set her teacup down. Her gaze sharpened. "Your passion is admirable, Count, but it is flawed," she paused, "You speak of Madrid as if it represents the whole of the peninsula. If you move carelessly based on what you heard in a singular salon, the conservative factions here will not argue with you. They will simply replace you. If you attempt to distribute those French pamphlets to the farmers on your northern estate, the local magistrate will have you arrested before the ink is dry, Luis. If you push this liberalism too hard, your tenants won't join your revolution; they will hand you over to the authorities to secure a tax exemption."

 

Luis blinked, a small, rueful smile touching his lips. "Always the realist, chica. You throw those words around like knives."

 

"I throw them so you don't walk onto them yourself," Ada replied, her rings catching the light as she gestured toward his messy desk. "You are an aristocrat with a title and a substantial income. The crown tolerates your eccentricities because your grandfather funded the late king's campaigns. But that protection has limits. If you cross from eccentric scholar to political agitator, that title becomes a target, not a shield."

 

"People can change, Ada," Luis said, his voice softening, though the conviction remained steady in his chest. "I have seen it. I saw a baker in Barcelona who couldn't read a single line of prose master the text of the new constitution in a fortnight. I saw women organizing societies under the very noses of the royal guards. The old structure is brittle. It looks formidable, yes, but it is dry wood. One spark is all it takes."

 

"And who provides the spark? You?" Ada countered, her brow arching slightly. "You are a scientist, Luis. You understand cause and effect. If you introduce a flame to dry wood while standing in the middle of the pile, what happens to you?"

 

"Perhaps I like the heat," he murmured.

 

"Do not be foolish," she said sharply. "Your plans to change this place, to bring this grand 'new world' you keep dreaming about into a province that still counts its wealth in cattle and church indulgence...it will not end with a statue of you in the plaza. It will put your head on the guillotine, or throw you into a prison cell so deep you will forget what the sun looks like. Is that what you want? To be a martyr for people who will use your execution as an excuse for a holiday?"

 

Luis looked at her for a long moment. The playful, dramatic persona he usually wore stripped away, leaving behind a man who looked remarkably tired, yet entirely resolved. He reached out, his fingers tapping a rhythmic pattern against his chin before he remembered the restriction and stopped, simply flattening his palm against the mahogany.

 

"I would rather be dead than tied to death all my living days," Luis said, his tone striking a chord of absolute sincerity. "Look around us, Ada. Look at the families we know. They are corpses walking in silk suits. They spend their entire existence guarding graves, ensuring that nothing changes, that no one breathes, that every generation suffers exactly the same way the previous one did. If I have to spend the rest of my life pretending to care about their genealogies and their privileges while the rest of the world wakes up, I am already in a tomb. A cell would just have fewer mirrors."

 

Ada watched him, her heart softening just a fraction. Luis was a good friend—perhaps the only genuine friend she possessed in this miserable fate. He was brilliant, kind, and utterly lacking in the malice that defined the rest of the nobility. 

 

But he was also romantic, and romance in their world was a terminal disease.

 

"You speak as though you are entirely alone in this grand crusade," Ada said, leaning forward slightly, the butterflies on her hair stick clicking softly. "Do you have people with you? Real allies? Men with coin and muskets, or are you just relying on the goodwill of university students who will run the moment the cavalry appears?"

 

Luis shifted in his chair, looking suddenly very interested in the alignment of his inkwell. "Well... the student organizations in the south have promised to send correspondence."

 

"So, no," Ada concluded, a hint of exasperation seeping into her tone.

 

"No," Luis admitted, looking up with a sheepish grin. "But I will figure it out, Ada. I always do. I am a man of resources. I can write to contacts in England. The British are always keen to disrupt the conservative trade monopolies here. I will find a way to make the numbers work."

 

Ada shook her head, a slow, dismissive movement that caused the ruby crucifixes at her ears to catch the crimson light once more. "You are banking on foreign intervention and the loyalty of boys who haven't even grown their first beards. It is a fantasy, Luis. A dangerous, bloody fantasy."

 

"And what is your alternative?" Luis challenged, his eyes locking onto hers with a sudden intensity. "To sit here? To watch the clock turn? To allow the world to dictate exactly how much space you are allowed to occupy until you vanish entirely?"

 

Ada didn't answer immediately. 

 

Her fingers went back to the marble cherub resting against her skin, her thumb tracing the smooth, cool edges of the carving. She thought of the glasshouse, the scraping of charcoal, the smell of white linen, and the roses of her mother's garden. 

 

"Some of us survive by living the world as it is," Ada said softly, "not how we wish it to be."

 

Luis leaned across the desk, his gaze dropping to the silver butterflies in her hair, then to the rings on her fingers, and finally fixing onto her dark eyes. 

 

"Can you change, Ada?" Luis asked, his voice a low, striking whisper that hung in the warm air between them. "Or are you going to let them bury you alive too?"

 

Ada looked away.

 

The silver butterflies of her carnelian hairstick made a sharp, clinking sound as she turned her chin toward the tall, glass-paned windows of the study, her gaze falling upon the courtyard where the old bricks glistened until they seemed to radiate a distorted, shimmering heat. 

 

"You look away because you know I speak the truth," Luis said quietly. He leaned over the mahogany desk, his unbuttoned collar flaring open to reveal the sharp lines of his collarbone. "You look exactly like her when you do that, Ada. You remind me so much of your mother."

 

Ada’s fingers tightened instinctively around the marble cherub pendant resting against her skin. The cool stone bit into her palm. "Do not bring my mother into this, Luis. You are crossing a line that our friendship does not permit."

 

"Why shouldn't I speak of her?" Luis pressed, his dark eyes wide, fixed entirely on her face. "Carla Radames was a scholar. She was brilliant. I remember the journals and western books she kept, the way she could look at a botanical specimen and trace its entire lineage from memory. And what did this society do to her? What did that household do to her? She was reduced to a vessel. They turned a genius into a cradle."

 

Ada turned her head back to him, her eyes flashing with dangerous frost. "You will hold your tongue, Count Serra. Do not speak of my mother as if you actually knew her. You were nothing but a boy when she passed. You understand nothing of her choices or her life."

 

"I was old enough to remember," Luis hit back, refusing to retreat beneath her icy glare. "I was old enough to see the difference between a living woman and a prisoner. My family visited yours once—only once, because my father, the old Count, refused to ever return. Do you know what he told me in the carriage on the way back to our estate? He said those people were pests. He said the way they treated their matriarch, the way they broke her spirit until she couldn't even look a guest in the eye, was a sin before God. Your mother nursed me when I fell in the garden during that visit. She stayed with me in the library, wiping the dirt from my knees and telling me about the stars. And that was the last time I ever saw her smile. It never happened again because they locked her away."

 

"A single afternoon does not make you an expert on my family's history," Ada hissed, her rings clicking sharply against the armrest of her chair as she shifted her weight.

 

"You didn't even get to meet her properly, Ada!" Luis exclaimed, his hands flying up in a gesture of pure frustration. "You were a babe in arms when she died. Your mother would have wanted something entirely different for her little girl. She wouldn't want you sitting in banquets, in churches, in feasts...pretending that this rotten nobility is meant something beyond silk sheets and coins. Look at what you are doing! You are walking the exact same path with General Simmons right now. You are letting them put the same velvet noose around your neck."

 

Ada opened her mouth to speak.

 

She wanted to fire back, to shut him down. She wanted to tell him that she couldn't just leave. She wanted to tell him that her mother's grave was the leverage and that she refused to let that sacred ground be desecrated or dug up out of spite if she fled. She wanted to explain the absolute reality of her confinement.

 

But the words never formed.

 

Instead, a strange, thick pressure ballooned in the back of her throat.

 

Ada tried to draw a breath, but her lungs refused to expand. A tiny, wet pop sounded in her ears, and then a bubble—clear, glossy, and impossibly large—escaped her lips, drifting into the air between her and Luis. 

 

No...No...No...

 

She blinked, her vision blurring as a sudden, terrifying panic seized her chest. Another bubble followed the first, then three more, then a torrent of thick, soapy froth began pouring out of her mouth, multiplying with an impossible, suffocating speed.

 

The air in the room instantly grew heavy, turning to the consistency of boiling oil. She tried to swallow, but the foam was rising from deep within her chest, filling her nasal passages, coating the back of her tongue with the bitter, alkaline taste of lye and rotting flowers. She let out a muffled, choked gasp, but the action only drew more of the suffocating spheres back into her windpipe.

 

'Luis,' she tried to scream, but no sound came out—only a cluster of wet, shimmering globes that expanded until they blocked her view of his face.

 

She lunged forward, her crossed legs untangling as she reached her hands across the desk. Her fingers clawed frantically at the mahogany, trying to find purchase, trying to grab Luis by his lapels to drag him into her terror. But Luis didn't move. He sat perfectly frozen, his dark eyes wide and unblinking, staring right through the cloud of transparent, suffocating spheres that were rapidly filling the space between them. He was a painting. A statue. He wasn't breathing at all, while she was drowning in a dry room.

 

Help...Help...

 

The pressure inside her skull grew immense, a blinding heat behind her eyes. Ada dropped her hands from the desk and brought them to her own throat. Her nails, filed into neat, elegant points, dug viciously into the bare skin of her neck, scratching past the thin red satin ribbon of her necklace. She clawed at herself, tearing at her own flesh in a desperate, primal bid to puncture the blockage in her throat, to let a single gasp of air reach her starving lungs. 

 

The red rubies in her earrings swung wildly, catching the light like drops of fresh blood as her head thrashed from side to side. The room was turning black at the edges, the ceiling lowering until it felt like a stone slab pressing down upon her chest. The butterflies in her hair danced and clicked in a frenzied cadence as she suffocated on her own words, her throat completely choked with an endless, rising tide of glistening, soapy poison that refused to let her breathe, refused to let her cry, refused to let her exist.

 

Then, with a sudden, violent snap of her eyelids, the world rushed back.

 

Ada blinked.

 

The suffocating mass of foam vanished into thin air. The room was perfectly dry. The sun was still baking the courtyard outside, and the amber tea sat undisturbed in its white porcelain cup. Luis was standing right in front of her, leaning slightly over the desk, his face full of genuine concern as he watched her.

 

Ada let out a sharp, ragged hiss, her fingers instantly dropping from her neck. Her skin was hot, the satin ribbon intact, but her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She drew in a deep, desperate breath of the stuffy, chicory-scented air, her eyes narrowing into slits of pure venom as she looked at her friend.

 

"You know absolutely nothing," she spat, her voice trembling slightly before she forced it back into a cold, rigid line. "You should keep your mouth closed, Luis, if you want to continue running your tongue for your precious liberalism. You sit here in your grand library and play at being a revolutionary, but you are completely blind to the actual board we are playing on."

 

Luis looked taken back, his eyebrows pulling together. "Ada, I am only trying to—"

 

"The Duke Wesker stands directly behind General Simmons," she interrupted, her words cutting through his defense like a scalpel. "Do you understand what does that mean, Count Serra? The Duke controls three regiments of the line and holds the mortgages on half the estates in this province, including several of your own family’s holdings. If you try to interfere, if you try to bring your idealistic, romantic visions into my affairs, you will be dead before you can even take a single step toward saving me. They would crush you like an insect on a windscreen, and your little liberal leaflets would be used to light the stoves in the barracks."

 

"Then let them crush me!" Luis shouted back, slamming his palm onto the desk, causing the teacup to rattle against the saucer. "At least I would die doing something that matters! At least I would die trying to pull you out of the quicksand! Do you think I can just sit here and watch you become a corpse in a bridal gown?"

 

"It is not your concern," Ada said coldly, her fingers tightening around the marble cherub once more, seeking comfort from the stone.

 

"It is my concern because Carla Radames would have wanted her daughter alive!" Luis insisted, his voice rising, thick with an emotion that bordered on rage. "No mother would want her daughter dead, Ada! No mother would want her child to willingly walk into a slaughterhouse just to maintain a polite appearance for the neighbors!"

 

"My mother is gone," Ada said, her voice dropping to a whisper that was deadlier than any shout. "Her wishes died with her."

 

"The bones cannot feel the pain that the living can endure, Ada!" Luis yelled, stepping around the desk, his boots clicking sharply on the hardwood floor as he came to stand beside her chair. "Your mother is at peace. She is past the suffering. But you are still here, and you are choosing to walk into a furnace. If you continue this madness, if you allow Simmons to take you, do you honestly believe you will survive it? Could you live the day to see your own daughter walk the exact same steps twenty years from now? Could you look at a child of your own flesh and blood and tell her that this is all life has to offer?"

 

"Stop it!" Ada cut him off, her voice cracking like a whip as she rose from the velvet chair.

 

The butterflies on her hairstick shook violently with the sudden movement, their silver wings glinting in the harsh afternoon light. She stood at her full height, her heels making a distinct, solid thud against the floorboards. She did not look at him; she kept her gaze fixed on the doorway, her features hardened into an impenetrable wall of absolution.

 

"My path has been decided, Luis," she said, each word spaced out with verdict. "The story of my life is already built, and I have no intention of knocking it down for the sake of a poetry book. And you may ease your mind on one account—I will bear no children of a man I do not love. There will be no daughter to follow me if it's not from the seed I wish to grow."

 

Luis reached out a hand, his fingers hovering just an inch away from her arm. "Ada, please. Just listen to me for one minute—"

 

"I am excusing myself, Count Serra," she said, stepping past his hand with a smooth, unhurried poise that made it seem as though he weren't even there. "I have stayed here far too long, and the air in this study has become completely intolerable. I am going home."

 

"Ada!" Luis called out after her, his voice echoing through the high-ceilinged room as she reached the door.

 

She did not turn around. She pulled the heavy oak door open, her rings catching the final rays of the hallway light, and walked out into the corridor without looking back.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

 

"Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels."

 

The verse from Matthew echoed in Ada’s mind, tasting like cold iron and ashes on her tongue as she hurried through the front gates of the estate. She did not look at the servants who bowed to her in the courtyard. She did not acknowledge the guards standing by the grand entrance. Her heels clicked fiercely against the polished stone floors, each strike of her shoe sounding like a countdown.

 

She walked so fast that the silver butterflies dripping from her hairstick clattered together in panic. The ruby crucifixes at her ears swung violently, tapping against the pale, exposed skin of her neck. Her body felt frozen, a block of ice moving through the humid afternoon, completely numb to the warmth of the estate. She bypassed the strange glances from the maids, ignored anyone in her way, and practically flew up the grand staircase.

 

When she reached her private bedchambers, she threw the door open, stepped inside, and shut it behind her with a sharp click of the brass latch.

 

Leon was sitting in the middle of her bed.

 

He had his long legs crossed, a leather-bound sketchpad resting against his thighs, his fingers stained dark with graphite as his pencil flew across the rough paper. 

 

Ada did not hesitate. 

 

She did not say a word. She walked straight to him, her silks swishing as she threw herself into his arms, burying her face into the crook of his neck.

 

Leon gasped, his hand jerking across the paper, leaving a harsh black streak across his drawing. He dropped the pencil entirely, his blue eyes widening in absolute shock as he felt the sudden impact of her form against his chest.

 

"Ada?" Leon asked, his voice full of surprise as his arms instinctively came up to wrap around her waist. "Ada, what’s wrong? You're back early. I thought you were supposed to be spending the entire afternoon with Count Serra."

 

Ada didn't answer. 

 

She only squeezed him harder, her fingers digging through the fabric of his shirt. Her skin felt entirely cold against his flesh, like winter ice intruding upon a summer hearth. She pressed her forehead against his throat, breathing in the scent of jasmine and clean linen.

 

Leon felt her shivering, felt the unnatural chill radiating from her bare shoulders. He shifted his sketchpad out of the way, tossing it onto the mattress beside them, and pulled her closer, shifting her so she was sitting securely on his lap. He rubbed his large, calloused hands up and down her back, trying to bring some warmth back into her skin.

 

"Talk to me, Ada," Leon murmured, his chin resting against the top of her head, right next to her hairstick. "You're freezing. Did something happen in town? Did someone say something to you?"

 

She remained quiet, her face still hidden in his neck. She just wanted the world to stop turning. She wanted Luis’s warnings, her mother’s tragic face, and the impending arrival of the Simmons carriage to disappear from her mind.

 

Leon realized she wasn't going to speak about whatever had broken through her composure. He knew her well enough by now to recognize when she was retreating behind her walls.

 

"Alright," Leon said softly, his voice taking on a lighter, easier tone as his fingers gently stroked her hair, careful not to snag the dangling silver butterflies. "If you don't want to talk about the town, then let’s talk about something else. Do you wanna know what the oceans look like?"

 

Ada stirred slightly, her cheek sliding against his collarbone. She let out a small, muffled breath. "The oceans?"

 

"Yeah, the oceans," Leon said, a small smile tugging at his lips as he felt her begin to relax against him. "The real deep water. Not like that tiny man-made pond in your glasshouse with the lazy golden carp. I mean the Atlantic. The kind of water that doesn't have a bottom you can see."

 

Ada shifted, finally lifting her head to look at him. "And what does the Atlantic has to offer, Mr. Kennedy?"

 

"A lot, Lady Ada," Leon replied, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked down at her pale face. "And let me tell you, the things living down there make everything look downright ordinary. There are creatures down there that don't even have eyes because the light never reaches them. They just swim around in the dark, glowing like little lanterns."

 

Ada’s lips curved into a very faint, tentative line. "That sounds terrifying, not beautiful."

 

"Oh, it's definitely both," Leon chuckled, his hands continuing their comforting movement across her back. "But the best ones are the dolphins. Have you ever seen a drawing of a dolphin?"

 

"In books," Ada said, her voice returning to its usual register. "They are said to be remarkably intelligent."

 

"Intelligent? Sure. But they’re also complete menaces," Leon said, letting out a soft laugh. "They like to swim right alongside the bow of the ship, just racing the boat for the absolute fun of it. And they make this ridiculous clicking sound, like an old woman clicking her tongue at a messy kitchen. I swear, the first time I heard them, I thought the crew was losing their minds. They just jump out of the water, do a little spin, and look at you as if to say, 'Is that the best your little sails can do?'"

 

Ada let out a soft giggle,"You are making that up, Leon. Dolphins do not judge the quality of a ship’s sails."

 

"I am entirely serious!" Leon protested, his eyes wide with mock gravity. "They are the aristocrats of the sea, Ada. They think they own the place. They look down their noses at the whales, they mock the sharks, and they treat the sailors like their personal entertainment. If you ever saw one, you’d realize your little manor house doesn't have half the drama of a single pod of dolphins near the coast of Spain."

 

Ada giggled again, her forehead dropping back against his shoulder. The suffocating feeling that had chased her from Luis’s office was finally beginning to melt away, replaced by the comfort of Leon’s presence.

 

"And what else is down there?" she murmured, her fingers playing with the edge of his collar.

 

"Well, there are the giant squids," Leon said, his voice dropping into a dramatic whisper. "Creatures as long as three carriages parked end-to-end. They fight with sperm whales in the deep trenches. Sailors bring up pieces of skin with suction mark scars the size of dinner plates. Everyone thinks it’s a myth until you see a eye the size of a human head staring back at you from the waves."

 

"Now I know you are lying," Ada said, looking up at him with a look of playful skepticism. "An eye the size of a human head?"

 

"I swear on every saints, Ada," Leon said, lifting his right hand as if taking an oath. "The world is massive. And down there, everything is just trying to move, trying to see the light."

 

Leon’s smile faded slightly, replaced by warmth as he looked down at her. He reached up, his thumb gently tracing the line of her cheekbone, wiping away a stray speck of dust from her journey through the town. He could feel the coldness finally leaving her body, replaced by the natural heat of her skin. He pulled her into a tight embrace, wrapping his arms around her as if he could shield her from the very air outside her bedroom doors.

 

Ada pressed herself into his chest, listening to the beat of his heart beneath her ear. It was a real sound. A true sound. Not like the suffocating illusions that had plagued her. Here, in the circle of his arms, she felt like a person.

 

They sat like that for a long time, the afternoon sun shifting across the floorboards, casting long streaks of amber across the bedspread. The silver butterflies on her hair stick remained still now, resting against her dark hair as she allowed herself to simply exist in the space he provided.

 

But the dark thoughts were never truly gone; they were only waiting at the edge of the light.

 

Ada shifted her head slightly, her fingers sliding down to grasp the marble cherub pendant resting between her breasts. The little stone figure felt warm now, heated by her skin and Leon's chest. 

 

She looked up at him, her dark eyes suddenly clear and serious. "Leon," she whispered that made him stop his hand against her back.

 

"Yeah?" he asked, his blue eyes searching hers, noting the sudden change in her expression.

 

Ada tightened her grip on the carved marble, her gaze locked onto his features, memorizing the line of his jaw, the charcoal dust near his wrists, and the honest, unblinking clarity of his blue eyes.

 

"Do you think," she paused, "that people like us... us aristocrats... are born just to die?"

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The brass handle turned with a click. 

 

Helena stuck her head through the narrow gap first, her eyes scanning the dim expanse of the bedchambers before she committed her entire body to the room. She carried a silver tray laden with a covered bowl of clear pheasant broth, a small plate of dry biscuits, and a fresh pot of chicory tea.

 

Ada was sound asleep in the center of the bed. Her breathing was thin and shallow, her frame tucked beneath a quilt that failed to completely dispel the unnatural chill that had clung to her skin all afternoon. Leon had spent the last two hours sitting on the edge of the mattress, watching her sleep. 

 

He had carefully removed her jewelry one piece at a time so she wouldn't scratch herself in her sleep. He had carried them over to her vanity table across the room. The earrings now sat on the polished surface beside the hairstick, its silver butterflies finally frozen and still. The red rings were lined up like tiny drops of blood on the wood. The only thing he had left untouched was the thin red satin ribbon around her neck. Ada’s hand was still clenched tightly around the marble cherub pendant, her knuckles pale as she held the little stone figure against the exposed skin of her collarbone.

 

Leon had retreated to a small armchair by the foot of the bed. He had found one of Ada’s books of an old poetry bound in cracking calfskin leather, and was holding it up to the failing light of the window, his thumb smudging the margin with a faint trace of charcoal.

 

Helena stepped fully into the room, her shoes making no sound against the thick carpets. She set the dinner tray down on the round mahogany table near the hearth with a soft clatter of porcelain. She walked over to the side of the bed, leaning down to check the rise and fall of Ada’s chest, her face softening for a fraction of a second.

 

Satisfied that her mistress was truly resting, Helena turned her heels and walked over to the foot of the bed. Instead of leaving, she pulled up a low wooden stool and sat down directly next to Leon’s armchair. She crossed her arms over her white apron, staring at him.

 

"You have feelings for her," Helena said softly.

 

Leon didn't look up from his page, though his fingers tightened slightly against the leather binding. "She’s been asleep since the sun hit the treeline. She was freezing when she came back from the town."

 

"Do not play dumb with me, Mr. Kennedy," Helena countered, "I am the one who changes her sheets. I am the one who manages this wing. I know exactly what happens behind these closed doors. You sleeping with my mistress is a great risk, and it is a risk that she chose for herself. She is a woman who counts every single breath she takes, yet she lets a painter with charcoal on his trousers into her bed. Why?"

 

"Maybe she just wanted someone, Helena," Leon said, finally turning a page in his book. "You don't need a degree from a salon to see that much."

 

Helena leaned back,"You are very comfortable in a lady's bedchamber, Mr. Kennedy. Most workmen I employ won't even look at the wallpaper without trembling for fear of breaking something. But you sit there reading her collection as if you own the library."

 

"I’m here to do a job," Leon said, his blue eyes remaining fixed on the printed text. "The scenery doesn't concern me."

 

"Doesn't it?" Helena archly inquired. "Tell me, Mr. Kennedy, do you find the heraldry of our local families interesting?"

 

Leon paused for a fraction of a second before turning another page. "I don't know anything about heraldry. I paint faces. The shields on the carriages all look the same to me."

 

"That is an interesting lie," Helena said, her lips curving into a tight, humorless smile. "Most people who live by the docks can tell the difference between a baron's crest and a duke's coat of arms from a mile away. It keeps them from getting run over by the coachmen. Yet you speak as if the entire peerage is just a collection of bad shapes. You have no respect for the bloodlines that built this province."

 

"Maybe I just don't care enough to learn the difference," Leon replied, "A crest doesn't change the angle of an eye. It doesn't change the way the light hits the nose. That’s all I’m looking at when I draw."

 

"Let us test that theory," Helena said, leaning forward. "The Serra family crest. The count she visited today. Do you know what sits atop his shield?"

 

"I have no idea," Leon said.

 

"A hooded falcon," Helena stated, watching his face closely for the slightest twitch of a muscle. "Representing vigilance and ancient service to the crown. And the Simmons family? A three-headed hound, signifying territory fiercely guarded. A man of your apparent intelligence should find those symbols useful when trying to understand the people who are paying for your canvases."

 

"The General isn't paying me," Leon noted, "Lady Ada hired me. My contract is with her."

 

"And where do you think her coin comes from, Mr. Kennedy?" Helena pressed,"It comes from the very crests you refuse to look at. Everything in this room, everything on that tray, the very clothes she wore — it is all tied to the heraldry of this province. You cannot separate the subject from the house. You think you are an exception to the rule because she smiles at you."

 

"Watch me," Leon said simply, finally closing the book with a soft thud. He met her gaze directly, his blue eyes clear and entirely unbothered by her scrutiny. "A person isn't a coat of arms, Helena. You can stitch as many falcons and hounds onto your curtains as you like, but it doesn't change what happens when the doors are shut. If you spent less time worrying about the shields on the carriages, you might notice when your lady is drowning."

 

Helena’s eyes narrowed, a flash of genuine anger crossing her features before she mastered it. "You speak with an incredible amount of arrogance for a man who carries wood through the mud every morning. A real laborer knows his place. He bows his head and keeps his comments confined to the quality of the plaster. He does not touch the daughter of the house."

 

"Then I guess I’m a bad laborer," Leon said, his voice entirely devoid of heat. He picked up his pencil from the armrest, balancing the lead tip between his fingers with grace. "But my lack of manners doesn't change the quality of the sketch. If you’re unhappy with my behavior, you can always tell Lady Ada to dismiss me. I am sure she will listen to your advice if it is so valuable."

 

"She wouldn't," Helena muttered,. "She is far too stubborn to admit that any choice she makes is a mistake. She thinks she can control the screws in this house, including you."

 

"She’s trying to survive," Leon said softly, his eyes drifting back toward the bed where Ada had shifted slightly, her small hand still clutching the marble cherub. "There’s a difference between controlling things and just trying to keep your head above the water."

 

"And you think you know the difference?" Helena asked, her voice cracking slightly. "You see her for an hour in the glasshouse. You see the polish, the dress, the face. You don't see her when the lamps are out. You don't see the lists she copies, or the menus she reviews until her eyes bleed just to ensure that some old woman doesn't find a single flaw in her management. You are a distraction, Mr. Kennedy. A dangerous one."

 

"I see enough," Leon said. "I see the stitchwork on her dress. I see the way she holds her breath when she thinks I’m not looking. A painter doesn't need to see the mountain to know when a subject is carrying one on her shoulders. I know what she looks like when she is terrified."

 

Helena stared at him for a long time. The hostility that had defined her entrance seemed to evaporate, leaving behind a woman who looked desperately lonely in her position of trust. She looked at the book in his lap, then at his charcoal-stained fingers, and finally at the calm focus in his blue eyes.

 

"You are a very difficult man to provoke, Mr. Kennedy," she said quietly.

 

"I’ve dealt with worse than a household administrator," Leon replied, a small, wry smile appearing on his face. "Trust me. Your words are mild compared to some of the critiques I’ve had to listen to."

 

"I am not trying to give you a lesson," Helena said, standing up from the wooden stool and smoothing down the front of her white apron. She walked over to the table, adjusting the linen napkin over the silver tray to keep the pheasant broth from losing its remaining heat. "I am trying to see if you are a fool. This house is full of fools, Mr. Kennedy. They think that because they have a title, the rest of the world is just waiting to be arranged for their convenience. Count Luis thinks he is brilliant, he is not. General Simmons thinks he can buy a legacy by expanding his borders, he cannot." She stopped herself, her lips tightening into a hard line.

 

"And what do you think?" Leon asked, leaning his head back against the cushion of the armchair.

 

"I think that everyone is going to burn," Helena said,"Unless someone has the sense to pull the horses out of the barn before the roof comes down."

 

She walked toward the door, her hand resting on the polished brass handle. She paused there, her back to him for a long moment before she slowly turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. The evening light was almost completely gone now, leaving her face half-submerged in the deep violet twilight of the room.

 

"I have hopes for you, Mr. Kennedy," Helena said, her sharp voice striking the air with an intensity that made the small silver butterflies on the vanity table seem to flash in the distance. "I have hopes that you might actually be the one to save her from this place."

 

Leon didn't move. "I told you, I’m just here to paint a portrait."

 

"A portrait painter doesn't know how to carry himself like a cavalry officer," Helena said, a small, knowing smile appearing on her face as she looked at the straight line of his shoulders. "And a real laborer doesn't read poetry. My family served the royal family for three generations before the wars broke the courts, Mr. Kennedy. I was raised in the palace before I was sent as a handmaiden to Ada after the old regime fell."

 

She leaned against the doorframe, her eyes locking onto his with a terrifying clarity.

 

"I know what I can see, Leon," she whispered, her words cutting through his defense like an executioner's blade. "I know when I am looking at someone who is a part of it. I know the exact shade of blue in the eyes of the western houses."

 

Leon’s hand froze mid-air, the pencil held perfectly still between his fingers. His breath hitched, his entire body locking into a rigid pause as the words struck him. His blue eyes locked onto hers, the warmth vanishing instantly, replaced by a coldness.

 

Helena didn't wait for his response. 

 

She pulled the door open, her skirts rustling softly as she stepped out into the grand corridor.

 

"Make sure she eats the broth when she wakes," she whispered, her voice sliding through the narrowing gap. "She will need her strength for tomorrow."

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

 

"You're going to break that lead if you keep squeezing it like a throat," a small, raspy voice murmured from the bed.

 

Leon turned his head. Ada was awake.

 

She hadn't shifted from her position in the center of the mattress, but her dark eyes were open, glittering faintly in the deep violet light that remained of the evening. Her face was still incredibly pale, almost translucent against the dark velvet of the headboard, but the glazed, distant look that had frightened him when she returned from the town was gone.

 

"How much of that did you hear?" Leon asked, keeping his voice low as he leaned forward in the armchair.

 

"Enough to know I pay Helena far too much money to be my companion, and not nearly enough to keep her mouth shut," Ada said. She tried to push herself up against the pillows, her movements stiff and awkward. The thin red satin ribbon around her neck caught the light, the little marble cherub swinging against her collarbone with a faint tink against her skin. "She has always had a terrible habit of looking for kings in every ditch she passes."

 

"She thinks I'm a cavalry officer," Leon said, a genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he rose from the chair. His boots made a soft, muffled sound against the thick carpet as he walked over to the mahogany table near the hearth. "Personally, I think my posture is much too poor for the King's guard. They make you sleep with a board strapped to your spine, you know."

 

"Is that where you learned to sit so straight, Mr. Kennedy?"

 

"I learned to sit straight because my mother would hit my knuckles with a wooden spoon if I slouched over my soup," he replied, lifting the silver cover off the bowl of pheasant broth. A small cloud of steam rose into the chill of the room, smelling of parsley and rich meat. "Speaking of soup. You need to eat this before Helena comes back to check the temperature of the porcelain."

 

Ada let out a soft, dry laugh that turned into a small cough. "I am not hungry, Leon."

 

"I didn't ask if you were hungry," he said, carrying the silver tray over to the bed and setting it across her lap with practiced care. He sat down on the very edge of the mattress, his hip pressing against her covered legs. He picked up the silver spoon, stirring the clear broth until the small rings of fat swirled into a miniature whirlpool. "You're freezing. Your skin looked like lard when you came in. Drink."

 

Ada stared at the spoon he was holding out to her. Her lips thinned into a stubborn line, her eyes flicking up to his blue ones. "I can feed myself. I am a grown woman, not a child."

 

"You're a stubborn woman who can barely lift her wrists," Leon countered, his voice dripping with an easy, unbothered warmth. He didn't lower the spoon. "Take the soup, Ada. Or I'll start telling you stories about the fishing boats in the southern harbor until you open your mouth to scream at me."

 

"You wouldn't dare."

 

"Try me. There was a captain named Barnaby who had a wooden leg made entirely of old wine corks," Leon said, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Every time he stepped on the deck, it made a sound like a bottle opening. The gulls used to follow him around thinking he was a moving tavern."

 

Ada bit her lower lip, but a small, breathless giggle escaped her nose. "That is the most ridiculous lie I have ever heard in my life."

 

"It's entirely true," Leon said, taking advantage of her parted lips to slide the first spoonful of broth into her mouth. "He lost the leg to a very angry swordfish that didn't appreciate his taste in music. Drink up."

 

She swallowed, the warmth of the broth immediately bringing a faint, delicate pink back to her cheekbones. She glared at him, though there was no heat in it. "You are an incredibly obnoxious man."

 

"I'm a useful man," he corrected, blowing gently on the next spoonful before offering it to her. "There's a difference. If I were just obnoxious, you would have had the stable boys throw me into the river four nights ago."

 

"The river is much too clean for you," she murmured, leaning forward to take the second bite. "I would have had you thrown into the tanner's pit. The smell never leaves the wool..." Ada trailed off,"Also, this lacks salt," she noted, though she didn't turn away when he offered a second spoonful.

 

Leon chuckled, "Hmm...Everything in this province lacks something," he said, feeding her another portion. "During one of my travels in the east, near the coast, they use sea salt that tastes like the actual ocean. First time I had it, I thought the cook had accidentally dropped the pot into the Atlantic."

 

Ada chewed on a dry biscuit he offered, her eyes following his movements. "The ocean. You speak of it often for a man who claims to have spent his life hating it's industry."

 

"Maybe I just like the idea of it," Leon said easily, tilting the bowl to get the last of the broth. "Big, blue, completely unmanageable, and full of monsters that want to eat you. Reminds me of this house, honestly. Except the water is cleaner."

 

Ada laughed again, the sound richer this time. "You are terribly disrespectful to my family's estate."

 

"I have no respect for drafty rooms and old women who count the linen," Leon said, setting the empty bowl back on the tray and placing the whole apparatus on the table by the bed. "There. You look less like a corpse now. Mission accomplished."

 

He stood up, walking down to the foot of the bed. He cracked his knuckles, looking down at his boots. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get these off before my feet turn into actual stone."

 

He sat down on the low wooden stool Helena had occupied just minutes prior, bending over to unlace the thick cords.

 

He had barely loosened the first knot when the brass handle clicked again.

 

Helena stepped back into the room, her arms full of fresh, dry blankets. She didn't look at Leon; her eyes went straight to Ada, who was now sitting propped up against the pillows.

 

"You are awake," Helena said, her voice dropping its edge and replacing it with a stern, maternal fussiness. She marched over to the side of the bed, dropping the blankets at the foot, and immediately pressed the back of her hand to Ada’s cheek. "Still cold. The broth didn't do enough."

 

"I am fine, Helena," Ada said laughing softly. "Mr. Kennedy was just entertaining me with stories of the sea."

 

Helena shot a sideways glance at Leon, who was currently wrestling with a stubborn knot in his left boot. "Mr. Kennedy should focus on his laces rather than navigation. The wind is rising outside. I’ve locked the lower salon doors, but the drafts in this wing are persistent."

 

"The drafts are the least of my concerns," Ada said softly.

 

"They should be your primary concern if you intend to keep your lungs whole," Helena countered, pulling the quilt up higher around Ada’s shoulders and tucked it in with aggressive efficiency. "I will be in the corridor until midnight. If you require fresh tea, you will ring the small bell, not the large one. The servants in the lower kitchen are already gossiping about the amount of fuel being carried up here."

 

Leon looked up, one boot halfway off. "They think she’s running a foundry up here?"

 

"They think exactly what they are paid to think, Mr. Kennedy," Helena snapped, though there was a strange, lingering look in her eyes as she looked at him. She turned back to Ada. "Rest. Do not let him keep you up with his nonsense."

 

"Goodnight, Helena," Ada said, a clear dismissal in her tone.

 

Helena bowed her head slightly, her apron rustling as she turned. She walked to the door, her keys jingling at her waist. Before she pulled it shut, she caught Leon’s eye one last time, giving him a singular, sharp nod that felt distinctly like an order. The lock clicked into place from the inside as Leon reached over and threw the bolt.

 

The room belonged to them again.

 

Leon let out a long breath, finally pulling his left boot off and dropping it to the floor with a dull thud. He began working on the right one, his fingers slightly clumsy from the chill in the air. "She’s going to find out everything eventually, you know. She’s too smart for this house."

 

"Helena knows what I allow her to know," Ada’s voice came from directly behind him.

 

Leon blinked, realizing he hadn't heard her move. Before he could turn his head, two slender, freezing arms wrapped around his neck from behind. Ada had slid down to the foot of the bed, her body pressed against his back through the thin fabric of her shift. She was shivering, her small frame trembling against his solid, broad shoulders.

 

"Ada," he started, but her lips were already against the side of his neck. 

 

She kissed him right below the ear, her mouth a shocking burst of heat against his skin, followed instantly by the stinging nip of her teeth. He gasped, his hands dropping the boot laces entirely as his fingers dug into the mattress for balance.

 

"You talk too much," she whispered against his skin, her breath hot and shallow. "You and Helena. I could hear your voices through my sleep. Like crows over a field."

 

"We were discussing your health," Leon managed to say, his voice straining as she bit down again, a little harder this time, right over his pulse point. His blood was suddenly roaring in his ears, all the coldness of the room vanishing in an instant. "She thinks you're stubborn."

 

"I am stubborn," Ada said. She shifted, her weight moving off the mattress.

 

Leon turned around on the stool, his hands automatically rising to catch her waist as she stepped down. She had discarded the quilt entirely. She was already completely naked, her pale skin luminous in the pale light filtering through the window. Hanging against the center of her chest, suspended by the red satin ribbon, the marble cherub he had carved for her caught the light, gleaming like polished ice as it rested against her collarbone.

 

"Ada, you’re freezing," he muttered, his thumbs tracing the curve of her hip bones. Her skin felt like silk that had been kept in a cellar, but beneath it, her pulse was racing, frantic and alive.

 

"Then fix it," she commanded.

 

She didn't wait for him to stand. She climbed into his lap, her knees framing his hips on the low stool. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms locking behind his neck as she pulled his face down to hers.

 

Their lips met with clumsiness that tasted of the dry biscuits and the bitter chicory tea she had taken earlier. Leon groaned, his arms wrapping around her back, his large palms pressing her flat against his chest, trying to force his own body heat into her cold skin. He could feel every rib, the line of her spine, and the hard, small stone of the cherub pressing into his chest through his linen shirt.

 

"The bed," Leon murmured against her mouth, trying to shift his weight to stand up with her in his arms. "Let’s get under the covers, Ada, before you catch your death."

 

"No," she gasped, her fingers digging into his hair, pulling him back down. "Here. Right now. I don't want the bed. I want you."

 

She began unbuttoning his shirt with impatient jerks, her cold fingers scratching against his chest as she ripped the linen open. She pushed the fabric off his shoulders, her small hands sliding over his bare skin until she reached the front his pants, leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake.

 

Leon didn't argue further. The sheer heat of her desire was contagious. He lifted her slightly, his fingers finding her thighs, lifting her higher until she was aligned with him.

 

When she slid down onto him, she let out a ragged cry that she instantly smothered against his shoulder, her teeth sinking into his flesh to keep the sound from reaching the corridor where Helena kept watch.

 

The stool creaked beneath them against the wood floor, but neither of them cared. Ada took control, her hands pressing down on his shoulders as she began to move on top of him. Her dark hair fell forward, veiling her face, but Leon could see her eyes...wide, dark, and completely consumed.

 

Every time she rose and fell, the little marble cherub bounced against her chest, catching the moonlight, a tiny white spark between them.

 

"Leon," she whispered, her voice breaking as she quickened the pace, her hips moving with unrefined hunger. The coldness was leaving her body now, replaced by a flush of hot sweat that made her skin slick against his hands. "Leon, don't look away."

 

"I’m looking," he growled, his hands gripping her waist harder, guiding her down, meeting her stroke for stroke. He looked up at her, watching the way her throat arched, the red satin ribbon standing out like a bright gash against her white skin. "I’m right here."

 

The world shrunk down. Leon felt the pressure building in his chest, a coiled spring ready to snap. He reached up, grasping her jaw with one hand, forcing her down into another deep, bruising kiss as he drove upward one last time. 

 

Ada stiffened, her fingers locking into his shoulders so hard her nails drew blood, her head falling back as a long, trembling shudder wrecked through her entire body. She collapsed against him, her forehead resting against his collarbone, her breath coming in hot, ragged gasps that fanned over his damp skin.

 

Leon followed her a second later, his body going rigid as he poured himself into her, his eyes closing as the tension finally broke, leaving him completely breathless beneath her weight.

 

They stayed like that for a long time, the stool supporting their tangled limbs as the room slowly reclaimed its quiet. The wind outside whistled against the glass pane.

 

Ada’s heart was hammering against his ribs, a wild, trapped bird that was finally slowing down. Her skin was no longer cold; she was burning hot, glowing with the aftermath.

 

"You’re heavy," Leon whispered after a few minutes, his hands gently tracing the small of her back.

 

Ada didn't move, her face still buried in his neck. "You chose a very small stool for a man of your stature, Mr. Kennedy."

 

"I didn't choose it, Helena did," Leon said, a small smile breaking through his exhaustion. He shifted his weight, carefully standing up while keeping her locked against his torso. He carried her the two steps to the bed, letting them both fall onto the soft velvet quilt.

 

He pulled the heavy blankets over them, burying them away from the drafts and the house. Ada curled into his side instantly, her head resting on his chest, her hand finding his fingers and locking them tight.

 

"Did she mean what she said?" Ada murmured into the dark, her voice small now, almost childlike. "Helena."

 

Leon stared at the ceiling, his arm tightening around her. "She wants you to survive, Ada. That’s all."

 

Ada didn't answer, her breathing already turning soft and even as sleep claimed her again, this time without the chill. Leon closed his eyes, his nose buried in her dark hair, listening to the wind outside until the rest of the world faded into nothing at all.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

Leon woke to the scent of her skin before his eyes even unglued themselves.

 

His nose was pressed directly into the soft valley of Ada’s bare chest, the thin linen of her shift having bunched up around her collarbone hours ago. The little marble cherub he had carved hung just above his forehead, its cold stone cheek resting against his hair. He didn't move away. Instead, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrated deep in his chest, the sound muffled entirely by her skin. He pressed a warm, lingering kiss right against her breastbone, his lips dry from the morning air.

 

"You are a very loud sleeper, Mr. Kennedy," Ada’s voice dropped from above him, smooth and completely alert.

 

Leon looked up, squinting through the dim, gray light. Her dark hair was a bird's nest across the silk pillows, but her eyes were wide, staring back at him. Her fingers were already buried in his blond strands, twisting the thick locks around her knuckles in a lazy, repetitive pattern.

 

 

 

"I don't snore," Leon muttered, his voice thick with sleep. He moved his head up slightly, his chin resting against her chest. "Are you calling me a liar?"

 

"I am calling you an uninvited guest who takes up three-quarters of a feather mattress," she countered, though her fingers didn't stop their gentle tugging at his scalp. "Helena will be up with the morning kettles in less than an hour. If she finds you attached to me like a barnacle, she will use the poker from the hearth."

 

"Let her try," Leon said, a lazy smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "I’ve handled angrier women than Helena with nothing but a charcoal stick and some sweet talk."

 

"Is that what you think you are doing now? Sweet-talking?"

 

"No," Leon said, his eyes darkening as they fixed on her mouth. "Right now, I’m just trying to figure out why you’re awake before the crows."

 

Ada didn't answer with words. She slid her hands down from his hair, her long, slender fingers cupping his jawline. Her thumbs smoothed over the rough stubble of his cheeks, her palms surprisingly warm against his face. She tilted his head up slightly, leaning down until her lips met his in a soft kiss. 

 

When she pulled back, she didn't move her hands. She stayed there, hovering mere inches from his face, watching the way his breath caught in his throat.

 

Leon looked entirely breathless. His blue eyes were wide, blinking up at her through the gray light of the room, his chest rising and falling in sharp, irregular jerks. The arrogant confidence he had carried through the dark had vanished, leaving him looking thoroughly unmoored by a simple press of her lips.

 

"You look ridiculous when you are startled," she whispered, her lips curving into a small, teasing line. "Like a boy who has been caught stealing plums from the orchard."

 

"You're... you're very unfair in the morning, Lady Ada," Leon managed to say, his voice a low, rough murmur.

 

Ada let out a soft, melodic laugh that died quickly against the coldness of the room. She slid one hand back up to his hair, her fingers combing through the messy strands, her gaze drifting toward the window where the fog was turning a bright, pearlescent white.

 

"Enjoy the peace while it lasts, honeybee," she said softly.

 

Leon’s entire face flushed, a bright, dark red creeping up from his open collar to the tips of his ears. He looked away, his eyes fixing on the carved wooden post at the foot of the bed. "Don't call me that. It’s a ridiculous name."

 

"It suits you," Ada said, her voice dropping into a flatter, colder register that made him look back at her. Her fingers continued their gentle path through his hair, but her eyes had grown immensely distant, two dark wells that seemed to absorb the gray light without reflecting any of it. "The carriages are already past the lower gates. The servants were clearing the gravel before the heat set."

 

Leon’s brow furrowed. "Whose carriages?"

 

"My father, the baron and Lady Zhang" Ada said simply. She didn't look at him, her attention fixed entirely on a small crack in the plaster above the vanity table. "They should be on their way back from the winery in the north. They will be in the grand hall by noon. The house will be full of trunks, lists, and old people complaining about of the northern valley."

 

Leon didn't say anything. The mention of the baron brought a frigid clarity into the bedchambers, his jaw setting as he absorbed the news. 

 

"And he will be very around the estate to prepare for my wedding too," she added, her voice dropping another notch. Her fingers gave one last, soft tug to a stray lock of his hair before her hand slid completely out of his reach. "Which means our little arrangement has concluded, Mr. Kennedy."

 

Leon froze, his blue eyes locking onto hers. "What does that mean?"

 

"It means thank you," Ada said, turning her head back to look at him. She was smiling, a perfect, exquisite expression that looked entirely correct on her face, but her eyes were so incredibly dull it made his chest ache. "You will get the payment for my commission through Helena. She will have the pouch ready for you at the gatehouse before the midday bells."

 

Leon didn't take his hand away. He let it drop against the mattress, his knuckles digging into the wool. "The payment. Just like that?"

 

"Just like that," Ada said, her voice steady. "A contract is a contract, Leon. You painted the face, you carried the wood, you earned your coin. There is no reason for you to linger in a house that is about to become very loud and very crowded."

 

"And what about last night?" Leon asked, his voice entirely devoid of its previous warmth. "What about five minutes ago when you were cupping my face like you actually wanted me here?"

 

"Last night was a distraction," Ada said sharply. "A very pleasant one, I will admit, but a distraction nonetheless. Do not become tedious, Leon. A good laborer knows when the season has changed."

 

"I am a terrible laborer, Ada, we’ve already established this," Leon said, his jaw tightening as he sat up fully, the blankets falling down to his waist. He looked at her through the gloom, his shoulders square and rigid. "Meet me in your mother's rose garden tonight."

 

Ada chuckled, a dry, humorless sound that didn't reach her eyes. "You are insane."

 

"I’m serious," Leon pressed, leaning closer until he could see the tiny pale freckles on the bridge of her nose. "After the dinner. After your father has finished shouting at the stable master and the rest of the house is asleep. Meet me by the high stone walls where the white roses grow. Nobody goes down there after dark."

 

"Leon, stop," Ada said, her smile vanishing entirely, replaced by a cold, hard finality. "That is impossible. The guards will be posted at the grand terrace the moment the crest enters the courtyard. Helena checks the locks herself at ten. I cannot simply walk out in the middle of the night, not when the baron is in the estate."

 

"Why not?"

 

"Because I have a promise to maintain," she snapped, her voice cutting through the chill like a small whip. "Because everything in this room, everything you can see, the very air I breathe belongs to the family. You think because I let you into my bed that the rules have stopped existing? You are a guest, Mr. Kennedy. A temporary one."

 

Leon didn't answer her with an argument.

 

He didn't raise his voice, and he didn't look hurt by the sharp edge of her words. He simply reached out, his broad, warm hand finding hers where it rested against the quilt. He didn't snatch it; he pulled her hand toward him firmly that forced her to lean forward, her bare chest nearly touching his.

 

He brought her smaller hand up to his face, his blue eyes never leaving hers as he pressed his lips directly into the center of her palm. He kissed the soft skin there, a long, deep press of his mouth that felt like a vow against her skin.

 

"I promise you," Leon whispered, his voice low and completely unbothered by her defenses. He kissed her knuckles next, his breath warm against her cold skin. "I’ll make it possible. Just be there."

 

Ada stared at him, her lips parting slightly as her breath hitched. For a single, fleeting second, the Ada Wong vanished, leaving behind a woman who looked terrifyingly fragile in the gray morning light.

 

"You are a fool, Leon Kennedy," she whispered, her fingers trembling slightly against his mouth.

 

"Then don't keep a fool waiting," he said, letting her hand go as the sound of a distant bell began to ring from the valley below, signaling the approach of the first carriage.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

"You are putting yourself in grave danger, Lady Ada," Helena muttered from the doorway, her hands tucked securely into the pockets of her crisp white apron. "He is still up there. In the third-floor servants' quarters. He refused to take the back stairs when the stable boys started moving."

 

Ada did not turn around. She adjusted the high collar of her dress, her fingers steady. "He is a stubborn man, Helena. We established this days ago."

 

"He is an idiot," Helena corrected, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper as she stepped further into the room. "He is still wearing the clothes you gave him this morning. The blue woolen breeches and the linen shirt with the frayed cuffs. He looks like a vagrant artist who happened to stumble into a nobleman's wardrobe. If the baron sees him—"

 

"The baron will not see him," Ada interrupted, her voice cool and perfectly level. "Because you are going to ensure that Mr. Kennedy remains out of his thoughts. Am I understood?"

 

Helena let out a sharp, frustrated breath. "And what of his payment? The coin is in the pantry. I can thrust it into his hands and bar the gate behind him."

 

"No," Ada said, her eyes meeting Helena’s in the glass. "Keep the pouch. If he leaves now, he will cross paths with the luggage carts on the lower path. We cannot risk the curiosity of the drivers. Let him bide his time."

 

"He isn't biding his time, Ada. He is looking out the window like a hound waiting for the latch to lift," Helena said, shaking her head. "He told me he intends to see you again."

 

Ada’s fingers tightened on the edge of the vanity table, her manicured nails digging into the dark mahogany. "He talks too much. It is a western audacity. They believe that if they speak a desire aloud, the world will simply bend to accommodate it."

 

"And will it?"

 

"The world does not bend for painters, Helena," Ada said, her voice dropping into that flat, frosty register. "Now go. Ensure the tea is brewed to my mother’s liking. She will be looking for a reason to find fault before she even crosses the threshold."

 

By two in the afternoon, the heat had settled over the estate like a damp wool blanket. The lacquered carriages arrived with a clatter of iron-shod wheels and the loud shouts of the coachmen.

 

Ada stood at the top of the sweeping marble staircase, wearing a long cheongsam of midnight black bleeding into a bruised blue along the high collar and fitted sleeves. Beneath the fabric, pressed flat against the skin of her breastbone, she could feel the sharp, biting coldness of the necklace tucked safely inside her dress.

 

Down in the foyer, the double doors swung wide.

 

The baron stepped across the threshold, his fur-lined cloak smelling faintly of sour wine and horses. Hooked tightly to his arm was Lady Zhang.

 

"The dampness in the northern valley is entirely unacceptable," Lady Zhang declared before she had even cleared the entryway. Her voice was sharp, like shears cutting through dry grass. Her free hand adjusted the velvet of her traveling cloak. "My skin feels like old parchment. Darling, you must speak to the driver about the springs in that carriage. My hips are utterly ruined."

 

"We are home now, my dear," the baron rumbled, untying his cloak and tossing it to an awaiting servant. He didn't look up at the stairs, his eyes immediately scanning the high ceilings for signs of dust. "The air here is clear enough."

 

Lady Zhang’s eyes flicked upward and locked onto Ada. A small, thin smile touched her painted lips, though it carried no warmth. "Ah. There she is. At least someone had the sense to dress appropriately for our return."

 

Ada glided down the steps, her heels making no sound against the stone. "Welcome back, Father. Mother," she added, the final word tasting like ash in her mouth. "I trust the winery was profitable?"

 

"The vintage is adequate," the baron said, walking past her toward the long mahogany table in the center of the hall. "But the logistics are a nightmare. The northern estate needs a firmer hand. Where is Helena? The tea should already be drawing."

 

"She is in the kitchens, Father. I will have it brought up immediately," Ada replied smoothly.

 

"Don't bother standing so far away, Ada," Lady Zhang snapped, walking toward the parlor and gesturing with a fan. "Come here. Let me look at you."

 

Ada followed her into the sunlit room, standing before the large velvet settee where Lady Zhang seated herself. The baron remained near the doorway, hands tucked behind his back, listening intently.

 

Lady Zhang leaned forward, squinting through the afternoon light. "Look at those bags under your eyes. Have you not been sleeping? You look dreadful. Absolutely haggard."

 

"The morning fog was quite loud today, Mother," Ada replied,"I woke early to ensure the household was prepared for your arrival."

 

"Excuses," Lady Zhang scoffed, waving her fan dismissively. "You are turning twenty-four, Ada. At your age, youth is a fleeting currency, and you are spending it poorly. You look entirely too thin in the face. It makes your jaw look sharp, like a peasant girl from the fields. You should be profoundly grateful that Derek is a man who values alliances over flawless beauty, because you are certainly not doing yourself any favors looking like a ghost of a bride."

 

Ada kept her hands folded neatly over her stomach. "Your guidance is always noted, Mother."

 

"It had better be," Lady Zhang muttered, leaning back against the cushions. "We ran into Lady Simmons' carriage near the crossroads yesterday. She was quite specific about her expectations. Which brings me to the point. How are the preparations for the wedding progressing? The Autumn Solstice is not as far off as you seem to think, and I will not have this family embarrassed by a poorly managed dowry list."

 

The baron stepped forward, his heavy boots thudding against the floor. "Yes. What did the Simmons family say during the luncheon last week? Did they finalize the terms?"

 

Ada looked between them, her expression a perfect portrait of dutiful submission. "During the luncheon, Madame Simmons told me that the final contracts will be signed in exactly two weeks. And a week after that, I will be sent to the Simmons estate in the capital to begin the formal transition.

 

The baron broke into a rare, satisfied grin. "Two weeks for the signatures. Excellent. The timber rights in the eastern valley will finally be secured under our name."

 

"Three weeks until she is out of this house," Lady Zhang murmured. She tapped her fan against her chin, nodding slowly. "Good. That gives us just enough time to have the seamstresses alter the lace. Heaven knows we need to pad the bodice if you are to look remotely presentable on the altar, Ada."

 

"Whatever you think is best, Mother," Ada said softly.

 

"Of course it is what is best," Lady Zhang said, her voice dripping with condescension. "A girl of your plain disposition should be counting her blessings every single night. To be wed into one of the highest house in the capital while looking like a tired porcelain doll is a miracle in itself."

 

"The Simmons family expects a woman of breeding and compliance," the baron added, his voice firm and final. "You will provide both, Ada. The contracts are set. Do not do anything foolish to disturb the peace of this house before the signatures are dry."

 

"I understand perfectly, Father," Ada replied shortly. "I will ensure everything is prepared exactly as you wish."

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The grandfather clock in the lower gallery struck eleven times, its brass gears grinding together that penetrated the floorboards of the eastern wing. The house had finally settled into its frozen state; the servants were dismissed to their attic cots, the oak doors bolted from the inside. 

 

For hours, the manor had been choked by the scent of traveling trunks, damp wool, and the bitter tobacco the baron favored, a stench that lingered in the tapestries long after he had retired to his chambers.

 

Ada sat perfectly upright in the exact center of her mattress. The four-poster bed felt massive around her, an island of white linen in a room that had been swallowed by absolute blackness. The candle on her nightstand had burned down to a greasy puddle of tallow an hour ago, the final wick drowning in its own melted wax with a tiny, wet hiss. Now, there was no light left to define the edges of the furniture, no illumination to soften the sharp corners of the wardrobe or the tall, arched windows that looked out over the estate grounds.

 

Her skin felt cold, yet a strange, prickly heat was beginning to bloom beneath her collarbone.

 

She knew precisely where he would be standing. Down past the paths, where the old stone wall met the edge of the wilderness, he would be waiting among the thorns. The red roses would be pale discs in the starlight, their petals bruised by the evening dew. He would have his hands shoved into the pockets of his worn coat, his blond hair catching whatever meager starlight filtered through the thick river fog. He would stay there until the first birds began to stir, stubborn and foolish, believing that a promise made in the warmth of a morning bed could bend the iron bars of her reality.

 

She would not go.

 

The decision was already set in stone. She had spent twenty-six years learning her cage. The contract was fulfilled. The portrait was finished. The pouch of silver coin was already with Helena, waiting for him. To allow him anything more would be a piece of absolute madness, a crack in the porcelain facade she had spent her entire life perfecting. He was just a painter with dirt under his fingernails and a smile that lacked the proper deference required by her station. He belonged to freedom, not to her estate.

 

Her eyes, fully adjusted to the dark, drifted toward the western wall.

 

Even without a single spark of candlelight, she could see the shape of it. The large square frame hung precisely between two velvet hangings, the oil paint still faintly aromatic if the breeze caught it correctly. He had captured her exactly as she was. He had captured the exact shade of her dark hair, the precise slant of her shoulders, the slight, mocking curve of her lips.

 

Directly adjacent to the canvas hung her collection of glass cases. Inside them, pinned to velvet backing with steel needles, were dozens of dead butterflies. Their wings were perfectly preserved, brilliant oranges, deep blues, and pale, powdery whites, frozen in an eternal imitation of flight. They had been caught at the height of their beauty and arranged in neat, orderly rows to decorate her sanctuary. She had always found comfort in their stillness, in the fact that they could no longer flutter against the glass or damage their fragile wings against the constraints of the world.

 

Now, looking from the butterflies to the portrait, a strange sensation began to creep up from the small of her back.

 

The linen sheets beneath her palms felt unexpectedly heavy. The fabric, usually smooth and cool against her skin, seemed to thicken, the fibers tightening as if they were absorbing the dampness of the night air. Slowly, the edges of the quilt seemed to roll inward. The movement was imperceptible at first, a gradual shifting of the material that began at her ankles and crawled upward along her shins.

 

Ada tried to pull her legs back, to tuck them beneath her nightshift, but her limbs felt like lead. The sheets continued their creeping ascent, wrapping around her knees, pinning her thighs together with the crushing force of a shifting snowdrift. The fabric was tight, binding her to the center of the mattress, molding itself to the contours of her body until she was completely encased in the white linen.

 

The pressure mounted. The quilt rolled over her stomach, compressing her ribs, pushing the air out of her lungs in a short, sharp gasp. She tried to raise her hands to tear the blankets away, but her arms were pinned flat against her sides, the fabric winding around her shoulders like thick bandages. It crawled higher, slipping over her throat that pressed against her windpipe until her swallowing became difficult. Finally, the edge of the sheet pulled over her chin, over her nose, covering her face entirely until her world was reduced to the pale texture of woven flax.

 

She was trapped beneath the surface, pulled deep into a dense foam that offered no resistance yet allowed no movement.

 

And Ada tried to scream, to throw her body to the floor, but her muscles refused to obey. The air inside the small pocket beneath the sheet grew hot and stale, recycled over and over through her parched lips. Every inhalation brought only the scent of lavender water and dried starch, a domestic, civilized smell that felt like a burial shroud.

 

Inside her chest, her lungs began to burn. The lack of oxygen was sickening, a thick mass that filled her tubes and pressed outward against her ribs. She could feel her organs now, distinct and agonizingly separate within her torso. Her stomach was a tight, twisted knot, rejecting the rich dinner she had been forced to endure with the baron. Her liver, her kidneys, her spleen, all felt like leaden stones shifting uncomfortably against her spine as she strained for breath

 

Her heart was a panicked animal trapped in a wicker basket. It slammed against her breastbone wildly, the vibrations rattling through her teeth. With every frantic beat, she could feel the blood pulsating through her veins, a torrent of hot, pressurized fluid rushing through her temples, behind her ears, down the length of her immobilized arms. The pulse was so loud it filled her head like a thudding roar. Her arteries felt stretched to their absolute limits, the vessels in her neck throbbing violently against the constricting linen of her shift.

 

The suffocation was absolute. The estate, the upcoming nuptials, the silver rings, the long guest lists, they were all present in the fabric pressing down upon her face. She was being erased, pinned and preserved just like the butterflies on her wall.

 

A tear slipped from the corner of her right eye.

 

It was hot, a single droplet of moisture that tracked across her temple and soaked into the linen beneath her head. Then another followed, and another, until her face was wet with them. The moisture pooled in the small hollows beneath her eyes, stinging her skin.

 

The frustration broke through her defenses first, a jagged, tearing sensation in her throat. She was Ada Wong and yet, here she was, paralyzed in her own bed, weeping into the dark like a child abandoned in a forest. It was deeply humiliating, an admission of total defeat that made her want to claw at her own skin until the blood ran.

 

The anger followed immediately after, hot and sulfurous. She was furious at her father. She was furious at the baron with his gouty fingers and his stale breath, a man who looked at her as if she were merely another piece of land to be annexed into his northern valley. She was furious at the house itself, with its endless corridors, its locking doors, its traditions that demanded she surrender her entire existence for the sake of a family crest.

 

But most of all, she was furious at the blue-eyed painter currently standing in the mud.

 

He had no right to look at her the way he did. He had no right to see past Ada Wong, to find the fragile, bleeding thing hidden beneath. He had no right to make her a promise he couldn't possibly keep, to offer her a glimpse of something warm and unburdened when he knew she was already promised to the grave of marriage. His arrogance was monstrous, a cruel, thoughtless intrusion into a life that had been perfectly ordered before his arrival.

 

The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow, a freezing clarity that cut through the panic in her lungs.

 

Ada painfully and foolishly wants it too.

 

The realization was a knife in her gut, twisting deep into her viscera. She didn't want Helena to hand him the coins. She didn't want the grand hall, or the trunks of linen, or the congratulations of the old people who would gather for her wedding. She wanted the cold morning air. She wanted the smell of charcoal and turpentine. She wanted the rough, calloused hands cupping her jawline, the dry lips pressing against her breastbone, the lazy, rumbling chuckle that vibrated against her own skin. She wanted the very thing she had spent the last twelve hours trying to destroy.

 

It was unfair. It was horribly, monstrously unfair that she should be given a taste of freedom only to have it snatched away by the turning of a season. The world was a vast, open space for men like him, men who could pack their bags and walk down the dirt roads whenever the fancy took them, while she was confined to a glided cage for the rest of her damned life.

 

Ada sobbed like a mute little girl.

 

The sheets stopped their tightening grip. Slowly, the fabric seemed to deflate, losing its crushing strength, relaxing its hold upon her limbs until she could feel the cool air of the room filtering through the weave once more. The invisible ropes that had bound her arms loosened, allowing her fingers to twitch against the quilt.

 

Ada did not move.

 

She remained lying perfectly still in the exact middle of her massive bed, her limbs stretched out like a corpse prepared for a wake. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, exhausted hitches, the air scraping against her raw throat as her lungs slowly reaccustomed themselves to the dark. Her face was soaked, her dark hair plastered to her temples by the sweat and tears of her internal struggle.

 

The room was exactly as it had been before the episode began. The darkness was total, the candlelight dead, the portrait of her face staring out into the vacancy of the chamber alongside the dead butterflies in their glass coffins.

 

She did not rise to go to the window. She did not throw off the covers and run down the back stairs to the rose garden where the red petals were dropping into the dirt. She simply laid there, unmoving, staring up at the invisible ceiling while the blood continued its thudding inside her veins, a prisoner within her own skin.

 

Ada remained where she was, the anger and sadness settling cold at the bottom of her soul. She had made her choice in the gray light of morning, and the dark of night would not see it undone, no matter how much her chest ached for the fool waiting by the wall. Of all the decisions she had ever made, this was the most precise, and the most terrible. She stayed pinned to the white linen, perfectly still, as the distant bells began to chime for midnight.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The dawn brought no relief, only a pale, bruised light that crept across the floorboards like a creeping frost. Ada had not slept a single moment. She had remained precisely where she was in the center of her massive bed, her limbs locked in a rigid paralysis while the hours dragged across the ceiling. 

 

By the time Helena turned the heavy brass handle of her chamber door, Ada’s muscles were trembling from the sheer exertion of remaining completely motionless. The air in the room felt entirely depleted, as if she had breathed every particle of oxygen and replaced it with a toxic, stifling regret. Her throat was raw, parched, and coated in a thick layer of dust.

 

When Helena found her sitting upright, staring blankly at the far wall, she did not speak a single word of reproach. She simply walked to the wardrobe, pulled out a thick woolen robe, and gently wrapped it around Ada’s stiff, freezing shoulders. Helena guided her by the elbow toward the bathing chambers. Ada moved her feet automatically, placing one bare sole in front of the other, but she felt entirely severed from her own physical form. She was a hollow vessel, devoid of blood, devoid of warmth, devoid of everything except a crushing, absolute numbness that sat right behind her sternum.

 

The bathing chamber was already prepared, completely filled with a dense, suffocating fog. The large copper tub dominated the center of the tiled room, radiating a fierce heat that turned the trapped air into a tropical humidity. Boiling water had been drawn and steeped with crushed lavender, dried chamomile flowers, and sharp, medicinal eucalyptus leaves. The moisture clung to the intricately painted porcelain tiles, gathering into thick droplets that wept down the walls in slow, meandering trails. 

 

The morning light filtering through the large frosted glass window was a sickly, pale gray, offering no warmth.

 

Ada allowed Helena to strip the woolen robe from her shoulders, slipping out of her nightshift until she stood completely bare in the cold morning air. She climbed into the scalding water, sinking down until the fragrant liquid reached her collarbones. 

 

The heat was immense, immediately turning her pale skin a flushed, angry pink, but she did not flinch. She sat directly in the center of the copper basin, perfectly rigid, her arms resting limply beneath the soapy surface. She stared straight ahead, her dark eyes completely vacant, fixed upon the intricate brass spigot without truly seeing it.

 

Behind her, Helena rolled up her linen sleeves, her hands slick with a fragrant, oily soap. She dipped a large, porous sea sponge into the basin, wringing it out with a soft splash that seemed deafening in the enclosed space. Helena pressed the hot sponge to the nape of Ada’s neck, letting the scalding water cascade down the knobs of her spine, sliding the sponge over the tense, rigid muscles of Ada’s back. Helena worked the soapy lather into the skin with smooth, circular strokes, her touch infinitely tender.

 

Ada felt the heat of the water, the slick texture of the soap, and the gentle pressure of Helena’s hands, but the sensations felt completely distant, as if they were happening to another person entirely. She was trapped deep inside her own skull, completely paralyzed by the events of the previous night. The suffocating pressure she had experienced in her bed had not vanished; it had merely relocated, settling directly over her lungs. Every inhalation required an immense, conscious effort. She could feel the blood pulsating thickly through her veins. She could feel her heart, a bruised muscle struggling to pump life into a body that no longer wanted it.

 

The bathing chamber was suspended in a mute stillness, broken only by the sloshing of the water and the soft breathing of the two women. Then, the sponge came to a rest against Ada’s right shoulder blade. Helena took a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly against the wet, flushed skin.

 

"I saw him," Helena whispered, her voice barely louder than the rustle of a silk gown.

 

Ada did not react. She did not blink, nor did she turn her head. She remained completely immobile, a marble statue drowning in a copper pool. But deep within her chest, her heart executed a violent, painful contraction that made her entirely breathless.

 

"I had the pouch of silver ready at the gatehouse, exactly as you instructed," Helena continued, her words tumbling out in a rushed, hushed stream. She resumed washing Ada’s back, but her movements were distracted now, frantic and lacking their previous focus. "I waited by the iron grates until the sky began to turn a pale blue. But he never came to the door, Ada. I looked out the narrow window, out toward the edge of the property. I saw him climbing down the high stone wall by the western boundary, just before the break of dawn."

 

The image painted itself behind Ada’s blank eyes with an agonizing, brutal clarity. She could see the rough stone of the wall, the morning mist clinging to the wild vines, the desperate, solitary figure dropping into the wet dirt. He had waited. He had stood among the red roses in the freezing dark, staring up at the unlit windows of the manor, waiting for a woman who was never going to come. He had stayed out there in the freezing night, holding onto a promise made in the warmth of a bed, and when the sun finally arrived to expose his foolishness, he had climbed the wall like a common thief.

 

"He did not collect the coins," Helena whispered, her voice cracking violently with raw emotion. She dropped the soapy sponge directly into the bathwater, stepping forward to wrap her arms completely around Ada’s bare, wet shoulders from behind. Helena pressed her face into the damp hair at the side of Ada’s head, holding her tight, completely ignoring the bathwater soaking into her own linen dress. "He left his payment sitting on the wooden table, Ada. Please do not be sad. Please do not let this break you."

 

Ada remained completely mute. 

 

Her throat was locked shut, closed off by a massive, impenetrable knot that made drawing breath an absolute agony. She stared at the brass spigot, watching a single bead of condensation swell and drop into the soapy water below. The warmth of Helena’s embrace was jarring to the absolute freezing cold that had taken root deep within Ada’s soul. 

 

She wanted to speak. 

 

She wanted to assure Helena that it was merely a transaction, that the painter was a fool, that she was completely unaffected. But her jaw was clamped shut so tightly her teeth ached. If she opened her mouth, she feared she would scream until her vocal cords shredded themselves into ribbons.

 

Helena squeezed her tighter, rocking her slightly from side to side in the cooling water.

 

"I went out to the garden after I saw him drop over the wall," Helena murmured, her lips brushing against the shell of Ada’s ear. Her tone was incredibly careful, as if she were approaching a deeply wounded animal trapped in a steel snare. "I walked down the gravel path, down to where the roses bloom by your mother's grave. He left his things there, Ada. All of them."

 

A tiny, almost imperceptible shudder racked Ada’s frame. Her fingers, submerged beneath the pale, soapy water, curled tightly into fists, her nails digging sharp crescent moons directly into her own palms.

 

"His leather bag," Helena listed, her voice dripping with an overwhelming sorrow. "His wooden palette, still stained with the bright colors he used to paint your skin. And his brushes. Every single one of them, Ada. He left them lined up perfectly beneath the rose bushes. The fine badger brushes, the thick hog bristles, the tiny tools he cherished. He did not take a single one. He left his entire livelihood sitting there in the morning dew."

 

The information hit Ada like a devastating blow to the stomach, completely knocking the wind from her lungs.  

 

For a traveling artist, those tools were his entire world. They were his survival, his trade. To leave them behind was to surrender. It was an abdication of his very self.

 

A declaration left in the dirt.

 

A vow.

 

Leon may not have told her he loved her. Perhaps he never would have. Not because he didn't, but because love sounded far too simple. And Leon... Leon was not a simple man. A simple man was a sensible man, and no sensible man could have held her the way he did. No sensible man would have looked at her portrait and called it art.

 

To Ada, he was every word she had ever learned and every word she had yet to discover. Yet even then, language failed. Every definition she knew fell short. Every description felt inadequate. There were thousands of words in every dictionary she had ever opened, and not a single one was large enough to hold him.

 

"I ran after him," Helena confessed, her tears mixing with the steam as she buried her face deeper into the crook of Ada’s neck. "I unlocked the side gate and I ran out into the muddy road. I caught up to him just as he was turning past the lower pasture. He looked so incredibly tired, my lady. He looked as though he had aged ten years in a single, solitary night."

 

The water in the tub was turning lukewarm, but Ada felt as though she were burning alive. The suffocating pressure inside her chest was expanding exponentially, pressing against her ribs, restricting her lungs until she was gasping shallow, frantic breaths entirely through her nose. The walls of the bathing chamber seemed to inch closer, the frosted glass windows trapping her inside a suffocating white box where she was entirely unable to escape the consequences of her own cowardice.

 

"I tried to give him the pouch," Helena sobbed openly now, her grip on Ada’s shoulders becoming completely desperate. "I begged him to take the silver, to come back and take his brushes, but he would not even look at them. He only looked at me. He smiled, that sad, lopsided smile of his, and he asked me to deliver a message."

 

Ada closed her eyes forcefully. The darkness behind her eyelids offered no sanctuary at all. It only projected his face more clearly, his bright blue eyes looking at her through the gloom of her bedchamber, his rough hands pulling her forward, his dry lips pressing a vow into the center of her palm. The absolute sincerity in his voice echoed in her mind, tearing her apart from the inside out.

 

"He told me to tell you that he understands," Helena whispered, the words carrying an absolute, devastating finality that cut straight to the bone. "He said he understands why you did not show up. He knows, Ada. He holds no anger toward you. He just understands."

 

The knot in Ada’s throat finally snapped in two.

 

The first sound that escaped her was not a polite cry, but a ragged, wet gasp, as if she had been held underwater for ten minutes and had just violently broken the surface. Her chest heaved, sending water sloshing over the copper rim of the tub to splash loudly onto the tiled floor. Her entire body convulsed, a tremor that started in her rigid shoulders and violently shook her entire frame.

 

She burst into tears, the sound tearing harshly through the humid air of the room. It was an ugly, guttural sobbing, entirely devoid of any aristocratic grace or practiced restraint. It was the sound of a woman completely undone, stripped of every defensive wall, every careful decision, every lie she had ever told herself to survive. She brought her dripping hands up from the water, covering her face as the tears poured from her eyes, hot and incredibly fast, mingling with the bathwater running down her flushed cheeks.

 

"I love him," Ada muttered, the words tearing out of her raw throat between loud, agonizing sobs. She bent forward, curling entirely in on herself, her forehead nearly touching her wet knees as she wept into her own palms. "I love him, Helena. I do. I love him."

 

She chanted it over and over, a desperate, broken litany. The devastating truth she had refused to speak in the dark, the truth she had tried to drown, now spilled from her lips in a helpless, uncontrollable torrent. She wept for the artist who had truly seen her, the man who had stood in the freezing damp until the dawn broke his heart. She wept for the beautiful brushes left abandoned in the garden, for the silver coins sitting untouched on a wooden table, for the impossible, magnificent future that she had deliberately suffocated in her own bed out of sheer terror.

 

Helena did not let go. 

 

She moved completely around to the side of the tub, ignoring the bathwater soaking completely through her skirt and sleeves, and wrapped her arms fully around Ada, pulling the weeping woman directly against her own chest. Helena stroked Ada’s wet, tangled dark hair, rocking her back and forth as Ada cried loud, heaving sobs that wracked her entire body, completely shattering the porcelain facade she had spent her entire life building.

 

"I know," Helena said firmly, crying freely alongside her, a cry of comfort in the storm of Ada’s unbearable grief. "I know, Ada. I know."

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

 

 Circus.

 

The air smells of burnt sugar, sawdust, and the sweet grease used to lubricate great iron cogs. Underneath the afternoon sky, everything is painted in stripes of aggressive crimson and faded cream, illuminated by the volatile hiss of calcium limelight that casts long, distorted shapes across the sawdust. It is a world suspended outside of ordinary hours, a grand, traveling cathedral of the bizarre where the music never truly stops, it merely sinks into the floorboards until the next matinee. Every surface is coated in a thin layer of glitter and grime, a dual layer of magic and manual labor that keeps the grand machine functioning for the amusement of the changing crowds.

 

But have you ever ride it's carousel? 

 

It is a question that requires an understanding of how sweetness can curdle when left too long in the sun.

 

The platform is a massive disc of varnished oak, suspended by iron rods that groan under the weight of a dozen wooden beasts, each one carved with a sneer that passes for a smile in the dimming afternoon light. To mount one is to enter a contract with an engine that knows only one direction, a relentless forward momentum that simulates flight while ensuring you never actually leave the spot where you first climbed aboard. The wind it creates is artificial, a stale breeze smelling of coal smoke and the perfume of the ladies in the second row, blowing your hair across your eyes until the world outside the perimeter becomes a smudge of grey and white.

 

The statues are lined up in columns of three, their wooden hooves forever frozen in a gallop that gains no ground. They are painted in shades that do not exist in nature—electric blues, jarring magentas, and yellows that look like sulfur under the lamps. Close up, the brushwork is crude, the paint thick and cracking along the grain of the poplar wood, showing the grey primer beneath like old bone. The eyes are glass marbles, fixed and staring into the middle distance with a glassy intensity that feels almost mocking as you rise and fall beside them. Yet, when the steam organ begins its wail, they transform into pretty ponies, their ugly, chipped faces gleaming under the varnish, their gilded manes catching the light with a brilliance that commands your total devotion. You hold onto the brass pole, your fingers slick with sweat, and you look at the pony in front of you, its mouth open in a permanent whinny, and you think there is nothing more beautiful in the entire county.

 

The motion begins as a shudder in the soles of your shows, a mechanical throb that rises from the boiler buried beneath the center pole. It starts with a slow rotation at first, the painted scenery on the inner core—scenes of Italian lakes and Swiss mountains—moving past like a slow-running stream. Then the gears engage with a clatter that drowns out the chatter of the spectators, and the world begins its tilt. 

 

Up and down. Up and down. The system of overhead cranks, lifting each statue in turn so that you are never level with your neighbor, always looking up at their shoes or down at their bonnet as the machine turns. It is an exquisite sort of motion, a grace that makes your head feel light and your stomach drop as if you were clearing a hedge on a real hunter.

 

You are stuck riding, of course, because the ticket collector has locked the little iron gate at the back of the platform, and the speed is now sufficient that to step off would mean a nasty tumble into the dirt. The music box melody is a brassy, unceasing torrent of waltzes, played by a pneumatic organ that uses paper rolls with punched holes to dictate the notes. The sound is filling the space beneath the canopy until you can no longer hear your own breathing, only the pipe-work pumping out the same twelve bars over and over. 

For example, those little porcelain ballerina who spins upon her needle point inside a velvet-lined box, her arms frozen in a perfect fifth position while the spring unwinds beneath her skirts. Much like the carousel, she does not choose to dance, nor does she choose to stop; she merely responds to the key turned in her back, her little painted shoes tracing the exact same circle until the mechanism rusts or the lid is snapped shut. 

 

And yet, there is a strange comfort in this comparison as you pass the popcorn stand for the fourteenth time, the face of the vendor blurring into a pale pink oval against the dark canvas of the tent.

 

Then, the repetition becomes something you can feel on the back of your tongue like velvet. The pretty ponies rise, the pretty ponies fall, their iron rods clicking in their sockets with a regularity that makes the heart beat faster to keep pace. The colors of the crowd begin to bleed together, the black coats of the gentlemen and the bright parasols of the ladies forming a solid, swirling ribbon that encloses the ride like a wall. You are no longer an observer; you are part of the decoration, a living figure pinned to a wooden mount, moving in perfect accord with the steam-driven heart of the circus. It is a glorious feeling, this total surrender to the circle, where the problem of where you are going is solved by the fact that you are already there, and will be again in less than a minute. The wind grows warmer, or perhaps it is just the heat of the boiler rising through the floorboards, enveloping your ankles in a cloud of sulfurous steam that makes the air look like glass.

 

The light changes as the sun dips below the horizon, the orange rays striking the revolving mirrors on the center column and scattering across the crowd in brilliant, blinding needles. Every mirror is slightly warped, distorting your reflection so that as you pass, your face appears to stretch and compress, your eyes growing wide and round like the glass marbles in the pony’s head. It is a delightful game, watching yourself become a creature of the circus, your features melting into the general merriment of the evening until you can no longer remember what you looked like in the mirror of your own dressing table. The music seems to grow louder as the darkness thickens, the pipes catching their breath between verses with a wet, gasping sound that mimics a large animal tired from a long run. Still, the cranks turn, the statues plunge, and you are stuck riding, your fingers molded to the brass pole until they feel as cold and hard as the metal itself.

 

There is a quality to this amusement that feels entirely modern, an engine built solely for the production of joy, utilizing the same technology that drives the locomotives across the plains but turning it inward, into a spiral that leads nowhere but back to the start. The children on the lower tiers are laughing, their voices thin and sharp against the booming bass of the organ, their small hands reaching out to catch the brass ring that hangs from the wooden arm just out of reach. Each time the machine brings them round, they stretch a little further, their faces turning red with the effort, their eyes fixed on that shining circle of metal that promises a free ride if only they can hook it with their finger. You watch them from your higher perch on the electric-blue pony, wondering if they know that the ring is never quite where it appears to be, that the speed of the turn creates an illusion of proximity that vanishes the moment your hand closes on the empty air.

 

The ballerina on the music box knows this, surely, as she looks down at her own reflection in the tiny oval mirror glued to the lid. She sees the same room, the same dresser, the same silver hairbrushes every time she completes her turn, yet she continues to smile her painted smile because that is what is expected of a creature made of bisque and wire. To do otherwise would be to break the spell, to suggest that the music is not enough to sustain her, that the velvet lining of her box is a limitation rather than a sanctuary. You smile too, mimicking her expression as you pass the lady with the blue feathers in her hair for the twentieth time, noting with a small prick of pleasure that her feathers are beginning to droop in the damp night air while your own pony remains as bright and stiff as the moment the carousel was unpacked from its crates.

 

The night brings out the lanterns, dozens of small glass globes filled with whale oil that swing from the rim of the canopy, casting a warm, flickering glow over the entire structure. The light catches the gold leaf on the pony's bridle, making it look like real treasure dug from a hill rather than cheap metal beaten thin with a mallet. The smells change too, the sawdust becoming damp with dew, mixing with the scent of the horses tethered in the stables nearby and the roasted chestnuts sold by the boy at the gate. It is an intoxication of the senses, a dense, sweet cloud that settles over the ride until you feel you are floating in a bowl of punch, the world outside the tent receding into an insignificant speck of dust. You are stuck riding, and the knowledge is like a warm blanket around your shoulders, protecting you from the cold necessity of walking home along the dark, muddy lanes where the lamps are few and the houses are all shut up for the night.

 

The organ begins a new roll, a selection of sea shanties arranged for the amusement of land-locked townsfolk who have never seen the ocean. The notes are bouncy, inappropriate for the weight of the iron cogs beneath, creating a strange tension between the lightness of the melody and the heavy, grinding effort of the engine. The pretty ponys seem to leap higher now, their wooden legs straining against their mountings as if they too were caught up in the spirit of the voyage, their painted eyes gleaming with a wild, artificial intelligence that suggests they might break free of their poles if only the boiler could produce enough pressure. You lean into the turn, your shoulder pressing against the flank of the yellow pony next to you, feeling the heat of the wood where the sun has beaten down on it all day, a simulated life that is better than the real thing because it does not age or sicken.

 

The crowd has grown thicker now that the factories have let out, a solid wall of faces turned toward the light of the carousel, their mouths open in expressions of simple wonder that make them look like children themselves. They watch the pretty ponies go round, their eyes tracking the motion with synchronized swing of their heads that matches the rotation of the platform. For them, you are a vision of high society, a lady or a gentleman taking the air on a magnificent steed, your clothes looking expensive under the grease-lamps, your posture elegant as you ride the mechanical wave. They do not see the grease on your hem or the way your knuckles have gone white from holding the pole; they only see the glitter, the crimson stripes, and the endless, beautiful circle that keeps you safe from the dirt of the street.

 

The ballerina on her needle point does not worry about the street, for her world is bounded by the walnut shell of her box, her music a clean, metal tinkling that never varies by a fraction of a second. She is the queen of her small domain, just as you are the master of this spinning island, both of you suspended above the common earth by a spring or a piston, performing a dance that requires no thought, only a willingness to be moved by an external force. It is the highest form of entertainment, this complete vacation from the will, where you are carried along by the genius of the engineer, your only duty to remain beautiful and still while the machine does the work of transport. The statues beneath you continue their tireless gallop, their hooves striking the air with a sound like muffled drums, a celebratory parade that has no destination but its own continuation.

 

As the hour grows late, the speed increases slightly, the engineer throwing more coal into the furnace to give the final patrons their money’s worth. The blur becomes more pronounced now, the red and white stripes of the tent wall melting into a pink mist that seems to press in on the platform, narrowing your vision until there is only you, the brass pole, and the painted head of the pony leading the way. The music box has reached its climax, the pipes screaming in a chorus of high, piercing notes that vibrate through the wood and into your teeth, a sweet, painful noise that fills your head until there is no room for any other thought. You are stuck riding, swirling through the dark like a spark from a chimney, a brilliant, transient thing that exists only for the duration of the ticket, happy to turn until the fire goes out and the iron grows cold.

 

The engine gives a long, sighing hiss as the relief valve opens, a cloud of white steam enveloping the platform and obscuring the pretty ponys from the view of the remaining spectators. In this white mist, everything becomes quiet for a moment, the music muffled by the vapor, the statues appearing to float in a cloud like the steeds of the gods. You hold fast, the wet air settling on your cheeks like tiny diamonds, your heart still matching the pace of the engine as it begins its long, slow deceleration.

 

The circle is widening now, the individual faces in the crowd separating themselves from the ribbon of color, the popcorn stand becoming a distinct box once more, the illusion slowly dissolving as the oak platform comes to a stand against the grass. But even as the motion dies, your head continues its spin, the world still tilting to the left as if the earth itself had been infected by the carousel’s beautiful, circular sickness, leaving you waiting on your wooden mount for the next turn of the key.

 

 ────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The wheels of the family brougham ground the crushed limestone of the grand driveway into a fine, choking powder that rose like flour in the evening air. For three hours, the the carriage had been an oven of strained politeness, thick with the suffocating fumes of the baron’s Turkish tobacco and the dry, paper-thin rustle of Lady Zhang’s silk skirts. The journey from the eastern provinces had left the air inside the cabin completely stale, a vapor that tasted of dust and decaying lineage.

 

Ada sat on the velvet bench, her spine completely straight, avoiding the cushioned backrest to keep from crushing the intricate hand-stitched embroidery of her garments. She was dressed in moss-green velvet cheongsam that gripped her body like a secondary skin, extending from the stiff, high collar that pinched her windpipe down to the very tips of her silk slippers. 

 

The fabric was dense, absorbing the meager twilight, leaving her looking like a column of jade in the dimness of the carriage. Over her hair, secured by three long gold pins shaped like crane feathers, rested a matching green veil. The sheer fabric was covered with golden bullion thread woven into the shapes of descending phoenixes, obscuring her face entirely from the outside world, turning her vision into a blurred, amber-tinted haze.

 

Beside her, Lady Zhang shifted, her many jade bangles clinking together with a metallic ring that made the baron grunt in annoyance from the opposite bench. The matriarch smelled intensely of English lavender like an offensive weapon to mask the odor of her rotting soul.

 

As the carriage slowed to a final halt before the towering wrought-iron gates of the Simmons manor, Lady Zhang reached into her beaded satin reticule. With a swift, practiced motion of her thin fingers, she produced a small, square vial of dark green glass. The stopper came away with a wet click, instantly releasing a thick, cloying fragrance that tasted of bruised nightshade, musk, and burnt honey.

 

"Turn toward me," Lady Zhang commanded, her voice a thin, razor-sharp hiss that brooked no argument.

 

Before Ada could even draw a breath, her mother raised the vial and released three sharp sprays of the fluid directly onto the fabric of Ada’s green veil, right over the valley of her collarbone. The mist was cold, soaking through the velvet, sticking to her skin like grease.

 

"The general is a man of base instincts, despite his uniform," Lady Zhang whispered, her fingers catching Ada’s chin through the golden embroidery, squeezing the jawbone until the skin went white. "This will ensure his focus remains entirely on your value tonight. It is an aphrodisiac from the southern ports. It will make Derek desperate to possess you, to sign the ledger for the dower lands before the new moon. But you are not a common tavern girl, Ada. You will let him smell the bait, you will let him hunger, but you will not give in to his touch. You do not let him ruin the merchandise before the church bells ring. Do you understand me?"

 

The liquid was already sinking into Ada’s pores, the heat of her own body causing the musk to bloom into a sickening vapor that filled her nostrils, making her throat tighten with an immediate, violent wave of nausea. 

 

Ada’s fingers curled into tight, hard balls, her nails biting so deeply into her palms that she could feel the skin stretching to the point of tearing. The memory of a different scent, one of charcoal, jasmine, and blue eyes, tried to surface in her mind, but she brutally crushed it down, locking it away in the darkest corner of her chest.

 

She bowed her head, the golden phoenixes on her veil catching the low light of the carriage lamp.

 

"Yes, mother," Ada murmured, her voice perfectly smooth, completely devoid of the boiling rage that was currently threatening to choke her.

 

The carriage door was thrown open from the outside by a footman in pristine white livery, and the influx of the cool night air did little to dispel the oily perfume clinging to her skin. The baron stepped down first, his shoes striking the flagstones with a dull thud, followed closely by Lady Zhang, who adjusted her lace shawl with a satisfied sniff.

 

Ada descended the iron steps with precision, her green velvet skirts swishing around her ankles like water. The moment her slippers touched the smooth stone of the courtyard, a tall figure stepped out from the brightness of the open double doors, cutting through the small crowd of lower aristocrats who had gathered along the terrace.

 

General Derek Simmons wore his full dress uniform, the chest an array of silver medals and crimson ribbons that caught the light of the torches. His posture was rigid, his shoulders squared with the unearned arrogance. He did not look at the baron. He did not look at Lady Zhang. His eyes, small and dark like polished coal, fixed instantly upon the green veil that concealed Ada’s face.

 

He closed the distance between them with long, aggressive strides, stopping so close to her that the silver buttons of his tunic nearly brushed her shoulder. He did not offer his hand. Instead, he leaned down, his face dipping toward the side of her neck, his nostrils flaring as he took a deep, audible breath of the golden-threaded veil.

 

"You smell good, my lady," Simmons whispered, his voice a low, greasy murmur that crawled over her skin like a slug. He leaned closer still, his breath hot and smelling faintly of port wine and roasted meat against the thin fabric of her veil. "You look better now. The velvet suits you. It makes you look like a prize that needs to be unwrapped with iron shears. I have already told the servants to prepare the northern chambers for our wedding night. I believe you will look magnificent sitting naked at the head of my table, wearing my family’s emeralds."

 

Ada stood perfectly still, her breath catching in her throat as she looked at him through the amber haze of her veil. In her mind, she did not see a general of the realm. She did not see any man. She saw only a bloated, parasitic creature that fed on the living flesh of things caught in its path, laying its eggs in the wounds of the vulnerable. The urge to reach up, to drive one of her long gold hairpins directly into his throat, was so immense that her entire arm trembled beneath the velvet sleeve.

 

Instead, she remained a perfect, unmoving statue.

 

Simmons pulled back, a wide, triumphant smile breaking across his features as he turned toward the rest of the arriving guests. He offered his arm to the baron with a loud, boisterous laugh that sounded entirely hollow to Ada’s ears.

 

"Welcome to my home!" the general shouted, his voice booming across the courtyard, instantly drawing the attention of the assembled nobility. "The wine is drawn from the lower cellars, and the venison has been roasting since noon. Come inside, let us escape the dampness of the valley!"

 

From the top of the wide stone steps, a short, plump woman in an overskirt of lavender brocade hurried forward, her face coated in a thick layer of white rice powder that had begun to cake in the wrinkles around her mouth. Madame Simmons extended her stubby hands toward Lady Zhang, her fingers sparkling with topaz rings.

 

"My dearest Lady Zhang!" Madame Simmons chirped, her voice a high-pitched squeak that reminded Ada of a startled starling. "You have finally arrived! The journey must have been absolutely dreadful with the state of the lower turnpike. I was just telling the Countess that we simply must do something about the ruts before the autumn rains begin!"

 

Lady Zhang caught the woman’s hands, her face instantly shifting into a brilliant, false expression of aristocratic warmth. The two older women began to giggle, a sound that rasped against Ada’s raw nerves like a metal file.

 

"Oh, the roads are an absolute scandal, my dear," Lady Zhang agreed, her bangles clinking as she leaned in close to exchange a pair of dry, air kisses against Madame Simmons’s powdered cheeks. "But for a dinner such as this, we would have traveled through a swamp. Look at how magnificent the hall appears tonight."

 

Around them, the other aristocrats began to move toward the oak entrance, their silk cloaks rustling like dry leaves. They cheered and murmured their approval, their voices blending into a loud, confusing din of compliments, political gossip, and the clinking of champagne flutes that were being distributed by a line of silent servants.

 

Ada followed two paces behind her mother, her heels moving mechanically across the threshold. The moment she entered the great hall, the sheer volume of the space hit her. The room was immense, the ceiling lost in the darkness above the iron chandeliers that held hundreds of dripping wax candles. The heat was immediate, generated by the massive logs burning in the twin hearths at either end of the room and the sheer density of the bodies packed into the space.

 

The scent of the aphrodisiac, heated by the warmth of the hall, began to rise from her velvet collar in thick, suffocating waves. It mixed with the smell of roasted fat, spilled wine, the lavender perfume of her mother.

 

Suddenly, a violent wave of dizziness washed over Ada’s brain.

 

The light from the chandeliers seemed to smear across her vision, turning into long, golden streaks that danced behind her amber veil. The tiled floor beneath her feet felt unstable, as if the stone were turning to soft mud, threatening to pull her down into the foundations of the house. Her head grew incredibly light, a strange, floating sensation taking hold of her senses, making her feel as though she were watching herself from a great distance, a green puppet being led through a crowd of painted faces.

 

The sounds of the room began to alter. The high-pitched giggling of Madame Simmons, the booming laughter of the general, the clinking of the silver cutlery, all began to recede, dropping into a distant, muffled register. It sounded as though she were underwater, the voices turning into a low, incomprehensible roar that vibrated through the marrow of her bones without carrying any actual meaning. The air inside her lungs felt thick, like liquid lead, every breath a struggle against the constricting silk of her cheongsam.

 

She was slipping. The reality of the hall, the impending nightmare of the dinner, the terrible weight of her family’s expectations, were all conspiring to erase her that very moment all over again.

 

No.

 

The word formed in her mind like a spark of flint against steel.

 

Ada bit the inside of her lip, hard, until the metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth. The localized pain was an instant jolt to her system, a cold wire that snapped her directly back into her own body. She drew a deep, ragged breath through her nose, forcing the dizziness out of her head by sheer force of will. The blurry amber lines of the hall resolved back into a distinct shapes; the distant roar of the crowd sharpened into the clear, superficial chatter of the nobility.

 

She looked through the gold-threaded phoenixes of her veil, her dark eyes narrowing as they fixed upon the general’s broad, uniform-clad back. The botfly was celebrating his acquisition, but he did not own her yet. 

 

She was still Ada Wong.

 

Ada.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The silver polished fork in Ada's hand felt less like a utensil and more like a miniature spear. The metal was cold against her skin, freezing the tips of her fingers, but she kept her spine perfectly straight. The long dinner table stretched out before her like an altar of mahogany and bone, gleaming under the oppressive light of three massive crystal chandeliers. 

 

Around it sat the rot of the nation. 

 

High ranked military men, aristocrats whose skin looked like dry parchment stretched over old money, and the politicians who pulled the strings of both.

 

The air in the room was heavy with the scents of roasted meat, stale red wine, and the overpowering, suffocating cloy of lavender.

 

To her immediate right sat Lady Zhang. 

 

The matriarch did not look at Ada, her gaze fixed entirely on the head of the table where Derek Simmons presided. But beneath the edge of the white tablecloth, Lady Zhang’s manicured fingers were pressed firmly against Ada’s thigh. The long, lacquered nails did not move. They merely waited, a physical anchor keeping Ada bound to her seat.

 

On Ada’s left, Simmons leaned in. His breath was warm, smelling faintly of peppermint and something metallic, like a copper coin left under the tongue for too long. He was close enough that the fabric of his tailored suit brushed against her shoulder.

 

"Look at them, Ada," Simmons murmured, his voice a low purr that crawled straight into her ear. "The pillars of our neat little society. Do you see how beautifully they carry themselves? It takes generations to breed this kind of posture."

 

Ada did not turn her head. She kept her eyes fixed on the center of the table, where a roasted pig lay with a bright red apple stuffed into its dead jaws. "Generations of practice, no doubt, General."

 

"Practice makes perfect," Simmons whispered, his lips practically grazing her earlobe. "But some things cannot be taught. Some things must be born into the blood. You understand that, don't you? You have that look about you. The look of something rare. Something I want to keep in a very safe place."

 

To her right, the nails dug deeper into the meat of her thigh. Lady Zhang’s hand was a vice. The scent of lavender bloomed sharper in Ada’s nose, a floral suffocator that made it hard to draw a full breath. Ada kept her face a perfect, porcelain mask. She did not flinch. She did not pull away. She merely adjusted her grip on her fork.

 

Across the table, General Carter raised his wine glass, his face already flushed a deep, unhealthy crimson from the three bottles he had consumed since sunset. His voice boomed across the long expanse of mahogany, cutting through the low murmur of the other guests.

 

"The border reports came in this morning," Carter announced, tossing a glance toward the Birkins. "The lowblooded camps near the southern ridge are overflowing again. It is a terrible eyesore. Dirt, rags, and the smell of disease. I told the local militia to simply clear them out. Move them into the mines. If they die there, at least they are doing something useful for the commonwealth before they go."

 

William Birkin paused, his knife hovering over a thick, bloody slab of prime rib. He offered a thin smile that did not reach his eyes. "A practical solution, General. The lowblooded are, by nature, quite disposable. Their biology is prone to degradation anyway. They lack the resilience of our stock. Using them as labor until the gears wear out is simply efficient resource management."

 

"Exactly," Annette Birkin chimed in, wiping her mouth with a linen napkin that she then tossed carelessly onto the table. "They are pieces of disposable goods. No different than a broken shovel or an old mule. One shouldn't waste tears on a hammer when the handle cracks. You just throw it into the furnace and get another."

 

Ada felt the skin on her leg pull tight as Lady Zhang’s fingers tightened further. The old woman’s hand was a warning to not think, did not feel, and certainly did not object.

 

Simmons leaned closer on her left, his hand moving to rest on the back of Ada’s chair, his thumb brushing against the fabric of her dress near her spine. "They speak the truth, my dear. The world has a natural order. The strong govern, the weak serve, and the worthless are consumed to keep the fires burning. It is a very simple mechanism. Don't you agree?"

 

"The world is full of mechanisms, General," Ada replied, "Some are merely more loud than others."

 

"Oh, you are far too modest," Simmons chuckled, the sound rattling deep in his throat. "You see the gears perfectly. That is why you are sitting here. At my side. Where you belong."

 

On the other side of the long table, the conversation shifted seamlessly from the mass extermination of the poor to family logistics. Annette Birkin turned her eyes toward her young daughter, Sherry, who sat rigid three seats down. The girl looked small, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes cast downward at her untouched plate of asparagus and truffles.

 

"William and I have been discussing the future," Annette said, her voice carrying a chillingly casual tone. "Sherry is developing quite nicely. Her skin is clear, and her tutors say her posture is coming along. We believe she is ready. We have already spoken to the Duke Albert Wesker regarding a union."

 

Sherry’s shoulders visibly dropped, a tiny, involuntary tremor passing through her frame. She did not look up.

 

"The Duke?" Carter raised an eyebrow, looking thoroughly impressed. "A magnificent choice. His lineage is spotless. His holdings in the north are vast. A bit stern, perhaps, but a man of his standing requires a certain level of discipline."

 

"He will provide her with everything a young woman of her station could ever desire," William Birkin said, taking a slow sip of his dark wine. "And in return, she will provide him with heirs of the purest blood. It is a perfect arrangement. She is young, she is beautiful, and she is perfectly malleable. She will be an asset to his house."

 

"Do you hear that, Sherry?" Annette snapped, her voice dropping its pleasant edge as she glared at the girl. "Stop staring at your lap. Look up. Look at Lady Ada. That is how a proper woman comports herself. Look at how still she sits. How modest. How compliant. You would do well if you follow her lead and if you wish to please the Duke."

 

Sherry raised her head slowly, her eyes wide, glassy with unshed tears. She looked at Ada across the expanse of white linen, silver cutlery, and bleeding meat. She looked like a rabbit staring into the maw of a hound.

 

Ada did not break character. 

 

She did not offer a comforting smile. She did not give the girl a single shred of false hope. To do so would be to pull the trigger herself. Instead, Ada kept her eyes cold, looking right through the child as if she were nothing more than a portrait on the wall.

 

"She is a bit small," Lady Zhang spoke up for the first time, her voice dry and rasping, like autumn leaves scraping against stones. Her fingers remained buried deep in Ada’s thigh, the sharp points of her nails threatening to pierce the fabric of her gown. "But the Duke’s household will correct that. A few months under his roof and she will learn to hold her tongue and open her lap when required. It is what we are bred for, after all."

 

"Quite right, Lady Zhang," Simmons agreed, his eyes scanning Ada’s profile with sickening hunger. "A woman’s ultimate value lies in her ability to complement her master. To be the beautiful velvet lining to his iron fist."

 

"I am sure Sherry will do her duty," William Birkin said dismissively, turning his attention back to his steak. "She knows what happens to those who fail to meet expectations. We have no room for defective products in our family."

 

The room grew warmer, the air thicker, until Ada felt as though she were breathing in hot oil. The smells of the food were turning sour in her gut. The roasted pig seemed to be staring at her with its milky, cooked eyes. The aristocrats around her continued to talk, their voices rising and falling. They discussed the price of wheat, the execution of three dock workers who had tried to form a union, and the latest silk imports from the east, all in the same breath.

 

Then came a  metallic rattle.

 

A young maid, her face pale and her uniform slightly oversized, had stepped forward to place a fresh platter of roasted duck near the center of the table. Her hands were shaking. The silver tray tilted slightly to the left. A small pool of rich, dark gravy sloshed over the rim, landing with a wet, loud thud directly onto the pristine sleeve of Baroness Vane’s white lace gown.

 

The entire table fell instantly into a dead standstill. The only sound was the maid’s quick, shallow breathing.

 

"Oh, God," the maid whispered, her voice cracking. "I... I am so sorry, your Grace. My hand—"

 

Baroness Vane did not look at the maid. She did not even look at her sleeve. She simply stood up, her chair screeching back against the hardwood floor. With a swift, practiced motion, she brought her hand across the maid’s face.

 

The slap was a loud crack that sounded like a dry branch snapping in winter. The force of the blow sent the young girl sprawling backward. She hit the floor hard, the silver platter clattering against the wood, sending the roasted duck rolling across the Persian rug, leaving a greasy, dark trail behind it.

 

"You clumsy, illiterate pig," the Baroness said, her voice remarkably calm, though her eyes were wide with a vicious, cold rage. She stepped around her chair, her silk skirts rustling. "Look at what you have done to this lace. Do you have any idea how much this cost? More than your entire miserable family will earn in three lifetimes."

 

The maid was on her hands and knees, tears streaming down her red, swollen cheek. "I am sorry, Baroness. Please, I can clean it. I can—"

 

The Baroness did not let her finish. She brought her jewel-encrusted heel down directly onto the maid’s fingers.

 

An agonized shriek left the girl's mouth as her bones groaned beneath the weight of the aristocrat's shoe. The Baroness stomped down harder, grinding her heel into the girl’s knuckles, twisting her foot as if she were trying to extinguish a cigarette on the pavement.

 

"Uneducated filth," the Baroness hissed, looking around the room for approval. "This is what happens when you hire from the lower wards. They have no grace. No discipline. They are animals dressed in linen."

 

"Get her out of here," Madame Simmons said, waving a hand in disgust as if the girl’s blood on the floor was an inconvenience to her digestion. "She is ruining the atmosphere. Have the guards take her to the stables. Give her twenty lashes for property damage, then toss her into the street."

 

Two large men in dark military uniforms immediately stepped forward from the corners of the room. They grabbed the maid by her arms, lifting her off the floor as her broken hand dangled uselessly. She did not scream anymore. She only sobbed, a low, broken sound that faded as they dragged her body out of the double doors, leaving a smear of dark red across the polished floorboards.

 

The Baroness sat back down, smoothing her skirts. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The silk imports."

 

Nobody else moved. Nobody else commented. William Birkin took another bite of his steak. General Carter laughed at a joke the man next to him whispered. The dinner continued as if a human being had not just been broken on the floor three feet away.

 

Ada’s fingers clenched around her fork so tightly that her knuckles turned white. The room felt smaller now. The walls seemed to be leaning inward, the gold frames of the portraits tilting toward her, the eyes of Simmons’ ancestors staring down with cold, dead approval. The air was a solid block of lavender and rot.

 

"She got off easy," Simmons murmured in her left ear, his hand now moving from the chair to touch Ada’s veil. His fingers were warm, greasy from the food he had been eating. "In my father's day, a mistake like that would have landed her in the lime pits. We are far too soft on them these days. It breeds insolence."

 

Ada felt a wave of intense revulsion rise from her stomach. He was a filthy botfly. She wanted to take her fork and drive it through his throat, to watch the dark, aristocratic blood pour out over the white linen table. 

 

But she could not move.

 

To her right, Lady Zhang’s fingers pressed even harder. The nails were nearly breaking the skin now, that throbbed with every pulse of Ada's heart. 'Stay still,' the pressure said. 'Be the doll.'

 

"You seem distant, Ada," Simmons whispered, his face shifting closer, his nose nearly touching her hair. "Are you bored? Do the politics weary your beautiful head?"

 

"I am merely observing, General," Ada said, her voice a thin line of ice. "It is an informative evening."

 

"Is it?" Simmons smiled, a terrible expression that showed too many teeth. "Good. Because I have been thinking about what comes next for us. I don't like you being out of my sight for too long."

 

The lavender scent grew stronger, thicker, until Ada felt like she was drowning in a field of purple flowers that were rotting under a hot sun. Her throat felt dry. The light from the chandeliers was too bright, causing long, distorted shapes to stretch across the table.

 

"You don't say much tonight," Simmons continued, his hand sliding down her arm, his fingers tracing the line of her elbow. "I like a woman who knows when to be silent, but I also like a woman who knows how to entertain. Tell me, Ada. Do you want to play a game with me tonight? A little test of your loyalty?"

 

Ada did not answer immediately. The words caught in her throat.

 

The pressure on her right leg increased to the point of agony. Lady Zhang’s nails were digging straight into the muscle now, a sharp, fierce pinch that demanded absolute obedience, absolute submission to the man on her left.

 

"Well?" Simmons asked, his voice dropping lower, becoming a dark, demanding hiss. "I am waiting, my dear."

 

Then, the world broke.

 

The air in the room didn't just turn hot; it turned boiling. The low murmur of the aristocrats, the clinking of the silver, the polite laughter—it all cut out in an instant. But it wasn't replaced by a void. It was replaced by something far worse.

 

The room stilled. The chandeliers above stopped their slight, almost imperceptible sway. The guards at the doors froze like stone statues.

 

And then, every single person at the long dinner table began to eat.

 

But they were no longer aristocrats.

 

General Carter dropped his fork. It clattered against his plate, but he didn't care. He reached out with both hands, his thick, hairy fingers plunging directly into the center of the roasted pig. He tore a massive chunk of meat from the carcass, grease splashing over his face, dripping down his medals. He stuffed the meat into his mouth, chewing with his jaws wide open, noises of wet, animalistic satisfaction tearing from his throat.

 

Across from him, Annette Birkin was grabbing handfuls of the chocolate cake that sat on a nearby stand. She didn't use a knife. She shoved her hands into the frosting, ripping the cake apart, shoving it into her face until her cheeks were smeared with brown and red cream. Her eyes were wide, bloodshot, staring blankly ahead as she swallowed huge, unchewed lumps, choking slightly before forcing them down.

 

William Birkin was hacking at his own plate with his bare hands, his fingernails tearing at the rare meat, blood running down his wrists, staining the white cuffs of his shirt. He was growling, a low, guttural sound that belonged in a cave, not a dining room.

 

The Baroness Vane was face down in a bowl of soup, lapping at the liquid like a dog, her expensive hair falling into the broth, her pearls dipping into the grease.

 

They had all lost it. Every single one of them. The polite veneer of high society had vanished in a fraction of a second, leaving behind a pack of starved, filthy beasts. They fought over the food, grabbing from each other’s plates, snapping their teeth, growling when someone got too close. Carter snatched a chicken leg from Annette’s hand, and she bit his wrist in retaliation, her teeth sinking deep into his flesh until blood sprayed across the salt shakers. Carter didn't even yell; he just kept chewing.

 

The noise was a horrific chorus of wet smacks, tearing flesh, grunting, and the breaking of bones. The long mahogany table was turning into a slaughterhouse floor. Pies were crushed, wine bottles were smashed and the glass was ignored as they drank the liquid off the wood, their tongues scraping against the splinters.

 

Ada sat entirely frozen. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked to her right.

 

Lady Zhang was no longer looking ahead. Her head was turned toward the table, her mouth wide open as she reached out with her left hand, grabbing a handful of raw truffles and shoving them into her mouth, her black teeth crunching down on the dirt and fungus. But her right hand—her right hand was still beneath the table.

 

The nails were still buried deep in Ada’s thigh, unmoving, holding her in place while the rest of her body belonged to the beast.

 

Ada looked to her left.

 

Derek Simmons was staring at her. He wasn't eating. Not yet. But his face was twitching, his veins bulging against his neck, his eyes completely bloodshot, the pupils dilated until they were almost entirely black. A thin string of thick, clear saliva hung from his bottom lip, dripping onto his immaculate tie. His hand on her elbow was clamping down, his fingers turning into talons that threatened to crush her bone.

 

"Do you want to play, Ada?" Simmons asked again. His voice wasn't a purr anymore. It was a wet rasp, the sound of a creature trying to speak with a throat full of mud. "Do you want to play? Do you want to play?"

 

The smell of lavender vanished, completely replaced by the stench of hot blood, raw meat, and stomach acid. The room was spinning. The chandeliers seemed to be dropping lower, the heat from the candles burning the top of her head. The sounds of the aristocrats eating like cavemen grew louder, filling her ears until she couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't find an exit.

 

Snap.

 

The illusion shattered.

 

The roar of the cavemen vanished. The wet, tearing sounds stopped.

 

Ada’s mind slammed back into reality with the force of a physical blow.

 

The room was exactly as it had been five minutes ago. General Carter was using his fork to eat a small piece of pork. Annette Birkin was neatly wiping her lips with her napkin. The roasted pig lay in the center of the table, untouched by human hands except for the neat slices the servants had made.

 

No one was bleeding.

 

No one was growling.

 

Ada slowly turned her face toward Simmons. He was looking at her, his eyes perfectly clear, his suit neat, his face carrying that same smug, botfly smile. He was waiting for her answer. His mouth was barely open, his breath hitting her cheek.

 

To her right, Lady Zhang’s nails dug even deeper into her flesh. Ada could feel the wetness now—real blood, her own blood, soaking into the fabric of her underwear beneath the gown as the old woman’s fingers pushed through the skin, anchoring her to the floor, forcing her to submit. The lavender scent returned with a vengeance, filling her lungs, choking out her resolve. 

 

She was trapped. 

 

Ada looked into Simmons’ eyes, her lips parting by a mere fraction of an inch. The vice on her leg burned. The botfly was waiting to burrow.

 

"Yes," Ada replied with a smile.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The courtyard of the Simmons estate was an open stone amphitheater designed for the public humiliation. The evening air had turned viciously cold, carrying the scent of damp earth and the heavy perfume of the surrounding pine woods. A fierce, biting wind ripped across the flagstones, catching the edges of Ada's veil and whipping it roughly against her face. The lace bit at her skin but she made no move to correct it.

 

Simmons raised his hands, his fingers glittering with gold signet rings, and the murmur of the gathered aristocrats died instantly.

 

"My friends, my peers, my family," Simmons began, his voice cutting through the whistling gale. "We have dined, we have toasted to the longevity of our houses, and now we must honor the foundations that keep us whole. Tonight, we celebrate the true strength of our order. We celebrate the tradition of the Simmons lineage."

 

A ripple of polite applause went through the crowd, accompanied by low murmurs of approval from the older men who stood near the front lines.

 

"Our ancestors did not build this commonwealth with soft words or idle promises," Simmons continued, his gaze sweeping across the crowd until it locked directly onto Ada, tracing her outline through the wind-whipped veil. "They built it through trials. Through testing the purity and dedication of those who wish to be elevated. To be blessed by our house is a great honor. To be cherished within our walls requires a devotion that goes beyond mere words."

 

"Hear, hear," Baron Wong rumbled, his thick hands resting heavily on the stone balustrade. "A house built on weak foundations is destined to crumble. We must know the quality of the timber before we build the roof."

 

"Exactly so," Simmons said, his lips curling into a thin, tight smile. "And so, as is the custom when a new union is proposed, when new blood seeks to align with the apex of society, we perform the Test of the Hearth. It is a ceremony of purification. A demonstration of how our women preserve their value under pressure."

 

The crowd cheered. The aristocrats clapped their gloved hands, their faces illuminated by the tall iron braziers that lined the courtyard, the orange flames dancing wildly in the fierce wind.

 

Simmons raised a single finger, and the applause stopped. "Let the daughters of our noble houses step forward. Let those who represent the future of our bloodlines show themselves."

 

Ada felt a cold dread settle in the center of her chest, though her expression remained completely smooth behind her veil. Around her, a dozen young women were nudged forward by their parents. They were dressed in fine silks, their hair pinned up in intricate braids, their faces pale under the flickering firelight.

 

Among them, small and trembling, was the young Birkin.

 

Annette Birkin gave her daughter a firm, rough shove against her shoulder blade, pushing the young girl into the center of the clearing. Sherry stumbled slightly, her satin slippers skidding against the cold stone, before she managed to find her balance. She stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her small frame shaking violently from either the freezing wind or the sheer terror radiating from the platform.

 

"Look proud, girl," Annette hissed from the sidelines, "Stop shivering like a common beggar."

 

Simmons looked down at the gathering of young women, his eyes shining with malicious glint. "A fine assembly. The very definition of grace. But grace is nothing without a practical demonstration of loyalty."

 

He turned his head toward the iron gates at the far end of the courtyard and gave a nod to the guards. "Bring them in."

 

The iron bars groaned as they were pulled open. A low, rumbling sound entered the courtyard, a mixture of bootheels, coarse laughter, and the scent of unwashed bodies and cheap grain alcohol. A dozen men marched into the center of the stone arena. They were large, brutal figures, their faces scarred from tavern brawls, their clothes made of rough, stained hide and coarse wool. These were the enforcers from the lower districts, the mercenary dregs used by the estate to clear out the lowblooded camps. They smelled of sweat, stale beer, and blood.

 

The noble daughters shrank back, their murmurs of confusion turning into small gasps of fear as the brutal men surrounded them, their eyes yellow and hungry under the torchlight.

 

"To understand the value of protection," Simmons said, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, lecturing drone that made Ada’s stomach twist, "one must understand the nature of the beast outside our walls. A lesson must always have a demonstration."

 

Simmons pointed a finger toward a young maid who was standing near the edge of the platform, holding a tray of clean glasses. She couldn't have been more than sixteen, her face round and marked by the pale skin of the lower wards.

 

"You," Simmons commanded. "Step down."

 

The maid dropped her tray, the crystal shattering against the stone with a deafening ring. "General? Please, I—"

 

Before she could finish her plea, two of the mercenary men lunged forward. They grabbed her by her thin linen sleeves, dragging her into the center of the open ring, right in front of the platform. The girl screamed, her feet scraping uselessly against the flagstones as she was hoisted into the air.

 

"Let us observe the natural order," Simmons said coldly, his hands resting on his hips as he looked down at the scene.

 

The large men did not hesitate. With a brutal twist of his hand, the largest mercenary ripped the front of the maid’s uniform, the cheap white fabric tearing away to reveal her bare skin to the cold wind and the watching eyes of the aristocracy. The girl wept, trying to cover herself with her hands, but another man grabbed her wrists, pulling them back behind her head. Their rough, calloused hands began to trace over her skin, gripping her waist, pinching her flesh like hounds.

 

The courtyard remained perfectly still except for the sounds of the struggle. The aristocrats watched with a detached interest, as if they were observing a hound tearing apart a rabbit in the field.

 

Ada’s eyes shot directly to Sherry.

 

The horror that struck Ada’s mind was a frozen spike of adrenaline that threatened to break her composure. But her face remained still behind her veil. She watched as Sherry tried to turn away from the sight, only for Annette Birkin to grab the back of the girl’s neck, forcing her head forward.

 

'A lamb being sacrificed by its own womb,' Ada thought, a bitter, icy rage boiling beneath her skin. Annette was smiling, her eyes fixed on the platform, entirely indifferent to the fact that her own child was being shown exactly what her future held.

 

Simmons stepped closer to the edge of the platform, his eyes sliding away from the crying maid and fixing entirely on Ada. He saw her looking at the Birkin girl. He saw the rigidity of her spine.

 

"The test is simple, my ladies," Simmons announced, his voice rising above the maid’s frantic sobs. "The forest behind the estate is wide, dark, and dense. In a few moments, the gates will be opened. You will be given a head start. You must navigate the trees and find the old chapel at the eastern ridge before these men find you. If you reach the chapel untouched, your loyalty and purity are proven. You will be welcomed back into our houses with the highest honors."

 

He paused, a dark, vicious glint in his eye as he leaned forward. "But if they catch you... well. The forest is a lawless place. Whatever happens beneath the trees stays beneath the trees. A woman who cannot outrun the beast does not deserve the protection of the master."

 

A collective gasp went through the group of noble daughters.

 

"No! This is madness!" one of the wealthy girls from the Galton family shrieked, stepping back toward her father. "Father, please! You cannot let them do this! I am a lady of the court! I am not an animal to be hunted!"

 

Her father did not look at her. He simply crossed his arms, his eyes fixed on the stones beneath his feet. "The General has spoken, Victoria. Do not disgrace our name by showing cowardice."

 

"Please!" another girl cried out, her voice cracking as she watched the mercenaries continue to rough up the maid on the floor, their laughter growing louder, more unhinged. "We will freeze out there! The wind—the trees—we don't know the way!"

 

"Then you had better run quickly," Lady Zhang spoke from the platform, her voice a dry, rattling hiss that cut through the wind. "A proper woman finds her path. A useless woman becomes a meal."

 

Simmons looked down at Ada, a cruel, taunting smile playing on his lips. The screams of the maid on the stones were growing louder now, a raw, ragged sound of absolute terror as the men dragged her toward the dark tree line, her fingers clawing at the dirt, leaving thin streaks of blood behind.

 

"What say you, Ada?" Simmons called down, his voice dripping with a sickening sweetness that made her skin crawl. He was the botfly again, watching his prey squirm before the needle went in. "Do you find the rules of our little game to your liking? Or do you fear you lack the speed to keep your velvet skirts clean?"

 

Ada did not answer. She stood perfectly still, her hands clasped in front of her, her fingers cold as ice. She could hear the distinct sound of Sherry Birkin sobbing nearby, a soft, pathetic whimpering that was quickly drowned out by the harsh wind and the crude jests of the military men who stood along the perimeter.

 

Two large guards stepped up behind one of the politician's daughter, grabbing her by her upper arms despite her frantic screams. She kicked, her silk dress ripping at the hem, but they dragged her toward the narrow iron gate that led straight into the black, howling forest. One by one, the noble daughters were pushed forward, their protests ignored, their families watching with indifferent serenity.

 

Madame Annette gave Sherry one final, massive push. "Run, you little fool! Run if you don't want to end up like the kitchen help!"

 

Sherry stumbled through the gate, her small hands catching the iron bars for a brief second before she disappeared into the darkness of the pines, her white skirts swallowed by the night.

 

Then, the heavy hand of a guard fell upon Ada’s shoulder.

 

The grip was iron, bruising through the fabric of her gown. She did not fight it. She did not scream like the others. Her face remained a perfect, frozen portrait of compliance, her eyes wide and dark behind the veil as she allowed herself to be dragged toward the waiting maw of the forest.

 

Just before the tree line swallowed the light, Ada’s eyes landed on her father. His gaze fixed on her. As their eyes met through the lace of her veil, his lips moved, slowly and without a sound shaping a single word.

 

Carla.

 

The wind howled in her ears, tearing at her lace, as she stepped into the cold, waiting dark, her mouth firmly shut.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The ground beneath Ada’s feet was a treacherous trap of damp pine needles, rotten moss, and slick mud that offered no purchase for the soles of her shoes. The wind outside the treeline had been a howling warning, but within the thicket, the air became thick, damp, and freezing cold, trapping the scent of decaying leaves and wet wool in the narrow spaces between the trunks.

 

Ada’s cheongsam was now a functional prison for a woman trying to survive. The tight tailoring encasing her hips restricted the natural movement of her legs, turning every attempt at a sprint into a clumsy, shortened stride. The long silk hem dragged through the briars, catching on brambles that pulled at the fabric like desperate fingers. 

 

Above her face, the veil—pinned securely into her hair before the dinner—flapped violently against her eyes with every jerky movement, reducing the world to a dark, blurred watercolor of black trunks and deep emerald netting.

 

"Run! Please, someone help me!"

 

A piercing shriek tore through the trees somewhere to her left, followed immediately by the thudding sound of boots crashing through the underbrush.

 

"Look at this one! She’s a fast little rabbit!" a coarse voice bellowed, the sound accompanied by a rough, wheezing laugh that made Ada’s skin crawl. "Get her around the ridge! Don't let her reach the clearing!"

 

Ada forced her breath through her nose, her lungs burning from the icy air as she picked her way over a protruding root. The fabric of her skirt tightened around her knees, threatening to split with every step. She could hear the distinct sound of more tearing silk, more frantic crying, scattered across the woods like birds caught in a net. The game was fully underway, and the hunters were enjoying the chase.

 

"No! Stay away from me! Let me go!"

 

The voice was close. Too close.

 

Ada slowed her pace, her heart hammering against her ribs as she peered through the green lace of her veil. Less than ten yards ahead of her, a noble girl dressed in a pale yellow gown stumbled out from behind a thick oak tree. Her hair had completely come undone, the expensive pearls that had been braided into her locks now scattering onto the dirt like dropped teeth.

 

Before she could find her balance, two of the large mercenaries lunged out from the brush like a pair of starved hounds. One of them, a massive man with a thick beard and teeth stained black from tobacco, caught her by the long train of her dress.

 

"I got her! I got the prize!" the bearded man roared, pulling back with a brutal jerk.

 

The lady screamed, a raw, bubbling sound of terror as her legs gave way, her body slamming hard into the mud. "Father! Please! Somebody stop them!"

 

The second mercenary, a lean, wiry figure with a scar slicing through his lip, did not wait. He dropped to his knees directly over her twisting form, his large, dirt-caked hands grabbing the delicate silk of her bodice. With a single, downward tear, the front of Victoria’s yellow gown was ripped completely open, the sound of the fabric parting like a gunshot in the night.

 

"Look at that skin," the wiry one laughed, his fingers digging into her shoulders, pinning her down as she thrashed beneath him. "The highborn ones really do have the softest skin, don't they?"

 

"Please! No! No!" Her fingers clawed at the man’s face, leaving thin red lines along his cheek, but he merely spat and cuffed her across the ear, sending her head snapping into the dirt.

 

Ada didn't wait to see the rest. She slid her body quickly sideways, dropping low to the ground as she plunged into a dense bush of wild, thorny flowers that grew between two boulders. The sharp brambles tore at her instantly, the thorns catching the heavy velvet of her cheongsam. With a sharp pull, the fabric gave way, a long rip tearing from the bottom hem all the way up to the mid-thigh, exposing her leg to the biting cold.

 

Ada scrambled upward, her heels digging into the loose dirt as she began to run with a newfound, desperate speed. The veil was still blinding her, sticking to her sweaty forehead, but she used her left hand to hold it away from her nose so she could draw enough oxygen into her screaming lungs. She ran blindly, pushing deeper into the black heart of the woods, away from the sounds of fading cries.

 

The forest seemed endless. She had no idea where the old chapel was, and she knew she couldn't trust any lights she might see. 

 

Simmons would have his guards posted at every exit. 

 

"Let go! Let go of me!"

 

Ada stopped, her heels sliding in a patch of wet leaves. The voice was smaller this time. High-pitched, desperate, and cracking with the raw terror of a young lady.

 

'Sherry.'

 

Ada turned toward the sound, her eyes straining through the emerald mesh. She crept around a massive fallen pine trunk, her movements swift despite the velvet pulling at her hips.

 

In a small hollow between three large boulders, Sherry Birkin was pinned to the earth. A large mercenary, his heavy coat reeking of stale beer and grease, was positioned completely on top of her small frame. His large hands were pinned around her wrists, crushing them into the dirt above her head while he used his knee to force her legs apart. Sherry was fighting with everything she had, her face covered in dark mud and dried blood from a cut on her forehead, her teeth bared as she tried to sink them into the man’s thick neck.

 

"Stop squirming, you little bitch," the man growled, his voice a low rumble. "You think you’re too good for the dregs? You’re going to learn your place tonight."

 

"Get off! Get off me!" Sherry wailed, her voice breaking as the man’s hand shifted down to rip at the collar of her velvet coat.

 

Ada’s eyes darted frantically across the dark ground. She needed a weapon. Her hands were bare.

 

A foot to her left, sticking out from the rotten trunk of the fallen tree, was a thick, broken pine branch. The end of it had snapped at an angle, creating a jagged, spear-like point about two feet long. Without a single second of hesitation, Ada reached down and gripped the rough bark. Her fingers stung as the wood bit into her skin, but she didn't let go.

 

She stepped over the trunk, her torn skirt flashing green in the gloom, and lunged forward.

 

With all the strength in her upper body, Ada drove the sharp branch downward, aiming directly for the center of the man’s back. The jagged wood pierced through his heavy hide coat with a sickening, wet crunch, sliding deep into the muscle and bone between his shoulder blades. The point of the branch went straight through his torso, stopping barely an inch above Sherry’s exposed collarbone.

 

The man stiffened instantly, his chest heaving as a wet, choking gasp left his throat. A thick spray of dark blood erupted from his mouth, splattering across Sherry’s pale face and the front of her white dress.

 

"What... what the..." the man gurgled, his eyes rolling back into his head as the strength vanished from his limbs.

 

He collapsed to the side, his massive body rolling off the girl and slumping into the ditch, the branch still protruding from his spine like a grotesque horn.

 

Sherry lay perfectly still for a fraction of a second, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow jerks, her eyes wide with a blank, unseeing horror as she stared at the dead weight beside her.

 

"Get up," Ada commanded, her voice a low hiss as she reached down and grabbed the girl by her slick, blood-stained sleeve. "Get up right now, Sherry. We have to move."

 

Sherry blinked, the sound of her name breaking through the paralysis. She grabbed Ada’s hand, her small fingers slick with the mercenary’s blood, and allowed herself to be hoisted to her feet. Her legs were shaking so hard she could barely stand, but she clung to Ada’s arm like a lifeline.

 

"Ada?" Sherry whispered, her voice trembling as she wiped a streak of dark red from her cheek. "He... he was going to..."

 

"I know what he was going to do," Ada cut her off, her eyes scanning the dark perimeter of the hollow. "But he didn't. Now look at me. Can you run?"

 

Sherry looked back toward the path they had come from, where the distant sound of coarse laughter was still drifting through the trees. She swallowed hard, her small jaw tightening despite the tears leaking from her eyes. "Yes. I can run."

 

"Then do not look back," Ada said, turning her body toward the higher ridge. "Keep your head down and stay right behind me."

 

They began to move, their heels creating a frantic pattern of sound against the wet earth. Ada kept a firm grip on Sherry’s wrist, pulling the girl along whenever she stumbled over the uneven ground. The velvet of Ada’s cheongsam was becoming increasingly heavy, soaked through with sweat and the damp mist of the forest, the long fabric wrapping around her thighs like wet ropes.

 

They had barely made it fifty yards up the incline when the brush directly in front of them exploded.

 

A man appeared out of the darkness as if he had been waiting behind the curtain of ivy. He was shorter than the others, but his build was wide, his face completely obscured by a leather cap pulled low over his brow. Before Ada could pivot, his hand shot forward, his thick fingers tangling directly into the long, flowing train of her green veil.

 

"Got you!" he yelled, twisting his wrist to lock the fabric around his hand.

 

The sudden pull snapped Ada’s head backward with a violent jerk. The pins holding the veil to her hair tore against her scalp, sending a sharp, blinding wave of pain through her skull. She stumbled, losing her footing on the slick incline, her hands flying up to grasp at the silk netting that was now choking her throat.

 

"Ada!" Sherry cried out.

 

As Ada fell backward, her grip on Sherry’s wrist slipped. The young girl hit the muddy slope hard, sliding several feet down into the briars, her dress catching on the sharp rocks.

 

"Look at this pretty little thing," the man laughed, pulling Ada closer by the veil, his free hand reaching out to grab the front of her dress. "The General said you were special, lady. He said whoever brought you back intact would get a bounty, but he didn't say we couldn't taste the goods first."

 

Ada struggled wildly, her fingers clawing at his thick wrists, but the angle was wrong, her skirt was preventing her from raising her knee to strike his groin. The veil was twisting tighter around her neck, cutting off her air, making her vision swim with dark spots.

 

From the bottom of the slope, Sherry scrambled to her knees. Her face was completely covered in dirt and the blood of the first man, her hands scratched and bleeding from the thorns. Her eyes fell upon a jagged piece of granite half-buried in the mud near her foot.

 

Without a word, Sherry lunged forward, her small fingers wrapping around the rough stone. She hoisted it with both hands, her teeth bared in a expression of feral likeness that looked entirely out of place on a noble young lady's face.

 

She scrambled up the slick mud, using her knees and her feet, and slammed the rock directly into the side of the man’s knee.

 

The bone gave way with a sickening, hollow crack.

 

"Ah! You little bitch!" the man roared, his balance breaking as his leg buckled beneath him.

 

He didn't let go of the veil, his weight pulling Ada down with him as he fell onto his side.

 

Sherry didn't stop. She raised the rock again, her face completely blank, her breath coming in ragged, whistling gasps. She brought the stone down directly onto the man’s temple. The blow was solid, a dull thud that made his eyes go wide.

 

"Let! Her! Go!" Sherry screamed, her voice rising to a shrill, unhinged pitch as she brought the rock down a third time, then a fourth.

 

The leather cap did nothing to protect him. With every strike of the granite, the bone beneath gave way, until the structural integrity of his skull was completely compromised. Dark, thick fluid and gray matter began to spill out onto the wet pine needles, staining the green lace of Ada’s veil where it lay trapped beneath his head.

 

Sherry kept hitting him, her arms moving like mechanical pistons, her face sprayed with fresh droplets of crimson. She was completely gone, trapped in the same animalistic reality that Ada had envisioned at the dinner table.

 

"Sherry! Stop! Sherry, that’s enough!" Ada shouted, her voice hoarse as she finally managed to slide her fingers under the collar of her dress to release the pressure on her throat.

 

The girl froze, the rock held high above her head, her breath coming in short, rattling gasps. She looked down at the man’s ruined face, then up at Ada, her chest heaving violently. The stone slipped from her fingers, landing with a wet plop in the mud.

 

Ada didn't waste time comforting her. She reached up to her own head, but the veil was firmly pinned under the dead man’s skull, the fabric stretched taut. With a fierce, angry growl, Ada pulled it with all her might before she reached down to the neck of her cheongsam. She grabbed the delicate silk frog closures that lined the high collar and tore through it.

 

The silk split with a tearing rasp. One by one, the closures popped, the fabric tearing open down to her chest, exposing her collarbone and her shoulders to the freezing night air. She ripped the rest of the dress away from her neck, leaving the veil behind, tangled in the dead man’s hair and blood.

 

"Help me with this," Ada said, her voice shaking slightly from the cold as she grabbed the high slit of her skirt.

 

With a brutal yank, she tore the velvet completely down the seam, turning the elegant cheongsam into a ragged, short tunic that barely reached her thighs. She looked at Sherry, who was still staring at her bloody hands.

 

"Sherry! Look at me!" Ada barked, grabbing the girl by her shoulders. "Tear that coat off. It’s too heavy. It will slow you down. Do it now!"

 

Sherry blinked, the authority in Ada’s voice piercing through her shock. She fumbled with the buttons of her wool coat, her fingers slick with blood, before ripping it off her shoulders and tossing it into the brush. Beneath it, her white dress was already ruined, but she was lighter now.

 

"They are coming, Ada," Sherry whispered, her eyes wide as she looked down the ridge.

 

Through the trees, the distinct sound of multiple voices could be heard, along with the thudding of dozens of heavy boots. The hunters were converging on their position.

 

"They’re over here! I heard the screaming!" a voice shouted from less than fifty yards away. "The General wants the Wong woman alive! The rest are fair game!"

 

Ada cursed under her breath, a low, foul word that she had learned in the lower districts long ago. 'They aren't hunting randomly anymore,' she realized with a cold certainty.

 

"We can't go back toward the estate," Ada whispered, her hand locking onto Sherry’s arm once more. "And we can't go toward the chapel. They’ll have the paths blocked."

 

"Then where do we go?" Sherry asked, her voice small, her teeth chattering from the cold.

 

"Into the thicket," Ada said, pointing toward a steep, narrow ravine that dropped off into the deepest part of the valley, where the trees grew so close together that the light of the stars couldn't penetrate the canopy. "We make our own path."

 

The sounds behind them grew louder, the snapping of dry branches and the crashing of heavy bodies through the brush indicating that at least five or six men were right on their heels.

 

"There they are! Up on the ridge!"

 

A bright torchlight flared through the trees, the yellow beam catching the reflection of Ada’s green dress for a split second.

 

"Go!" Ada yelled, pushing Sherry ahead of her down the steep incline.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The drop into the ravine was a vertical collapse into the dark. The loose shale beneath Ada’s heels gave way instantly, turning the steep incline into a sliding sheet of gray stone and slick, wet mud. She lost her grip on Sherry’s wrist as the earth dissolved beneath them, her fingers slipping against the girl’s cold skin.

 

"Ada!"

 

Sherry’s small cry was cut short as she went down hard, her body rolling sideways over a thick root. Ada tried to dig her heels into the mud to stop her own momentum, but the ruined, shortened silk of her green cheongsam offered no protection. She fell backward, her spine slamming against a protruding rock before she began to roll, the world spinning into a blur of black trunks, sharp briars, and the freezing night air.

 

They tumbled down the slope like discarded dolls, bouncing off rocks and crashing through dense clumps of thorny ferns. The fabric of Ada’s dress tore further, the rough wool and sharp stones scraping against her exposed thighs and arms, leaving burning lines of heat in the cold.

 

With a final thud, Ada’s shoulder collided with a moss-covered boulder at the base of the hollow. The breath was knocked entirely from her lungs, leaving her gasping, her mouth filling with the metallic taste of blood from a bitten lip.

 

A split second later, Sherry rolled down right beside her, landing with a soft, wet impact in a deep ditch filled with rotting leaves. The girl groaned, her hands clutching her ribs as she curled into a tight ball.

 

Ada forced herself up onto her forearms, her muscles screaming in protest. The air in the bottom of the ravine was stagnant, smelling heavily of damp earth, stagnant water, and something else—something sweet and sickeningly familiar.

 

As her eyes adjusted to the deep gloom beneath the thick canopy, she realized Sherry had not just landed in a pile of leaves.

 

Directly next to the girl, half-buried in the decay, lay a body.

 

It was one of the young noble ladies from the dinner table. Through the mud and the tears in the fine silk fabric, Ada could recognize the remnants of a pale blue satin gown. It belonged to the youngest daughter of the Spencer line, a girl who had been sitting near the foot of the table only an hour ago, quietly picking at her truffles.

 

Now, she lay completely still on her back, her glassy, unseeing eyes staring straight up at the black branches above. Her head was turned at a horrific, impossible angle. A massive, rusted iron bear trap was clamped violently around her throat, the jagged metal teeth driven deep through the delicate skin and bone, pinning her skull to the frozen ground. The iron mechanism was covered in thick, dark gore that had pooled beneath her neck, turning the surrounding leaves into a black, sticky bog. She had clearly fallen down the slope just as they had, only to land directly into the jaws of the hidden trap.

 

Sherry gasped, her chest heaving as her eyes locked onto the ruined face of the girl she had known. Her mouth opened, her jaw trembling violently as a loud, piercing shriek began to form in her throat.

 

Before the sound could leave her lips, Ada lunged forward.

 

With a swiftness born of pure panic, Ada slapped her bare hand firmly over Sherry’s mouth. She used her other arm to wrap around the girl’s shoulders, pulling her tight against her chest, pinning her body against the mossy boulder so she couldn't move.

 

"Do not make a sound," Ada hissed directly into Sherry’s ear, her voice a razor-thin whisper that barely carried over the wind. "Look at me. Sherry, look at me. Do not breathe."

 

Sherry’s eyes were wide, completely dilated with a frantic, animal terror as she stared at Ada. She was trembling so violently that her teeth clicked against Ada’s palm beneath her fingers. She looked down at the dead girl, then back at Ada, the tears washing clean lines through the dark mud on her cheeks. Slowly, after what felt like an eternity, the girl gave a small, jerky nod.

 

Ada did not release her hand immediately. She kept her palm pressed against the girl’s lips, her ears straining to listen to the world above them.

 

High up on the crest of the slope they had just tumbled down, the sound of boots came to a halt. The bright, flickering yellow light of several torches washed over the top of the ridge, casting long, distorted lines of illumination across the upper branches, though the deep hollow where they lay remained buried in the dark.

 

"Where did they go?" a rough voice shouted from above, the sound carrying clearly down the incline. "They came down this way! I saw the slide!"

 

"Check the path!" another man bellowed, his voice filled with a cruel, mocking amusement. "The General said not to worry if they run deep. The forest takes care of the weak ones anyway. Hey, look over here! The trap near the old pine got sprung!"

 

A coarse burst of laughter echoed down the ravine.

 

"Is it the Wong woman?"

 

"No, too small. Looks like one of the little highborn birds. Broke her neck right in the iron. Serves her right for trying to fly."

 

"Leave her for the crows. Let's find the main prize. Move down the ridge line!"

 

The thud of their boots began to move along the perimeter of the slope, the torchlight shifting away, leaving the hollow in total darkness once more.

 

Ada slowly lowered her hand from Sherry’s mouth, her fingers slick with the girl’s cold sweat. She didn't look back at the dead Spencer girl. She couldn't afford to waste the mental energy on pity.

 

"We need to move," Ada whispered, her voice tight as she pulled Sherry to her feet. 

 

"Now."

 

Sherry stumbled, her boots slipping on the slick leaves near the trap, but she kept her eyes fixed firmly on Ada’s back, refusing to look down again. "They... they set traps everywhere. My mother...my father... they probably knew. They knew what this place was."

 

"Your parents are part of the Commonwealth, Sherry," Ada said coldly, her fingers locking onto the girl’s wrist with a firm, bruising grip. "And if you want to break out of it, you stop thinking about them."

 

As they began to pick their way through the dense underbrush at the bottom of the ravine, Ada noticed something strange on the trunks of the trees. Every twenty yards or so, a small, neat square of white paint had been marked onto the bark, glowing faintly in the dim light. Next to each mark, a small iron stake was driven into the ground.

 

'Markers,' Ada thought, her eyes narrowing behind the remnants of her torn hair. 'The hunters know where the traps are. They use the marks to navigate the safe paths while they drive us into the dead zones.'

 

"Ada, look," Sherry whispered, pointing toward a white square on a nearby oak. "There’s a clear path right next to it."

 

"No," Ada cut her off, pulling the girl in the exact opposite direction, away from the marked line. "That’s exactly what they want. They’ll be patrolling the marked lines because they know we’ll look for paths. We go deeper. Where there are no marks."

 

"But the traps—"

 

"We watch every step," Ada said firmly. "We stay low. We don't run unless we have to."

 

She kept her hand firmly clamped around Sherry’s small wrist, pulling her through the thickest parts of the briars, away from the neat lines of white paint. The forest grew denser, the branches of the pines interlacing so tightly overhead that even the howling wind seemed to muffled into a low, oppressive groan. The air felt increasingly thick with the scent of rotting wood and a strange, sweet floral perfume that seemed to rise from the damp earth.

 

They moved in a half-crouch, their bodies bent low to avoid the low-hanging branches that threatened to tear at their eyes. Every few minutes, the distant sound of a scream would echo through the trees—sometimes far to the west, sometimes closer—a grim reminder that the other noble daughters were being systematically collected or broken beneath the pines.

 

Suddenly, Ada froze.

 

The sound of snapping twigs came from directly ahead of them.

 

Ada didn't say a word. She simply dropped her body weight, dragging Sherry down with her until they were both lying perfectly flat against the cold, wet ground. She pressed her face into the damp moss, her fingers still holding Sherry’s wrist, pinning the girl’s arm to the dirt.

 

A group of three mercenaries emerged from behind a thick cluster of boulder rocks less than fifteen feet away. They weren't carrying torches; instead, they had small, hooded lanterns that cast narrow, sharp beams of white light across the forest floor.

 

"The wind is picking up," one of the men grumbled, his heavy boots stepping within inches of the log Ada was hiding behind. "We should head back toward the eastern gate. The Baron said the game ends at midnight anyway."

 

"Not until we find the General's favorite," the second one replied, his lantern beam sweeping across the very bush Ada and Sherry were crouching under. The light flickered over the green velvet of Ada’s torn dress, but the dark leaves of the briars obscured the shape. "He’s offering enough gold to buy a estate in the lower wards for the man who brings her in."

 

"She’s probably dead in a ditch by now," the third one muttered, spitting a thick glob of tobacco onto the ground near Sherry’s foot. "No woman survives the deep ridge in silk."

 

Ada lay entirely motionless, her breath held so tightly in her chest that her ribs began to ache. She could feel the cold dampness of the mud soaking through the front of her torn cheongsam, freezing the skin of her stomach and chest. Beside her, Sherry was completely still, her eyes closed, her body mimicking Ada’s posture with a desperate precision.

 

The men lingered for what felt like hours, their low, crude jests filling the narrow space between the trees, their boots shifting against the loose gravel.

 

Then, a sudden, urge twisted in the center of Ada’s stomach.

 

It wasn't the ache of a bruise or the sting of a scrape. It was a deep, violent wave of intense nausea that rose from her gut like a flash of heat. Her throat tightened instantly, her mouth filling with a bitter, watery saliva.

 

'Not now,' she thought, her fingers clenching around Sherry’s wrist until her knuckles turned white. 'God, please, not right now.'

 

She fought the urge with everything she had, swallowing hard, forcing her eyes shut as the ground beneath her face seemed to tilt and spin. The scent of the forest—the damp moss, the sweet, cloying perfume of the flowers, the metallic tang of the blood on Sherry’s dress—suddenly became completely intolerable, a suffocating mix that made her stomach heave violently.

 

Distraction in these woods meant a rusted iron trap snapping through her spine. 

 

"Look around you. We are standing in a graveyard with a pack of wolves at our heels. Whatever you think you know, it does not exist until we are across the boundary. Do you understand me?"

 

Sherry swallowed hard, the wide, glassy look in her eyes slowly hardening into something resembling compliance. She gave a single, hesitant nod, her small hands clenching into fists against her muddy skirt. "Yes."

 

"Then we run," Ada said.

 

She grabbed Sherry by the fabric of her sleeve this time, bypassing the wrist entirely, and turned her body away from the white-marked trees. They made a frantic, blind beeline through the thickest part of the underbrush, their bodies bent low to dodge the low-hanging branches that clawed at their faces like skeletal fingers. The scent of the mountain lilies faded behind them, replaced once more by the metallic odor of damp earth and distant, echoing terror.

 

They had barely cleared a hundred yards through a dense patch of wild ferns when the bushes to their right exploded with a frantic, thrashing sound.

 

Ada’s hand instantly went to the small silver hairpin remaining in her locks, her muscles locking as she prepared to drive it into whatever beast was about to leap from the dark. But it wasn't a mercenary that broke through the leaves.

 

Another girl stumbled into their path.

 

Her expensive silk gown—once a brilliant, pristine cream color—was completely torn to ribbons, the front panel hanging by a few thin threads to reveal her skin, which was covered in deep, purple bruises and long, jagged scratches. She looked as though she had been literally bathed in blood; dark red fluid was caked into her hair, smeared across her forehead, and dripping down her bare arms in thick, drying lines. Her eyes were completely bloodshot, staring wildly into the dark as she nearly collided with Ada.

 

When the girl saw them, she didn't run. She fell forward, her knees hitting the mud with a wet thud as she reached out with both hands, her fingers catching the edge of Ada’s torn green tunic.

 

"Please," the girl stuttered, her teeth chattering so violently that the words could barely form. "Please... don't leave me. My... my name is Grace. Grace Ashcroft. The men... they got Victoria. They got the others. I ran down the ridge. I just... I want to go home. Please, God, I just want to go home."

 

"Get up, Grace," Ada ordered, her voice low and urgent as she reached down to hoist the girl by her armpits. The skin of the Ashcroft girl was freezing, her body shaking with the advanced stages of shock. "If you stay on the ground, you die here. Can you move?"

 

"I... I think so," Grace sobbed, her legs wobbling like jelly as she tried to find her balance on the slick needles. "The chapel... they said the chapel was safe, but there are men there too. They’re everywhere."

 

"We aren't going to the chapel," Ada said, pulling both Sherry and Grace behind her as she scanned the tree line ahead. "We are leaving the estate entirely."

 

Before Grace could reply, a sharp, whistling hiss cut through the freezing air directly between them.

 

Thunk.

 

A long, black-feathered hunting arrow drove itself three inches deep into the trunk of the pine tree right next to Grace’s ear, the shaft vibrating with a dull, hollow hum.

 

"There! Three of them together!" a voice roared from above.

 

Ada’s head snapped upward. High on the rocky ledge overlooking the small hollow, the yellow light of multiple torches flared to life. At least six mercenaries were looking down at them, their figures silhouetted against the orange glare of the fire. Two of them were already drawing fresh arrows notched back to their ears on heavy compound bows, their yellow teeth bared in triumphant grins.

 

"The General said the Ashcroft girl has a high bounty too!" the bearded leader shouted, pointing his bow down the slope. "Bring them down! Pin their legs!"

 

Ada didn't think twice. She didn't look at the bowmen, nor did she wait for Grace to finish her next sob. She clamped her hands onto both girls’ shoulders and drove them forward with the full force of her body.

 

"Run!" Ada screamed, her voice cutting through the wind.

 

They fled blindly down the remaining incline, the boots of the six men crashing through the brush behind them as they scrambled down the rocks to give chase. Another arrow hissed through the dark, tearing through the silk of Ada’s sleeve and grazing the skin of her forearm before buried itself in the mud ahead. She didn't feel the sting; the adrenaline pumping through her veins was a hot, rushing torrent that drowned out the pain, drowned out the lingering ache in her stomach, and drowned out the terror of the young ladies running at her side.

 

The dark horizon rose up to meet her. The sound of the wind faded into a dull, low roar that filled her ears like rising water.

 

Then, right before everything went completely black, a sound broke through the silence of her failing senses.

 

It was the heavy thudding of iron-shod hooves slamming against the muddy opening, a rapid, frantic pace that indicated horses being ridden flat-out in the dark. Through the gray fog of her fading vision, a shape emerged from the western bend of the road—a tall, dark figure mounted on a massive bay horse, the animal’s lungs heaving as it threw up clumps of black mud into the night air.

 

As the horse skidded to a violent halt beside the stone post, the rider lunged out of the saddle before the beast had even fully stopped, his boots hitting the cracked stones with a desperate impact.

 

A voice, raw, ragged, and filled with familiar agony, tore through the empty valley, screaming her name with a force that seemed to shake the very stars above the cornfield.

 

Leon.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

And with the light came voices.

 

"The nobility in the capital are remarkably easy to please," Viscount Spencer’s voice drifted through the aperture. "They see a monument of grief, and they weep for your devotion, Baron. A rose garden dedicated to the eternal memory of a lost wife. It is quite the romantic triumph."

Ada paused. Her hand, which had been raised to smooth the front of her skirt, hovered in the air.

A low, dry chuckle answered him—the unmistakable sound of her father. "People prefer a tragedy with a beautiful monument, Spencer. It keeps them from asking, from seeking. A man who plants every bloom with his own two hands is a man above suspicion."

"And to think," Lady Zhang’s voice cut in, precise as a tailor’s needle, "they truly believe that pathetic woman rests beneath the roots. It is a marvelous jest. The red roses thrive so beautifully, yet their nourishment was far more common than a consecrated grave."

Ada felt the blood in her veins turn to shards of ice. She leaned closer to the gap, the wood of the door pressing hard against her brow.

"A ditch at the edge of the parish boundary was far more suited to her station," the Baron said, his voice entirely devoid of inflection, as though he were discussing the disposal of a spoiled crop. "Carla was a useless creature. She died giving me a daughter instead of an heir, and she expected a Christian burial for her incompetence. I had the ground dug up for the garden merely to give the local gossips something to look at while the crows finished what the fever started."

"She poisoned the very atmosphere of this house with her melancholy," Lady Zhang added, followed by the soft clink of a teacup meeting its saucer. The scent of lavender seemed to drift through the crack in the door. "A stupid woman who could not even fulfill the basic duty of her marriage. And because of her wretched luck, the taint lingered. I have not been able to give you a son either, Baron, because the memory of her failure hangs over the estate like a miasma. It is only fitting her monument is empty."

"And the statue?" Spencer asked, a cruel edge to his mirth. "A bold artistic choice, I must say."

"Artistic?" Lady Zhang laughed, a high, tinkling sound that made Ada’s teeth grind together. "No, Viscount. The woman was simply too ugly to have her features preserved in marble. I told the sculptor that Baron orders to leave it smooth. Why should we look upon a countenance that brought nothing but ruin to the house of Wong?"

Ada’s breath hitched in her throat. The rose garden was a theater. The red petals she had pressed between the pages of her books were nourished by nothing but her father’s lies. The faceless statue was not just indignity to her mother's name; it was a permanent joke carved into stone by the woman who had stolen her mother’s place.

"It is a pity about the Simmons boy taking such a sudden interest in the girl," Spencer remarked, his tone shifting to one of casual speculation. "If the Simmons family had not demanded her hand, I might have been persuaded to offer for her myself. She has a certain... sharpness that appeals to me."

Spencer laughed again, a wet, rattling sound. "But oh well, I would never dream of coveting a treasure marked by the Simmons house. They are wolves of the highest order. But it would have been an amusing diversion."

"If she knew what was good for her, she would be grateful," Lady Zhang spat. "The Simmons estate is a fortress. She will be a grand lady, even if she is nothing more than a broodmare for their line."

"And if she discovers the truth?" Spencer asked, his voice dropping slightly, though it remained perfectly audible through the narrow opening. "The girl is not a fool, Baron. What if she realizes the rose garden is nothing but an empty grave? What if she objects to being bartered away like a prize heifer?"

There was a brief pause. Ada could hear the scratch of a match, the faint scent of tabacco mingling with the lavender.

"She will do exactly as she is told," the Baron said, his voice dropping into a register that made the small hairs on Ada’s arms stand up. "She cherishes her mother’s remaining trinkets. The lace shawl, the silver brushes, the letters from her youth. She believes they are holy relics. If she raises so much as a single word of protest, I will have every piece of it thrown into the furnace before her eyes. She knows the stakes. She knows I will not hesitate to get the entire garden torn down to the bedrock, and her mother's name will be stricken from every record in this county. One way or another, she will sign the contract for her mother's name. She will keep her mouth shut to protect the memory of it."

Ada stood entirely paralyzed. Her limbs felt like lead, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The world around her seemed to tilt. She had given her life away—consented to be handed over to Simmons all to preserve a lie. She had agreed to let a monster consume her days so that her mother might rest in peace beneath the roses, and there was no one there. There was only a ditch. There was only dirt and crows.

She felt a hand touch her shoulder.

Ada didn't scream, but her entire body jerked violently. She turned her head to find Helena standing behind her, her expression grim, her eyes dark with an unreadable emotion. Helena did not say a word; she simply wrapped her fingers firmly around Ada’s wrist and pulled her away from the door, her grip tight enough to leave bruises.

They moved through the corridors like two thieves in the night, Helena leading the way until they reached the safety of Ada’s bedchamber. The door clicked shut behind them, isolating them from the rest of the house.

For a long moment, they simply exchanged looks. Ada’s eyes were wide, dilated with a terror so profound it seemed to hollow out her cheeks. Helena’s face was a mask of pale determination, though her fingers trembled slightly as she released Ada’s wrist.

"You need to change," Helena said, her voice strained as she forced her gaze away from Ada’s shattered expression. She turned toward the wardrobe, her movements stiff. "The carriage will be here within the hour. The ladies are waiting at the Nivan's tea party. Lady Zhang expects everything to be immaculate."

 

Ada did not move. 

 

She remained standing in the exact center of the room, her arms hanging limply at her sides. The truth was pressing down upon her chest until she could barely draw breath. She had signed her execution away. She had delivered herself into the hands of the pest, and there was no escape, no hidden reprieve, no sacred grave left to honor.

A low, terrible sound escaped her throat. It was a laugh, small and dry at first, like dead leaves scraping across stone.

Helena paused, her hands frozen on the fabric of a gown within the wardrobe. She turned slowly, her brow furrowed in alarm.

The laugh grew, bubbling up from Ada’s chest, a hideous, mockery of mirth that twisted her beautiful features into something unrecognizable. Tears began to fall, hot and fast, tracking through the pale powder on her cheeks, but the laughter did not stop. It was the sound of a mind cracking under the sheer, absurd weight of its own destruction.

"Ada," Helena whispered, stepping away from the wardrobe.

"I am going to die, Helena," Ada gasped out, her voice cracking as a fresh wave of tears blinded her. She laughed again, a choking, breathless sob interrupting the sound. "I am going to die."

Helena did not hesitate. She dropped the dress she was holding and crossed the room in three long strides, throwing her arms around Ada and pulling her tight against her shoulder.

 

Ada did not fight the embrace. 

 

She collapsed into Helena’s warmth, her fingers digging into the fabric of Helena’s bodice with a desperate, clawing intensity. "I am going to die," she repeated, the words muffled against Helena’s neck, delivered between ragged bursts of that awful, weeping laughter. "There is nothing there. The garden... there is no one there. I am going to die, Helena. I am going to die. I don't want to die."

Ada could almost feel the devil cry for the sheer horror of what was to come.

  ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆

Piers Nivans looked every bit the rising star of the aristocratic elite. His dress uniform was pristine, the high collar framed by silver embroidery that caught the light with every step. His dark hair was brushed back, though a few stray strands fell over his forehead, giving him an air of youthful energy that belied the sharpness in his eyes. He stopped precisely three paces from Ada, coming to a halt with a small, perfectly executed bow.

"May I have the honor, Lady Ada?" Piers asked, his voice smooth and clear over the low murmur of the surrounding guests. He extended a white-gloved hand, his palm upturned in a gesture that was entirely traditional, yet his eyes held a spark of something far more calculating.

Ada looked at his hand for a fraction of a second. Ah, one of the Nivans. She thought.

The family held immense influence within the eastern territories, and young Piers was rumored to be climbing the ranks of the military administration at an unprecedented rate. 

Gracefully, she placed her fingertips lightly into his palm, allowing him to lead her into the middle of the ballroom floor.

As the strings began to play a lively, sweeping waltz, they came together. Their hands were faced directly toward each other, palms separated by a mere breath of air, fingers aligned but not interlocking. 

They began to move, dancing in wide, sweeping circles across the marble floor. The world around them blurred into a kaleidoscope of gold, white, and black, but between them, the space remained perfectly fixed.

Piers smiled in a way that would have fooled anyone watching from the balconies. But up close, Ada could see the message hidden behind the charm.

"It is a beautiful gathering tonight," Piers remarked, his voice pitched just loud enough to carry over the music to her ears alone. He guided her through a seamless turn, his movements precise and confident. "Though I must admit, I find myself surprised to see you here, Lady Ada. A woman of your exceptional intelligence and vision... it seems almost a pity for you to spend your evenings playing the role of a decorative ornament."

Ada’s expression remained perfectly composed, her head tilted slightly as she met his gaze. The red silk of her gown flared outward with the speed of their rotation, the fabric brushing against the dark slack of his trousers with a soft, rustling sound before settling as they adjusted their stride.

"A pity, Lord Nivans?" she asked, her voice carrying melodic amusement.

"A great pity," Piers continued, his smile widening slightly as he maintained the strict circle of their dance. "To possess such a keen mind, to understand the inner workings of this court as thoroughly as you do, and yet to not use it against the very people who constantly get in your way. There are forces in this world that are stagnant, Lady Ada. Forces that deserve to be moved aside by those with the intellect to do so."

The music swelled, a sudden rise in the brass section that signaled a change in the dance. Ada used the momentum to execute a flawless, rapid turn, her red gown hitting his slack once more in a sharp wave of motion. When she came back to face him, her smile was as sharp as a concealed blade.

"A man of your immense privileges, Lord Nivans, should learn to walk properly before he attempts to run his mouth," Ada said softly, her tone dripping with a sweet, dangerous irony. "It is very easy to speak of moving forces aside when you have spent your entire life protected by your family's name and the comfort of your rank."

Piers did not flinch at the rebuke. If anything, her words seemed to please him. His eyes brightened with a dangerous sort of excitement. The dance brought them closer together now.

They swayed closer, the distance between their bodies shrinking until the warmth of the crowded room seemed to concentrate entirely between them. Pier's right hand descended, his gloved fingers falling to her waist, his grip firm but polite enough to pass inspection from any watchful onlookers.

He leaned in, his head tilting down until his lips were mere inches from her ear, his breath warm against her skin. The music was reaching its crescendo, a thunderous wall of sound that provided the perfect cover for words that would be considered high treason if spoken aloud anywhere else.

"The stagnation is coming to an end, Ada," Piers murmured, his voice dropping to a harsh, hurried whisper. "The current administration is a cracking shell, held together by nothing but arrogance. There are people who are ready to change that. A woman of your capabilities would find herself highly valued in the new regime. We can offer you far more than a life spent as a prize for an old man."

Ada did not miss a beat in her step. She allowed him to guide her through the final, dramatic circles of the waltz, her body responding to his lead with flawless synchronization even as his words hung in the air between them.

A soft, genuine laugh escaped her lips. A beautiful, light sound that made it look to any outside observer as though he had just told her a particularly witty joke. It was a perfect performance of a woman enjoying a harmless dance with a charming young officer.

But when she spoke, her words were completely devoid of warmth, every syllable coated in a stern, chilling certainty.

"You speak of a new order as if you understand the price of it, young man," Ada said, her voice a low, lethal purr against his ear as they whirled through the final bars of the music. "You think you are playing a game of chess, but you are playing with fire. You do not know the kind of devil you are bargaining with, Lord Nivans. And I assure you, you do not have the currency to survive that transaction. But it would be lovely to watch how far you can go."

Before Piers could respond, the music stopped with a dramatic, final chord from the orchestra.

The entire ballroom erupted into applause. The dance was over.

Ada immediately stepped back, breaking the physical contact between them with practiced ease. The dangerous edge to her demeanor vanished in an instant, replaced once more by the flawless facade of a high-society lady. She curtsied, a graceful, sweeping motion that sent the crimson silk of her skirt billowing around her ankles.

"Thank you for the dance, Lord Nivans," she said aloud, her voice clear and polite for anyone nearby to hear.

Piers recovered quickly, offering a deep, respectful bow in return, though his eyes remained fixed on hers with a mixture of frustration and intense curiosity. "The honor was entirely mine, Lady Ada."

Turning away from him without a second glance, Ada began her walk toward the perimeter of the ballroom, intending to find a quiet corner to observe the rest of the evening. However, she had barely taken five steps before she was intercepted.

A small group of aristocrat women, resplendent in velvet gowns of deep emerald and midnight blue, descended upon her like a flock of colorful, gossiping birds.

"Oh, Lady Ada, that was absolutely magnificent!" one of the older women exclaimed, fanning herself rapidly. "Such grace! You move across the floor like a creature of pure light. Truly, you are a spectacular dancer."

"Indeed," another younger woman chimed in, her expression a mix of envy and forced admiration. "General Derek Simmons is an exceptionally lucky man to have secured your hand. To have a woman of such poise at his side... it must make him the envy of the entire high command."

Ada stopped. She offered them a perfectly pleasant, empty smile, nodding politely at their praise. "You are far too kind, ladies. The music was simply inspiring tonight."

"Of course, beauty and grace are wonderful assets," the first woman continued, leaning in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that made Ada’s inner defenses tighten. "But we all know what truly matters for a house as noble as General Simmons's. A strong lineage. A healthy womb to carry the future of his name, and the domestic graces to maintain his estate while he tends to the matters of the state. That is the true duty of a wife of your standing."

Ada maintained her smile, her expression remaining completely unbothered, though a cold amusement flickered deep within her. She nodded in agreement, playing the part perfectly. "A wife's duties are indeed paramount," she replied smoothly.

As she spoke, her gaze drifted past the shoulders of the women surrounding her, traveling across the crowded ballroom.

On the opposite side of the hall, standing near a gilded pillar, was Piers Nivans. He was surrounded by several other young officers, but his attention was not on them. He was looking directly across the room, his eyes locked onto Ada.

Seeing her look his way, Piers lifted his hand, raising a crystal flute glass filled with champagne toward her in a silent, mocking toast. His smile was knowing, a silent acknowledgement of the conversation they had just shared and the warning she had given him.

Ada did not return the gesture. Her expression did not change by even a fraction of a millimeter. She simply turned her head away.

"...and so important to remember that a husband's temper must be managed," the younger aristocrat woman was saying, entirely unaware of the silent exchange that had just occurred across the room. She looked at Ada with a serious, patronizing expression. "You must learn to please your husband in all things, Lady Ada. A man of General Simmons's position requires absolute devotion and a peaceful home."

"I shall certainly keep that in mind," Ada said softly, her smile remaining perfectly intact as she looked at the woman.

  ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆

The night was cold and crisp that bit through the thin layers of Ada’s cream silk as she stepped out onto the gravel path of the private grounds. The grand house behind her was dark, its many windows like black, unblinking eyes watching her descent into the garden.

 

The scent of the roses was different now. 

 

She walked slowly, the hem of her long silk nightgown dragging across the damp gravel, gathering moisture and small bits of dark soil as she moved. She did not care. She did not look down to see the ruin of the expensive fabric. Her eyes were fixed entirely to the path of her destination.

 

'A ditch at the edge of the parish boundary... the crows finished what the fever started... leave it smooth...'

 

Ada looked down at the dark earth between the rose bushes. For years, she had come to this spot to feel a connection to the woman who had brought her into the world. She had brought her tears here; she had brought her secret triumphs here. She had believed that by pressing her palms against this ground, she was touching the resting place of a saint.

It was nothing but a performance. A theater created by her father to keep the people from looking too closely, and a permanent, cruel joke enjoyed by Lady Zhang at her mother’s expense.

The tomb beneath her feet was empty. There was nothing here but old dirt and the roots of imported flowers that thrived on a lie.

Ada’s knees buckled.

She did not lower herself with the practiced grace of a high-born lady protecting her garments. She simply dropped, her knees striking the damp earth with a dull thud, the wet soil immediately soaking through the silk of her nightgown, staining the cream-colored fabric a dark, ugly brown. She did not flinch as the sharp edge of a buried stone cut into her skin through the cloth.

She leaned forward, her hands pressing into the cold mud on either side of the granite base, her fingers digging deep into the dirt until the soil lodged beneath her fingernails.

Carla Radames.

Ada lowered her face. She did not weep; instead, she pressed her lips directly against the cold, metal plaque, kissing the letters of her mother’s name with desperate devotion that she had never allowed herself to show to the living.

She did not lift her head. She remained there, her forehead resting against the cold stone, her eyes shut tight against the darkness of the garden.

She did not pray for her mother’s soul; her mother was beyond the reach of this cruel house, lost in some unmarked ditch where the world could no longer hurt her. She did not pray for herself; she knew her path was already determined.

Instead, her mind traveled across the miles and down toward the dark, salt-sprayed wood of the southern docks.

'Holy mother hear my plea,' she thought, her breath fogging the surface of the silver plaque. 'Keep him safe from the night.'

She envisioned his face, not with clarity of a memory, but with the soft, faded colors of a dream she was trying to hold onto before the morning came.

'Let his evening be warm,' she prayed, her fingers tightening in the dirt. 'Let the wind that blows across the sea be gentle when it passes over his shoulders. Let him find a corner where the damp does not touch him. Do not let the cold settle into his bones, for he has nothing to keep the chill away but his own stubborn heart.'

The image of him working among the rough men of the harbor rose in her mind. She knew what happened to those who had nothing left but their hands. Without his brushes, he would be nothing more than another pair of arms to be bought and sold by the day.

'Let his stomach be filled,' she continued, her forehead pressing harder against the granite until the stone hurt her bone. 'Give him bread enough for the day, and a cup that is not bitter. Do not let him know the hunger that makes a man look at his fellow with hatred. Let him find grace among the coarse people of the port.'

She remembered the way his hands used to look when they were covered in charcoal and oil. Now, to think those same hands would be split by salt water and rough hemp ropes, his fingers calloused by the labor of moving crates from the bellies of foreign ships all because of his stubborness, Ada couldn't help but to let out a sound between a choke sob and laughter.

'Let the oceans in the docks soothe him to sleep,' she whispered into the dark earth. 'Let the sound of the black water against the pilings be a song that keeps the dark thoughts from his mind. When the night is long and the labor is finished, let the sea be a comfort to him. Let it wash away the memory of the woman left behind.'

She knew that without his work, without the colors he used to create on the blank canvases, his mind would be a dangerous place to inhabit. A man with a great soul and no way to express it was a man who could easily destroy himself from within.

'Keep him whole,' she prayed, a solitary tear finally escaping her eye to leave a pale track through the dark soil on her cheek. 'Do not let them break his spirit as they have broken mine. Let him live, even if it is in the dirt, even if it is in the gray light of a harbor town where the sun never truly shines. Let him breathe the salt air and be free of this place.'

She stayed on her knees for a long time, her body shivering under the thin silk as the frost began to form on the grass around her. 

But as she finally rose to her feet, her hands dark with the soil of an empty grave, Ada's eyes were no longer wide with terror. They were as clear and hard as the sapphires Helena was fixing in the room above. She looked up at the smooth, white face of the statue one last time.

"They think they have bought me with a name," she said to the blank stone, "But they have only bought a body. And a body can do many things before it finally returns to the dirt."