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Chapter Text

The Library City, Alexandria, Yurgenschmidt. 25th Anniversary of the duchy's founding.

The first rays of sunlight crept over the eastern horizon, painting the sky in warm strokes of amber and rose as they reached across the sleeping city of Alexandria. The city's ivory walls glowed with a golden sheen in the early light, and atop the hill at its highest point, the castle—home to the archducal family—gleamed like a crown of priceless jewels.

Down by the harbor, the morning light danced on the gentle waves, where fishing boats had already been bobbing for hours. As the sun climbed higher, the fishermen's voices rose in song, harmonizing with the cries of circling gulls and the steady rhythm of waves crashing against the stone pier.

The city awoke in layers. First the harbor district stirred to life—how could it not with the boisterous bickering of fishermen vying for the honor of providing the archduchess with their morning's catch? Then came the artisan neighborhoods, where, soon after breakfast, master craftspeople bent over workshops crafting the finest paper goods and writing implements while nearby, in sun-drenched ateliers, designers, artists, and their apprentices mixed pigments and sketched with charcoal-stained fingers.

At the strike of second bell, the merchant quarter with its countless bookshops and stationary shops opened their doors. Booksellers carefully arranged their precious tomes, ink merchants displayed bottles of every hue, and paper-makers laid out sheets of their most exquisite plant paper and parchment. For Alexandria was no ordinary port city—it was the intellectual heart of the Yurgenschmidt, where knowledge flowed as freely as the tide and held the weight of coin. Proof of its value could be seen in the empty racks of gossip columns and newspapers, snatched up from street corner newstands before the ink had fully dried.

All across the city, life spilled into the streets. Merchants snapped their colorful awnings open against the climbing sun, while bakers emerged from their shops bearing trays of bread still steaming in the morning air, and street performers tuned their harspiels and flutes in preparation for the festivities. Between it all, children darted like minnows through the growing crowds, their laughter ringing clear as they reveled in their unexpected freedom of not having to go to temple school that day.

Today was special—it was the end of spring, and Alexandria's busiest trading season with Batawia beyond the country gates was just beginning—but it was also a day of particular importance. Distinguished visitors from Dunkelfelger were set to arrive: a grand bridal party would come to celebrate the engagement of their archduke's daughter to the heir of Alexandria.

Excitement hung in the air. The cobblestone streets bustled with activity, rich with the scent of fresh fruit, exotic spices, coffee, and perfumes from distant shores. Young women adorned themselves in blue, decorating their hair with the perfumed blossoms that grew abundantly along the tree-lined avenues. The more affluent among them added an extra touch of elegance and wore delicate flower hair sticks tipped with tiny feystones that caught the light with each movement—a subtle homage to their beloved archduchess on this special day.

Cheerful garlands and bunting in the colors of both allied duchies adorned the plazas of the lower city, fluttering in the gentle breeze. And up the hill, past stately manors where nobles sipped their morning tea, the grand ivory castle of Alexandria was already abuzz—alive with anticipation even in the earliest hours of this momentous day.

Within those hallowed halls, behind curtains of the finest imported silk, the sole daughter of Archduchess Rozemyne was already wide awake, too excited to stay abed a moment longer.

Lady Marianne stood before her full-length mirror, her lustrous blue hair, soft and radiant like the morning sky, spilled down her back. Her golden eyes sparkled with anticipation as she held a gown of light seafoam green against her slender frame. She turned this way and that, scrutinizing the look with the practiced eye of a seasoned stylist.

Then, with a dramatic sigh, she flung the dress aside onto a growing pile of rejects.

“At this rate, I’ll have nothing to wear!” she declared to no one in particular.

At fifteen—just a few seasons shy of her winter graduation at the Royal Academy—Marianne had already cultivated a reputation as a fashion icon at the Royal Academy. Her taste was so revered that even the Zent's daughter often looked to her for advice—or, more often than not, outright copied her ensembles. Yet even she, whose wardrobe was so vast and who patronized all the major fashion ateliers in the city to the point that her fashion allowance was an official entry in the duchy's ledgers, had days when "she had nothing to wear," and she would sink into grumpiness and despair.

This morning was on the verge of becoming one such occasion. As she surveyed the elegant chaos surrounding her—silks and ribbons in every imaginable hue, veils of intricate needlework, embroidered day dresses and formal gowns with delicate beadwork—Marianne felt the familiar tightness in her chest.

Today of all days!

Her anxious ruminations were interrupted by the faint sound of a click as the door to her chamber opened.

“My lady, you’re up with the sun today,” came a warm voice from the doorway. Elise, Marianne’s head attendant, entered with a tea cart while Francesca, the youngest of Marianne’s apprentice attendants, trailed in with the breakfast tray and a folded gossip column tucked neatly on top of it.

“…And already at work, I see?” Elise remarked, her almond-shaped violet eyes surveying the chaos of the room with barely hidden chagrin. “Most days we have to drag you out of bed, but—”

“How could I possibly sleep, Elise?” Marianne spun around, her silken nightgown swirling at her ankles. “Today’s the day! The Dunkelfelger archducal family arrives this afternoon!”

The sight of Elise, who was always serene, wise, and perfectly in control of everything, brought Marianne a rush of comfort. If there was anyone whose taste she trusted—besides her mother’s—it was her supremely competent head attendant. Elise would know exactly what she should wear. Cheered by that thought, Marianne skipped over to the tray and, ignoring the tea and breakfast entirely, plucked the gossip column with practiced ease.

“Thank you, ‘Cesca, but I won’t be eating today,” she said breezily, collapsing onto her bed with theatrical flair. She tucked her bare feet beneath her and buried her face in the small, two-sided pamphlet—its pages packed with cramped, hastily printed text covering the last two days of duchy news and gossip—far more valuable to Marianne than any sustenance this morning.

Elise simply sighed. She was used to this. Abandoning the tea cart and directing Francesca to put the breakfast tray on a nearby table, she navigated around the dozens of gowns, shoes, and accessories scattered across the floor and began to gather the chaos left in the wake of Marianne’s pre-dawn fashion crisis.

Gowns lay draped over furniture, shoes peeked out from beneath the bed, and glittering accessories, feystone charms and jewelry glinted in the morning light like washed up treasure in the sand. Most ladies wouldn’t dream of rifling through their own wardrobe. It was the attendants’ job to store and retrieve garments, after all. But Marianne's collection defied convention. Her wardrobe could no longer be contained within the standard closet adjoining the bathing room. Instead, she had a dedicated chamber—twice the size of her bedroom—housing her extensive array of gowns, jewels, and accessories.

Such were the privileges of being the daughter of one of the wealthiest and most powerful archducal houses in all of Yurgenschmidt.

Realizing that they would need all hands on deck to deal with the mess, Elise summoned two more attendants to help. Then, without ceremony, she firmly plucked the gossip sheet from Marianne’s hands.

“Time to get ready, my lady,” she said, and with Francesca’s help, led Marianne toward her morning ablutions.

—

“I can’t imagine what Freddie must be feeling right now,” Marianne murmured once she returned, fresh-scented and swathed in her dressing robe, ready for the day's preparations. "How excited he must be to finally welcome the love of his life to our home. Any other man would feel anxious, but not Frederick. Nothing ever shakes him."

"Even he must be feeling a little apprehension about today," Elise replied, brushing out Marianne's damp hair before beginning the intricate braiding of her signature half-updo. "His engagement to Lady Griselde is important not just for his happiness but for the stability of the kingdom. The alliance between the two duchies is of supreme importance; Lord Ferdinand gives it no more than a few years before a selection for Zent takes place, and both duchies will need to—"

Marianne gave a faint, inward groan at the mention of politics and tuned her attendant out. She cared little for such matters; her mind dwelled on concerns far more immediate to her heart.

"But back to today," she interrupted, "they did confirm that Richart will be accompanying them, correct?" She tried—and failed—to sound casual as she dabbed a perfume sample onto her wrist and inhaled critically. "Do you think he'll notice me?"

Elise paused mid-braid, her eyes meeting Marianne's in the mirror. But it was Francesca who answered first.

"With your looks, my lady, a man would have to be blind not to notice you," she said brightly. "Don't worry—today, you'll be the most radiant thing he's ever seen."

"Oh yes!" chimed in a plump pink-haired apprentice attendant named Ermengarde, who bustled in with the gown Elise had selected for Marianne. It was a pure white beaded ensemble complete with lace-trimmed wispy veils that trailed elegantly in the back.

Marianne's golden eyes widened slightly. "White?" she asked, glancing sidelong at Elise.

"White," Elise confirmed, her smile confident. "Trust me, my lady."

The dress Elise had picked out for her was striking in its simple and understated beauty—a gown reminiscent of divinity and purity. And truly, with her mother's looks and her father's height and dignified bearing, Marianne didn't need ribbons or frills. Her beauty stood best when allowed to speak for itself.

Marianne's brow furrowed delicately. "I understand your intent, but Dunkelfelgerians are not known to... er... appreciate subtlety. They might interpret such understated attire as a slight."

"Most would, perhaps, but not Lord Lestilaut," Elise replied, alluding to the archduke's impeccable artistic eye, renowned throughout the duchies. "And as archduke, he is ultimately the one guest we all wish to impress, is he not?"

Marianne blushed. "Yes, of course."

Elise smiled and nodded at Francesca. The golden-haired apprentice approached with a carved wooden box and opened it reverently to reveal an exquisite matching jewelry set: a thin golden tiara with matching necklaces, bracelets, and rings—all shimmering with rainbow feystones. Marianne gasped, her fingers hovering over the treasures without touching.

"Are they...?"

Elise chuckled knowingly and, having finished with Marianne’s hair, took the tiara and placed it gently upon Marianne's blue tresses. "Yes. The jewelry set Lord Ferdinand gifted your mother for their starbind ceremony."

Marianne turned to the mirror, her golden eyes widening as she took in her reflection. The moment felt suspended in time. Her attendants gathered behind her, and a soft gasp of awe escaped them all.

“He’ll fall at your feet,” Ermengarde added, hands clasped like she was witnessing a dream made real.

“Next year, it will be your turn,” Francesca whispered, eyes shining with excitement.

Elise met Marianne’s gaze in the mirror, her voice quiet and heartfelt. “If Aub Alexandria has given her blessing… how could we not cheer you on, my lady? You are our pride. Our joy. And when you leave this duchy—” her voice trembled, “we will follow you. Wherever you go, we will serve you for the rest of our lives.”

Marianne blinked rapidly, her chest tightening with emotion. She smiled at them feeling, all at once, like the luckiest girl in all of Yurgenschmidt.

A beautiful home. A loving family. Devoted retainers who truly loved her.

She had it all. And today—today, she would make Richart, Aub Dunkelfelger’s youngest son, hers one way or another.

She turned her gaze to the window, where sunlight danced across the azure sea beneath a flawless sky.

Yes.

Today is going to be perfect in every way, Marianne thought with delight as she smiled up at the sun, little knowing that today was the day her life would change in every conceivable way.

Chapter Text

MR BENNET: Well, my dear, if Jane should die of this fever, it will be comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of Mr Bingley, and under your orders.

MRS BENNET: Oh, nonsense! People do not die of little trifling colds…

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 1 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

Longbourn, Hertfordshire, England. Spring 1823

Today is turning out to be dreadful in every single way, Mary Bennet thought, as she hurried along a deserted country lane beaten down by a torrential downpour of rain.

It had all started a few hours ago when Mary—third daughter of the ever-weary Mr. Bennet and the tirelessly talkative Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn—had been deep in her reading, lost in the comforting order of her books, when her mother’s shrill voice shattered the peace.

"Mary! Mary Bennet! Come downstairs this instant!" Her mother's voice carried the particular blend of command and exasperation that Mary had come to recognize all too well. "We are due at your Aunt Phillips' for tea, and I won't have us be late!"

Mary turned the page of her book, hoping her mother wouldn’t call up to her again. Unfortunately, that was too much to hope for and Mrs. Bennet's voice rose another octave. "I know perfectly well you can hear me. No doubt you're hidden away in your room with one of those dreadfully dull books of yours, wasting away your youth!"

This, while accurate, still stung. Mary knew from long experience that resistance was futile. With a quiet sigh, she put her book down, carefully removed her spectacles, and placed them atop the open pages of Essays of Elia by Charles Lamb—a leather-bound volume that had been a recent gift from her sister Elizabeth. She had approached it with skepticism (her sister's literary tastes veered dangerously close to irreverent), but to her secret delight, she found it thoroughly captivating.

Mary had carefully planned her day: read another essay from Mr. Lamb's collection, then practice of the latest sonata she had ordered from town on the pianoforte, followed by the translation of another page from De Servo Arbitrio which she had borrowed from the library. Latin was challenging, but she relished the mental exercise—and none of her sisters knew the language, which afforded her a small measure of distinction. After supper, she had intended to write to Lydia, including within its pages a transcribed section from last Sunday's sermon that Mary felt would benefit her wayward sister and perhaps curtail her spendthrift tendencies. Mary firmly believed that proper application of weekly church teachings would improve anyone's character immeasurably.

Yet...

She glanced out the window. The sun, traitorous thing, was out in full shine now that the morning’s rain had passed. That could only mean one thing: her mother had decided it was a perfectly lovely day to descend upon Aunt Phipps and drag Mary along with her too.

A knock sounded at the door, and a moment later, Hill peeked in, her expression hovering between sympathy and resignation.

"Miss Mary," the maid said gently, "your mother requests your presence downstairs. At once, if you please."

Mary's solemn eyes betrayed not a hint of the frustration she felt. She stood with practiced composure, reaching for her brown woolen shawl—spring it might be, but the air still carried a chill. She didn't bother glancing toward the little mirror by her bedside; she took pride in her indifference to ridiculous fashion trends with their excessive decorations and frivolous ribbons. Her sole concession to fashion was a remarkably practical reticule Jane had given her last Christmas, which had remained largely unused until now.

But today, with the quiet determination of a smuggler, she slipped her spectacles and the Essays of Elia into it.

"If I must endure company," she murmured, "let it at least be Mr. Lamb's as well." Though escape from the visit seemed impossible, having both her literary companion and spectacles at hand provided some small comfort.

As she descended the stairs, her mother's voice grew sharper with each step.

"There you are at last! Heavens above, I was beginning to think you’d turn into one of those odd, bookish women who never leave their rooms."

"I was merely finishing a passage, Mother," Mary replied, her voice measured. "One should never abandon a thought half-formed."

Mrs. Bennet clicked her tongue. "Books and thoughts! As if either has ever secured a husband. Now hurry along or we’ll be late for tea.”

As they made their way toward the door, Mary cast a glance at her father’s study with its door standing ajar. Ordinarily, he kept himself secluded there, contentedly detached from the everyday comings and goings of Longbourn estate, unmoved by household concerns and disinclined to seek the company of either his wife or his sole remaining daughter.

Yet, after years of quiet observation, Mary had come to believe that her father must feel some degree of loneliness since Elizabeth had married and gone off to Derbyshire with Mr. Darcy. Bit by bit, she had set aside her fear of his sharp wit and attempted small gestures of connection—a greeting now and then, a borrowed volume slipped back onto its shelf. What had begun in awkwardness had, over nearly a decade, settled into a subtle but steady rhythm.

She hesitated at the threshold of his study, peering through the gap into his sunlit room, But just as she lifted a hand to announce herself, the door closed—firmly, and unmistakably. Her father, it seemed, had had his fill of Mrs. Bennet’s bustling and had shut out the noise—and inadvertently, her—with a single, decisive motion.

Mary blinked at the wooden panel. It was not meant unkindly, she knew—but it stung all the same.

"Mary!" her mother called sharply. "Do come along! There’s no need to trouble your father for a mere trip to Meryton. We're visiting your aunt, not sailing for the continent. We’ll be back before he notices we’re gone!"

With a sigh—quiet and unnoticed—Mary adjusted her bonnet, gathered her reticule, and stepped out into the spring sunlight.

—

"Your Aunt Phillips mentioned that Mr. Beck might call on her today," Mrs. Bennet said meaningfully as their carriage rumbled toward Meryton.

"Mr. Phillips' assistant?" Mary's brows lifted slightly as she recalled the gentleman. He had resided in Meryton for just over seven years—a solemn, studious young man whose thoughtful comments at local assemblies had caught her attention. He had struck her as sensible and someone she might have enjoyed conversing with, perhaps even more—that is, had he not married a wealthy widow last winter. "I thought he gave up his profession and returned to Yorkshire."

"Good heavens, Mary," her mother replied with exasperation, "How could you be so dull. Not that Mr. Beck. I’m talking about his second cousin, Mr. Thomas Beck. Quite respectable, a widower with connections to trade in London. And he's visiting your aunt today!"

Mary turned to gaze out the window. Her mother supposed Mary was thinking about the very eligible widower, but Mary was contemplating far more important matters. Mr. Beck's bride, she had heard, owned a paper mill which she managed with remarkable efficiency. The marriage had enabled him to abandon his legal practice entirely and retire to a comfortable estate near his family.

In my view, Mary thought to herself, wealth should not merely serve to increase one's comfort or to purchase a spouse, but rather to improve society and alleviate suffering. But she kept this reflection to herself, having learned long ago that such sentiments would only invite her mother's ridicule. As it was, her mother always found things to say that mortified or embarrassed Mary.

“...He’s only 27, so he’s younger than you, but—" she lowered her voice to a confidential tone, "—widowers with five children can't afford to be too particular, and neither can you at your age."

Mary's eye twitched at the reminder that she was almost thirty, but luckily her face was still turned away so her mother didn't see the blush that washed over her unpretty features. Mary let the springtime countryside passing by soothe her spirit. The spring flowers were beginning to bloom along the roadside. Their quiet beauty went unnoticed by most people who passed by this prosaic country lane, but Mary saw them and appreciated the shy daisies and dainty violets that most people overlooked.

The bright-hair'd sun with warmth benign Bids tree, and shrub, and swelling vine Their infant-buds display: Again the streams refresh the plains, Which Winter bound in icy chains, And sparkling bless his ray.

Mary often sought refuge in poetry, but something about her mother’s unceasing prattle—and the subject of it—so disturbed her inner reflections that not even verse could quiet the rebellious thoughts roiling in her mind.

Why are widowers so eager to secure another spouse? Mary wondered silently. Is it not enough to have loved once? And five children! Does he seek a wife or merely a governess without wages? She herself lacked nothing—absolutely nothing—and found contentment in her books, her music, and her thoughts. If only others could understand that matrimony was not the sole path to fulfillment.

Except sometimes, she had to admit, she was a little less content and happy as she could have been, especially when her mother relentlessly reminded her of her single state.

"Oh Mary, what is to become of you when both your father and I are gone? You need to be married or you'll end up destitute in one of those houses working as a governess for stupid little children."

With those cheerful prognostics of Mary's future, they arrived at Meryton at last and once they pulled up to the big house along the main plaza that was Mr. and Mrs. Phillips' home, they were promptly ushered into the drawing room, where refreshments awaited them.

"My dear sister, you're just in time!" Aunt Phillips exclaimed, gesturing toward the tea service. "Come and get yourself warmed up. It's so cold outside with this dreadful wind!"

Mary did not receive any particular greeting from her aunt, but then again she had always been overlooked by most people of her acquaintance so she was used to it. But her aunt was gracious in all other respects. She accepted a cup of tea and leaned back in her settee savoring the refreshments. Intellectual pursuits invariably sharpened her appetite, and Aunt Phillips, whatever her faults, could be relied upon for excellent provisions.

As the two older women descended into neighborhood gossip, Mary allowed her mind to wander, occasionally nodding at appropriate intervals. She found herself thinking about her mother's dire predictions.

Was spinsterhood truly such a dreadful fate? She had witnessed enough unhappy marriages—including periods of her parents' own union—to know that matrimony was no guarantee of contentment. Yet the specter of becoming dependent on relatives' charity in her old age was admittedly unsettling.

"And did you hear about poor Mrs. Long?" Aunt Phillips lowered her voice to a scandalized whisper. "Her niece has been forced to take a position as companion to that dreadful Lady Metcalfe! Imagine, a gentlewoman reduced to such circumstances!"

Mrs. Bennet shook her head vigorously. "That's precisely what I keep telling Mary will happen to her if she doesn't secure herself a husband. Her father and I don’t expect her to marry as well as Jane or Lizzy, but surely even she could find someone suitable with proper effort."

Mary loathed being talked of as if she wasn’t there. Looking up from the cup in her hands she caught Aunt Phillips' pretty little maid glancing her way with unmistakable pity. Mary looked away quickly, irritated that a servant would dare feel sorry for her. Determined to ignore the conversation, Mary retreated into her thoughts, pondering a challenging Latin passage she had been struggling with. Perhaps her father might help her translate it properly. No, that was too much to ask for or expect from her father. The most he might do for her would be to poke fun at her before directing her to a better dictionary than the secondhand one she had purchased at a book sale.

Her peaceful contemplation was abruptly shattered by her aunt's horrified gasp.

"Good heavens! What are you wearing, child?" Aunt Phillips exclaimed, nearly dropping her teacup in dismay. "We simply cannot allow Mr. Beck to see you dressed in such a manner! That dreadful brown—it makes you look positively monastic!"

Mary blinked in confusion. She vaguely recalled her aunt lamenting for the first half hour of their visit that Mr. Beck would be unable to join them for tea after all. Apparently, those circumstances had changed, and he was now expected imminently.

Mrs. Bennet scrutinized her daughter as though seeing her for the first time that day. "Upon my word, sister, you're absolutely right! She's not fit to be seen by anyone of consequence. Look at those outdated clothes!"

She turned to Mary with mounting exasperation. "When was the last time you had a new dress made? The waist is so unfashionably high! No one has worn them that way for at least six years. Mary—what have you been doing with your allowance and all those lovely fabrics your sisters send you every Christmas?"

Mary pressed her lips together, maintaining a dignified silence that only served to irritate her mother further.

"Well?" Mrs. Bennet demanded. "Have you nothing to say for yourself?"

"I find my current wardrobe perfectly serviceable," Mary replied stiffly. "And I prefer to invest my funds far more worthily than in foolish fripperies."

Mrs. Bennet threw up her hands. "Books, of course! What good are Latin and philosophy when you can't even dress yourself properly? I declare, you're determined to remain on the shelf forever!"

"Never mind, sister," Aunt Phillips interrupted, jumping to her feet at the sound of the bell at her door. "He's here! Oh, merciful heavens! Mary, you cannot possibly be seen like this—a first impression is worth a thousand words!"

"Surely my conversation would compensate for any—" Mary began.

"Nonsense!" Aunt Phillips cut her off sharply. "Martha!" she called to her maid. "Take Miss Mary out through the back garden until Mr. Beck has gone. Trust me, Mary, this is for your own good."

The same maid who had given Mary that pitying look appeared immediately. "This way, miss."

"But—" Mary attempted to protest.

Mrs. Bennet leaned close, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "Mary Bennet, you will go this instant! Mr. Beck must not see you looking like a country spinster before we've had a chance to make you presentable. He'll think you're some kind of oddity. Go! This instant!"

Before Mary could formulate a proper objection, Martha whisked her away and deposited her unceremoniously at the back door of her aunt's house. The garden that greeted her was neat but strictly utilitarian—orderly rows of vegetables and herbs with scarcely a flower to be found.

"You can wait here, miss," Martha said apologetically. "I'll come fetch you when the gentleman has gone."

Mary sighed deeply, resigned to spending the afternoon ignominiously exiled to this kitchen garden because her mother deemed her unfit for proper company. The maid gave her one last sympathetic look before rushing back inside to attend to the visitors.

Luckily, she had brought with her her book, and spectacles—What luck!

She looked around her and saw a wooden grate in the far corner of the garden. Thither she went and after taking a seat on her splintery throne she adjusted her position to catch the best light and soon became lost in Lamb's witty observations. The garden, the impending visitor, her mother's exasperation—all faded into insignificance beside the pleasure of well-crafted prose.

Mary might have been content to read for hours in her aunt’s kitchen garden had not a fat droplet suddenly splashed onto the open page, followed quickly by another…. and another!

"Oh!" She looked up in alarm to find that the previously benign sky had transformed into a threatening mass of gray clouds heavy with the threat of a torrential downpour.

Another droplet fell, this time landing squarely on her spectacles.

"No, no, no," she muttered, hastily closing the precious volume and clutching it to her chest. "Of all the misfortunes—"

As the rain began to fall in earnest, Mary hurried to the back door, clutching her precious book to her chest. She turned the handle, expecting it to yield—only to find it firmly locked.

"Hello?" She rapped sharply on the door. "Martha? Anyone?"

The only response was the increasing patter of raindrops on the garden path. There was no porch or awning to shelter her, and she was rapidly getting soaked. Mary knocked again, more forcefully this time, but the sound seemed to disappear into the house without effect. Rain was now streaming from the brim of her bonnet, and she felt dampness seeping through the shoulders of her brown dress.

"This is intolerable," she muttered, moving along the side of the house.

She came upon a window that looked into the drawing room and peered inside. The scene that greeted her made her breath catch: her mother and aunt were seated on the sofa, laughing animatedly with a tall gentleman whose back was to the window. A fire burned cheerfully in the grate, and the tea things had been refreshed. They appeared utterly oblivious to her absence—indeed, they seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely.

Mary stepped closer and extended her hand to tap at the window when her boot slid on the wet ground beneath her. She sprawled forward, landing heavily in the mud. The fall thoroughly soiled her dress, rendering her even less fit to be seen by anyone than before.

She struggled to her feet, wincing at the sight of her ruined clothes. In her hands, she still clutched her silken reticule—now stained and sodden, but hopefully still protecting the precious book within. As she stood there, rain streaming down her face, something within Mary—something long dormant—suddenly flared to life. A hot flush of humiliation and anger swept through her, overwhelming even the chill of the rain that now fell steadily upon her bonnet and shoulders.

For years, she had accepted her place. The plain daughter. The overlooked sister. The one whose accomplishments were dismissed, whose opinions were silenced, whose very presence was an embarrassment. She had endured it all with stoic dignity, finding refuge in books and music and moral philosophy.

But this—to be literally shut outside, forgotten in the rain while they laughed by the fire—this was beyond bearing.

Mary wiped a mixture of rain and mud from her face, her hands trembling not from cold but from a rising indignation that surprised her with its intensity. For the first time in her life, Mary Bennet felt something dangerous stirring within her: rebellion.

"Is this how little I am regarded?" she whispered, her voice tight with an emotion she rarely permitted herself to express.

She had done everything expected of her, had never caused trouble, had been sensible and proper and good. And this was her reward: to be quite literally shut out, deemed unfit for company, left to the mercy of the elements while they entertained themselves within.

"No," she said aloud, the single syllable carrying the weight of years of accumulated resentment. "No, I will not wait meekly to be fetched when it's convenient."

Perhaps it was Mr. Lamb's essays filling her head with notions of quiet dignity in the face of society's absurdities. Perhaps it was simply that almost thirty years of forbearance had reached its natural conclusion. Whatever the cause, Mary Bennet made a decision.

She was going home. She’d walk if she had to.

The journey from Meryton to Longbourn was a little under five miles—not an insurmountable distance on a fine day, but in steadily worsening rain, it presented a formidable challenge. Yet the thought of returning to the back door, waiting like a servant until someone remembered her existence, or (even worse) ringing the front door and appearing mud streaked and soaked was more than she could bear.

Mary tucked her reticule securely under her arm, ensuring the precious book remained as protected as possible, and set off down the lane. Rain soaked through her shawl almost immediately, but the heat of her indignation kept her warm as she marched through Meryton's muddy main street.

The first mile passed quickly, fueled by righteous anger. By the second mile, however, the rain had intensified, and Mary's dress hung heavy and sodden around her ankles, making each step more difficult than the last. Her spectacles, fogged and rain-spattered, were useless; she removed them and placed them carefully in her reticule alongside the book.

The rain showed no sign of abating. If anything, the clouds hung lower and darker over the rolling Hertfordshire landscape. Mary paused for just a moment, looking back at the distant silhouette of Meryton, then forward toward home. The sensible choice would be to return to her aunt's house and humbly request shelter.

But today, Mary Bennet had no interest in being sensible.

She squared her shoulders and continued walking, each step taking her farther from the humiliation she had endured and closer to—what? She wasn't entirely certain. Independence, perhaps. Or at the very least, the dignity of choosing her own discomfort rather than having it thrust upon her by others.

But soon enough her anger began to cool as rapidly as her extremities. The spring air, pleasant earlier, now felt bitterly cold against her wet skin. By the third mile, her teeth were chattering uncontrollably, and she could no longer feel her fingers. Still, she pressed on, one miserable step after another.

"Father always says I lack sense," she muttered through trembling lips. "I fear he may be right in this instance."

The fourth mile seemed to stretch endlessly before her. The familiar landmarks of home—the old oak tree, the stone wall bordering Longbourn's property—appeared and disappeared through sheets of rain. Mary could no longer distinguish between raindrops and tears on her face as she stumbled the final distance to the house.

At last, the front door of Longbourn came into view. Mary summoned the last of her strength to climb the steps, her limbs leaden and unresponsive. She managed to lift the knocker once before her vision began to darken at the edges.

As the door swung open and Hill’s startled face came into view, Mary felt her balance falter. The world tilted, and she pitched forward with no strength left to catch herself. Her last conscious thought was of the reticule pressed tightly to her chest, she hoped that she had somehow managed to successfully shield the only companion who had not forsaken her that day.

“Mr. Lamb,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath, “I believe we’ve both been rather ill-used by society today.”

Darkness enfolded her gently, like the closing of a well-loved book.

By the following evening, Mary Bennet—spinster daughter of Mr. Bennet of Longbourn—was dead.

It seemed, after all, that people could die of little trifling colds.

Chapter Text

[Lydia exits their room in her petticoat with a gown in her arms. She meets her mother in the corridor.]

MRS BENNET: Lydia, child, what are you doing?! Go back in your room and dress yourself!

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 2 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

Mary Bennet awoke with a faint, unaccountable sense of dread.

No! The voice was not her own—it was younger, feminine, distressed. It echoed sharply in her thoughts like a cry through a vast chamber. No, I can’t face them… I can’t face HIM. I don’t want to wake up!

But there was no helping it. In the first place, Mary Bennet had no idea who or what that desperate voice was talking about, and in the second, it was impossible not to awaken when there was so much light hitting her face.

As her eyes fluttered open, she realized the brilliant glow streaming through gauzy curtains was indeed sunlight—rich, golden, summery, and completely unlike the pale English rays she knew. The curtains rippled gently, stirred by a warm breeze.

Hm? What…?

Perhaps it was the brightness, or maybe the oppressive heat and humidity—but her head pounded painfully. She would likely need another bitter dose of willow bark tincture. Her mother would inevitably scold her for compounding a migraine with a cold, lamenting again what a trial she was.

Mary winced at the thought. With a groan, she reached blindly for her spectacles, but her fingers brushed against only plush pillows and silken blankets instead.

Wait…. This isn’t my bed!

She sat bolt upright, immediately regretting the movement as dizziness surged. "Where am I?"

As her vision steadied, confusion enveloped her. This was definitely not her familiar cozy bedchamber at Longbourn. There were no bookshelves bursting with books or sheet music on the writing desk next to her bed.

She found herself resting on a luxurious bed piled high with countless plump, pristine white pillows. The sheets beneath her were of the finest linen, as white as fresh snow, and a delicate seafoam green counterpane covered the lower half of the massive bed. Not only that but her bed was canopied with embroidered curtains of emerald green, adorned lavishly with golden tassels and intricate designs reminiscent of rippling water.

Nothing about this opulent sleeping arrangement resembled her simple, modest bed at Longbourn.

Instead, the chamber around her was palatial in its grandeur. The finest room she had ever glimpsed had been at Pemberley, when she had visited after Elizabeth had birthed her firstborn. Even that elegant chamber, which had once seemed the height of luxury to Mary's provincial eyes, paled in comparison to the opulence surrounding her now. The furnishings were of a splendor she had only encountered in books describing the fabled palaces of the East.

Even the air, humid and warm as it was, smelled of perfume and flowers.

Don’t panic. This must be a dream. Think. Remember what happened yesterday…

Her pulse thundered in her ears. Slowly, haltingly, she tried to piece together the last thing she could remember. Rain. Yes—it had been raining. She’d walked home in it. Yesterday, yes—she had gotten uncharacteristically angry and paid for it dearly. Upon arriving, she had collapsed, overcome by a dreadful chill. Her mother had scolded her harshly, leaving her to the tender mercies of Hill, Sarah, and the doctor, who had bled her repeatedly once fever set in.

"Poor Miss…" Sarah had murmured, gently placing a damp cloth on her forehead. "How unfortunate our poor Miss Mary is."

That was the last clear memory she had. And afterward… what had happened?

Raising her hands to soothe her aching temples, Mary froze. These were not her hands. The fingers were long and elegant, the nails perfectly shaped and gleaming. A green jewel the size of a cherry pit winked from a ring on her middle finger. Jewelry was foreign to her—but what was even more shocking was the vibrant, rosy hue of her skin, far healthier, softer and more radiant than her typically sallow complexion. And the locks of hair that fell over her shoulders and face were, impossibly, silvery blue. The exact color of the summer sky!

This is not my body!!! She opened her mouth to scream, except the sound of approaching footsteps pulled her attention away just in time.

A tall woman with impeccable posture and a solemn expression approached the bed, her head covered by a headdress reminiscent of a wimple. She addressed her urgently in a language utterly foreign to Mary. Yet as Mary listened, an astonishing clarity emerged, the strange words gradually resolving into comprehensible speech.

"—please don’t move too suddenly, my lady," the woman was cautioning, her voice firm yet gentle. "The physician was most insistent. Lie back down while I inform Lady Rozemyne that you've awakened."

Behind her, other attendants fluttered anxiously. One mercifully drew the curtains closed, shielding Mary's eyes from the overwhelming brightness of the sun. Another attendant, younger than the first, whose golden hair and kind blue eyes reminded her very much of Sarah’s, approached with a silver goblet and pitcher.

"Please drink something, my lady. Perhaps you’d like to eat as well? You ate nothing all day," the attendant pleaded softly, her expression melting into sincere distress. "We've all been terribly worried, Lady Marianne."

Francesca, Mary thought with sudden clarity. Her name is Francesca.

But how did Mary know that? And why was she suddenly fluent in their tongue?

And why did she just call her ‘Marianne’?

This must be a dream. It must.

“My lady?” The first one—Mary somehow knew her name was Elise—asked, her brow furrowing as her amethyst-colored eyes filled with concern. “Is something the matter?”

Mary's heart began to race as she frantically tried to think of what to say or do. She opened her mouth to reply and say something, but as her mind was a jumble at the moment she ended up opening and closing it uselessly, much like a fish.

She always did that, and her father had always poked fun at her for being so slow-witted. All of a sudden Mary was overcome by a wild and sudden impulse to flee. But before she could do so, the chamber’s double doors swung open.

A woman entered, appearing only slightly older than Mary's elder sister Jane. She was equally as handsome as Jane—no, she was much more lovely than Mary’s sister. Yet unlike Jane's gentle demeanor, this woman radiated quiet confidence and authority that seemed to draw everyone's attention.

Additionally, the woman’s hair was an astonishing shade of blue that Mary had never seen on any human head. And while it was elegantly arranged atop her head with flower ornaments and shining jewels woven throughout, Mary barely registered the sophisticated hairstyle, so transfixed was she by the unnatural color. She didn’t even register the fact that the woman was trailed by others with equally bizarre color hair: green, blue, violet, and so on.

But then her gaze shifted involuntarily to the woman's gown—a detail Mary typically would have overlooked entirely. Yet now, she found herself admiring its breathtaking craftsmanship and luxurious fabric. That gown made the finest London fashions seem like mere homespun cloth. Mary was inexplicably drawn to examine the delicate lacework on the veil—

Wait. What?

Mentally shaking herself, Mary wondered at her sudden interest in such trivial fripperies. When had she ever noticed or cared about fashion?

Refocusing on the woman before her, Mary saw that beneath her ethereal beauty lay evident concern, clearly etched upon her delicate features. As the woman spoke in the previously incomprehensible language—words Mary now strangely understood—her voice triggered a cascade of information in Mary's mind, filling her thoughts with knowledge she couldn't possibly possess yet somehow did.

Lady Rozemyne, Archduchess of Alexandria, Avatar of the goddess Mestionora, friend and confidante of the Zent herself, the most influential woman in Yurgenschmidt, and also...

My mother?!

No. That couldn't possibly be correct. Mary's own mother was everything this woman clearly was not—fretful, shallow, and perpetually dissatisfied. There was nothing remotely regal or elegant about Mrs. Bennet.

"Marianne!" Lady Rozemyne exclaimed, swiftly approaching the bedside with effortless grace despite her obvious urgency. "Thank the gods you're awake! We've all been beside ourselves with worry." Genuine tears glistened in her golden eyes as she gently cupped Mary's face in her hands. Despite Mary's bewilderment, she instinctively relaxed under the soothing warmth of the woman's touch—a tenderness so unfamiliar compared to her own mother's interactions that Mary's anxiety significantly eased, even as the woman gently chided her. "What on earth were you thinking?"

"I'm... not. My name's not..." Mary struggled to explain that she was not Marianne, but Mary Bennet from Hertfordshire. Yet, the words failed her.

"What was that, dear?" Lady Rozemyne placed a cool, soothing hand gently upon Mary's forehead.

Mary nervously licked her lips and tried again. "What happened? Where am I?" she heard herself ask, startled by the unfamiliar, musical quality of her voice.

"That's precisely what we'd like to know," came a deep, resonant voice from the doorway.

A tall, imposing man with shoulder-length pale blue hair entered the room. Mary barely had time to marvel at the unnatural hue before an overwhelming wave of emotion surged within her—an instinctive recoil that wasn’t rooted in fear, but in a complex, unfamiliar mix of feelings she couldn't identify. Emotions that, somehow, did not feel like her own.

"Father," she murmured without thinking, locking eyes with his piercing golden gaze. His expression was severe, nearly austere, and he moved with an air of absolute authority that seemed to command the very space around him. While others had relaxed in the presence of the Archduchess, at his arrival they stood a little straighter, as if subconsciously bracing themselves.

Mary's spirit quailed. Beautiful people often unsettled her, painfully aware as she was of her own plainness—but this man’s beauty, combined with his stern presence, was almost repellent. And to her dismay, the body she now occupied—Marianne’s body, she presumed—reacted with an inexplicable, urgent need to flee.

The man—Ferdinand—crossed his arms, the fabric of his finely tailored robes shifting like liquid silk. "We are wasting precious time," he said, each word as crisp and cold as a winter frost. "We are hosting Dunkelfelger during tonight's formal dinner, and we cannot afford another... incident. Not before negotiations take place." His gaze snapped to the attendant wearing the wimple. "You are absolutely certain no one outside this chamber, apart from Lord Richart’s three retainers, is aware of what occurred?"

"Yes, Lord Ferdinand," the woman replied with a deep bow. "We’ve ensured complete discretion."

He turned back to Mary, his eyes narrowing as they met hers. She flinched, and something in his expression indicated that he was decidedly suspicious of her.

"She says she can’t remember where she is," Lady Rozemyne said softly, her voice threaded with concern. Turning back to Mary, she asked more gently, "Do you remember your name? Can you tell me where you are right now?"

Mary hesitated. But at the impatient shift of Lord Ferdinand’s weight, she blurted, "My name is Mary...anne. I’m in Alexandria, I think?"

Lady Rozemyne’s face creased with distress. "You 'think'? Or you 'know'?"

Mary faltered, lips parted, but no answer came.

Behind Rozemyne, her husband began to pace with growing agitation. "This is foolishness. We cannot afford to waste another moment." He stopped and addressed her sharply, "Marianne." The name struck like a verdict. "What possessed you to act so recklessly toward one of our honored guests—an archduke candidate from the first-ranked duchy, no less?"

"Ferdinand," Rozemyne interjected, her voice still melodic but now edged with steel, "please. The physician was clear—she must not be agitated. Her condition is delicate."

"I am merely stating facts, Rozemyne," he replied, not softening his stance. "If the daughter of the archduchess wishes to behave in such an idiotic fashion, she should at least be prepared to face the consequences."

His gaze swept over the attendants, all of which were lined up before him. And all except Elise tensed like a string of prisoners standing before a fusillade. "Were any of you aware of what she planned to do?"

"No, Lord Ferdinand," the head attendant replied. "Lady Marianne gave no indication whatsoever of her intentions."

Rozemyne turned back to Mary, her expression kind yet probing. "Can you remember anything at all? What happened? How you ended up here?"

"...No. I’m sorry," Mary murmured, voice trembling.

"Impulsive fool," Ferdinand muttered under his breath, though the words carried clearly in the hushed room. His tone was scornful, but something in his posture—the tightness of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brow—betrayed deeper concern. It wasn’t mere anger. It was worry, a worry that went beyond mere annoyance at social impropriety.

Mary noticed it, sensed the contradiction—but the recognition struck something brittle inside her, and it cracked. To her own shock, she felt her eyes well with sudden, overwhelming tears that spilled down her cheeks before she could stop them.

This emotional response shocked Mary to her core. Her own father had never been cruel or cold toward her, merely... indifferent. He had occasionally called her foolish and found amusement at her expense, but it had never provoked tears. She had no idea what transgression she—or rather, this Marianne—had committed to merit such rebuke, but if these were indeed nobles of the highest echelon or perhaps even royalty, then surely whatever had transpired was a serious matter.

Stop it. Stop crying over such things...

"I'm sorry," she whispered, wiping her tears and forcing herself to stop crying. Yet the words caught in her throat. "I'm just... terribly confused."

This must be a fever dream, she reasoned desperately. The last thing I remember is the physician at my bedside at Longbourn, and Hill and Sarah changing my sweat-soaked covers. I was alternating between chills and burning heat. I'm merely asleep. If I return to slumber, perhaps I'll awaken back home where I belong.

The stern, intimidating Lord Ferdinand moved closer to the bed. Lady Rozemyne shifted slightly to make room for him.

"Allow me to examine you," he said, his tone softening marginally as he reached toward Mary with elegant, long-fingered hands.

Mary instinctively flinched, shrinking back against the pillows.

A flicker of something—hurt? surprise?—passed across the scary man’s face before it quickly vanished behind a wall of regal composure.

"I see," he said stiffly, withdrawing his hand. "Perhaps your condition is more serious than the court physician has indicated. I shall question her again. Thoroughly."

Rozemyne looked between them, her distress evident in the small crease between her delicate brows. "Marianne, your father is only trying to help. You do recall that he's the most skilled physician in all of Alexandria?"

Mary stared back blankly.

Lady Rozemyne blinked and then her eyes widened with sudden comprehension. "Oh, no! Marianne, could it be you're suffering from amnesia? The attendants mentioned you struck your head quite badly against the marble garden bench when you fell... Could that be the explanation?" She turned in visible distress toward Lord Ferdinand, who had already begun striding toward the door. "Ferdinand! We have a serious problem!"

Mary winced at the thought of being subjected to more questioning. All she wanted was to return to sleep and somehow find her way back home. To escape this bewildering dream where people dressed in gorgeous flowing silks and veils, and where the sun shone with unnatural brilliance.

"I think I need to rest now," she murmured, sinking deeper into the pillows.

"Marianne!" Lady Rozemyne protested, reaching for her.

But Mary pulled the blankets over her head, leaving only a narrow gap to peek through. It was childish, even foolish—but she had reached her limit.

"She's fine," Ferdinand said coolly. "She's behaving exactly as she always does when confronted with the consequences of her actions. We should take our leave before our absence is noticed. Further discussion can wait until tomorrow. However—" his gaze sharpened, piercing through the veil of fabric, "—we cannot postpone the meeting with Aub Dunkelfelger. They will depart tonight. As you are in no shape to attend the negotiations, the arrangements for your betrothal to Lord Richart will be settled by your mother and me. If you dislike the outcome, do not blame us."

Engagement!?!?!

Mary gasped and threw back the covers, her eyes wide with disbelief. She turned to Lady Rozemyne, silently begging her to contradict him—but the woman’s gently sorrowful expression confirmed it.

Ferdinand turned to the head attendant, his voice clipped and authoritative. "Notify us immediately of any changes in her condition. And if you observe any... irregularities."

"I understand completely, my lord," the woman—Elise—replied, getting to one knee and crossing her arms over her chest. "I will see to it personally."

Without another word, Ferdinand strode toward the door.

"Rest now, Marianne," he commanded, pausing only to glance once more around the chamber. His voice was low and final. "And remain here. This incident must remain entirely confidential. We cannot afford even a whisper of scandal—not with so much at stake."

What does he mean? What is at stake here?

But Mary had no chance to ask. With that parting admonition, he swept from the room followed by two other men Mary hadn’t seen before; his dark cape billowed behind him like storm clouds.

Something about his departure caused an unexpected pang in Mary's chest—a mixture of longing and frustration that threatened to spill over into fresh tears. But also, an unfamiliar anger bubbled up within her.

Whoever I'm supposed to be is exhaustingly emotional, she thought wearily.

Lady Rozemyne lingered by the bedside, her expression softening into genuine maternal concern. "Don't mind your father too much," she said softly, adjusting Mary's covers with gentle hands. "He was truly frightened when we heard what had happened. We both were.” The lady sighed, “I just don’t understand it, the two of you used to get along so well…"

"I'm sorry," Mary said, not realizing that apologizing seemed to be her default response in this strange world, though she had no memory of whatever incident had caused such concern.

"Just rest now," Lady Rozemyne urged, rising gracefully from the bedside. "Your attendants will bring something for your headache. I must join the festivities downstairs. I would stay longer, but it’s your brother’s big day, and…"

"It's all right, mother," Mary replied, the words flowing naturally from her lips despite their strangeness. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Rest well, Mary," Lady Rozemyne murmured, bending to place a tender kiss on Mary's forehead—a maternal gesture that felt both foreign and achingly familiar.

Mary blinked in surprise at her apparent mother's use of that name, before realizing Rozemyne was using the shortened version of ‘Marianne’. It must be this girl's familiar name among her family.

After Lady Rozemyne's departure, the remaining attendants converged around the bed like a flock of colorful, eager birds. Some asked questions in concerned tones, others expressed their relief at her recovery, but above it all, Elise, the head attendant, raised her voice with authority.

"My Lady Marianne, that was an extraordinarily foolish and reckless thing to do!" she chastised, her formality not disguising her genuine concern. Despite having no recollection of what transgression she had committed, Mary felt a flush of shame color her cheeks.

Surely I did not commit some indiscretion with a gentleman?!

"Still!" a pink-haired attendant named Ermengarde exclaimed, her round face beaming with excitement. "Congratulations are in order! Though it didn't unfold precisely as you might have hoped, your betrothal is now all but certain!"

Mary gasped. She had almost forgotten about that significant detail.

"You were quite clever about it," Francesca added, offering her a drink which Mary accepted gratefully. "No, it was masterfully done, if somewhat... unconventional."

"The most dashing Archduke Candidate in your class," sighed another dreamily, arranging a tray of exotic, aromatic delicacies on the bedside table. The mingling scents of unfamiliar spices filled the air, but Mary was not hungry, and she shook her head when offered food.

"And so renowned for his exceptional skill in both high magic and swordsmanship," added a female guard near the door that Mary hadn’t even realized stood there.

Mary felt overwhelmed. Their voices swirled around her like a whirlwind of excitement and speculation. They moved with graceful efficiency—adjusting her pillows, laying out a robe of such fine silk it shimmered like flowing water, and replacing the goblet of water with a teacup into which a steaming amber liquid was poured.

"I..." Mary began, but no words came. Her mind was a storm of confusion.

"Enough!" Elise interrupted, silencing the room with a single word. "All that matters now is our lady's wellbeing. Congratulations are in order, of course. This is what you wanted... isn’t it, Lady Marianne?" Her voice gentled, but something shadowed her features—disappointment, perhaps, or sorrow poorly concealed.

"You've achieved your heart’s desire. Aren’t you pleased?"

Mary stared at her, bewildered. If this was truly a moment of triumph, why did Elise look at her with such aching sadness?

What does she see in my face that causes her to look so?

Unable to bear their attention a moment longer, Mary rolled from the bed and pushed past her fawning attendants. Her bare feet touched the cool marble floor as she stumbled toward a full-length mirror of polished silver. What she saw reflected there confirmed what she had suspected. She was not herself—not Mary Bennet—but a stranger of astonishing beauty.

Where was the chestnut brown hair she had always known? The unruly curls that never behaved properly no matter how diligently Sarah tried to tame them? Where were her wire-rimmed spectacles, her modest clothes—garments she hadn't replaced in years because she had better use of her allowance than to spend it on clothes?

The reflection that gazed back at her was a vision of ethereal loveliness. This could not possibly be her. She could never be... whoever was staring back with wide, frightened eyes.

Lady Marianne, daughter of the Archduchess of Alexandria.

The young woman in the mirror had flowing hair the exact shade as that of the scary man's—a silvery blue that seemed to capture the light. She possessed the same light golden eyes, the same sculpted facial structure. The same haughty tilt of the head. The same statuesque height and poise. Lord Ferdinand had been indisputably handsome, and this girl staring back at Mary was a feminine echo of him in nearly every respect—and no less breathtaking.

A bitter thought bubbled up unbidden in Mary's mind, joining her own feelings of inadequacy: I'm no Fernestine, and I never will be!

For her own part, Mary was thinking that it wasn't fair. Some girls had everything bestowed upon them by the grace of birth—beauty, wealth, status, adoration—while others received nothing. Yet, strangely, Mary realized she had never truly wished to be anyone but herself. Even in this dream where she had seemingly been granted everything she had once prayed for as a young girl—to possess beauty like Jane's, Elizabeth's charm, and the admiration of society—she found she did not want it. Not truly.

I want to go home...

The world spun dizzily around her. She needed to find a way back to Longbourn, back to her books and her pianoforte and her quiet, unremarkable life.

But she was surrounded on all sides. The attendants converged once more, eager to bathe her, pamper her, feed her, perfume her, brush her luxuriant hair, and shower her with endless attention. Mary could not bear it. The commotion pressed in like a physical weight, their questions and solicitous care crashing down on her like waves.

Too many people. I need to be alone!

Suddenly, her eyes landed on a barely noticeable seam in the wood paneling—a discreet door cleverly concealed in the wall. It called to her as if it had been waiting. Without thinking, Mary bolted. Before anyone could react, she pressed her palm to what instinct told her was an invisible activation circle. The panel gave way, revealing a hidden exit. She slipped through and disappeared beyond the shimmering, multicolored barrier.

She found herself in a long corridor of polished ivory that branched in two directions. Choosing one at random, she followed it into another wing of the enormous palace. Though no one had told her, she somehow knew this was a secure section—the family wing, accessible only to the Archducal family and their most trusted retainers.

She emerged into a gallery lined on one side with towering windows and on the other with an array of regal portraits and breathtaking artwork. Mary might have lingered to examine them, but realization struck with sudden urgency: if they discovered her missing, the entire household might be thrown into panic.

What was she thinking, running about like a madwoman in nothing but her nightclothes? Wasn’t her plan to return to bed and hope to wake up in England? That had been her intention. Yet, as she neared a set of doors that led onto a balcony, she found herself irresistibly drawn to the view beyond.

The wind swept back her hair as she stepped outside. Her thin nightgown clung to her frame in the breeze, the fabric pressing close against her as she stepped into the light.

Spread below her was a city of such splendor it stole her breath away. White buildings gleamed in the late afternoon sun like polished alabaster. Each structure appeared carved by masterful hands—graced with delicate spires, sweeping arches, and domed rooftops that caught and reflected the sunlight like scattered gems. Beyond the city's elegant expanse stretched a harbor of such radiant, sapphire-blue water that it seemed a story book fantasy made real. Meanwhile ships with brilliantly colored sails drifted across the bay, graceful as birds in flight.

So this was the sea! Mary, who had never traveled more than fifty miles from home, felt a sudden pang of regret for all the years she had spent dreaming of books instead of expanding her horizons. If the sea had always been this beautiful, why had she never gone to see it before?

Lines of Wordsworth—a poem she had committed to memory during her endless pursuit of accomplishment—rose unbidden to her mind:

Earth has not any thing to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning...

But after a moment of silent rapture, Mary recalled herself and, shaking free from her musings, she retreated from the balcony and back into the castle's interior. She quickened her pace to a near-run, acutely conscious of her inappropriate attire. The gossamer silk nightgown clung to her form in a manner that would scandalize even her least proper sister, Lydia. What if someone of consequence should see her in such a state of undress? She was sure her own mother would be scandalized if she saw her now.

Curiously, though, Mary noted that the grand corridors remained eerily deserted save for—Mary blinked twice to confirm her vision wasn't deceiving her—creatures resembling rabbits that walked upright on their hind legs. They wore miniature livery embroidered with what appeared to be the glyphs and magic circles. They were also armed. However, these unusual beings passed her without comment or concern, apparently untroubled by the sight of the archduchess's daughter wandering unaccompanied in her nightclothes.

Mary located a spiraling staircase at the far end of the gallery and descended it, her bare feet silent against the cool polished stone. She recognized—through knowledge not her own—that these steps would lead her to a level where she could access servant passages which traversed the castle's hidden arterial network. The stairway curved downward, deeper than she had anticipated, until she finally emerged into a dimly lit corridor.

Looking up through a high-set, narrow window, she could see the castle's majestic towers from below. They soared impossibly high, their saphire domes and ivory spires bathed in the golden glory of the afternoon sun, against a cloudless cobalt sky. With a jolt of realization, she understood she had descended too far. This wasn't a servant passage but the archive level—set on the basement of the castle. This was where the duchy’s documents and archives were preserved, and where only scholars ever entered.

Yet despite her error, she wasn't hopelessly lost; she could still find her way back through the labyrinthine castle. She couldn’t be too far off because far off she could hear the muted sounds of celebration—music and laughter floating on the air.

Ah, that explains the empty passages. Everyone must be attending the festivities.

But the exertion of racing through the vast castle had taken its toll on her unfamiliar body. Without warning, she felt herself go inexplicably and more than just uncomfortably hot; she also grew dizzy. The world tilted violently beneath her feet as though the stone floor had become an unsteady, rocking, boat. Darkness encroached from the periphery of her vision, steadily narrowing her sight to a small circle of fading light. From what seemed a great distance, she heard a voice call out in alarm as she felt herself plummeting toward the unyielding stone floor.

In the instant before impact, strong arms materialized to catch her failing body. The scent of parchment, ink, and a scent resembling sandalwood enveloped her as she was cradled against a firm chest.

"Lady Marianne? Is that you?" a warm, rich voice assured her, its tone both concerned and gentle.

"Not... quite," Mary whispered as consciousness slipped through her grasp like water through fingers. With immense effort, she forced her eyes open one last time. In the amber glow of the corridor's lamps, she glimpsed extraordinary eyes looking into hers—not common brown or blue, but a vibrant orange that seemed to glow with their own inner light, like twin harvest moons. A young man's face—one that stirred a flicker of recognition in the depths of her borrowed memories—hovered above her, his expression a mixture of concern and confusion as he spoke words that began to fade before reaching her understanding.

Darkness claimed her, and Marianne—or was it Mary?—knew no more.

Chapter Text

[Jane and Elizabeth pick flowers next to the house.]

JANE: He is just what a young man ought to be, Lizzy. Sensible, lively…and I never saw such happy manners.

ELIZABETH: Handsome too, which a young man ought to be if he possibly can....I give you leave to like him. You’ve liked many a stupider person.

JANE (chuckles): Dear Lizzy.

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 1 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

After darkness engulfed her, the flames came next.

Mary was burning alive from the inside out. But through the inferno consuming her thoughts, she caught fragments of an urgent voice—familiar, distinctly feminine, and utterly exasperated.

"Hey! Hey! Are you trying to get us killed?!"

What? Killed? No, indeed!

"Then get ahold of yourself! Compress! Compress!!"

Compress? The word drifted through Mary's fevered mind like smoke. She had no idea what this compressing entailed, and anyway before she could begin to puzzle it out, another consciousness swept over her thoughts like a tide. Suddenly, she found herself staring at a mental image: a box with its lid thrown open, radiating waves of molten heat—a lava-bright energy spilling from its edges in dangerous torrents.

Watch closely, her other self—Marianne—seemed to whisper directly into her mind. Mary watched, transfixed, as the brilliant flow of what could only be mana was methodically coaxed back into its container. Simultaneously, she felt something external drawing the excess heat from her body giving her precious relief.

Within moments, the scorching energy flow—the mana—was contained once more, sealed tight within the mental box that now required her constant vigilance to keep closed.

Here. Make sure to keep this tightly shut at all times, Marianne instructed before her presence faded entirely.

Mary groaned, her body heavy with exhaustion. She couldn't begin to explain it, but maintaining this imaginary box shut tight required tremendous concentration. In her mind’s eye, she pictured a heavy metal clamp fastened over the box and turned the handle again and again, tightening the screw with each turn until it could go no further. To her surprise, with each mental twist, she felt a small surge of relief—more space, less heat.

The strain of holding in that box’s contents eased considerably, and a faint sense of satisfaction crept in.

She didn’t even bother to dismiss the clamp, and left it there. If the heat threatened to overwhelm her again all she’d need to do would be to give another turn or two to the handle.

Remembering what Marianne had said, she was sure that she did not want a repeat of this… this…

What exactly had that overwhelming heat been? Was it the reason why she’d felt so abysmally hot and experienced those violent flare-ups since the moment she’d awakened in this ... world? Dream? …. Whatever this place was?

Where am I?

Her eyes fluttered open to find herself gazing up into a pair of concerned orange orbs. The young man she'd glimpsed before her collapse was leaning over her, carefully lifting what appeared to be a smooth black stone from her forehead. His touch had been surprisingly gentle.

"Oh no!" The realization struck her like lightning. "I was supposed to return to my chambers."

As she struggled to sit upright, the young man's voice stopped her—cultured, warm, with the precise diction of someone well-educated. "Easy there, my lady. You're covered in gold dust, and you've had quite the ordeal. Since you're conscious now, please allow me to summon your attendants."

Mary nodded weakly and studied her rescuer more carefully. Her first impression was of understated elegance—not the bold, commanding presence of officer-types like her younger sisters used to swoon over, but something far more refined.

His striking orange eyes held keen intelligence, while his scholarly features and long, graceful fingers spoke of someone more at home with books than swords. Chestnut brown hair, nearly the same shade as her own, was pushed neatly back from a broad, intelligent forehead, though she could tell there was a bit of curl in it that refused to be entirely tamed.

She knew scholarly types, they were often taciturn and socially awkward—much like her. Yet there was an unmistakable warmth in his gentle smile that put her at ease.

Her eyes widened in wonder, however, when he conjured a slender wand from thin air with a casual flick of his wrist. With practiced precision, he transformed a small golden pebble in his palm into a pristine white bird.

"Elise, this is Felix," he addressed the magical creature with the same easy familiarity one might use with a trusted servant. "Lady Marianne has collapsed in the archives. She has recovered consciousness and requires immediate assistance. Please come fetch her at once."

The bird launched itself into the air with another graceful flick of his wand, and Mary found herself gaping like a village simpleton until she remembered her manners. Slowly, mindfully, she sat up, grateful to discover that the thoughtful young man had draped a deep blue cloak over her to preserve her modesty—her nighttime attire had been much too thin and scandalously inappropriate. Even so, her entire front was dusted with a fine coating of golden powder that seemed to shimmer in the lamplight.

What in heaven's name is this about?

“Would you care for some tea?” the young scholar asked as she pondered over these things. Something inside her whispered caution, but Mary clung to the offer like a lifeline.

Tea!

Beautiful, dependable, familiar tea.

She nearly wept at the thought. Even in this strange world—or dream, or delusion—they drank tea. Tea meant civility. Tea meant safety. It was the universal gesture of civil people—whether between strangers, diplomats, or old friends.

So she nodded. “Yes, please.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as if satisfied at her answer. He stepped over to a bell pull by the door and gave it a gentle tug. Within moments, a liveried attendant appeared. A quiet word passed between them, and the servant slipped away to fetch the tea.

While she waited, Mary took in her surroundings.

She found herself lying on something luxuriously soft—a chaise lounge upholstered in rich burgundy velvet—in a room that felt like a scholar's paradise. The air was thick with the intoxicating perfume of aged parchment, leather bindings, and that indefinable scent of accumulated knowledge that could only have come from centuries of learning.

Ah... yes. This is more like it.

Ever since her awakening, she had felt like a displaced puzzle piece, but something about this secluded sanctuary with its towering shelves stretching toward the vaulted ceiling, crammed with leather-bound volumes, rolled scrolls, and wooden tablets, made her soul sing with recognition.

A massive oak table dominated the center of the room, its surface buried beneath towers of papers, open books, and scattered research materials. High-backed chairs were arranged along its length like silent sentinels. Warm amber light cascaded from ornate brass lamps suspended overhead, though their glow was supplemented by golden shafts of natural light filtering through narrow windows set high in the walls. The dancing dust motes revealed that they were definitely below ground level.

"Where am I?" Mary whispered, her voice barely audible in the hushed atmosphere.

"The archives," he replied as he approached her once more. A high-backed chair sat positioned near her chaise lounge, but it was occupied by a hefty leather-bound tome. With a soft chuckle, he lifted the chocolate-brown volume and set it carefully on the cluttered table before settling into the chair beside her. His dark amber eyes regarded her with undisguised curiosity and gentle concern.

"You're quite a distance from your usual quarters, I'm afraid." His expression grew puzzled, "I heard the door at the far end of the corridor creak open—most unusual, as it's rarely disturbed. Curiosity got the better of me, and when I went to investigate..." He spread his hands in a gesture of bewilderment. "I was rather shocked to discover you collapsing onto the stone floor. Quite the dramatic entrance, if you'll pardon my saying so."

Though his tone remained light, his sharp orange eyes were clouded with genuine concern. Before he could speak again, a soft flutter interrupted them—the tea had arrived, as had the little bird messenger he’d sent out earlier.

It settled on his outstretched arm and once he tapped it with his wand it chirped in Elise's crisp, efficient voice: "Understood. We are en route immediately. Keep Lady Marianne secure and ensure she remains out of sight at all costs. These orders come directly from Lady Rozemyne herself."

The message repeated twice more before the little creature shimmered and returned to its original form of a smooth, gold pebble. The scholar calmly caught it in his palm and tucked it somewhere within his robes. He sighed, more to himself than to her. “What were your retainers thinking, letting you wander around unescorted?”

Meanwhile, Mary was congratulating herself at having managed not to gape. Magic. Actual, audible, visible magic.

She had to be in a dream. That was the only explanation. Her thoughts were interrupted, though. At that moment, the impassive servant approached with a tray, and Mary gratefully accepted the offered cup. Forgetting every rule of etiquette, she took an eager sip of the fragrant brew. It was exquisite—steaming hot, richly herbal, with unfamiliar but delightful notes that bloomed on her tongue. Her eyes fluttered shut with genuine pleasure.

A muted gasp escaped both the servant and the scholar.

What are you even thinking! Do you want to get us killed?

The reprimand echoed in her head like thunder. Ah. Her eyes flew open as a sudden flood of memory and instinct washed over her. She had just broken one of the cardinal rules of noble etiquette. A noblewoman never drank first. She ought to have waited for the poison test. Always.

“I—I beg your pardon,” Mary stammered, a flush coloring her cheeks as she lowered her gaze. “I appear to be… somewhat deficient in memory at the moment.”

“Oh. So they weren’t exaggerating,” he murmured, his brows knitting together in genuine concern. “After what's happenede, you’ve lost your recollection?”

Mary released a small sigh—not quite ladylike—more irritable than she’d meant it to be. This vague phrase, after everything, had been uttered more than once now, and yet no one had seen fit to explain what everything actually entailed.

Squaring her shoulders, she carefully set her teacup down and directed a composed, if slightly strained, glance his way.

“Well,” she said, mustering all the dignity she could, but unfortunately sounding much too solemn to be Marianne-like, “since you appear to be singularly well-informed, would you be so obliging as to enlighten me? I realize this may be impertinent, but… what, pray, was your name again?”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard, then set his cup aside and—much to her dismay—knelt in full formality, arms crossed across his chest.

"Ah, a thousand pardons, Lady Marianne. I've been unconscionably presumptuous," he said, his voice carrying gentle solemnity despite the self-reproach in his tone. "My name is Felix. I serve as an archivist here, cataloging our older texts and restoring damaged manuscripts. I also dabble in magical tool creation as something of a... personal pursuit." He lifted his gaze to meet hers. "I would be honored to answer any question within my capabilities. However, while I am a castle scholar, I'm not privy to all information—matters of greater import would be better addressed to your own retainers or your lady mother's advisors. But what I can share, I gladly will."

"Please, rise," Mary said softly. "There's no need for such formality."

He stood gracefully, brushing invisible dust from his robes. He cleared his throat, and paused for a second as if looking for the right words. "Not many are aware of the full circumstances, but it comes down to this: you proposed to Lord Richart of Dunkelfelger this afternoon. You intended to issue bridal challenges—a time-honored tradition among Dunkelfelger women when proposing marriage to a nobleman." A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he swiftly suppressed it. "Unfortunately, in the confusion that followed... well, the exact details remain unclear, but Lord Richart somehow caused you to take a rather spectacular fall in the garden. You hit your temple against a bench as you went down."

Mary closed her eyes, chasing a wisp of memory that danced just beyond her grasp like smoke in the wind. She followed it as far as she could before it retreated entirely into the shadows of her mind. But one terrible truth crystallized:

"He refused me?" The words emerged barely above a whisper, heat flooding her cheeks as fragments of mortifying recollection surfaced. She opened her eyes to find Felix's face etched with genuine sympathy.

"He did," Felix confirmed, his voice impossibly gentle, as though he could feel the sting of her humiliation as keenly as she did. "Please, don't torment yourself over it. Very few people are aware of what transpired. The Archduchess and Lord Ferdinand, along with Aub Dunkelfelger and his wife Lady Einliebe, are maintaining discretion about the matter. Your reputation remains intact."

His knowledge seemed remarkably comprehensive for a mere archivist. When Mary voiced this observation, Felix offered a somewhat sheepish smile. "Any castle scholar worth his position makes it his business to stay informed about significant events within these walls.”

Sounds exactly like his father, came a spiteful whisper from the depths of her consciousness.

Apparently, Marianne was less than impressed with Felix's methods. But Mary dismissed the criticism entirely. This scholar had shown her more kindness and practical assistance than any noble she'd encountered since her awakening.

She was preparing to ask more questions when her retinue swept into the room, their faces displaying a mixture of relief and concern.

"Lady Marianne!" Elise's voice carried the crisp authority of someone who takes her job very seriously and was very displeased indeed. And something in the firm set of her jaw and the steel in her gaze suggested that Marianne's head attendant was preparing a thorough reprimand for this recklessness—one that would be delivered in full once they reached the safety of her chambers. After what Mary had just learned, she felt more than willing to endure whatever lectures and scolding awaited her.

Her attendants had brought a proper robe to cover her immodest attire, rendering Felix's gold-dusted cloak unnecessary. As they efficiently arranged her clothing and prepared for departure, Elise and Felix shared a few quiet words which Mary was unable to hear, and anyway soon Mary found herself being guided toward the door with gentle but inexorable hands.

At the threshold, however, she stopped and turned back. Felix stood near the chaise lounge, holding his dusty blue cloak against his chest, watching her departure with those thoughtful orange eyes of his.

"I fear I have imposed terribly." she said softly, offering him a sincere smile that came from her heart. "I am indebted to you, Felix."

The transformation of his expression was startling—his eyes widened in complete astonishment, his mouth falling slightly open as though she had spoken words of profound significance rather than simple gratitude. For a moment, he looked as stunned as if she had just announced her intention to become Queen.

Before she could question his extraordinary reaction, her attendants formed a protective circle around her, their gentle but insistent guidance carrying her away from the archives. The last image she retained was Felix's bewildered face, still frozen in that expression of utter amazement, watching her disappear into the corridor beyond.

Chapter Text

MR BINGLEY: I hope you do not find Miss Bennet worse than you expected.

MRS BENNET: Indeed, I do, sir. She is very ill, indeed, and suffers a vast deal. Though with the greatest patience in the world, for she has the sweetest temper, Mr Bingley. But she is a great deal too ill to be moved. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.

MR BINGLEY: But of course.

MISS BINGLEY: Miss Bennet will receive every possible attention, Ma’am, I assure you.

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 1 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

Mary reclined languidly on an opulent chaise lounge upholstered in midnight-blue velvet, a gossamer coverlet trimmed in gold thread cascading over her legs, catching the sunlight that streamed through the arched doors of her private balcony. She faced the bay beyond, where the sapphire waters of the harbor glittered as white-sailed ships glided across the surface of the sea like swans over a bejeweled pond.

Though summer had officially arrived, a deliciously cool breeze drifted through the open balcony doors, setting the sheer curtains dancing like ethereal spirits. According to Marianne’s memories, it should have been sweltering in the bustling city below, but the castle, set in its lofty perch, caught the coolest, freshest winds—breezes tinged with the salty tang of the sea and the sweet perfume of the terraced gardens cascading below all the way down the hill toward the harbor.

With a contented sigh of deep satisfaction, Mary set aside her leather-bound tome—a dense treatise on magecraft that her former self would have found not only daunting but utterly incomprehensible. Now, thanks to Marianne’s superior education, its contents flowed easily through her mind. Closing her eyes briefly to rest them, she then opened them and turned her gaze beyond the balcony railings, toward the distant country gate shining on the blue horizon.

It had now been four days since her arrival in this strange, magical, bewildering, sun-drenched world.

Each night since waking in Alexandria, Mary had gone to bed with the same earnest prayer: that she might open her eyes and find herself back in her father’s manor in Hertfordshire—snug in her modest bed beneath her covers, the familiar gray English skies beyond the window, and the comforting scent of lavender rising from the freshly laundered linens. She missed the quiet pleasure of sitting at her pianoforte, with Sarah’s carefully arranged vase of lilies, lavender, and roses set nearby during summer and spring seasons—a small gesture that Mary always appreciated and looked forward to.

In short, she missed her comfortable everyday routine.

But every morning, she opened her eyes to the shimmering sea, to sunlit waves dancing beyond the balcony, and to the undeniable reality that she was still trapped in the body of the breathtakingly beautiful Marianne of Alexandria. And with each passing day, her hopes of returning to England dimmed just a little more.

She tried to take naps whenever possible—half out of habit, half out of a desperate hope that she might simply wake up properly one of these times. But every time she woke she felt her soul settle a little more inside the body she occupied, almost as if it was getting used to a new home. Marianne’s body was becoming more and more a part of herself, and a quiet voice in her heart had begun to whisper the truth: she was here to stay.

Last night, Mary had finally confronted the truth with unflinching honesty. There would be no miraculous return to her former life. The realization had overwhelmed her, and she found herself weeping silently into her silk pillows—only to receive a sharp mental rebuke.

Stop it! Stop this pathetic display immediately! Marianne's voice cracked like a whip through her consciousness. You're going to wake up with your face blotchy and swollen, and Elise will make an enormous fuss. If she reports that you've been crying, I'll never forgive you for the humiliation. Never! Never!!

The vehemence of that scolding startled Mary into action. She swallowed her tears and slipped from beneath the covers, padding barefoot across the cool marble floor to the washbasin where she splashed some cool water on her face. The shock of cold water against her heated skin helped clear her head, and she gently patted her face dry with a monogrammed cloth softer than anything she'd ever owned.

When she lifted her gaze to the silvered mirror above the dresser, a stranger looked back—yet no longer quite as alien as before. Marianne's reflection seemed to shimmer in the moonlight streaming through the tall windows, her pale blue hair catching the silver beams like spun starlight. The face that met her eyes was elegant and serene, with an innate nobility that Mary had never possessed.

The truth was as inescapable as it was bewildering: she was no longer Mary Bennet of Longbourn, but Marianne of Alexandria—and if she was entirely honest this transformation wasn't entirely without its compensations.

For starters, being a wealthy, pampered, and undeniably beautiful young noblewoman had distinct advantages—particularly when that position afforded her the luxury of spending entire days immersed in reading—without needing to use spectacles, too!—undisturbed by the mundane concerns that had once consumed her previous existence. She needn't worry about not getting married; she was attractive and wealthy enough. Besides, had not her glacial father already promised to see to the arrangements? Perhaps, she thought with growing wonder as the first rays of dawn crept into her room, this strange new life might offer opportunities her old one never could.

Despite Marianne’s indifference toward scholarly pursuits, Mary found herself genuinely grateful for the young woman’s rigorous tutoring. History, mathematics, religion, etiquette, politics, music, and much, much more had all been meticulously crammed into her mind from an early age—an education befitting a high-born noblewoman.

As expected of an aristocrat, Mary thought with a touch of envy.

Her own education, by contrast, had been haphazard at best. By the time Mary had resolved to better herself and become a truly accomplished young woman, circumstances conspired against her. Her elder sisters had already completed their studies and no longer required instruction, while her younger sisters, Kitty and Lydia, had vocally declared their complete and utter disdain for any more book-learning. Faced with such universal disinterest from her daughters, and firmly convinced that her girls had received all the book-learning they’d need to secure a husband, Mrs. Bennet had promptly dismissed the family tutor. Instead, she summoned the village modiste to prepare elaborate wardrobes for her daughters' upcoming debuts—an investment she deemed far more practical than any further education.

And so Mary, the perpetually forgotten middle child, found her formal education severed precisely at its halfway point. Left to her own devices, she struggled to continue her studies in isolation, cobbling together fragments of knowledge from whatever books she could obtain and clinging to the passing words of learned individuals. She would secretly jot down quotes, titles, and references—hoarding anything that might further her self-improvement.

She recalled being utterly captivated by her cousin Mr. Collins, hanging on his every word as he displayed what seemed to her an impressive repository of knowledge which was tempered by a deep piety that she found truly admirable. He had been a welcome intellectual addition in the desert of Longbourn's mundane concerns—until he departed before she could summon the courage to truly engage him in meaningful conversation. The missed opportunity to explore the depths of his mind and draw from his vast store of wisdom had left her with a profound sense of regret.

In the end, Mary's education resembled a quilt pieced together from discarded scraps—colorful perhaps, but lacking the steady hand of a master craftsman to transform the disparate pieces into something whole and beautiful. Without the wise guidance of proper tutors to shape her learning into the structured foundation that would make her truly educated, she had been left with a shallow understanding of the world, broad in some places and riddled with bewildering gaps in others. Her hunger for knowledge burned with genuine passion—a flame that had sustained her through countless solitary hours bent over borrowed books and half-remembered lessons. Yet over the years, she had become painfully self-aware of her limitations. The haphazard nature of her self-instruction left her feeling perpetually inadequate, like a scholar who had memorized fragments of great works without understanding the deeper currents that connected them. She knew enough to recognize the vast territories of her ignorance, which only made the awareness more acute.

She desperately wanted to believe her solitary efforts had yielded some fruit and had not altogether been in vain, but how she envied what Marianne had taken for granted: dedicated parents who prioritized their children's intellectual development, a strict and systematic education, and a veritable army of accomplished instructors and scholars at her disposal. What Mary had struggled to cobble together through the years, Marianne had received as her birthright.

What a fortunate girl, Mary mused as she glanced around her, at the gleaming ivory palace that was now her home, the luxurious surroundings, and the solid leather-bound volume in her hands. Her magical education alone was enough to grant a more than thorough competence—

Oh, believe me. It was thorough, came a sudden, bitter voice in her mind—familiar now and unmistakably Marianne’s. HE always saw to that.

Mary rolled her eyes.

Why was Marianne always sulking? She had everything—beauty, position, a loving family, and a world of opportunity.

What could you possibly be so unhappy about?

Marianne did not bother to answer. Instead, she withdrew in high dudgeon, receding once more into the quiet recesses of Mary’s consciousness, leaving only silence behind.

Mary frowned, briefly unsettled. She had access to almost all of Marianne’s memories when she needed them, except for those involving her father so Mary had no idea why their relationship was so fraught. But after a moment’s thought, she decided Marianne was probably just going through some adolescent moodiness. She would grow out of it soon enough.

With that, Mary stretched luxuriously, like a pampered cat basking in sunlight. Marianne’s long, supple limbs unfurled with elegant ease before she sank back into her nest of silk pillows, soft and cloud-like all around her. Reaching for her teacup on the delicate side table, she discovered to her dismay that she had already drained the last precious drop.

Quicquid coepit et desinit—all things that begin must end—Mary mused with a wistful sigh, setting down the empty cup and picking up her book again.

"Lady Marianne, shall I refill your teacup?" A soft murmur came from the blonde-haired Francesca, one of her younger attendants.

Mary looked up in surprise—she was yet to get used to having attendants of her own—and offered a small nod of consent. Moments later, her delicate porcelain cup, painted with intricate patterns she now recognized as functional magical circles rather than mere decoration, was refilled with a steaming amber liquid. Mary accepted the offering with both hands, inhaling deeply before taking her first sip. The rising steam carried an exquisite bouquet of citrus brightness and floral elegance—notes reminiscent of bergamot and jasmine, enhanced by some exotic spice that danced tantalizingly beyond identification. It was nothing short of aromatic bliss.

Part of her longed to express her appreciation to the earnest young woman. Francesca and her fellow attendants were so attentive, so genuinely concerned for her wellbeing, that their devotion sometimes made Mary feel almost unworthy of such care. She yearned to thank them properly, perhaps even to inquire about the tea's fascinating blend of ingredients. However, uncertainty held her tongue—she was having difficulty adopting the easy familiarity and banter that Marianne had with her retainers.

Such effusiveness was too much to ask an English person, after all.

In the end, Mary settled for a single, meaningful nod of gratitude, hoping the gesture conveyed the depth of her pleasure.

"My lady," came the more authoritative voice of Elise, her head attendant, "It is almost fourth bell. Do you feel well enough to join the family for the midday meal?"

A third voice, bright and eager, joined the conversation. Plump and pretty Ermengarde with the rose-pink hair stepped forward with obvious enthusiasm, a stunning blue gown draped carefully across her arms. "Since the summer season has truly arrived, perhaps you'd prefer to wear something from your new wardrobe? The Gilberta seamstresses delivered the most exquisite creations yesterday—those gowns crafted from the silk our Aub procured from Batawia."

Mary sighed inwardly as she met Elise's penetrating gaze and the other retainers' hopeful faces. Mary could feel their unspoken worry as clearly as the words on her book. But… but she just wasn’t ready. Her spirit quailed at the prospect of having to go out and face the people that she was supposed to call family.

Besides the mother and father she had already met, there were the siblings that she had yet to meet. Lady Letizia, her adoptive older sister who was much older than any of them, was now happily married to Lord Hildebrand Aub of Blumenfeld, so there was no danger of having to meet her. But then there were her brothers, all of whom still lived at home in Alexandria.

Four of them, in fact

Frederick the heir apparent (and Griselde from Dunkelfelger, his bride to be, whom Marianne was very close friends with), followed by her dour and distant twin brother Mynard, artistic and reclusive Arminius, and Leonard, the family's youngest darling. Though the extended family, made up of her uncles and others who had come in from the neighboring duchy of Ehrenfest when her mother had become archduchess of Alexandria, wasn't vast, their bonds were legendarily close-knit—a prospect that filled Mary's timid heart with dread.

They would surely see through her.

Each day, her mother—the gracious Lady Rozemyne—visited Mary's chambers, and each day the cloud of worry shadowing that beautiful woman's features grew darker and more pronounced. Even for the sake of such evident maternal concern, Mary found herself unable to venture beyond these walls. Not yet.

Or perhaps it was Marianne's own body that instinctively resisted facing up to whatever she had done. Though Mary didn't yet fully comprehend the incident's details, she couldn't blame Marianne for her reluctance—especially if the most formidable figure she would have to face was that stern, ice-cold man that was Marianne’s father, whose very presence seemed to freeze the air around him.

One more day, she bargained with herself. Just one more day. Then I'll face them all.

"I shall take my meal here today," she said softly, her voice carrying gentle but unmistakable finality. "I'm still not quite... myself."

Elise's expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "Of course, my lady. I shall arrange for lunch to be brought to your chambers immediately."

Mary understood her attendant's frustration, but the woman's hands were bound by the physician's stern proclamation. Lady Marianne, she had declared with grave authority, must not be subjected to any further shocks, jolts, or unpleasant stimuli, lest her delicate mental state suffer irreparable damage. And so, for four blissful days following "the incident," Mary had been granted the unprecedented luxury of absolute freedom within her gilded cage.

She returned to her reading with renewed focus, losing herself in the theoretical applications of omnielemental compounding. The academic language flowed through her consciousness like a familiar melody, far more comprehensible than it had any right to be. Only when her head attendant gently tapped her open book did Mary reluctantly surface from her scholarly depths.

"Lunch is served, my lady," announced Elise.

Mary exhaled softly, a whisper of resignation escaping her lips as she surrendered her precious tome to her attendant's waiting hands. She rose from the velvet chaise with newfound grace—every gesture now possessed an ethereal elegance that still surprised her—her silk night robe flowing around her like liquid moonbeams. Down the spiral staircase she glided, leaving behind her private sanctuary for the formal chambers in the lower floor. She passed the sumptuously furnished rooms—all freshly decorated to match the seasonal blue of summer—and went through an arched entry where the breakfast room alcove awaited her, with jeweled light streaming through stained glass, casting prisms of color across a table that Mary could almost hear groaning beneath an impressive array of culinary masterpieces.

The feast spread before her was a testament to the castle's wealth and the kitchen staff's skill: roasted vegetables with fowl, flavored with herbs, delicate, flaky pastries filled with spiced fruit jam from distant lands, fresh bread and butter still warm from the ovens and glistening with herb-infused oils, plus an elegant arrangement of seasonal fruits, nuts, and aged cheeses that had been carefully selected for their complementary flavors. Crystal decanters caught the light like captured rainbows, holding ruby juices and amber nectars that seemed to glow from within. Smaller vessels contained sauces and preserves that sparkled like liquid gemstones.

And, of course, there was her favorite consommé—a clear, golden elixir that had become her daily solace. As Mary understood, it was Marianne's preferred comfort food which her cooks always prepared for her when she was sick or out of sorts.

True, the sophisticated cuisine bore little resemblance to the English fare of her previous life, and some dishes carried spice blends fiery enough to bring tears to her eyes. But for four enchanted days, she had savored flavors more complex and satisfying than anything her former world had ever offered.

Mary took her place at the table, then paused—as she always did—caught between worlds in the moment before prayer. She remained a God-fearing Christian, unable to cast aside her faith for what she could only view as the heretical beliefs of these people. Yet not praying at all was impossible—Elise had almost fainted when Mary had at first refused to pray, and so with a sigh Mary prayed out loud a prayer of compromise, keeping all mention of all gods besides the Supreme God:

“O mighty King of the endless skies who doth grace us with thousands upon thousands of lives to consume, I offer thanks and prayers to thee, and do take part in the meal so graciously provided.”

Then, keeping her head bowed in reverent silence, she whispered from her heart the familiar words her father had spoken at every meal: "Bless, O Lord, this food to our use and us to your service, and make us ever mindful of the needs of others; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

When she lifted her eyes, she found her attendants regarding her with barely concealed curiosity, their expressions quickly smoothing into professional composure as they began serving her.

Mary watched admiringly as they moved in perfect synchronization. Between the undeniable luxury of palace life and the endless procession of perfectly steeped teas, between the miracle of her restored sight and the unprecedented freedom to pursue knowledge without judgment—no garrolous mother to question and bemoan her choices, no dismissive father to mock her scholarly endeavors —Mary found herself embracing this strange new existence with growing wonder.

Heathenish ways notwithstanding.

Yes, she mused, lifting the consommé to her lips and letting its golden warmth bloom across her palate, I could indeed grow accustomed to this life.

The realization brought a small, secret smile to her lips as she settled in to enjoy yet another magnificent feast in her tower sanctuary, suspended between the glittering sea below and the endless sky above.

One more day before facing whatever awaited her. One more precious day of solitude.

Or so she believed, until an ordonnanz—one of those messenger birds people used to communicate here—flew in with word that Frederick, her eldest brother, was already en route to meet with her.

Chapter Text

GEORGIANA: ...My brother never exaggerates. He always tells the absolute truth. Except that sometimes I think he is a little too kind to me.

ELIZABETH: An ideal elder brother, then.

GEORGIANA: Oh, yes. I could not imagine a better or a kinder one.

ELIZABETH: You make me feel quite envious. I have no brothers at all, only four sisters.

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 5 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

Mary's consommé-laden spoon froze halfway to her lips as she listened with wide, apprehensive eyes to the ordonnanz's message—her eldest brother Frederick was en route.

Oh, Lord! What am I to say if he starts asking questions?

She turned to her attendants in barely concealed panic at the upcoming invasion. Elise offered a reassuring smile.

"I'm certain Lord Frederick won't mind that you're wearing a lounging dress, my lady. Your brother has never been able to distinguish a morning gown from a riding habit."

That's hardly what concerns me!

Mary rose abruptly from her chair. "Can you tell him I'm indisposed?” she remembered how her mother often excused herself from things she didn’t want to do, “Tell him that my head... my head is very ill."

But before anyone could respond, a warm, laughing male voice drifted through the chamber: "Why don't you tell him that yourself, Mary?"

Mary whirled to see her brother—Marianne's brother—striding confidently through the open garden doors and into the breakfast room. Before conscious thought could intervene, words tumbled from her lips:

"Freddie! How many times must I tell you—you cannot simply barge in here unannounced! Only women are allowed in this villa!"

Frederick, possessing the same devastating handsomeness as their father but mercifully lacking his glacial aloofness, faltered. "But I did announce myself! Didn't you receive my message?"

"It hardly counts when you're flying directly behind your own ordonnanz," Marianne—for it was surely Marianne speaking now—replied with a resigned sigh.

Mary sank back into her chair, surprised by how effortlessly she’d slipped into easy banter with this stranger. There was an unexpected comfort in it—a strange sense of familiarity, as if she were speaking with someone she’d known for years. While so much about this new life left her disoriented, Marianne's consciousness seemed to emerge when needed, speaking through her with familiar ease.

Frederick was tall and broad-shouldered, striking in every sense of the word. His dark green hair—long enough to brush his shoulders—and locks falling over his brows gave him a wild almost rakeish air, while his brilliant blue eyes gleamed with good-natured mischief. He moved with the quiet confidence of a man thoroughly at ease in his own skin. Yet unlike the boisterous redcoats of her youth, there was nothing braggadocious about him. His presence was commanding, but not overbearing—he was evidentlh a man of action who didn’t need to prove himself to anyone.

“Elise,” Mary said, turning to her attendant, “please set another place for my brother.”

She looked to Frederick. “I assume you haven’t had lunch?”

“You assume correctly,” he said, dropping easily into the chair beside her. He leaned back, surveying the room with open curiosity: the gorgeous Klassenberg paintings, the potted plants, the seasonal decoration all in blue and gold, the fine table settings and flowers in cristal vases, “It’s been a while since I was last here. You’ve made quite a few changes.”

Then, with a pointed look that carried the weight of sibling scrutiny, he added, "You're not charging all these luxuries to the duchy, are you?"

Marianne lifted her chin with imperious defiance. "If you're suggesting I'm misusing my allowance and abusing my privileges, you'd best retract that accusation immediately."

Frederick gave an unconvinced snort. "Fine," he conceded with a grunt that fell somewhere between agreement and resignation.

"Besides," she continued, her voice taking on a sharper edge, "I know you resent that I convinced Mother to perform the Entwickeln so I could have my own villa. But I'm leaving it all to you and your betrothed once I marry out of the duchy, so cease your grumbling."

"Not just any Entwickeln, Mary." Frederick's tone grew more serious. "They demolished an entire wing and relocated the archives to the basement for your sake. Then they constructed this place—complete with gardens and topiary that require shocking amounts of water and mana to maintain, indoor and outdoor swimming pools, fountains, a music room, a menagerie, a solarium, a salon, more bedrooms than you and your staff could possibly require..." He paused, fixing her with a steady look. "I’m not here to meddle in your affairs… just, as long as you don't leave the duchy in financial ruin before your departure, I'll be satisfied."

This revelation struck Mary like a thunderbolt. She had spent these past days sequestered in her tower loft, venturing only across the small bridge to her sleeping chamber or down for meals. If Frederick spoke truly, she was living in far more opulence than she'd imagined. Marianne, however, remained entirely unruffled. She waited until Frederick had been served and the attendants had withdrawn to a respectful distance before continuing.

"It's all bribery, and you know it perfectly well, Freddie. Nothing but a gilded cage designed to keep me content within the duchy's borders." Her voice carried a bitter undertone. "You know it is."

Frederick poured himself juice, his expression souring when he discovered it was sweet rutreb. He had never favored sweet beverages. "This again," he murmured under his breath, though Mary couldn't discern whether he referred to the juice or Marianne's accusation.

"Yes, this again," she insisted, her voice growing more passionate. "You know it's true. Father will never truly listen to me. He simply wants me safely tucked away in here, content with my pretty prison. But a cage remains a cage, however beautifully appointed."

Marianne shook her head, as if physically dismissing the troublesome topic. Having finished with her soup she next started on the roast vegetables and fowl. "But enough of that. Why this urgent visit? Is everything well? Has Griselde settled in properly?"

The corner of Frederick's mouth quirked upward in a distinctly roguish smile. "Oh, don't concern yourself about her. I'm ensuring she feels quite at home."

Mary caught the unmistakable undertone immediately—there was something decidedly improper, even lecherous, in his tone. Marianne detected it as well, her expression shifting to one of frank disgust as she curled her lip. "How revolting. Don't speak to me in such terms about my precious friend."

"You're impossibly evil-minded!" Frederick protested, though his grin suggested he wasn't entirely displeased by the accusation. "As if I would attempt anything untoward while Griselde is under Mother's watchful care. I've simply been showing her about the city. We went sailing this morning." His expression grew more pointed. "You were meant to join us don't you remember?"

Mary blinked in confusion. "I was?"

"You were actually supposed to host the welcome celebration aboard your yacht. It was just going to be her and the five of us siblings (and our retainers)." Frederick's face grew grave and he set down his utensils as he studied her blank expression. "So they weren't exaggerating. You truly did injure your head quite badly, didn't you?"

The words struck something deep within Mary's consciousness, and suddenly she could recall—or rather, Marianne could recall—days spent meticulously planning an intimate boat party in the bay to welcome her dearest friend. They were all meant to attend, even that notorious wet blanket Mynard.

Frederick reached across the small space between them, his touch surprisingly gentle as he lightly brushed aside a lock of light blue hair falling over her brow, and examined her temple with careful fingers. "No visible injuries, at least," he murmured, his earlier teasing replaced by genuine brotherly concern.

Mary's eyes met her brother's, and she swallowed reflexively. Such intimate gestures felt foreign to her, and she instinctively drew back—just as she had with Marianne's father. What an affectionate family this was. It startled her, for she had never imagined high nobility could be so warm and demonstrative in their familial bonds.

I suppose I must grow accustomed to it…

Frederick returned to his meal without comment. He didn't devour his food but ate with practiced refinement and elegance, cutting his roasted fowl into precise portions and savoring each bite thoughtfully. Mary found herself mechanically chewing the tender vegetables and meat, their savory gravy was suddenly tasteless on her tongue as tension filled the air between them.

He remained lost in contemplation as they dined, the soft clink of silver against porcelain the only sound breaking their companionable silence. Frederick paused to sample one of the delicate pastries, his expression brightening momentarily at the exotic spiced filling, while Mary pushed a piece of herb-crusted bread around her plate without appetite.

At length, he set down his fork and reached for the crystal goblet with the nectar-sweetened iced tea. He swirled the amber liquid before speaking.

"Regarding your earlier question about why I'm here—I should think it's obvious, no? We're all deeply concerned about you. Mother is beside herself with worry. Father is..." Frederick paused, taking a slow, deliberate sip of his drink. The hesitation in his tone spoke volumes, and Mary suddenly realized that even Frederick’s relationship with their father might not be as smooth as one would expect.

Frederick, the heir presumptive—surely he should have been the apple of their parents’ eye. Doted on, admired, unshakably favored.

Interesting.

"Well,” He continued, “In short he's not particularly pleased with how things are going, even after he basically pummeled Lord Lestilaut during negotiations. You know father.”

Mary did not know, but nodded anyway. She was beginning to form a mental sketch of Lord Ferdinand, and what Frederick described certainly matched the impressions she had gathered.

“The others are desperate to see you.” He continued, “Leo is almost in tears, asking if you’ve climbed the towering staircase.”

Marianne winced. Mary did not understand why.

Frederick's gaze lingered on her, steady and searching. And for the first time in her life, Mary felt what it might be like to have an older brother—truly have one who was of her blood, not one through her sisters’ marriage. His expression held no teasing, no superiority, only quiet concern and deep affection. It startled her more than she cared to admit.

She had grown up surrounded by sisters, but not one of them had ever looked at her the way Frederick did now—the two oldest ones and the two younger ones had clung to each other. Mary had often felt that she had been left to fend for herself in many ways than one.

But now here was someone who saw her as someone worth protecting. Worth worrying about. After the surprise of the realization wore off, the thought of having Frederick for an older brother settled over her like a warm shawl. She really couldn't help but be pleased.

This was why Marianne’s consciousness had stirred so easily in his presence.

This was her favorite brother. Her confidant.

And she, his.

Of course he was the heir presumptive. He was commanding and reliable—but his composure concealed a heart readily moved by kindness, and an earnest desire to do good. In short, he was a man whom one might honour without effort, and love without condition.

Frederick leaned back in his chair and heaved a gentle sigh as he confessed, "I also wanted to assess your condition myself, little sister. Especially after..." His words trailed off meaningfully…

"After Father declared that my engagement to Richart is all but finalized," Marianne finished with quiet resignation.

The words struck Mary like a physical blow. Suddenly she felt a crushing weight settle in her chest, her throat constricting until she could barely swallow or draw breath. Then, without warning or explanation, Marianne simply... vanished.

What are you doing? Don't abandon me here with him!

Silence.

Marianne???

. . .

Very well, she said to herself, rising with all the dignity she could command, if there is sense to be found in this body, it must, I suppose, begin with me. I must endeavour to meet this situation with whatever prudence I can summon, and learn more about my situation.

Determined not to give herself away, Mary smoothed her skirts and turned to Frederick. "I believe we've both had our fill of luncheon, yes? Shall we take a turn about the garden, brother?"

She tried to give a convincing smile, however what came out was a shaky nervous grin. Still, she was relieved when Frederick nodded and also rose.

“I thought you'd never ask.”

- - -

It would appear that what Frederick thought Mary meant by the garden was a totally different thing than she had in mind. For, rising, he pressed his hand to a section of the wall panneling and a door opened.

Mary wasn't entirely surprised by this—she had made her own escape using just such a hidden passage. Yet she found herself quite startled when Frederick took her hand in his warm grasp and drew her through the multicolored barrier, down the ivory corridor beyond, and through a different door than the one she had used before.

This time, they emerged into a garden.

Not just any garden within the palace grounds, but one in an utterly secure location accessible only to the archducal couple and their children. No retainers, not even the most trusted guard knights, could breach this sanctuary.

The secret garden—Mary somehow knew its name instinctively.

And she understood its purpose as well.

This was where the family could speak with complete candor, without fear of being overheard by anyone else.

"Umm..." Mary began to feel deeply uneasy as fragments of Marianne's memories flickered through her consciousness like distant lightning.

She didn't even have time to appreciate the breathtaking beauty surrounding her—the sweeping vista of the cerulean ocean beyond, the intoxicating fragrance and luminous splendor of a hundred different varieties of exotic flowers blooming around them.

No time at all.

Frederick released her hand and gestured for her to take a seat in one of the elegant chairs positioned beneath the dappled shade of a potted tree whose branches entwined about the pergola above them.. Then, with a deeply exasperated sigh, he positioned himself directly before her and asked with stern authority that surpassed even that of Lord Ferdinand and made Mary’s heart shrink:

"What the hell were you thinking, Marianne?"

Ah… so this is another side of having an elder brother.

She wasn't sure she liked it after all.

Chapter Text

[Mary plays the piano in a stately fashion while everyone else is socializing]

LYDIA: A ball? Who’s giving a ball? I long for a ball… If Mary would only play something, we could dance with the offices now. [Runs to where Mary is playing] Mary! Mary let’s have no more of that dull stuff. Play something jolly, we want to dance!

[The room goes silent as they watch the drama unfold.]

MARY: But there are still two movements. Mamma! Tell them it isn’t fair!

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 1 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

Mary returned to her chambers much later, pale and trembling like a leaf in an autumn gale. As soon as the discreet door in the wall panel clicked shut behind her, she leaned heavily against it, and heaved a great sigh as though the weight of the day had finally found her shoulders. Frederick’s words still rang in her ears—stern, cutting, and painfully honest.

No one had ever spoken to Mary in such a way before—not even her father Mr. Bennet!

Mortification burned in her bosom. He’d talked to her as if she was a child still in her leading strings, a simpleton, something which Mary resented exceedingly, especially because she was innocent of any wrongdoing. Mingled with the mortification, there was also a rankling sense of injustice that burned hotly within her.

Marianne, the selfish girl, was nowhere to be found.

As she looked around her at the familiar and comfortable chambers, her attendants rushed to her side.

“My lady—!”

“Elise,” Mary interrupted, her voice thinner than she’d meant, “pray be so good as to summon all my retainers. Every one of them. I have something of importance to say.”

Elise blinked, startled by both the command and the tone. Mary had not given any of them a single request or command since waking. “At once, my lady. Though… if I might be so bold—are you quite well? Did Lord Frederick have distressing news?”

No, I am NOT alright. I’ve just been thoroughly chastised like a child, reminded in painful detail how little I know of this place, and been informed that I stand in the centre of a political maelstrom of which I understand precisely nothing.

But Mary said none of this. She merely drew in a steadying breath, clasped her hands, and offered a tight smile.

“I’m quite well, thank you. I believe I will take a turn about the garden while I wait. Have everyone meet me in the gazebo.”

“As you wish, milady,” Elise replied, though her eyes lingered with concern before she went and sent off the messages.

Mary watched her go. There was something in Elise’s bearing—the precise elegance of her step, the quiet efficiency with which she moved—that bespoke a long habit of duty borne with dignity. How swiftly she acted, without hesitation or question, seeing to her mistress’s needs as though they were her own.

Mary turned away with a quiet sigh.

She felt as though she were flailing in deep water, with only the faintest idea of how to swim.

Politics, alliances, factions, family expectations—there was so much that she had been blind about until now. What was she to do if Marianne should decide never to re-emerge? If she were truly abandoned to navigate all of this on her own?

Never in the whole of her existence had Mary Bennet been required to confront adversity of any considerable magnitude. Such things, she had long believed, were the peculiar province of more spirited temperaments. Mary had never been one to question the dispensations of Providence, nor to struggle against her appointed lot, nor to pursue any object through her own exertions, nor to overcome obstacles of any serious consequence. When trials arose—as they occasionally did in every household, even one as unassuming as Longbourn—Mary had always taken refuge in her books.

All these years she had been training her mind not for the trials of the present, but for some vague, future ordeal that might be met with lofty ideals and well-turned phrases. But now, she stood with neither shield nor shelter—only her own wits to rely upon.

And it was then, with a sinking clarity, that she understood: she had never exercised those for anything beyond mere observation and retention. If left to her own devices, would she make an irreparable mess of things?

She did not want to find out.

—

Mary inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet fragrance of the white flowers (eudenwillas, as she instinctively knew) that bordered the pathway winding toward the gazebo at the far end of her enclosed garden. Just then, the soft crunch of Elise’s footsteps on the gravel caught her attention. Hastily, she turned away to brush a stray tear from her cheek before facing her attendant with an expectant look.

“They’ll be here shortly, milady,” the attendant said as she approached, and added a little pointedly, “even those who weren’t originally scheduled for duty today.” Elise glanced sidelong at her mistress. “If I may ask, milady—what precisely do you intend this gathering to concern—on an earthday, of all days?”

Mary, who had been pacing with the restless air of someone rehearsing a speech, paused. “It is, quite simply, an apology.” Were it not for Frederick’s stern admonishment about the duty owed to one’s retainers, she might have left it at that. But she had learned something from his rebuke was that a good master always kept their retainers informed of their intentions. Therefore, she added, “And... a request for information as well. I desire to understand fully what has transpired beyond these walls since the day of my... incident.”

Elise inclined her head slightly, her tone gentle but carrying a subtle reproach. “There is no need to feel badly. They all understand that you're not quite yourself. As to the information gathering, I might have conveyed everything to you myself, had you only asked. I have kept silence only because the doctor and Lady Rozemyne insisted you be left undisturbed. There was no need to summon everyone.”

Mary offered her a small, sad smile. “Still, I believe there is need to apologize in person.” She paused and quoted from a book she read back home, “‘Relationships are often where wounds are made, but they are also where God works to restore.’” Her gaze faltered when she saw Elise looking at her with confusion, but then steadied. “And there is another reason.”

She offered no further explanation, but Elise—whose powers of perception had been refined through years of devoted service—merely nodded with that particular understanding which demonstrated how completely she trusted in her mistress's judgment, and forbore to press for additional details.

A short while later, Mary found herself seated before the complete assembly of her household—a most comprehensive gathering of her female retainers that presented a study in fascinating variety. Scholars draped in dark, sober robes stood alongside knights maintaining their customary rigid attention, while pretty attendants completed the curious tableau. Some among them were obviously apprentices, but the majority of them were older, around Elise’s age, and displayed the settled composure and knowing eye of those whom experience has rendered both wise and practical.

A particular observation struck Mary suddenly: Marianne had apparently made it her practice to gather female retainers who might charitably be described as misfits, or lacking the support of a family.

Mary paused in her contemplation, allowing herself a moment's hope that this slender thread of insight might expand into something more substantial. She hoped for more information about them to drift into her consciousness, yet unlike the delicate perfume of orange blossoms that even now drifted upon the afternoon breeze, there proved to be not the faintest trace of memory upon which Mary might depend to illuminate her present circumstances.

Very well. Then I shall do what I believe is best.

The assembled company offered their respectful greetings in subdued tones, their eyes moving with barely concealed unease from one to another. No doubt they were speculating what awful news their mistress—who had been so unlike herself after her head injury—was about to tell them.

What Mary failed entirely to comprehend was that her abrupt summons had filled every heart present with the most dreadful anticipation, and were bracing themselves for the worst. Remaining wholly unconscious of the anxiety she had inadvertently inspired, Mary proceeded with the composure of one who believed her intentions to be perfectly transparent.

She took a steadying breath. “Thank you,” she began, “for coming on such short notice. I am aware that I have not been myself these past days. In truth, I have made mistakes. I have withdrawn and given you cause for distress. I assure you all that I am as well as can be.”

“My Lady—” one of the young knights began, but she was cut off by a clearing of the throat from Elise who stood next to Mary.

“A wise man once said,” Mary continued, “‘Treasure those around you who consider their duty as their right, for neither will they be easily brought to dispense with it.’ I want you all to know that I treasure you exceedingly. I will endeavor to deserve your service going forward, and… I must humbly entreat your forbearance, as I continue to recover both in body and in recollection from my recent, most unfortunate injury.”

Recalling, with no small degree of mortification, a particular censure of Frederick’s that had lodged itself in her mind, Mary added, with a bowed head and trembling hands: "Finally, I assure you that I will do my utmost to rectify the wrongs and shame that my reckless behavior has brought upon you."

She raised her gaze expectantly, waiting for their reactions. Unfortunately, they all stood staring as if she had spoken gibberish.

The silence stretched awkwardly.

Mary's frustration with Marianne's abandonment burned like acid in her chest. How dare she simply vanish when things became difficult, leaving Mary to face Frederick's wrath alone and then fix things with her own retainers?

Well, two could play that game. Mary stood abruptly and bid everyone to follow her back inside the house and up to her room, where she threw open the doors to her expansive closet.

“As a token of my thanks,” Mary said with no small degree of pleasure, “you are all free to take any and all gowns you desire—for yourselves, for your families, for anyone you see fit.”

The effect was immediate and dramatic. While the others stood in stunned silence, pondering if their lady had finally gone mad, Marianne's consciousness slammed back into awareness with the force of a thunderclap.

What are you DOING? came the mental shriek of absolute horror.

Oh, now you decide to show yourself, Mary responded with icy satisfaction.

“Milady, do you truly mean to do this?” Elise asked, her tone quiet and concerned.

“I do,” Mary said. “Please let them enjoy something for once. I’ve enjoyed too much without knowing the cost.”

Elise looked stunned. Francesca’s hand flew to her mouth, in horror. “But surely you don't intend to get rid of the gowns from the silk procured from Batawia! Surely not the ones you wore this winter! And certainly not your summer wardrobe! You’ve yet to even wear it!”

Mary pursed her lips and tilted her head, considering Francesca's words, "Hmm..."

You can't! You absolutely can't! Marianne was in anguish. The silk for those was procured by my mother and worth more than most people earn in a lifetime! The summer gowns alone—

Yes," Mary added with reckless generosity, "Those as well.”

Mary felt Marianne try to rise to the fore, but she pushed her back and forbade it.

Perhaps you should have considered that before abandoning me to face your brother's fury, Mary replied tartly.

As Mary stepped into the vast chamber that served as her wardrobe—a room grander than most salons—she turned with theatrical flourish and addressed her assembled retainers.

“Please,” she declared, “you are welcome to take what you like. Anything at all. Consider it a token of my gratitude.”

She cast a sidelong glance at Elise, watching carefully for her reaction. Elise, however, remained still, her expression unreadable, though a flicker of suspicion crossed her features.

No one moved.

Perplexed, Mary turned again to survey the room. Shelves upon shelves of neatly arranged veils in every imaginable hue rose up like stained glass walls of a cathedral. Gowns in every color imaginable hung neatly in orderly rows. Jewelled hairpins glittered in the golden light, and bolts of exquisite fabric—embroidered silks, shimmering gauze, delicate lace—were artfully displayed as though in a royal showroom. And yet the assembled women stood silently, gazing about them with reverence and hesitation.

Mary did not understand their hesitation. To her, it was merely a closet. To them, it was a vault of wonders. This was Marianne’s legendary wardrobe—her pride and joy and the envy of noblewomen throughout all of Yurgenschmidt.

Just as the first pair of hands tentatively reached toward a bolt of velvet, a voice rang out sharply:

“Stop! Touch nothing that is not at least two years old and made by the Gilberta Company.”

Mary turned, startled, to see Elise standing stiffly by the doorway, her voice clipped and authoritative.

“You forget yourself, milady,” Elise said, stepping forward with a respectful yet firm expression. “While we are grateful for your generosity, your wardrobe is not entirely yours to dispense. Only those items purchased from your personal allowance may be given freely. Anything acquired through the archducal house or gifted by your mother belongs to the duchy, and cannot be offered as charity.”

Mary blinked. It hadn’t occurred to her.

“I see,” she said at last, giving a short nod. “Very well. Only those things bought with my own funds, then.”

Elise did not look happy, but she gave her assent. "Ermengarde, Francesca. Show everyone the articles they can pick from."

With Elise's blessing, the disbelieving women finally began to move. A ripple of laughter, disbelief, and whispered delight swept through them as they examined the clothes.

How could you?? Marianne wailed.

Very easily, I assure you, 'The vanity of loving fine clothes and new fashion, and placing value on ourselves by them is one of the most childish pieces of folly' Mary quoted.

What? 'Folly?' 'VANITY?' Marianne's outrage was enough to choke her up. Those gowns are works of art! They were commissioned from the finest seamstresses in the duchy!

“And what good will they be if we ruin ourselves?” Mary hissed. “You won’t even help me navigate the consequences of your actions.”

The words slipped out more forcefully than intended, earning startled glances from two young scholars who had been admiring themselves in front of a full-length mirror, gowns held delicately against their frames.

Catching their eyes, Mary forced a quick, flustered smile and waved a hand in casual dismissal. “Just… talking to myself. Please, carry on.”

The scholars exchanged puzzled looks, but obeyed.

I hate you. This isn’t fair! Marianne wailed as Mary leaned back against the doorframe, watching her retainers explore the closet's contents, and even sprayed perfume on each other, admiring the fragrances of spices and flowers of distant lands.

FAIR? Let’s talk about being fair. It isn’t FAIR that I should bear the blame for your reckless behavior while you cower in whatever corner of my mind you retreat to.

A long pause stretched before Marianne spoke once again.

Fine, Marianne finally conceded with obvious reluctance. I... I accept your rebuke. And I apologize. But please, I beg you—please not the silks. Those pieces are... they're irreplaceable. Please....

Mary considered this for a long moment, savoring her small victory. Very well. But you must promise to help me from now on. No more disappearing when things become uncomfortable.

I promise, came the subdued reply.

Mary turned back to her attendants. "On second thought, perhaps we should be more... selective in our generosity. Choose whatever you like but not the silks, anything else that Elise approves you may take."

—

Later that night, Mary slipped beneath her covers, physically exhausted and mentally frayed. Moonlight poured through the balcony's gauzy curtains and the distant sound of the breaking waves reached her bedroom window as she reviewed her day and all she had learned.

Frederick had scolded her for being a poor mistress and lacking any consideration for her retainers. Still, she hoped that after her generosity, her apology, and her earnest endeavors to improve, he might acquit her of those accusations.

However, that wasn’t the half of it. There were far more troubling matters that needed her attention and were now keeping her awake.

Politics. Alliances. Engagements. Factions...

The words circled through her mind like predators stalking prey. During his scolding, Frederick had referenced things that clearly held grave importance. And while she did not appreciate being scolded to the point of tears—scolded, like a child—she had to admit, with reluctant honesty, that she was grateful for the clarity.

"Sister, dear," he’d said, his voice calm, his smile so razor-thin it chilled her, "are you trying to deliberately undermine my role as heir apparent? Because when you failed to appear at the engagement banquet, and you have failed to socialize with my betrothed, failed to give her a welcome party, failed to give her a welcome present, and have isolated yourself all this time. Your absence was seen as a statement—an insult. And your so-called faction has rallied."

What have you gotten us into? she asked the silence of her mind. Thankfully, Marinne answered promptly.

There is a faction that believes the title of Aub should be passed down through the female line. They have taken it into their silly heads to support me for Aub. We managed to quiet them down with my brother’s engagement, and I have made it very plain that I want nothing more than to marry outside of the duchy… but… it’s complicated.

Complicated. Mary sighed and turned over in her bed, looking for a cold spot in her pillow. She had never imagined that marriage could be so headache inducing. She was a player in a game whose rules she didn't know, holding cards she couldn't read, with stakes she couldn't fathom. The very people who looked to her for guidance and protection might suffer for her ignorance.

The weight of responsibility settled over her like a suffocating blanket.

Tomorrow, she would seek answers. She had to, and quickly. She’d not gotten too far with intelligence gathering today, but tomorrow she would gather her scholars and fill in the gaps as best she could and piece together the information that they could get with Marianne’s fragmented memories—because it turned out that there were, indeed, legitimate gaps in Marianne’s memory from when she’d bashed her head against the garden bench; it wasn’t pretend in the slightest.

Then, remembering the helpful scholar in the castle archives—the one who had been so knowledgeable and who had set her heart at ease—Mary decided to inquire whether he might want to join her personal retinue.

Ugh. Not him! Not Hartmut’s son. Marianne said. Mary waited for the girl to give a reason as to why Felix was unsuitable for service, but it seemed that it was all a matter of personal preference; Marianne had an aversion to anything related to the fanatic that was her mother’s head scholar, and when pressed further, she remained quiet.

Mary shrugged away Marianne’s qualms. She’d ask Felix, especially since she knew that he was exceedingly competent at information gathering. Isolated as he'd been in the depths of the castle archives, he'd somehow managed to learn about her failed proposal, something which only few people had ever known about. Mary was sure that he could be of great use to her. She needed as much help as she could get as, according to Frederick, in just a few days Richart of Dunkelfelger would be arriving to spend the summer in Alexandria—ostensibly to court her, but more importantly, to help her regain her memory.

With a sardonic grin that Mary had been unable to decipher, Frederick had reminded her of the inevitability of her fate, "You don’t need to worry on that score. After all, our father has arranged it all."

Chapter Text

MARY: Misfortunes, we are told, are sent to test our fortitude, and may often reveal themselves as blessings in disguise.

[Lydia comes in and slouches into a chair with her hand on her stomach, complaining.]

LYDIA: Lord, I’m so hungry!

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 1 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

Mary woke the next morning not with dread, and not with disappointment either. The realization startled her a little—this was the first time she hadn’t opened her eyes and immediately longed to wake up back in Hertfordshire. She was still here, still in Marianne’s body, living in Marinne’s villa, sleeping in Marianne’s bed and wearing her fabulous clothes.

She was living a stranger’s life and Mary had finally accepted it.

Today would be different.

It was Waterday, and Mary had resolved to leave the villa. Not just for a stroll or a brief escape into the garden—but properly, to rejoin the household and sit with her family over breakfast. It would be her first time facing them all since the incident and she would do it with as much poise as she could manage.

No more hiding. No more excuses.

Or at least that was her plan.

For the first time since arriving in Alexandria, she didn’t reach for her spectacles. She didn’t need them anymore—Marianne’s vision was perfect. A strange detail, perhaps, but it gave Mary a small, solid sense that she was adapting, however slowly.

Outside the bed’s curtains, the room stirred with quiet movement. She could hear the soft rustle of fabric, the low voices of her attendants preparing for the day. Elise appeared moments later, carrying a silver tray.

“Good morning, my lady,” she said gently, offering a porcelain cup.

“Good morning, Elise. Thank you,” Mary murmured as she sat up, accepting the teacup. The tea was minty and floral, with a slight citrus edge—light and refreshing. She recognized the infusion now: a remedy Marianne often took to ease the discomfort of her monthly courses, which had—rather inconveniently—made their unwelcome arrival the night before.

So, Mary thought with chagrin, even in a magical world, even in the body of a nobleman's beautiful daughter, she was not spared that particular misery. Some things, it seemed, were universal.

“Your brother mentioned that you plan to join the family for breakfast,” Elise said, fixing her solemn amethyst eyes on her, “Is that still the plan?”

Despite the tea’s calming warmth, Mary felt her stomach tighten. So it was truly happening. No more hiding behind books or pretending she was too ill for social interaction—not unless she wanted Freddie to give her another lecture. She took a final sip from her cup, set it aside, and drew in a steady breath. “Yes,” she said, trying to make her voice firm. “I’ll be there.”

Elise nodded, her expression both approving and kind. “I’m happy to hear it, milady. It will set everyone’s hearts at ease.”

Without further delay, Elise led Mary into the white-tiled bathroom that adjoined her bedchamber while another attendant entered silently behind them, swiftly and skillfully setting the room to rights—clearing the tea tray, changing the flowers in the vases, airing out the space, and making the bed with crisp precision.

The bathing chamber was spacious and filled with light. Sunlight streamed through high windows, casting golden slants across intricate mosaics of pale blue, seafoam green, and gold. The tiles gleamed underfoot, while polished brass fixtures shimmered in the morning glow. Along the counter, rows of glass vials—each filled with fragrant oils, rinsham, perfumes, and the like—glinted like tiny jewels.

Mary stifled a groan at the elaborate beauty regimen that clearly lay ahead. Marianne’s morning routine seemed as exhausting as it was luxurious. Still, she drew a breath and resigned herself to the inevitable, and allowing her attendants to fuss and pamper her as they pleased.

Pink-haired Ermengarde greeted her with a cheerful “Good morning,” eyes alight with her usual youthful enthusiasm, before setting about unfastening the ribbons of Mary’s nightgown. Francesca, already at the tub, added a careful scoop of powder to the steaming water, followed by several drops of fragrant oils and essences. A light herbal scent drifted through the air—fresh and faintly medicinal, like lemon balm mingled with geranium.

Mary sank into the bath with a quiet sigh, her limbs relaxing in the healing, magical waters. As the warmth seeped into her, she remembered the resolve she had made the night before. “Elise,” she said, “after breakfast, I’d like to meet with my scholars. If you would be so kind as to arrange it.”

Elise, seated just behind her, began working a lather in the washcloth before gently scrubbing her shoulders. “Of course, milady,” she said with a calm nod.

Mary leaned forward as Elise scrubbed her back. She traced a finger through the water, watching the ripples spread outward. “I imagine I’ve fallen rather behind,” she murmured, recalling Frederick’s pointed reminders and the daunting list of duties she had neglected. “There’s quite a lot to catch up on, isn’t there?”

To her surprise, Elise gave her a soft chuckle. Mary turned and saw Elise smile—a genuine, unguarded expression; very much unlike the formal reserve Mary had grown accustomed to. Mary blinked, caught off guard by the expression. Until now, she’d thought of Elise as the responsible sort: capable, efficient, and utterly humorless. But this smile spoke of something gentler—a quiet fondness, even affection, for her mistress.

Of course! You should know you’re fortunate to have these women serving you. They are the very best, Marianne’s voice chimed suddenly, lingering somewhere between pride and scolding.

Well then, Mary thought irritably, why do you insist on making their lives more difficult with your nonsense?

Marianne didn’t answer. She retreated in silence, and sulked there for the remainder of the bath.

–

“Today, milady must look especially radiant,” Francesca declared, nearly twirling as she approached the closet and flung its doors open with dramatic flourish. Mary, wearing only a bathrobe followed behind her and braced herself for another glimpse into what she now privately called the temple of vanity—a vast chamber of silks, satins, feathers, and far too many ribbons.

She had half-expected to find the racks picked clean after yesterday’s spontaneous act of generosity, when she’d invited her entire retinue to help themselves to whatever gowns they fancied. But to her astonishment, the closet looked entirely untouched. Not a single item was out of place or missing.

What? How is this possible?

A fragment of Marianne's memory surfaced, her voice echoing with smug satisfaction: Ha! Not so much as a ribbon is missing. My attendants understand me perfectly, you see.

Mary fumed.

So they had likely spent hours lost in the splendor of Marianne's legendary wardrobe—running fingers over silk, lace, and gossamer, lifting delicate bracelets to catch the light, slipping on a tiara or hairstick to see how it looked, perhaps dabbing a rare perfume behind their ears—but when it came to actually taking something, even something a small as a simple handkerchief, they had not dared. The unspoken rule was clear: this closet was sacred.

Ridiculous nonsense.

As Mary frowned and mentally scolded the owner of such shameless extravagance, Francesca and Ermengarde flitted from rack to rack with the glee of a child let loose in a sweet shop while Elise carefully clasped on Marianne’s usual collection of clinking and shimmering bracelets and charms for protection, and ward against the summer heat. Everyday functional items Mary had now grown accustomed to and accepted with quiet resignation. At last they presented one gown after another with reverent care—first a flowing creation in pale apricot, then a gown of delicate cerulean blue, and finally a soft peony pink ensemble. Francesca’s eyes sparkled as she laid the gowns across a velvet divan, arranging them as if curating treasures in a museum. Ermengarde fairly wiggled in anticipation at Marianne’s choice.

Mary, by contrast, regarded the opulent display with the weary indifference of someone being forced to choose between too many desserts when all she wanted was tea. It all felt absurdly excessive. She folded her hands primly in front of her.

“I cannot make up my mind. You choose for me,” she said at last, her tone light but firm.

Francesca blinked, momentarily thrown. “Milady won’t choose at all? Not even a hair stick?”

Mary paused. Inwardly, she could sense Marianne bristling. Marianne desperately wanted to wear the blue dress. Ignoring her, Mary crossed the room to a cabinet lined with dozens of shallow drawers which contained her hairpins, feystones, and other valuables. After a brief, disinterested search, she selected the plainest hair stick she could find: a slender piece adorned with tiny white blossoms that reminded her of lilies of the valley.

“This one, if you please.”

Francesca hesitated, clearly disappointed. That particular ornament had long ago been deemed “too plain and mournful” by Marianne and kept only because one of her brothers had gifted it to her when she was just eight. Still, Mary’s quiet, polite smile left no room for objection.

So it was settled. The dress that best complemented the modest hair stick was a white gown with soft blue embroidery—simple and understated by Marianne’s usual standards. When Mary stood before the mirror, she could almost feel Marianne’s unimpressed silence rising in protest.

But Mary thought she looked rather well. Of course, anything looked well in that statuesque body especially when compared to the stiff, drab gowns she’d worn back in England. And besides, the fact that she was reasserting herself—choosing restraint in a world that prized opulence—filled her with a quiet sense of triumph.

But she caught herself before indulging in the satisfaction of besting Marianne.

Marianne, she remembered, was still but a child—barely on the cusp of womanhood.

Every choice she made now would echo for years to come. Mary’s thoughts turned, unbidden, to her own sister Lydia—foolish, headstrong Lydia—who had not yet been sixteen when she made the most disastrous decision of her life and eloped with Wickam. And their parents, indulgent and blind to the dangers of setting her loose upon the world, had dismissed her reckless behavior as mere girlish exuberance until it was far too late.

Her blood ran cold and a small, sharp breath escaped Mary as the realization settled over her: this was the reason she had been sent here to occupy the body of Marianne of Alexandria. Not to be enthralled by the books and the magic and the beauty around her, nor to play princess in some enchanted land and let herself be carried by the current of fate—but to help. To guide. To prevent another impetuous young girl from stumbling headlong into ruin, the way Lydia had.

Marianne didn’t need a critic. She needed someone older, steadier. Someone with the benefit of hindsight—someone who had already witnessed the cost of unchecked passion and poor judgment.

A blush crept up Mary’s cheeks as she caught her own expression in the mirror. There was shame in it. How could Mary have been so foolish and short-sighted? She wasn’t here to win some petty battle trying to curb Marinne’s vanity and forcing her own values of restraint and modesty on her. She was here to spare Marianne the consequences of a mistake she didn’t yet understand.

As Mary sat on the vanity and Elise began braiding her hair with practiced fingers, Mary’s gaze remained fixed on her reflection. Marianne stared back, luminous and poised. Marianne who had likely already committed some Lydia-esque folly in pursuing some man.

Richart of Dunkelfelger.

Before now Mary had been pretty much indifferent to who her father married her off to. In her previous life she had resigned herself to spinsterhood, and would have been content to marry any man that was decent, God-fearing, and who would let her continue her scholastic pursuits. But this was not her life, this was Marinne’s life, and Mary knew he was bad news. For a moment, however, Mary feared that she might already be too late. Lord Ferdinand had arranged the engagement negotiations, hadn't he? And with Richart coming to spend the summer with them, the damage might already be done.

But no—there was still time. Time to guide Marianne toward a different path, away from the precipice of ruin. Maybe even do something to break off this engagement.

Mary had longed all her life for a purpose greater than herself. Now it stood plainly before her. This wasn’t about modesty or vanity—it was about preserving a life, a future. Marianne didn’t need to be shamed. She needed to be saved. Mary felt silly for her momentary triumph over a poor silly girl who knew no better.

Steeling herself, Mary rose from the vanity the moment her hairpin and her veil were in place. She rose, spine straight, chin lifted. The day ahead would be full of challenges and expectations, but she would meet them all with aplomb… or at least she’d try her best.

She had a family to face. Information to gather, and a new future to forge.

But as always, it would begin with breakfast.

Chapter Text

[The Bennet girls are dancing with the officers while Mary plays the piano. The adults are looking on.]

SIR WILLIAM LUCAS: Capital, capital. Fine girls, are they not, Mr Gardiner?

MR GARDINER: Indeed, they are, Sir William. The two eldest in particular, perhaps.

SIR WILLIAM LUCAS: Indeed, indeed...but let us not forget the younger Miss Bennets.

MR BENNET: Aye, aye, they have arms and legs enough between them, and are three of the silliest girls in England.

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 3 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

Fully dressed, perfumed, and moving with the borrowed elegance that belonged more to Marianne than herself, Mary glided through the airy corridors of her villa. Francesca and Ermengarde flanked her, while Elise followed a step behind, ever composed, and ever-present as her own shadow. This would be her first venture beyond the villa since her first reckless escapade, as well as her first meeting with the other members of her family, and she felt a flutter of anxiety as they approached the covered walkway that connected her residence to the main castle.

The air was warm but not oppressive as Mary stepped out, as she breathed in the early summer morning breeze that carried with it the scent of sun-warmed stone, freshly landscaped greenery, and blossoms—fragrant and unfamiliar, yet faintly evocative.

She stopped for a moment and shut her eyes.

For the briefest moment, she was home again—surrounded by riotous English daisies, rambling china roses, and the peculiar earthy sweetness of her mother’s overgrown garden in warmest July. She could almost feel the soft loam underfoot, hear bees lazily flitting from petal to petal, the distant call of a mourning dove.

“My lady. We shouldn’t leave your family waiting.” Elise reminded her, not unkindly.

Mary opened her eyes. No—this was not Hertfordshire. This was a different world entirely, spread before her like a sun-drenched tapestry. A Mediterranean dream. Orange trees stood in neat rows of glazed pots the color of deepest blue, their leaves shimmered in the bright sunlight light. White eudenwillas bloomed along the pathway, their pale petals bright against the rich green foliage. Vines of violet wisteria-like zerdermake coiled like ribbons along and above the columns, their petals fluttering down with the stirrings of the sea breeze.

This was her home now.

She squared her shoulders, clinging on to what comfort she could find from Marianne’s assurance that she’d not leave her in the lurch again.

Yes. Everything was going to be alright.

“You are right,” she said, her voice steady as she nodded once. “It will be their first glimpse of me since the—ahem—incident. I don’t want them to grow anxious if I’m late. Let us go in for breakfast.”

And with that, she stepped forward toward the ivory towers of the Alexandrian palace—and whatever fate might await her within—while a small white butterfly which had fluttered and hovered near her since she left the villa now drifted silently away, vanishing into the morning air like a wisp of smoke.

—

The massive double doors of Alexandria's castle loomed at the far end of the covered walkway. Like the doors of her own villa, they were inlaid with intricate magic circles that faintly gleamed in the morning sun. Flanking the entrance were two rabbit-like sentries–one light blue and the other dark blue–which stood statuesque and silent. Their tall ears twitched faintly in the breeze, but otherwise they remained motionless, dressed in fantastical uniforms of dark blue and gold that mirrored the castle’s heraldic colors. They also wielded spears that Mary somehow knew were not meant to be just decorative. She had the impression that as cute and fluffy as they seemed, anyone would be a fool if they underestimated these bunnies. She shivered as she passed them by, but they made no gesture of acknowledgment, no sound of welcome, only stepped in unison to push open the castle doors. Without a word, they granted Mary and her attendants passage.

Within the castle proper, the air shifted—it was much cooler than outside, for one. The entrance hall soared above them, supported by graceful, slender columns that stretched up to a high ceiling that was painted a deep blue and was dotted with gold stars. Mary was struck anew by the castle’s breathtaking beauty. She had visited fine houses in her day, and had once or twice entered cathedrals simply to admire their heavenly beauty and bask in the glory of their stained-glass majesty, but in all her days living in England she’d never seen anything as marvelously graceful and beautiful as the castle of Alexandria. Everywhere she looked, ocean motifs decorated the walls—mosaics of dolphins and sea horses, sconces shaped like conches, paintings of ships with billowing sails, and intricate tilework that mimicked the patterns of waves and foam.

The castle felt wonderfully airy and open due to its wide corridors and high ceilings which not only captured and amplified the morning light, but also seemed to help circulate the air within. From every window, Mary glimpsed views of lush inner gardens and stately courtyards that seemed to wind throughout the palatial, mazelike castle. Within the courtyards, tiled fountains murmured quietly in the center, their mosaic basins inlaid with swirls of blue, aqua, and gold. Along the edges, white-stone urns overflowed with fragrant blossoms of all shades—lavender, coral, and deep rose—all perfuming the morning breeze.

Some of the doors to the castle’s interior gardens and courtyards stood open, allowing the cool morning air and bright sunlight to pour in. Mary and her attendants cut through these to reach their destination quicker. As they did, Mary smiled at the little white butterflies which flitted lazily through the courtyards or skimmed the surface of the fountains, and on occasion, slipped into the hallways of the palace themselves, dancing along the shafts of light that streamed through the windows. Mary spotted one tracing the curve of a column with unhurried grace before it drifted out of sight.

There was something soothing about watching these wild, untamed visitors flitting about the formal corridors with such casual ease. Their presence seemed to soften the palace's grandeur, reminding Mary that even in such imposing surroundings, life, even here, moved with its own gentle rhythm. Her shoulders relaxed slightly—perhaps she needn't worry so much about saying or doing the wrong thing after all.

Just as she was about to round the corner to the corridor that led to the dining room, the low murmur of male voices drifted toward her. Two young scholars emerged from a side passage, walking in great haste opposite the direction she was heading. Mary paused, recognition flaring in her chest as she caught sight of one of them. Before she could consider the implications, the name slipped from her lips.

“Oh—Felix!”

The young man stopped abruptly, his companion halting beside him. Felix turned toward her with visible surprise, blinking once—twice—those distinctive amber-orange eyes fixing on her as though she were an apparition. For a brief, agonizing moment, he simply stared.

“Lady Marianne!” he said at last, recovering himself and bowing. His companion had already bowed with practiced grace, and he now joined him as he similarly crossed his arms over his chest and knelt before her. “I would ask how your health fares, but I see you are quite recovered.”

Mary’s heart had already begun a nervous flutter. Why had she called out? What was she thinking, accosting a young man in the hallway as though she were in the streets of Meryton and not the palace of Alexandria? This wasn’t Hertfordshire—she couldn’t simply speak to any passing gentleman like Lydia and Kitty had, all reckless smiles and waving bonnets. Here, she had rank, and there was a protocol to these things.

She swallowed. He would be waiting for an instruction. He would assume she had summoned him to give orders or something.

A silence stretched between them and Mary scrambled inwardly. Her sister Jane had once said that when one’s nerves rose up and threatened to disorder the tongue, the best thing to do was to take in a deep breath and speak slowly and with a smile. Even if one had nothing clever to say, a measured tone of speech gave the impression of calm and composure. And so, clinging to that principle—and whispering a mental plea for assistance to the reluctant Marianne—she finally spoke.

“Please rise. I thank you for your kind inquiry, Felix.” She turned slightly, gesturing to Elise and the others. “Thanks to the skilled and constant care of my attendants, I am indeed feeling much improved.”

She offered a soft, practiced smile and a polite nod. It was more than she had initially intended to say. She had only wanted to thank him for his help in the archives, but—

“I merely wished to express my gratitude once more, for your assistance the other day,” she added, more gently now.

Felix opened his mouth as if to reply, but before he could manage a word, Marianne stirred abruptly within her. Without thinking, Mary heard herself say—smoothly, almost imperiously—

“I’m on my way to breakfast, and I would hate to detain you from your duties. So—good day.”

Felix didn’t appear the least bit ruffled by her sudden return to formality. With an easy grace, he inclined his head respectfully and offered a warm, unbothered reply. “Good day, Lady Marianne.”

Then, without hesitation, he turned and continued down the corridor with his fellow scholar, their quiet conversation resuming as if uninterrupted. Mary, her lips pressed into a tight line, resumed walking in the opposite direction, her entourage gliding quietly behind her.

How irritating, she thought, her shoulders stiff with restraint. I should have liked an intelligent conversation with someone as intelligent and well-read as he.

Just a conversation? Marianne’s voice chimed in, dry and unimpressed. Is that truly all that interests you? Weren’t you just thinking of adding him to your personal retinue? Let me save you the trouble—it will never happen.

Why not? Mary returned, frowning inwardly. The castle employs only the finest minds. I’m sure Felix would be more than capable. More than useful.

Oh, useful, Marianne echoed with a sharp edge of sarcasm—then fell silent.

Mary wondered what it was about Felix that Marianne hated so much. From what little she could glean from the girl’s fractured memories, there was nothing particularly damning or even remarkable about him—aside from the fact that he was the son of her mother’s head scholar, and had once served her twin brother Mynard.

Curious, Mary thought. I wonder what happened there.

But Marianne offered no answer, only a prickly silence. So Mary let the matter lie—for now—and continued on, the crisp clicks of her heels echoing softly down the polished corridor. She passed beneath the ornately carved archway and entered the family dining hall, gathering her composure for what lay ahead.

–

Like the rest of the Alexandrian palace, the family dining room was an elegant, airy room. Sunlight poured through tall arched windows flung open to the palace gardens, where blooming flowers framed a distant, shimmering glimpse of the blue sea beyond. The morning air carried the mingled perfume of flowers and recently landscaped greenery, it was a warm and heady scent typical of Alexandrian summers, while a gentle breeze stirred the gossamer curtains and sent flickers of light dancing into the cool, shady room.

At the center of the dining room stretched a long, polished table, set for breakfast. Delicate white porcelain dishes gleamed beside neatly folded napkins. Tiered platters overflowed with ripe fruit and pastries, and crystal carafes of chilled nectar glistened with beads of condensation. The scent of honeyed bread, citrus, and something faintly spicy–like clove or cinnamon–hung in the air.

Most of the chairs stood empty still. But at the head of the table sat Lady Rozemyne, wearing a gown made of an iridescent cloth that looked both dark blue and faint purple depending on how the light stuck it, and was paired with similarly-hued jewelry and matching tiara.

Mary was forced to admit that the gown was stunning.

The Aub of Alexandria was reading a folded letter or report of some type. Standing quietly behind her were Lady Lieseletta, her head attendant, and her sister, Lady Angelica, stood guard. But at Lady Rozemyne’s right side—

Mary’s eyes landed on a tall man with vivid orange eyes and vermillion hair: Hartmut.

Even with the difference in coloring, it was clear: Felix was undoubtedly his son. The resemblance was uncanny, from his slender, tall build down to the quietly observant orange eyes, and the slight uptick at the corner of his wide mouth as if he were relishing in some private amusement.

At the sound of Mary’s footsteps, Lady Rozemyne looked up.

In an instant, her eyes brightened with warmth and relief. Her face transformed with such joy it seemed the sun itself had entered the room.

"Marianne," she said, her voice rich with tenderness as she half-rose from her chair. "Oh, you've come. I am so relieved to see you up and about."

Mary glanced at the empty chairs arranged around the table. "Where is everyone? I was afraid I'd keep everyone waiting and—"

"They'll be here soon," Lady Rozemyne assured her. "I wanted to make certain I was the first to see you, so I came early. How are you feeling?"

"Much better, Mother," Mary replied, the word still foreign on her tongue. "Thank you for your patience during my recovery." She remembered how this woman had carved time from her demanding schedule to visit daily. "And thank you for your kind attentions while I was indisposed."

Lady Rozemyne blinked once, her head tilting slightly. Mary sensed she had a vague suspicion that she had mistepped somehow, though the older woman merely smiled warmly and said nothing. With a graceful gesture, Lady Rozemyne indicated the chair at her right—a seat that sent a jolt of surprise through both Mary and as well as Marianne.

That was her brother's place.

Obediently, but reluctantly, Mary settled into the chair with only the faintest flutter of confusion, acutely aware of this small but significant breach of protocol.

“I wanted to speak with you privately,” Lady Rozemyne said, her voice gentle but direct. “To ask if everything is truly well. Frederick assured us yesterday that you were recovering, but he also mentioned you seemed a little… confused. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Mary recalled her resolve from the night before—to gather as much intelligence as possible. "I know there's little time before our Dunkelfelgerian guest arrives for the summer, so I'm asking my scholars for help preparing. But… I was also considering the possibility of adding another retainer. A scholar.”

"Oh?" Lady Rozemyne looked surprised and took a sip of her tea. "Who do you have in mind?"

Mary was about to name Felix when she felt inexplicably conscious of the presence of his father. Hartmut stood nearby—well within earshot—his gaze seemingly distant, as if lost in thought. And yet, something about his stillness made her uneasy. He might have appeared inattentive, but Mary couldn’t shake the feeling that he was listening. A quiet instinct stirred in her, urging caution. Perhaps it was best to withhold the name—for now.

She hesitated.

“Mary?” her mother prompted, kindly. “Who did you have in mind? Lady Violetta is brilliant and would be very suitable. Or perhaps Lord Silvan’s granddaughter? She’s been waiting for a position for some time.”

Mary cleared her throat. “Actually, I was considering… a male scholar. Mother, is there a reason all my retainers are women? Would it be a problem if I introduced a man into my retinue?”

Rozemyne looked at her for a long moment, then slowly lowered her gaze, thoughtful. “No. We never placed that restriction on you. That was your own doing.”

“So there is no issue if I were to take on a male scholar?”

Her mother hesitated once again then smiled at her with tenderness. "You've always been... extraordinarily selective about who you ask to be your retainers—But not in the usual way. Of the countless candidates proposed over the years, you chose only women—and never those destined for advantageous marriages. You had an eye for the forgotten ones." Her tone grew softer. "Girls that came from families that were on the wrong side of the Lanzenavian conflict, for example, raised in the temple but branded as disgraced—unemployable, unmarriageable."

Mary suddenly became aware of her older retainers, and remembered Elise among them. They were all excellently trained, but none of them married, nor ever likely to. Her mother continued, “others are third and fourth daughters you personally selected from the winter playroom and sponsored and trained yourself. You shaped them into capable retainers. Despite your father’s wishes that you remain in Alexandria after your marriage, you've always insisted on moving outside the duchy and I have long suspected that it was partly to give them a chance at lives they could never have here—marriage, families, dignity."

Shock coursed through Mary. Marianne hadn't simply been collecting pretty attendants—she had been running a quiet rescue operation for society's castaways.

What? I didn’t know Marianne had such noble intentions, Mary thought, stunned. I always assumed she was a shallow, pampered girl, absorbed in her own amusements.

Why didn’t you ever tell me this? she asked inwardly.

For the same reason you never boasted about sending whatever pocket money you earned, and any gifts your sisters gave you, to the youngest who needed it most, Marianne replied. There’s little virtue in a good deed, if one does it to be seen.

Ah, another reminder that Mary should not so easily dismiss or underestimate Marianne. There was, after all, charity in her heart.

Meanwhile, in response to Lady Rozemyne’s revelation, Mary nodded sagely as she lied. "Ah yes. Now that you mention it, I... remember. Yes."

Rozemyne leaned in slightly. “What matters most, Mary, is whether adding a new retainer—man or woman—will strengthen your household. It’s your responsibility to ensure they can work together. That they respect one another, understand your ways. A disharmonious retinue can be more trouble than it’s worth. Do your homework carefully.”

Mary dipped her head, still absorbing the quiet gravity of her mother’s counsel. She didn’t yet know how—or whether—she would go about requesting Felix, but she was grateful for the clarity and caution Lady Rozemyne had offered. “I understand,” Mary said quietly. “Thank you, Mother. I’ll keep your words in mind.”

Rozemyne gave her an approving nod, but just as she opened her mouth to speak again, the dining room doors opened with a soft whisper, and Mynard, Marianne's twin brother, entered.

Tall and slender, clad in blue so dark it appeared almost black, he shared Marianne's refined features but not her coloring. While Marianne had inherited their father's light blue hair and eyes, Mynard was a masculine reflection of their mother. His long hair fell to his waist, though half was secured in a knot behind his head held in place by a stick of some sort. Mary had never seen a man with such lengthy hair and pierced ears—in her world, only outlaws and pirates would dare such unkemptness.

But there was nothing unkempt about this young man. He was clean shaven, and his hands and nails were immaculately clean. Plus, she didn’t need Marianne’s instinctive taste for fashion to know and appreciate the fact that his dark attire, though seemingly plain, was actually perfectly tailored and as immaculate as any officer’s uniform.

He was handsome.

No. Beautiful. Startlingly so. Much like Lord Ferdinand’s own looks, there was something about Mynard’s beauty that pressed down on the senses—it was almost oppressive.

Yes, Mary decided, studying him silently as he crossed the room and, all but ignoring her, greeted their mother.

Oppressive was the word.

“Good morning, Mother,” Mynard said softly, bending to press a polite kiss to Lady Rozemyne’s cheek. “Apologies for arriving late.”

As he straightened, his eyes swept the room—and landed on Mary whom he caught staring. She quickly looked away, a flush of embarrassment rising to her cheeks.

Lady Rozemyne, however, greeted him with a warm smile. “Good morning, darling. You’re just in time. Do greet your sister.”

“Marianne,” Mynard said, with a nod so slight it might have been Mary’s imagination. He didn’t greet her with a kiss as he had their mother—something for which Mary was unexpectedly grateful. Instead he offered her a thin smile, “I see you’re well enough to rejoin us. Though… I imagine Frederick won’t be thrilled to find you’ve grown so attached to his seat. Are we to expect more trouble so soon after putting to rest your faction’s delusions of you inheriting?”

The words landed with a thud. Mary stiffened, stunned by his bluntness. His gaze was sharp and unreadable—more cutting, even, than Lord Ferdinand’s. There was no warmth in him, and no effort to soften the meaning behind his words.

Mary's cheeks burned. Mynard smirked and circled to the opposite side of the table, taking his seat with unhurried grace.

“Has there been any word from Father and Frederick?” he said, unfolding his napkin, “They must have reached Lord Hensen’s summer estate by now.”

“Yes. They arrived safely and met with Giebe Thardum. Next they will meet with Giebe Berkergen. They should be back tomorrow with our guest from Dunkelfelger. Your father says that Frederick seems to be managing well.”

Mynard nodded. “I’ll pray for their continued safety—especially now that Griselde is with them.” He accepted a cup of tea from his attendant and took a slow sip before adding, “It would be… inconvenient if someone else had to step in should anything go awry. Isn’t Lord Berkergen one of your loyalists, Marianne?”

Ugh! I hate him so much! Marianne hissed internally. Why don’t you tell him off? He has just insulted us, are you going to let him get away with it?

Mary understood the irritation. Marianne clearly preferred Frederick’s type—warm, charismatic, instantly likable. Mynard was the opposite in every way: cold, unreadable, and deliberately provocative. He made no effort to like or be liked. But remembering Shakespeare's wisdom that "a fool uttereth all his mind: but a wise man keepeth it in till afterwards," she held her tongue. This was not the time to get into an argument, not when Mary was still finding her footing.

Fortunately, Lady Rozemyne was quick to intervene.

“Mynard,” she said firmly, “that’s enough.”

“My apologies, Mother. Marianne,” he replied at once, voice soft with feigned contrition. But Mary was not fooled. “It is, however, refreshing to see you. I trust you’re ready to resume mana dedication duties.”

“She’s not yet well enough,” their mother interjected firmly before Mary could respond. “Don’t press her.”

Thankfully the building tension in the room broke when the doors burst open and Leo—her youngest brother—came bounding in like a ray of sunshine. His light blue fluffy hair was tousled, and his cherub-like face alight with joy.

“Marianne! You’re here!” he exclaimed, running to embrace her without hesitation. “Mother said you might come to breakfast, but I wasn’t sure you’d be well enough yet.”

Mary returned the hug, caught off guard but deeply warmed by the child’s enthusiasm. “I’m feeling much improved, thank you,” she said with a smile, surprised at the genuine affection rising in her. After Mynard’s icy barbs, Leo’s uninhibited joy was like balm to her spirit.

Armin entered next, his wavy teal hair catching the morning light attractively. If it was possible for anyone to be more beautiful than Mynard it was Armin, who not only was beautiful but had an otherworldly air about him that made Mary think that he wasn’t quite human. There were tales in England about fae, and Mary was sure Armin had to have fae blood, so aetherial he was. He offered her a gentle smile, and seemed genuinely glad to see her, but Mary could see his mind was elsewhere, and throughout the meal she saw him only half listening to the conversation while his fingers tapped silently against the table as if working out a musical phrase.

After the customary prayer—one Mary still did not recite to its entirety as the others did—the meal began. Conversation flowed around her, though she felt a bit of tension in the air and only realized as they were nearing the end of the meal that everyone was tiptoeing politely around the elephant in the room: Marianne’s accident, her memory loss, and her unorthodox way of winning herself a betrothed. The topics stayed safe—Leo’s studies, the unseasonably hot weather, and Armin’s latest musical projects.

Mynard alone was silent throughout the meal.

Mary let the conversation wash over her, grateful for the normalcy. She studied them as they spoke—this strange, elegant family that was not hers, and yet now somehow was.

“Marianne,” Lady Rozemyne said during a lull, turning to her with a gentle smile, “I was thinking… if you’re feeling up to it, perhaps we might take a trip to the fashion district next week? Just the two of us—and maybe Griselde, if she's interested? I thought it might be good for you to get out a little.”

Mary began to nod, but it was Marianne who surged forward inside her with sudden eagerness.

"I'd like that very much, Mother," she heard herself say, with a brightness she hadn't managed all morning. "A visit to the fashion district, some fresh air, and a change of scenery would do me good."

"Wonderful." Lady Rozemyne beamed. "And perhaps we can revisit plans for the yacht party you'd proposed before your accident? I know several guests were disappointed when we had to postpone."

"Of course," Mary agreed quickly, though she hadn't the least idea how she'd manage it beyond ordering her retainers to handle the details. "I'll make arrangements as soon as I'm more myself."

But the warm atmosphere shattered like crystal the moment Mynard's voice cut through—cool and edged with steel.

"Speaking of welcomes," he said, setting down his teacup with a delicate clink, "isn't it time we discussed our other guest from Dunkelfelger? He arrives tomorrow, in case anyone's forgotten." His gaze shifted to Mary meaningfully. "Will there be a yacht party for him too? Or are we just going to awkwardly pretend he doesn’t exist, as we're doing now?"

The effect was immediate and devastating. Silence fell like a curtain.

Mary wanted to scream. Instead, she crushed her biscuit into crumbs beneath trembling fingers.

"Yes, indeed," she said tightly, struggling to maintain composure and keep the seething Marianne in check. But it was no use.

"Thank you ever so much for the reminder, brother dear," Marianne spat contemptuously. "As my twin and better half, you are remarkably like the mirror in my vanity—forever on hand to reflect my flaws and imperfections. It is fortunate that our kind are so rarely found in this world."

Mynard blinked, caught off guard. Armin glanced up, his reverie broken. Standing around the table, attendants stood frozen in quiet horror as they all glanced in Lady Rozemyne’s direction.

Her face had gone pale, and she set down her teacup with trembling fingers, accidentally sloshing liquid onto the saucer. Behind her, Hartmut made a small movement that caught Mary's attention—she saw him leveling a look of such coldness and open contempt that she flinched.

Marianne, what just happened? Mary asked in a panic. But there was no reply. Not out of evasion—Mary could sense that clearly—but because Marianne herself seemed stunned by her own words, shocked and ashamed into silence.

That, however, was no comfort. It left Mary as confused as little Leo, whose wide eyes darted between the adults, clearly sensing the tension but not understanding its cause.

“My lady,” Hartmut said, stepping forward with a slight bow, “forgive the interruption, but you have a meeting with the merchants’ association. You’ll need to prepare.”

In an instant, Lady Rozemyne composed herself. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Hartmut.” Her voice was tight, her smile thinner than usual.

She turned to the table and gave a brief, perfunctory nod. “Pardon me, everyone. I’ll take my leave.”

With that, Lady Rozemyne rose and swept from the room, her attendants gliding behind her in silence. Leo’s retainers hurried to usher him out next, and as for Armin—he vanished as effortlessly as he’d appeared, like mist in the morning sun.

In moments, the dining room went silent as only Mary and Mynard remained, along with their ever-watchful retainers. And if not for the faint trill of birdsong drifting in from the garden beyond the open windows, the silence might have been unbearable.

Then Mynard spoke.

“You absolute idiot,” he hissed, his voice low and cutting. “You know she hasn’t gotten over them. How could you be so thoughtless?”

With that, he turned on his heel, his dark cloak sweeping behind him as he strode from the room, leaving her in stunned silence.

Moments later, her attendants approached—quiet, composed, but unmistakably tense.

What was that all about, Marianne? Mary asked, slumping back into her chair,

Only then did Marianne reply, timidly and thoroughly ashamed: Mother gave birth to twins last year, but they are no longer with us…

Mary felt the gravity of what had just happened, and the thought of her having just been the means of injuring the warm and loving woman who had shown her nothing but love and kindness since awakening in this world, broke her heart.

"My lady," Elise said gently, stepping forward with a weary sigh, "it's time to meet with your scholars."

Mary nodded numbly. Even Elise—loyal, patient Elise—sounded tired.

And that, more than anything, made Mary want to cry.

How long until I stop ruining everything?

Will I ever stop?

Chapter Text

KITTY: I thought Mary sang very ill.

ELIZABETH: Oh, yes, poor Mary, but she is determined to do it.

KITTY: More fool her I say.

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 2 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

Mary walked the silent castle corridors in silence, flanked by her attendants, on her way back to the villa for her scheduled meeting with her scholars.

Well. Breakfast was done—one task checked off her to-do list. Next the meeting, and after that she planned to face the mountain of work that had piled up during her convalescence.

As she cut through another courtyard on her way back, she sifted through Marianne’s memories, trying to piece together everything she had neglected. The list was daunting, bordering on overwhelming.

She had nearly a week’s worth of correspondence to sort through. Reports had piled up. She hadn’t read the latest gossip columns and needed to be fully informed about every small shift in the social atmosphere since her accident. Her scholars were waiting with stacks of inquiries—from high-ranking Alexandrian noblewomen to lower-city boutique owners and ateliers who all looked to her as the ultimate arbiter of taste and fashion. There were invitations she still hadn’t responded to: garden parties, luncheons, poetry readings, boat parties. Autumn fashion previews were approaching, and she was expected to finalize designs soon.

On top of everything else, there was still her homework—and the towering stack of books her father expected her to finish before the end of summer.

That, at least, Mary didn’t mind.

I think I can manage that without a problem, she thought, a hint of eagerness in her step. The assigned reading on the history and magic systems of this world was genuinely fascinating.

Glad one of us is having fun at least, Marianne muttered with a weary sigh in the back of her mind.

Mary thought it unfair of her to say that, for as much as she enjoyed reading she didn’t think it made up for all the work they had ahead of them.

What they both wished to avoid the most was the Dunkelfelger mess they now found themselves in. Her scholars had amassed extensive intelligence on Dunkelfelger's political landscape and social dynamics, collaborating tirelessly with the Archduchess' advisors to compile every relevant detail. Meanwhile, gift selections for Lord Richart, carefully chosen tokens to ease his reluctant arrival as her unwilling betrothed, awaited her review and approval. The burden of orchestrating his welcome fell squarely on her shoulders, beginning with tomorrow’s dinner banquet at her villa where her head cook waited for menu instructions.

The logistics alone threatened to overwhelm Mary, though Marianne simply sighed in weary acceptance, and Mary wondered if the increased workload did not in itself justify the addition of more staff.

Oh, and don’t forget the Griselde’s welcome party on my yacht too. We must make sure it is positively special.

Yes. Moving forward with her day and completing each task felt like the only viable and sensible option. The responsible path stretched ahead, demanding she push through whatever worried and distressed her at the moment.

But… but….

Mary halted mid-step. Her heel clicked softly against the sunwarmed stone floor of the covered walkway linking the castle to the villa.

How could I have been so careless? she thought, replaying the moment over and over. The irony wasn't lost on her—she, who had always prided herself on sensitivity and proper conduct, had stumbled into the most painful territory imaginable. In her own world, she would never have made such a blunder. But here, inhabiting Marianne's body, she was navigating blind through a minefield of family history she didn't understand yet.

Marianne had lashed out in frustration because Mary had let the situation with Mynard get out of control. Mynard had struck Mary as horrid, insensitive, sour, and deliberately provoking and she somewhat agreed with Marianne that he was in part to blame. Yet Mary still felt the weight of responsibility on her shoulders. As the older and cool-headed one, she should have steered Marianne better.

She thought of Lady Rozemyne’s face: the sudden pallor, the way her hand trembled as she set down her teacup.

Mary had caused that, and hiding behind scholars, schedules, and responsibilities wouldn’t undo it nor excuse her from doing what was right.

Yes, there was much to do. Too much.

But none of it mattered right now.

First things first.

She spun on her heel and ran.

"My Lady?" Francesca called out. "Where are you going?"

"I'm sorry," she called out over her shoulder, "I have to do something first! Please convey my apologies to everyone..."

Mary raced back into the house, past the blue bunnies guarding the castle doors, and into the cool atrium of the palace. Her heart was pounding.

The careless remark at breakfast was only part of it. It wasn’t just about apologizing. Mary wanted to reassure her mother—to make sure their relationship remained intact. What truly needed mending was not just the hurt she’d caused, but the quiet, growing distance between them.

Still, Mary’s heart was full of trepidation. She wasn’t sure she trusted herself to handle such a delicate conversation—not when she was still fumbling through unfamiliar memories, not when she barely knew how to be Marianne without being found out. What if she said something wrong again? What if she made things worse? What if Lady Rozemyne mistook her confusion for mockery… or began to suspect the truth?

But if not now, then when?

And if this was what Marianne, deep down, truly wanted—to make amends, to honor her mother—then how could Mary deny her that?

Hartmut had mentioned that her mother had a meeting with the merchants that morning, but Marianne knew better. Her mother would never begin such business before third bell. These morning hours were sacred—reserved for family time, or for quiet reading in her private book room or the solarium.

Unbidden and sudden, a memory from Marianne's past came to her mind: Lady Rozemyne seated in a sun-drenched sitting room with a much younger, round-faced Marianne nestled at her side. They chatted about everything and nothing as their hands moved together over their embroidery. The scent of tea and flower blossoms filled the air, while golden light poured through the ocean-facing windows, warming their shoulders. Laughter and music drifted in like petals on the breeze.

“Mary-chan~! Mary-chan!” Lady Rozemyne had suddenly cried, pulling her daughter into a tight embrace and smothering her with kisses. Marianne had squealed and giggled in delight, squirming in her mother’s arms.

“You’re just too cute! Mama’s going to eat you up!” she declared, beaming, while Marianne’s childish laughter rang like bells.

The memory was so saturated through with affection, so tender and sweet, that Mary—who had never in her life experienced anything like it—suddenly found it difficult to breathe. And she knew with absolute certainty that there was nothing she could tell this woman that would make her stop loving her… or loving Marinne…or whoever the sum of their parts now was.

There was nothing to be afraid of.

Mary was positive that she would understand.

As she continued down the castle corridor, her eyes landed on a discreet panel etched with a familiar sigil. Without hesitation, she pressed her hand against it and poured in her mana. The hidden door shimmered open.

“My Lady?!” cried her two guard knights, Samantha and Jiovana, who alone had been the only ones who had managed to keep pace with her sudden flight. They halted at the threshold as the multicolored barrier flared to life, preventing them from following further. “Please wait!”

“I’m sorry—I’ll be back,” Mary said, her voice firm with conviction.

She let the door seal behind her and plunged into the quiet, ivory passage that led straight to the Archducal wing.

Straight to her mother.

Chapter Text

MRS REYNOLDS: Now, if you will follow me, there’s a finer, larger portrait of Mr Darcy in the gallery upstairs.

[The housekeeper leads Elizabeth and the Gardiners to the gallery. They look around at the portraits and the hall as the housekeeper leads them to a particular painting.]

MRS REYNOLDS: There.

[Elizabeth looks up at the dignified portrait of Darcy.]

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 4 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

She found herself once again in the archducal family wing a place that for Marianne was steeped in childhood memories. The polished floors gleamed in the morning light, and the paintings along the corridor watched over her like old friends. This was the hallway she had raced through time and time again as a child, laughing and skipping, making her daily pilgrimage to her parents' arms.

But that was before her baptism, and before she had been moved to the north wing.

—

“I don’t want to be separated! What if someone tries to kidnap me?” little Marianne had wailed, her small fists clenching the hem of her father’s sleeve.

Her father had knelt to meet her eyes, offering a calm smile as he brushed her light blue hair with a tender hand. " They'd have to go through me first," he had murmured, "and no one gets past me in Alexandria."

"And me!" her mother had chimed in, folding her arms with a playful pout. "You know Mama won't let anything happen to you." Lady Rozemyne's face had suddenly brightened, as if struck by inspiration. "I know! Ferdinand—maybe we can arrange it so she can come to us anytime, from anywhere in the castle, even from another wing..."

In the end, the baptism came and went—and with it, Marianne’s move to the north wing.

Many nights she woke in tears and fled back to the southern wing, to her parents' chambers. In those early weeks, she often used the hidden passageways her father had secretly built for the family. Then just before dawn, he would gently carry her back through the same corridor to her own room, reminding her with stern yet also gentle admonitions that as an Archduke Candidate she must always appear strong—even to her siblings. They must never know she had run back to their parents because she had been lonely.

"But I don't care what they think!" Little Marianne had protested back then, when she loved her father the most in all the world and the thought of flinching from his touch was unimaginable. "They can think what they like! It’s not like I want to become Aub, anyway!"

Her father had chuckled quietly as he opened the door and they emerged into the corridor near her chambers. The secret passages had their own logic—you always returned where you had first entered. Her father, however, had designed them so he knew many magical secrets that Marianne couldn't yet fathom and he could exit at any point he chose. So while she had entered through the panel in her bathroom, he deposited her directly before her chamber door, subtly nodding to her guards who had gone pale as they had never once realized their charge had gone missing.

At first, Marianne's nocturnal wanderings had caused her attendants considerable distress, though she remained blissfully unaware. In time, she adapted to life in the north wing and used the corridors less frequently until eventually she ceased using them altigether except when they were all playing games of hide-and-seek or they went to the secret garden. But life in the Northern wing had only gotten more and more lively especially with the addition of Armin and later little Leo and she proclaimed herself the undisputed ruler of the children's wing, ordering Frederik into endless games, barging into his study sessions with their father, and pestering the serious Mynard until he fled and sought refuge deeper in his books.

Those days were long gone. She had moved out of the northern wing many months ago into the mansion her father had designed and her mother had gifted her. Now only her underage brothers lived there. Their parents remained in the southern wing, and had circumstances been different, their unbaptized babies would also have lived with them, just as they all once had.

The thought sent a familiar pang through Marianne's chest. She remembered that stormy day, a few months after mother had given birth when she was forced to give them up. There had been tears in her mother's eyes as she'd been forced to make that terrible decision.

I will lose them either way! her mother had cried. I can't put my children's lives at risk again—not after what happened with Mynard and Mary. But if they live as children of laynobles, I will never be able to embrace them or claim them as my own! They will never be able to call me "mother"!

Marianne's eyes filled with tears of shame as bitter regret constricted her throat. Mary, meanwhile, was filled with astonishment. Never in all her days had she imagined that nobility faced such impossible choices. She had always assumed the noble class did whatever they pleased, living lives of unrestrained ease and privilege. Yet in this world, it seemed they were bound by rules so rigid and unforgiving that even someone as powerful as the Archduchess was forced to make heartbreaking decisions for her children's very survival.

Power, she realized, often came with chains invisible to those who envied it from below.

She quickened her pace through the familiar corridor, passing the family portraits that marked the passage of time—each frame a chronicle of how they’d grown and changed over the years amd memorable moments they’d shared—sea holidays, baptisms, mother and children in temple attire performing blessings, and other formal ceremonies where they stood together as a complete family unit.

One portrait showed her with cropped hair, painted just after Frederik had “accidentally” chopped it off—leaving her with a boyish cut as short as their father's. Their mother had laughed until she cried, but their father had responded with cold fury, rebuking Frederik and punishing him severely.

Fearing their father’s retribution should his darling only daughter come to harm again, Frederik never again included Marianne in games after that.

Another portrait had been painted aboard their mother’s yacht, not long before Mynard nearly drowned during a swimming competition with Frederik. As a boy, Mynard had been desperate to keep up with his older brother who was not just older but taller, faster, stronger, and so clearly taking after the Linkberg side of their mother's family.

Mynard, lacking those gifts, learned the hard way not to compete with him.

That portrait was also the last where he could be seen standing beside Frederik and where one could see Mynard balancing on his tiptoes to appear taller. In every portrait after, he stood beside their mother, more cold and haughty with each passing year, quietly removed from the others even as he grew more and more beautiful in a family of already remarkably handsome individuals.

Further down the corridor was one of Marianne’s favorite portraits. This one was of one of their childhood summers, painted with their visiting friends from a neighboring duchy—children of Lady Rozemyne’s closest friend. Marianne had only needed a single glance at the solemn boy with the dark olive hair and quiet, watchful gray eyes for Bluanfah to stir in her young heart.

From that moment on, Marianne had rejected every suitor who tried to win her, and dismissed every match her parents proposed. She had already made up her mind as to who she would marry.

At the very end of the gallery hung an empty frame—meant, last year, for the portrait with the twins. Now, it would likely be filled with one that included Frederik’s bride. Or perhaps, one day, their children.

Angelica and Damuel guarded the doors to Lady Rozemyne's chambers. Their eyes widened as they saw her approach unaccompanied. Marianne stopped uncertainly at the door. Ordinarily she would have breezed right in, but this time... she felt that she owed her mother the consideration of first asking for admittance.

Damuel, the brown-haired laynoble to whom her mother was so strangely attached, gave her a little look of sympathy before opening the door and letting her in. "Lord Mynard is with your mother.”

Marianne took in a steadying breath and walked into her mother’s spacious rooms.

—

The air was cool and the large windows let in abundant light, perfect for reading. Marianne knew this chamber well—knew where her mother's sitting area was tucked among the towering bookshelves. She passed a large urn overflowing with roses and wildflowers, and before she even saw her, she heard Lady Rozemyne's voice—soft, lilting, gracious, and achingly familiar.

Then she saw them: her mother seated in her usual reading chair, with Mynard kneeling before her, his head bowed low in contrition.

So Mynard beat me to it…

There was no way she could tell her mother everything now. Not with Mynard there.

Lady Rozemyne looked up at the sound of footsteps. Mynard turned quickly to look over his shoulder at the newcomer. Though she and Mynard had already developed mana sensing, they couldn't detect each other's presence as their mana was identical. As such, he was naturally startled to find someone interrupting their private moment.

"Mother," Marianne said, wringing her hands. She took a step forward, then another. "I..."

She would have knelt just as Mynard had, but both he and their mother rose before she could. Lady Rozemyne spread her arms wide, and Marianne ran to her just as she had when she was a little girl—scared of being sent away to live in that distant wing, far from her parents' love.

"I'm so sorry! Mother..." she said, tears beginning to spill. "I'm so sorry..."

"Oh, Mary-chan," Lady Rozemyne murmured, pulling Marianne close against her chest. "There's nothing to apologize for. Nothing at all. I know you didn’t mean it. Of course I do." Her voice was gentle, soothing.

“But—”

“I know you’re not quite yourself just yet, not after having lost your memories.” her mother continued, “I can’t hold your responsible for what you said when you yourself are not feeling well.”

Mynard shifted uncomfortably beside them, his earlier contrition now mixed with something that looked almost like guilt. "Mother, I—"

"Both of you, sit," Lady Rozemyne said firmly but kindly, guiding Marianne to the settee beside her reading chair. "We need to talk, all of us together."

When they were settled, she looked between her children with eyes full of love and concern. "Mynard, you came to me with your own apologies. Marianne, you've done the same. But what I want to know is—have you apologized to each other?"

The siblings exchanged uncertain glances. Mynard's jaw tightened slightly, but he was silent. Marianne, for her part, wasn’t about to be the first to give in either.

Lady Rozemyne let out an exhausted sigh at the clear lack of cooperation between them.

“I know there’s been tension between you,” she went on. “So many changes in our family, the pressure to meet expectations, your graduation approaching, the competition for the Zent candidacy... It’s enough to turn even the closest siblings into strangers. But you two...” She reached out and placed a hand on each of theirs. “You are my treasures. And I cannot bear to see you at odds.”

She gave a small nod to Lieseletta, who stepped forward, holding a folded piece of fabric in her hands.

“I didn’t want to resort to this—not now, when you’re both nearly adults—but...”

A jolt of recognition shot through Marianne the moment she saw it.

The Get-Along Shirt. Now new and improved to fit two almost-grown members of the Archducal family.

That awful, oversized tunic—a single hideous garment meant for two unwilling wearers—was a disciplinary relic from their childhood. Their mother had used it only once on the two of them, and the humiliation had been so complete that neither Marianne nor Mynard had ever openly fought again. Even the threat of it was usually enough to stop the fiercest argument in its tracks.

She and Frederik, on the other hand, had worn it threadbare over the years. Somehow neither she nor Frederik ever quite managed to remember how mortifying it was to be put in the shirt until it was too late.

She glanced at Mynard and saw that he was as anxious to avoid the shirt as she. And in that single glance, they silently agreed: they’d stop fighting—for now.

Their mother’s sharp eye didn’t miss it. With a small, satisfied smile, she dismissed her attendant.

“I’m sorry,” Mynard muttered, glancing sideways at Marianne. “I was inconsiderate of your condition and caused unnecessary distress with my words.”

“I’m sorry too,” Mary murmured quietly, though she knew Marianne was of the opinion that she had nothing to apologize to Mynard for. As far as she was concerned, Mynard had been entirely to blame for provoking her in the first place.

“Much better,” Lady Rozemyne said with a pleased nod. “To show his sincerity, Mynard is going to help you prepare for our honored guest. Isn’t that right, Mynard?”

He inclined his head with stiff politeness. “Richart is my best friend. I’ll do everything I can to make sure he feels welcome and comfortable during his stay.”

Then he shot a pointed glance at his sister. “Even if his arrival wasn’t entirely by choice.”

“Mynard…” Lady Rozemyne’s voice cooled several degrees in warning.

“I…” Marianne licked her lips, suddenly uneasy. “I thank you, brother.”

Lady Rozemyne clapped her hands once. “Excellent, you two. Now run along—I expect an itinerary for the week and updates on your progress by tonight.”

They rose and left the room obediently.

Mynard’s silence didn’t last long. The moment they were outside their mother’s rooms, he was glowering.

“I’ll meet with my scholars first. Expect me at your villa for lunch.”

Marianne recoiled. “Lunch? Why?”

“We need to discuss the welcome dinner—menu, tone, guests, and logistics. I’ll have Armand advise us; his taste is impeccable.”

Marianne wrinkled her nose. “Elise knows what she’s doing.”

“Perhaps. But at the moment, she has her hands full keeping a lunatic in check. She’s valuable, yes, but your attendants are better off dealing with you and whatever’s wrong with you, rather than a dinner. I, at least, know what Richart actually likes.”

“Honestly, it should’ve been you marrying him.” Marianne let out a long, dramatic sigh, leaving her shocked twin behind, frozen in place by her scandalous words.

Chapter Text

[INT. LONGBOURN, DINING ROOM - DAY]

[The Bennet family dines together.]

MR BENNET: I hope, my dear, you have ordered a good dinner today because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.

MRS BENNET: Mr Bingley! Why, Jane, you sly thing. You never dropped a word. Oh, and not a bit of fish to be got, oh, Lord. Lydia, my love, ring the bell. I must speak to Hill directly.

[Lydia stands up and walks past her mother.]

MR BENNET: It is not Mr Bingley.

[Lydia stops.]

MR BENNET: It is a person I never saw in the whole course of my life.

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 2 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

The morning meeting with her scholars took an entirely different turn than Marianne had planned. She had intended to gather intelligence and pose a delicate inquiry about taking on another scholar—a male scholar whom she barely knew, save for that one occasion when he had been remarkably helpful in the archives. Instead, they spent the better part of the morning urgently discussing preparations for welcoming their Dunkelfelger guest.

Her retainers, so wise and practical as always, insisted they needed comprehensive plans in place before Mynard arrived with his own scholars for the impromptu lunch meeting. Mary agreed. The last thing she wanted was for Mynard to find fault with Marianne’s preparations and criticize her again, as he had done so pointedly during breakfast. His earlier remarks still stung, but Mary and Marianne were both determined not to give him further ammunition for his sharp tongue.

At last, lunch came and Mynard arrived precisely as the golden notes of the fourth bell were carried in by the breeze that drifted from the harbor. Marianne led him to the formal dining room, the stage of tonight’s big event.

The doors to the garden beyond stood thrown open, yet thanks to her father's ingenious architectural design, the rays of the hot midday sun did not spill into the room and needlessly warm it. Instead, the arched windows of Marianne's summer villa welcomed the fresh ocean air, filling the airy chamber with delicious coolness scented by flowers from her garden.

The room, like the rest of the villa, had been dressed for summer in a soft symphony of blues—powdery sky tones, deep sapphires, delicate aquas, and deeper azures that echoed the refreshing clarity of the sea beyond. Filmy curtains stirred gently in the salt-tinged breeze, and everywhere one looked were touches of ladylike elegance: painted porcelain vases brimming with hamerthesums—which to Mary's eyes looked remarkably like blue poppies—and pale yellow ithsiniums that could have been peonies from an English garden.

The low couches in the adjacent sitting area were draped in silk cushions of cloudlike pastels, while ivory filigree traced delicate patterns across the carved furniture. It was a room designed for gentle conversation and refined leisure, and everything about it reflected its mistress as she had been before her accident—Marianne in summer, all light and brightness and breezy charm.

Everything, that is, except her brother.

Seated stiffly across from her at the polished dining table was Mynard. Clad in his customary dark colors, he looked like midnight in the midst of day. Tall and severe, his presence cast a chill over the room’s warmth, not unlike a thundercloud intruding on a clear sky. It was his first time here—Marianne had never extended an invitation before, and she hadn’t precisely invited him this time either. He had simply called for a meeting and invited himself.

The meal laid before them was a light summer lunch—Marianne's favorite sort. A crystal pitcher of iced white tea, steeped with pear and mint, stood beside a tiered tray of honey-drizzled pastries and fresh berries imported from outside the duchy. She hadn’t thought to order her favorite consommé, as this wasn't a special occasion requiring elaborate courses. Instead, a chilled cucumber soup shimmered in delicate porcelain bowls, followed by platters of grilled, buttery, whitefish topped with apfelsige slices and sabarthum blossoms, garden salad dressed with violets, and soft rolls glazed with spiced orange blossom butter.

Mary found herself grateful that Marianne's palate aligned so well with her own. Unlike the rest of the Alexandrians, Marianne wasn't particularly fond of the curries and fiery spices that seemed to dominate the duchy's cuisine. She much preferred the delicate interplay of fresh herbs and subtle flavors.

Though perhaps next time, Mary mused, she might include a proper roast or some ham with a side of gravy or mashed and well-buttered potatoffels. She was quite certain Mynard would appreciate those more substantial additions.

Marianne's rejoinder to those thoughtful considerations was: No way! As if I’m ever going to have him over again after tomorrow’s dinner!

Mary sighed and inwardly rolled her eyes at Marianne who was proving to be needlessly childish. She sipped her tea and stole a glance at her brother. He hadn’t touched the tea, nor the pastries, and though he was politely working his way through the fish, his movements were joyless. Still—he didn’t complain.

The silence stretched between them, filled only by the gentle clink of silverware against porcelain and the cheerful chirping of birds in the garden outside. At one point during that awkward meal Mary looked up and smiled as one of the tiny white butterflies she'd seen fluttering about the castle grounds danced into the room through the open doors and alighted delicately on the floral arrangement in the center of the table.

The small creature's wings moved slowly as it explored the hamerthesums with evident delight. Mary found herself charmed by its gentle presence. Mynard noticed it too, but where Mary saw beauty and wonder, he apparently did not. His frown deepened, and with an irritated wave of his hand, he shooed the butterfly back toward the garden. It fluttered away in startled loops, disappearing beyond the threshold.

Mary's smile faded. “What did you do that for? It wasn't doing any harm!”

It had been such a lovely, innocent moment, but Mynard, it seemed, was truly an irredeemable sourpuss and he was apparently offended by even something as harmless as a curious little butterfly.

Mynard's eyes gazed at the open doors, and paused as if measuring his words “You know, it's best if you keep your doors and windows shut. Yes we are in the castle grounds but you never know…. I can offer you one of my air conditioning units–”

As Mary wondered what an air conditioner unit was, Marianne took over and answered for the two of them. “I thank you for the offer.” She said putting down her utensils, “But I will have to decline.”

“Suit yourself,” Mynard shrugged. “now, you should go forward with the yacht party as planned,” Mynard said at last, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin and pushing away his half-full plate. “Frame it as a welcome celebration—for both Griselde and Richart. Kill two birds with one stone.”

“I was thinking the same,” Marianne replied, sitting up straighter. “Do you think a visit to the cove to collect ingredients would interest him?”

Mynard gave a slow nod, his face neutral. “I’m surprised you thought of something so sensible,” he said. “Though I suppose I should thank your attendants. At least someone around you has a working brain.”

Marianne set down her goblet with a clink. “You know what? I’m getting really tired of your snide little jabs. What is your problem, Mynard?”

“You’ve made it perfectly clear that if left to your own devices, you’re a disaster waiting to happen. So excuse me if I resent having to take up precious time to help clean up the messes you made.” Mynard shot back. “I had better things to do. But I came—for Mother’s sake. For Richart’s. You think I’m thrilled to be stuck here as Erwachlehren to those who should rightly be praying for the care of Wiegenmilch?”

Marianne stared at him, stunned silent by the venom in his voice. She opened her mouth, ready to fire back, but Mary was thankfully quick enough to prevent a word from spilling out her lips.

Remember what happened earlier this morning. You must master your tongue!!

Marianne froze and collected herself in a flash. However, that did not prevent her from grabbing a grape from the fruit salad bowl and hurling it at her brother.

“Lady Marianne!” Elise chided sharply, scandalized. Luckily Mynard plucked the harmless projectile from the air before it activated one of his charms.

Flushing, Marianne sat back and took a steadying breath.

Mary, for her own part, was dismayed that she had to contend with bickering sibling dynamics on top of the ones she had left behind in England. She knew Kitty and Lydia were always quarreing, but that was only the flipside of them being inseparable friends. Here she has a brother, a twin no less, who should have been closest to her and yet he outright detested her! Mary made a mental note to investigate the reason.

She took a deep breath, determined to be the adult in this situation.

“You said you were busy,” she said coolly. “Let’s move on, then. Elise, please have the plates cleared.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Ermingarde, meanwhile, handed her the notes from the earlier meeting, “Here’s what I’ve drafted for tonight’s dinner,” she said, presenting a neatly written list. “Seating arrangements, menu, entertainment, songlist, topics of conversation, and our proposed schedule for the week. I would value your input,” and then Marianne added: “...little brother.”

Mynard’s frown deepened at her condescending choice of words—little brother—though they had been born mere minutes apart. He didn’t take the bait, however. Instead, he skimmed the list with cool detachment.

“I’ve arranged the seating according to protocol,” she continued, “Mother at the head, naturally, with Richart to her right as guest of honor. Then Frederik—”

"Actually," Mynard interrupted, studying the arrangement with a frown and flicking the paper with his finger, "I think I should sit closer to Richart. We're old friends, and it would be more comfortable for him to have familiar company nearby."

"Absolutely not." Marianne leaned forward, pointing decisively to the seat labeled as his in the chart. "You're sitting next to me. As my twin, that's the appropriate placement."

She had spent considerable time working out the proper precedence: Lady Rozemyne, as the highest-ranking person present, would naturally take the head of the table, while Marianne, as hostess of her own villa, would sit at the foot directly opposite her mother. Mynard, who shared her ranking as an Archduke Candidate, belonged at her right hand.

On the right side of the head table would sit Richart as guest of honor, followed by Frederik as heir apparent, then young Armin. Their father would claim the place of honor at their mother's left, followed by Griselde—who as Frederik's fiancée from a greater duchy held significant rank—then little Leo, and finally Mynard at the far end.

"This arrangement puts me all the way at the foot of the table," Mynard protested, his voice rising slightly. "Richart will be surrounded by virtual strangers."

“You’re exaggerating.” Marianne pointed at Griselde’s seat in the chart, “First off when we were kids his family used to come visit us all the time. Second, his sister will not be very far from him.”

"His adoptive sister," Mynard corrected pointedly.

Marianne scoffed. She knew perfectly well that Griselde loved her younger cousin like her own blood brother—of that she was absolutely certain. "The seating follows proper protocol," she insisted, her cheeks beginning to flush with frustration at her brother's stubborn obtuseness. "I cannot simply rearrange everything because you'd rather chat with your friend than support your sister at her own dinner party."

"Support you in what, exactly?" Mynard shot back, his amber eyes flashing. "The one who truly needs support here is Richart. I don't think you understand what you've done—"

"He'll have Mother," Marianne interrupted firmly, "and you know she's an excellent conversationalist. Plus Frederik, who's perfectly charming when he wants to be—"

Mynard crossed his arms. "And father right across from him, freezing his heart out and no doubt waiting for the opportunity to cast him into a valley of despair!”

Mary, who was following the sibling’s conversation as best as she could thought that it was not a bad thing for her intended to be seated across their father. A gentleman should not have anything to hide or fear if his intentions were truly honorable.

“What if I move to Father's left,” Mynard said, “next to Griselde, and she moves down one seat?"

"You can't move Griselde! She's from a greater duchy!"

"Then what if we swap Frederik and me? I sit at Mother's right after Richart, and Frederik sits beside you?"

"Frederik is the heir apparent!" Marianne's voice pitched higher with exasperation. "He absolutely cannot sit at the foot of the table! May I remind you of what horrible things you said to me this morning simply because I sat in his chair?"

"Well, what if—"

“You know, for such a stick in the mud who is always harping about propriety you’re really entirely too—”

"My Lord, My Lady," Armand, Mynard's head attendant, stepped forward with that particular tone seasoned servants perfected—polite but utterly immovable. "If I may respectfully suggest that the current arrangement is entirely proper and follows all established protocols for such a distinguished gathering."

"Ha!" Marianne's triumph was immediate and undisguised. She shot her brother an arched look that practically shouted I told you so.

Elise, Marianne's own attendant, nodded with grave approval. "Indeed. Moving guests of such elevated rank could easily be construed as... a slight. The seating as planned honors everyone according to their proper station while maintaining family harmony."

Anticipating Mynard’s protests, his attendant cut him off smoothly. "Milord, Lord Richart is quite capable of managing formal dinner conversation. He is, after all, an archduke candidate from a distinguished duchy. I'm certain he's attended many such dinners and navigated many such occasions with aplomb."

"And furthermore," Marianne added with barely concealed irritation, "don't imagine I'm particularly keen to have you sitting so close to me either. But we must present a united front as hosts of this crucial meal. It demonstrates family solidarity to our guests."

Mynard's shoulders sagged in defeat. "Fine. But when Richart looks utterly miserable, I'm holding all of you responsible."

"And if the entire meal becomes awkward because we ignored proper protocol," Marianne muttered, "I would have held you responsible." She forced her voice to brighten as she turned to the next page. "The meal will be lovely regardless. Now, shall we review what I've planned for the menu? I was considering adding more substantial meat courses and heartier fare."

Mynard's expression lightened slightly. "Finally, something we can both agree on."

Easy now, Marianne. Mary said, holding the reins tight.

Marianne was forced to bite back her immediate retort.

Her brother’s remark was clearly a pointed criticism of today's lunch—which she thought rather mean-spirited of him.

—

And so, at last, the day of Richart's arrival dawned. Marianne spent the entire morning and afternoon fluttering about with preparations until her attendants finally pointed out that it was time to ready herself to receive their distinguished guest.

As Marianne sank into the refreshing bath water, her sky-blue glossy hair hair pinned up in a knot to keep it dry, her thoughts traveled southward to Alexandria's border. At this very moment, Frederik, Griselde, their father, and their retinues would be making their way to the gate Alexandria shared with Dunkelfelger, where they would welcome Richart and his retinue. They would then teleport directly to the massive transfer circle within the castle grounds, where she, along with her mother and the rest of the family, would formally greet him.

Marianne's heart hammered against her ribs and her mana began swirling within her—anxiety warring with dread, anticipation battling with something deeper and more troubling.

Are you that much in love with Richart? Mary asked quietly.

In love? Marianne's mental voice was sharp, almost defensive. No. It's not that. I'm...

The thought trailed off into silence as Marianne struggled to identify what she was truly feeling. When she finally forced her chaotic emotions into some semblance of order, Mary was surprised to discover what lay at the heart of it all:

Marianne was terrified.

I wish you'd tell me what kind of man to expect, Mary pressed gently. Surely he's honorable?

Yes. Marianne's mental voice grew softer, almost wistful. He's very honorable. He's kind, and though he's quiet, his eyes are so beautiful. And he is very strong. He's so strong—and... and...

Suddenly, a flash of memory pierced through their shared consciousness—a tall young man looking down with unconcealed scorn, his light gray eyes cold and dismissive. His lips moved, forming the words—

“You could not tempt me in any way, shape or form…”

The vision was fleeting, no more than a heartbeat, but it shocked Mary and it carried the crushing weight of Marianne’s deepest humiliation—her rejection, laid bare on the very day she had gathered all her courage to propose to him.

Mary had had her suspicions but it truly did look like Lord Richart of Dunkelfelger neither esteemed nor even liked the woman he was now betrothed to.

Warm tears began to roll down Marianne's cheeks, silent at first but quickly escalating. The quiet tears turned to soft whimpers, and the whimpers blossomed into heart-wrenching sobs that echoed off the bathroom walls.

"My Lady!" Her attendants rushed forward in alarm. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

But Marianne couldn't stop crying. As she and Mary shared consciousness—and feelings—Mary began to understand the true depth of Marianne’s anguish. Mary had never quite experienced rejection like this. Not truly. Perhaps once, long ago, in her other life—a sting, yes, but fleeting, survivable. Nothing like this. This was no small wound but a devastation, the kind of heartbreak that hollowed you out from the inside, leaving you gasping as though the very air conspired against you.

I'm sorry, Marianne whispered through their mental connection, her voice breaking even in Mary's mind. I... I just can't do this. I know I promised to help you, but I…

And then, like a candle being snuffed out, Marianne's consciousness withdrew completely, leaving Mary utterly alone once again—abandoned to face the most important evening of her borrowed life without any guidance from the woman whose memories and feelings she desperately needed to navigate this treacherous maze.

For a long moment Mary only sat in the cooling bath water, stunned. But then her shock and dismay gave way to something else: resolve.

She was not overjoyed by the predicament, but neither was she without sympathy. Marianne—for all her flaws and spoiled ways—was not cruel, nor malicious. She was beautiful, yes, privileged, perhaps willful, but her heart was good. She meant well, always. Earlier, Mary had been quick to liken her to Lydia—vain, careless Lydia—but now she knew better. Marianne did not deserve such disdain.

Yet that didn’t change the truth. This sweet, foolish, well-meaning girl might very well be about to bind herself to a man as cold and unkind as Wickham had been to Lydia.

“Very well,” Mary thought, straightening with a quiet determination. Leave it to me. I shall see for myself whether this young man is worthy. And if he is not, then somehow—somehow—I will find a way to end it.

The time for hesitation was past. Mary had been content to drift in the background, an observer in a story not her own. But not anymore. It was time to act.

“Thank you, Elise,” she said, handing back the small towel her attendant had given her to dry her tears. “But I will not be needing this anymore. I want you to please make sure that Marianne— I mean, that I—look positively radiant.”

Elise blinked in surprise, her violet eyes widening slightly. “I’m happy to hear it, my lady. We were already planning to have you wear the newest blue dress and matching jewelry set you received when you took honors last winter.”

From what she had pieced together since becoming Marianne, Mary had only a vague idea of what the dress and jewelry set actually looked like. But surely, if it had been chosen to commemorate such an achievement, it must be spectacular. “That will be perfect. Thank you.”

“Don’t worry, my lady.” Pink-haired Ermengarde chimed in cheerfully from behind Elise. “The Dunkelfelger fire cannot long remain obdurate when Flutrane and all her goddesses show up in full force. We’ll make him fall at your feet.”

“You can count on us!” added another attendant and everyone suddenly seemed much more cheerful than Mary had ever seen them before.

Marianne’s voice softly whispered in reply before it faded again, I’ll be counting on you.

Chapter Text

MRS BENNET: You see that gentleman there? Lady Lucas has just told me he’s Mr Bingley’s oldest friend. His name is Darcy, and he has a mighty fortune…Don’t you think he’s the handsomest man you’ve ever seen, girls?

ELIZABETH: Hmm. I wonder if he’d be quite so handsome if he was not quite so rich?

[They laugh and the gentlemen make their way over to them.]

MRS BENNET (gasps): Lizzy, oh, lord, they’re coming over. Smile, girls, smile!

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 1 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

After her attendants were done dressing and preparing her to greet their guest, Mary stood in the mirror and studied her reflection. Marianne was a beautiful girl, but the word “beautiful” did not quite do justice to the vision of loveliness that gazed back at Mary from the mirror. She had thought Mynard’s beauty oppressive; Marianne’s beauty and feminine charm put her on an entirely different level.

Her eyes, naturally large and golden, had been outlined with the finest brush strokes, transforming them into soulful pools of liquid amber. Her lips, already naturally rose-tinted, now appeared as if touched by morning dew, while her flawless complexion had been rendered with such delicate skill that her skin seemed to possess an inner luminescence. A whisper of rouge graced her cheekbones, and her hair—typically sleek and straight—now cascaded in artful waves that fell past her waist and was adorned with intricate braids and delicate flowers that made her appear as if she had stepped from the pages of a fairy tale.

The thin veil—if the bit of gossamer that fell from her tiara could be called a veil—did very little to obscure her radiance. And the dress! It should have scandalized Mary with its décolletage. Though Marianne lacked their mother's abundant figure, this was perhaps a blessing. Where their mother possessed the obvious allure of a Venus, Mary could see that Marianne embodied something more akin to Diana—statuesque, dignified, possessing a vestal beauty that commanded reverence rather than mere desire.

But Mary did not gaze upon herself with vanity. Indeed, Mary had not donned this elaborate guise to make Richart of Dunkelfelger fall at her feet. Rather, she understood that beauty was one of the few weapons available to womankind. Having lived her entire life as the plain, overlooked sister, she had always felt herself at such a disadvantage that she had never dared to argue, fight, or truly assert herself in any meaningful way.

Wearing this dress there was no way that she would be so easily dismissed.

Today, however, she would need every ounce of confidence she could muster. Borrowed confidence, perhaps, but hers for this evening. Like Cinderella—though instead of seeking to enchant a prince, she intended to judge him with the utmost severity.

Thus, she departed her villa at the appointed hour.

The castle's gardens were bathed in the honey-golden light of the late afternoon and the ivory walls of the palace proper towered skyward majestically, seeming to glow like amber against the deepening cobalt-blue sky. In this far side of the gardens, a point in the castle grounds where the view was unencumbered by trees or bushes, the distant ocean stretched endlessly toward the horizon, its dark surface catching the gold rays of sunlight in brilliant, dancing fragments. Far off, the multicolored structure that was the famous country gate gleamed silently.

"Marianne, you look positively radiant!" her mother exclaimed as Mary approached the gathered family around the ornate teleportation circle. The carved stone platform was nestled among carefully tended flowerbeds, and there was an unmistakable air of expectation thrumming through the small assembly. As they greeted each other, the gentle evening breeze carried the drowsy calls of birds settling into their roosts, while closer at hand, the warm murmur of familiar voices created a cocoon of familial comfort that put Mary at ease.

This was just a family affair. No need to be so scared.

Lady Rozemyne took Mary's arm with maternal affection, guiding her closer to the circle. "I confess I am delighted that everyone is finally returning home. The castle has felt rather hollow without your father and brother's presence, has it not?"

Mary found herself unable to agree, having known only the solitary existence within her villa these past few days, but before she needed to formulate a response, the magic circle began to pulse and then glow with light. Her breath caught in her throat—not merely from nervousness, though that certainly coursed through her veins, but from the continued wonder of witnessing magic. In the flesh. Yet she soon forgot the marvel entirely when she beheld a small crowd emerging from the black and golden lights.

And among them, the man on whom all Marianne’s hopes of happiness depended on. Mary recognized him immediately. Not like he bore any resemblance whatsoever to the solemn boy from her childhood portrait, but rather that quick flash of memory was seared into her mind and heart.

This was the man who had so callously rejected Marianne.

In her former life in Hertfordshire, Mary had watched her sisters swoon over countless officers and soldiers. Those men had possessed a theatrical quality—uniforms of brilliant scarlet, perfectly pressed and pristine; hair styled with artful precision; smiles practiced to devastating effect. She had assumed Marianne's taste would favor such conventional charm. But Richart was... something else entirely.

He towered above them all—even her own father. His height was seriously imposing and his shoulders impossibly broad. Could he truly be the same age as herself and Mynard? Impossible. Where the officers of her past had been handsome in a safe, predictable manner, Richart possessed something altogether more primitive. His features might have been hewn from granite—sharp cheekbones, angular planes, strong lines that spoke of unyielding resolve. His hair, appearing brown in the golden afternoon light but revealing itself to be a dark olive-green upon closer inspection, was cropped close to his skull.

This was no refined gentleman, nor was he the type to belong to drawing rooms and ball rooms. This was a man who looked as though he could fell ancient oaks with his bare hands. As he moved forward to kneel before Lady Rozemyne in greeting, Mary observed that despite his hulking size he still possessed a fluid-like grace as if of a dancer. Or a sword master. And his impeccably tailored garments—cut as perfectly as Mynard's—could not disguise the raw power that lay beneath the fabric.

Where her brother wore his nobility like a second skin, Richart wore his like armor.

"Richart," Lady Rozemyne said with genuine warmth, "how wonderful to see you again. I trust the journey was not unduly arduous?"

"Lady Rozemyne," Richart replied, his voice resonating with deep, steady tones. "Thank you for welcoming me into your home and duchy. May I offer a prayer of gratitude to Dregarnhur, the Goddess of Time, for weaving our threads together so swiftly?"

"You may, indeed."

When he rose after the greetings were over, those steel-gray eyes swept across the assembled party and settled on her for one brief, assessing moment. His gaze passed over her with such cold indifference that she might have been a piece of furniture.

She should have been outraged, but in reality Mary found herself fighting the urge to seek shelter behind her mother. This was not the sort of man she had ever imagined capable of inspiring romantic sentiment. She doubted even Kitty or Lydia would have entertained romantic notions of a man that carried himself like him.

He was, quite simply, a brute—and Mary's English sensibilities were seriously shaken.

Really, Marianne? she thought with growing bewilderment. This is the man you rejected all others for?

From the fragments of Marianne's recovered memories, Mary had gleaned that Marianne was currently the object of ardent pursuit by many in the Royal Academy, including Michel, the son of Zent Eglantine, who was a youth in her same grade who blessed with golden locks, an angelic countenance, as well as a voice to match it. The contrast with this intimidating creature could not have been more stark.

She listened as he and her mother exchanged usual pleasantries but suddenly he turned her way. "Lady Marianne," he said, inclining his head with precise respect. "It is an honor to see you again. I hope... I hope you are feeling well today?" There was something almost imperceptible in his tone that Mary could not interpret.

"I am well, thank you," she replied carefully, though she sensed there was more to his question than simple courtesy.

Marianne’s mother stepped smoothly into the conversation. "The physicians report that her physical recovery has exceeded all expectations. As for the other matter..." She directed a meaningful look toward Richart. "Well, that is partly why you have come, is it not? To assist our dear Marianne in recovering what she has lost?"

"Indeed," Richart replied quietly, those gray eyes never wavering from Mary's face. "I understand the accident affected your memory most severely. I hope that being surrounded by familiar faces and places might help restore what has been taken from you."

Mary's stomach clenched. The words had been spoken with utmost courtesy, but his eyes told a different story. She began to tremble.

Mary was afraid.

Afraid of this man who obviously hated her and whom she somehow had to please and maybe win over. She was so in over her head. Being so close to this man was like standing before a mountain. And while everyone else seemed to know the path to its summit, she had yet to locate even the beginning of the trail, much less hope to scale its treacherous slopes.

What was she to do or say now? Silence seemed the wisest course. She offered only a single nod of acknowledgment.

The formal greetings concluded, arrangements for accommodations were discussed. Throughout these proceedings, Richart remained perfectly composed, responding to questions with brief, direct answers. He displayed no sign of displeasure, but neither did he exhibit any warmth or enthusiasm. Only when he exchanged a silent nod with Maynard did his expression thaw, if only slightly.

Maynard. I must speak to him.

As the company began to disperse and servants stepped forward to guide Richart to his quarters, Mary hurried to Maynard’s side. However, her shoes were better served for palace corridors rather than garden paths and so her slipper caught on one of the flag stone steps, and she stumbled—managing to steady herself only by grasping her brother’s sleeve.

Maynard cursed in surprise, but he instinctively grabbed on to her keeping her from once again dashing her head agaisnt stone.

"Could you... would you mind going ahead and overseeing the final preparations?" she asked, trying to keep her voice casual. "I want everything to be perfect for our guests."

Mynard's face fell slightly, and he glanced toward Richart who was being led toward the northern wing. "But these are your guests to entertain and host—not mine. Besides, I was hoping to accompany Richart to the North Wing. We'll be on the same floor and I thought I might give him a proper tour and show him around..."

“But!”

He turned back to his sister with a slight frown. "I should like to extend proper courtesy to my friend. You and your servants are perfectly capable of managing the preparations, and surely the dinner arrangements are not so complex—"

"Please, Mynard," Mary insisted, her grip tightening on his sleeve. "Just this once, as a favor to me?"

"Why?" Mynard's eyes narrowed slightly. "What's going on?"

Mary's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She could hardly explain that she desperately needed to have a private conversation about Richart and his current mood and frame of mind with those that had come in with him. She didn't want to come across as desperate. "I simply... I have other matters requiring my attention."

"What matters?" Mynard pressed, clearly unconvinced by her evasion.

"Important matters!" Mary snapped, then immediately caught herself and lowered her voice. "Brother, please. I am asking this as a personal favor."

Mynard studied her for a long moment, clearly torn between her plea and his desire to be a proper host to his friend. Finally, he released a heavy sigh.

"Very well," he conceded, though his tone suggested considerable reluctance. "But you owe me, Mary. I shall not forget."

"Of course," Mary said quickly, relief flooding her voice. "Anything you ask. Thank you, truly."

Mynard shook his head as he walked away, muttering under his breath.

The moment he was out of sight, Mary turned and searched desperately for Frederik. There—he was escorting Griselde toward the castle. Under normal circumstances, Mary would have hesitated to approach without proper introduction, but then she remembered that she wasn't really Mary. She was supposed to be Marianne and it was perfectly normal to approach her future sister in law. Griselde, only a year Marianne's senior, had been her dearest friend since childhood. Though she and Richart were related, she bore no resemblance to him whatsoever, having inherited her father's distinctive coloring of snow-white hair and sparkling red eyes that danced with mischief and warmth.

"Griselde!" Mary called, breathless from hurrying to overtake them.

"Marianne!" Griselde turned with obvious pleasure. "I wished to greet you earlier, but you and Mynard seemed engaged in urgent conversation. I’m beyond relieved to see you back on your feet, we..."

Mary interrupted with barely contained urgency. "Please, you must tell me honestly—does he... does Richart despise being here? Is he angry about this arrangement?"

Frederik cleared his throat pointedly. "How charming to see you again, dear sister."

"Oh, Frederick, forgive me!" Mary exclaimed, flustered.

He smiled with good nature. "Set your mind at ease, Mary. He has shown no sign whatsoever of displeasure."

But Griselde's expression grew thoughtful, touched with an unmistakable sadness. Taking Mary's hands, she gently pressed between her own.

"It would be an achievement, indeed, to get him to show any such expression. My baby cousin is so very serious."

"That is.... also true." Frederik said thoughtfully as he rubbed the back of his neck.

Well, that was hardly helpful. Mary sighed, unable to hide her dismay.

"You must understand something about my brother, Mary," she said, using the childhood pet name with warm familiarity. "With your memories gone it would probably help if I reminded you about the kind of person you fell in love with. Richart has always placed duty above all else. From his earliest years, he learned to set aside his personal feelings in service of what was expected of him. Even when Father decreed that he should be adopted and elevated to Archduke Candidate—even then, he never once betrayed the slightest hint of his true thoughts nor resistance." Her voice grew soft, weighted with concern. "He will certainly do what is expected of him, and will never vehave dishonorably. It's a point of pride with him. So please rest easy."

In other words, Richart would fulfill whatever was expected of him regardless of his personal sentiments on the matter--including marrying Marianne. He'd do his duty without a word of complaint.

Mary listened to these reassurances, and for a moment found herself inclined to accept Griselde's assessment without question. But then, unbidden, the specter of Wickham rose in her mind—how effortlessly he had charmed them all, how masterfully he had worn his mask of respectability until his true nature was finally, devastatingly revealed.

She could still hear the echo of Lydia's broken sobs as her sister had confessed Wickham's infidelities not five years after their marriage. Mary knew of the way his initial ardor had curdled into contempt once the novelty of conquest had faded. How he had grown cold, dismissive—all while maintaining his facade of injured virtue before the world.

Mary then remembered Marianne's heartbroken cries from that afternoon with painful clarity. She knew with absolute certainty that it would be unconscionable to stand idle while another innocent entered into a union with a man who, lacking love, esteem, or even basic respect for her, might well come to despise her as thoroughly as Wickham had come to despise Lydia.

The realization crystallized her resolve. Every man harbored secrets, some darker than others. And she was absolutely determined to uncover exactly what darkness Richart of Dunkelfelger was concealing beneath his carefully constructed facade of duty and honor.

And when she inevitably uncovered his secrets—for she had no doubt that she would—she would take them to Marianne’s father and see this engagement dissolved once and for all.

Chapter Text

[LONGBOURN, ELIZABETH'S ROOM - EVENING]

[Mrs Bennet enters Elizabeth's room. Elizabeth has a maid helping her get ready for the ball.]

MRS BENNET: Ah! You look very well, Lizzy. You'll never be as pretty as your sister, Jane, but I will say you look very well, indeed.

ELIZABETH (amused sigh): Thank you, Mamma.

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 2 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

“I’d love to stay and chat,” Frederick said, taking Griselde's hand, “but we just got back and need to get ready for tonight’s dinner. Griselde, my goddess, come—let me escort you—”

Mary initially had hoped to speak to Frederick with whom she was already acquainted with. But Griselde’s warmth and candor, paired with her genuine sympathy, quickly made it clear she would be the more helpful ally. Besides, as Richart’s relative, she was bound to know far more about him.

“Um…” Mary stepped in, clearing her throat. “I would be more than happy to take your place.”

Frederik blinked at her. “Don’t you have a dinner to prepare?”

“Mynard is taking care of the final arrangements for me.”

That stopped him cold. His brows lifted. “Wait, Mynard is handling details? Willingly? How in the world did you even manage that?” He waved a hand. “Never mind, I’m not sure I want to know what threats you used against him. Look Marianne, I know you’re thrilled that Griselde’s coming to live with us, but we’re a couple, and we’d like some time for—”

Griselde interrupted before he could build momentum, her voice gentle but laughing. “Freddie, we’ll have all the time in the world. Besides, we just spent several days together in the south. Surely you can spare me a little while? I haven’t had a real conversation with Marianne in ages. Please?”

Frederik faltered, looking desperately unhappy. However, after a pause, he exhaled sharply and let go of her hand.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But please keep my sister out of trouble. We don’t want to terrorize our guest…again.”

“I can promise nothing,” Griselde said brightly, looping her arm through Mary’s with a conspiratorial grin. “I do believe Richart needs a little shaking up—and who better than the women who love him best? Come, Marianne—tell me everything.”

Frederick heaved a long-suffering sigh. "As the goddesses of spring conspire against me I shall pray that Dregarnuhr has mercy on me and spins swiftly.” He seemed about to go but just before turning away, he caught Griselde’s hand in his own and lifted it to his lips. He pressed a kiss to her palm—slow, reverent, and intimate.

Everyone around—all their retainers and castle servants, including Mary, gasped. Mary flushed red and she immediately turned away. But not before she saw the look that passed between them. It was a look that was more than affection—it was charged with something she didn’t quite understand.

How extraordinary, Mary thought, as she gazed upon a random garden statue still keeping her eyes averted from the lovebirds. Is this the nature of romantic attachment? Such displays of emotion seem rather... excessive.

Mary frowned, determined to speak to Frederick at a later time with stern admonitions about his lack of decorum.

She had, naturally, encountered such descriptions in her reading, but witnessing such passion firsthand left her feeling that perhaps there was more merit in the controlled affections recommended by moral philosophers than in these tempestuous displays of feeling. Surely such emotions needed to be carefully weighed and kept in check. It all seemed terribly imprudent—and yet something in her bosom stirred and ached.

Only when Griselde tugged her arm gently did she finally glance back.

"Sorry about that.” She said apologetically as they continued walking toward the castle, but then her tone shifted, “But most importantly, how are you truly feeling? We've all been so worried about you since the accident."

Mary managed what she hoped was a convincing smile. "I am quite well, I assure you. And I am sorry if my absence has caused you both trouble. I heard from Frederick that my faction—”

Griselde waved a hand dismissively. “Please don’t worry about that. Frederik and I went south to deal with some of those nobles and things have settled down. What matters now is you. Tell me how you’ve been recuperating?”

Mary looked at the young woman beside her—so beautiful, poised, and self-assured…. And yet also so warm and open. Something inside her heart softened as she realized that she had never truly had a confidante before. A friend. Someone her own age who listened as though what she had to say mattered.

Until now.

Encouraged, Mary allowed herself to be less guarded and spoke more openly. “I find that quiet pursuits—immersing myself in books, practicing diligently on the harspiel, or taking reflective walks through my garden—have been deeply restorative. Daily reflection and contemplation are a reward in themselves, but since my accident, I’ve found they’ve done wonders for my constitution.”

Griselde was silent, so Marianne continued. “I also found among my things a book of ancient poetry—someone must have gifted it to me… a certain someone named Michel. It’s a lovely little volume.” Then, remembering something that surfaced from Marianne’s memories, Mary added, “Since your grasp of the ancient language is far better than mine, being from Dunkelfelger, you might understand more of it than I could. I’ll lend it to you.”

She turned to her new friend with a warm smile. For the briefest moment, something flickered across Griselde’s face—surprise, perhaps even alarm—but it vanished so quickly Mary wondered if she had only imagined it. What she did not realize was how profoundly foreign her words sounded to someone who had known the real Marianne—the vibrant girl who thrived on social gatherings, who had lived for romance and fashion, trends, and excitement, who could barely sit still long enough to finish a book that wasn’t romance stories from the Royal Academy, much less spend hours in solitary reading or quiet contemplation.

Marianne had never willingly endured an hour of solitude in her life. And now, after nearly a week without tea parties, without visits, without the glittering whirl of everything she adored, the absence was being noticed. Word was out, and everyone in the castle from the lowest servant to the archduchess was talking about it.

“I see,” Griselde murmured quietly, her eyes fixed on Mary with an almost searching intensity. “I hadn’t realized things were so dire.”

“Pardon?”

Griselde shook her head lightly. “It’s nothing.” She let out a quiet sigh. “Well, I suppose such experiences do change a person. All the same, I want you to know I’ll do whatever I can to help, and I hope I can serve as Erwachlehren to those who pray for him—whenever you may need.”

“Thank you,” Mary said, wondering where she had misstepped.

They walked together through the arched marble corridors until they reached the Eastern Wing, where Griselde’s rooms awaited her. Up a sweeping flight of stairs they went, and into the chambers allocated for honored guests and where Griselde would remain until the day of her starbinding to Frederick, after which she would take her place in his estate not too far from the castle proper.

When Mary stepped inside, a sharp breath escaped her lips. The chambers were nothing short of magnificent—airy and refined, dressed in a palette of summer blue and silver that gave the space a feeling of cool serenity. The ivory-colored furnishings gleamed softly under the glow of crystal lamps which Mary now recognized to be the finest type: magical tools crafted with precious feystones. Cascading draperies of pale silk framed tall windows, though no direct sun reached this wing at this time of day. Instead, the tall windows, or doors rather, had been flung open, granting a view of the gardens below which were glowing with the light of the setting sun. Beyond the hedges and ivory paths, trees, and fountains, stretched a sky painted in hues of rose and violet, where billowing clouds swelled high, heralding an evening rainstorm.

"How remarkably elegant," Mary observed with genuine appreciation.

Griselde's laughter tinkled like silver bells. "Oh, Marianne, you do say the most peculiar things sometimes. You decorated these rooms yourself. Don't you remember spending weeks agonizing over every detail? You were so determined that everything should be perfect and sent me so many swatches and letters that my father got fed up with us!"

Mary’s heart sank. Of course she didn’t remember. Griselde’s amusement faded as she took in Mary’s expression.

“Oh no. Don’t tell me you also forgot that?”

Mary nodded slowly, then turned toward her with sudden desperation. “Griselde, please,” she said, her voice trembling. “You must tell me everything I need to know about... about Richart. My memory is so terribly affected, and I’m terrified I’ll make some awful mistake tonight that will make him despise me even more. Please.”

Inwardly, Mary added: I need to learn all that I can to break off this engagement…

Griselde’s expression turned grave as she unfastened the belt at her waist, slipping free the cluster of potion vials and the tiny cage that held her highbeast stone. Her attendant was already at work, deft fingers unlacing the bodice of her traveling gown.

“We don’t have much time,” Griselde murmured. “I need to bathe and dress before dinner. But I’ll tell you what I can while I prepare.”

“Thank you.” Relief loosened the tightness in Mary’s chest. She glanced at her attendants, and they quietly withdrew to the antechamber without needing to be told. Left in the hush of the room, Mary turned her back to give her friend privacy. Behind her came the soft chorus of sounds—fabric rustling, attendants’ murmured tones, the splash of water as Griselde finally slid into the steaming bath.

Then her voice rang out, steady and clear through the archway that led to the bath room. “Do come in, Marianne. We can speak while I soak, if you don’t mind.”

Mary did not mind. And though it was a little embarrassing, she was more grateful than shy. When an attendant drew up a chair beside the porcelain tub, she sat quietly, hands folded, trying not to stare.

Half-hidden by veils of fragrant steam and soapy water, Mary saw Griselde’s long, graceful form reclined against the edge of the tub. Like Marianne, she was lithe and slender, yet there the resemblance ended. Her bosom was fuller, her frame more athletic. The definition of her shoulders and arms spoke of a warrior’s strength, and their bronzed glow was a striking contrast to Marianne’s decidedly pale features.

“Now,” Marianne’s friend began, “You must remember—or rather, understand—Richart wasn't always as he is now. When we were children, he was quite different—still serious, perhaps, but happier. Or so I’m told. I didn’t really know him except as my baby cousin and we saw each other almost daily but it was always to train and spar. But I do know that before my father adopted him, You, Mynard, and Richart were great friends, and that friendship blossomed from the time you were all babies and Lady Hannelore, his mother, would visit from Dunkelfelger every summer.” Griselde smiled warmly, “From Freddie’s stories and what I’ve been able to gather, the three of you were always getting into some form of mischief together."

Mary watched as Griselde’s attendants worked fragrant rinsham into her silver-white hair. Griselde hummed with pleasure, tilting her head back and closing her eyes, only to crack one open with a playful smile.

“Nothing beats Alexandrian beauty products.” she sighed. “And we have you to thank for them, Marianne.”

Mary blinked. She had not known—could not have known—that so many of the luxuries coveted by noblewomen across Yurgenschmidt bore Marianne’s name. In truth, she was merely reaping the fruit of her parents’ decades of research, especially her father. Lord Ferdinand’s was in an endless pursuit of new creations to swell Alexandria’s coffers and satisfy his own curious and problem-solving nature.

Even so, had she known, it would not have mattered. Such baubles meant little to her.

“And then?” Mary prompted, anxious to learn more.

Griselde's expression grew melancholy as her attendants carefully began scrubbing her with a flower-scented liquid. "I’m assuming you’ve also forgotten all about Yurgenschmidt politics. So here is what you need to know to understand Richart’s situation.” Griselde glanced at her head attendant before speaking, making sure to choose her words carefully. “My father is… well… he’s the Aub of the first-ranked duchy and is determined to keep it that way. He desires above all else that the next Zent should come from Dunkelfelger,"

Her voice took on a bitter edge. "My elder brothers, Seligtor and Hilvette, both failed to meet the rigorous standards required for Zent Candidacy. Seligtor’s schtappe is omnielemental but he failed to pass whatever test is given to hopeful candidates. And then Hilvette…” She sighed, wearily, “he spent his entire Academy tenure praying exclusively to ditter-related deities rather than cultivating a proper relationship with all the gods, to the point that he received not one single blessing from Schutzaria or her kin. As for Wolfhelm..."

She paused, her lips pressing into a thin line. "He was stripped of his position entirely due to various... indiscretions."

Mary wondered what kind of indiscretions merited disowning a child you hoped to make the next ruler. But she didn’t ask, fearing that such a question would be too impertinent.

Griselde was quiet for a few moments as her attendants speedily finished her bath. Once more, Mary turned away as her friend emerged from the water, and turned once her robe-clad friend began speaking again.

“By the time Richart was to be baptized,” Griselde said, “Father’s hopes in his sons had withered one by one. None would ever become Zent. Only I remained—but it never occurred to him that I might win the candidacy when I entered the Royal Academy. If my brothers, with every advantage, could not succeed, what hope had a mere daughter?”

“Oh, Griselde…” Mary murmured, a quick pain catching at her heart for this new friend.

“It’s all right. Truly, it is.” Griselde’s smile was playful as she continued, “Had I succeeded, I would not be permitted to marry. And I love your Alexandrian beauty products—I mean, your brother—far too much to regret the path I took.”

Mary had no answer to that, and Griselde, seeing that her little joke had fallen flat, sighed somewhat sadly. She then bid Mary follow her back out to the bedchamber, where her dinner gown waited like moonlight pooled into the bed.

Griselde stepped behind a screen as her attendants began dressing her.

“As I would not do,” Griselde continued from behind the screen, “Father cast his net wider, and he discovered his ideal candidate in Richart.”

That brute? Mary thought before she could stop herself—though, thankfully, no one saw the flicker of doubt in her eyes.

“Richart possessed everything Father sought—genuine intelligence rather than a mindless obsession with the oh-so-sacred sport, more than enough mana, and most crucially, a malleable temperament that could be shaped to Dunkelfelger's purposes. But the decisive factor was his parentage."

“His parentage? Are his parents royalty?”

“No. Not quite—better than royalty.” Griselde emerged, a thin silk shift skimming her figure as her attendants slid the gown over her shoulders. The fabric was a misty blue that turned to pale aqua when it caught the light; the lace at sleeves and hem was so fine that even Mary, usually so indifferent to fashion, could not help but admire it. “Richart’s mother is Lady Hannelore—who is still venerated as the avatar of Dreharnuhr, and who is a famed warrior-princess of the main archducal line. She is Lord Lestilaut’s younger sister. Father could not have wished for a more perfect candidate.”

Griselde sat at her vanity and her attendants quickly ran a towel–a magic tool that Mary knew very well by now and knew it dried hair very quickly–though her hair. Then they began her updo.

"Without hesitation,” Griselde continued, “Father simply decreed Richart would be adopted, and almost overnight Richart went from being my sweet little cousin—earnest, kind, and oh-so-sweet—to the adopted child on whom my father pinned all his hopes on.”

In spite of her own grudges and suspicions about Richart, Mary felt an unexpected tug of pity for the man.

She quickly squished it, though, remembering Marianne’s distress and heartbreak.

“Once he was baptized he never again returned to you for summer holidays, and you never saw him until your first year at the Academy. Before, you and Mynard outranked him; afterward, for the first time, you were expected to bend the knee. I still remember the fellowship gathering when the three of you reunited. It was awkward to say the least. Yet somehow you decided—or perhaps you had long since decided—that you would marry him. And from then on, everything you did was to make him see you.”

Mary sighed, “So all along all I needed to do to get my way was to put him in a compromising situation.”

Griselde laughed, “And get your father involved.”

“My… father…” Mary still could not bring herself to think of Lord Ferdiand as her father. She was sure she never would.

Griselde turned at that, earning soft protests from the ladies fussing with her hair. “A great deal is going to change,” she said, meeting Mary’s gaze. “And I don’t think this will end the way any of us expect. But Marianne—be steadfast. You may not remember it, but your love for him is, indeed, true. It didn’t happen as you dreamed, but he is yours now. He's not happy, I won't lie to you about that. But this summer is your opportunity to make him see that you and only you can make him happy. Perhaps...perhaps this might be a blessing from Glutlitat in disguise. Perhaps he can find his own happiness too, and be free at last.”

Soon after, Mary excused herself. With her own retainers in tow, she all but flew toward her villa; dinner was nearly upon them, and only so much could be left to Mynard. Crossing the covered walkway that linked the palace to her abode, she slowed. The afterglow of sunset was quickly fading from the sky, and the night-scented flowers breathed their sweetness into the cooling air as a distant call of a lone bird reached her ears.

Far to the east, a pale fork of lightning opened the sky and closed again. But Mary didn’t see it. She was still remembering all that Griselde had said to her. Her final appeal.

Be steadfast.

“I can promise nothing,” Mary whispered to the gathering dusk.

The thunder that followed sounded very much like a distant, answering sigh.

Chapter Text

MR DARCY: My sister has a request to make of you.

[Georgiana steps closer.]

GEORGIANA: Miss Bennet, my brother and I would be honoured if you and your aunt and uncle would be our guests at Pemberley for dinner. Would tomorrow evening be convenient?

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 5 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

Happily, Mary reached her villa before any of her guests arrived.

As she crossed the threshold, the air changed: humid dusk scented with salt and sun-warmed garden gave way to a cool, perfumed stillness. Her eyes adjusted to the luminous interior. Was this truly her villa? The transformation was immediate—and breathtaking. The oppressive warmth of the early summer evening had given way to a whisper of coolness that carried the mingled fragrances of candles, incense, and flowers. Mary drew in a deep breath, feeling some of the tension leave her shoulders.

The pristine white walls had been dressed in draped silks, gossamers—in shades of both Alexandrian and Dunkelfelger blue—and trailing vines. Even the carpet runner that usually went from the foyer to the gathering room had been changed and was now strewn with petals as if in readiness for a great procession. Mary stepped off the carpet and went around the flowered path as she followed the narrow rill that led to the gathering rooms. Its low fountains murmured to one another, while glass lotus lamps bobbed and winked along the water. Beneath the surface, small glowing stones lit the channel. The warm light of both lamps and shining feystones cast dancing reflections on the walls and ceiling, looking to Mary as if the very air had been strung with captured starlight.

“Oh, this is truly delightful!” Mary murmured without thinking as she looked around her, and was surprised to hear the gentle hum of pleasure from her attendants. She remembered how they had all been so hard at work the last couple of days. “Of course with you in charge, I expected no less.”

She was rewarded by their beaming smiles. But then Elise reminded her they needed to find her brother as soon as possible.

Mary nodded and continued making her way in. Music threaded the air. From somewhere within the villa's heart came the trill of a harspiel—neither lute nor guitar but something quite different and much more resonant—carried the melody; beneath it, a soft, reedy flute sighed a counterline that tugged at the heart.

Melancholy, Mary thought, surprised. Quite sad, in fact.

The flute seemed to be carrying notes that seemed to drift downward like autumn leaves. These plaintive minor harmonies were decidedly not her choice and Mary concluded that Mynard must have altered Marianne and her attendants' carefully planned playlist.

Mary had quickly discovered, through fragments of memory and scattered sheet music among Marianne’s scanty collection of books, that Marianne's musical preferences had always leaned toward the bright and effervescent—pieces written in cheerful major keys that sparkled with optimism. As for the playlist for the party, whether from trying to set a good atmosphere for her dinner party, or simply from her naturally buoyant temperament, Marianne had deliberately eschewed anything that might cast shadows across an evening meant for “celebration”.

Mary frowned slightly when she saw her brother. She found him in the main salon, austere and grim in his customary dark blue. His hair, immaculately arranged, had been gathered up with even greater care tonight—half swept back and braided into an intricate knot, secured with what appeared to be a glittering hairstick with rainbow feystones—looking suspiciously like that one which Lady Rozemyne wore in her engagement portrait—while the remainder fell over one shoulder in lustrous waves that caught the lamplight like silk.

Mary could not help noticing—resenting, a little—that Mynard’s hair was better kept than hers had been in Hertfordshire. And he was a man.

The distinctive click of her heeled slippers on marble announced her approach. Mynard, who had been engaged in what appeared to be an intense discussion with Fartihe—the head attendant responsible for orchestrating the evening's service—concluded his conversation with a few quiet words. Whatever he said transformed the woman's distressed expression into something approaching girlish delight, and she fairly glided away from them with a foolish smile.

Ridiculous, Mary thought, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. There was nothing particularly charming about Mynard. He was sour and lacked any cheer. He only had his undeniably striking appearance to recommend him—and even then, she found Armin's spiritual beauty, with teal wavy hair and aqua blue eyes, far more appealing.

"I see you've arrived at last," Mynard said, his tone shifting from honeyed courtesy to its usual cool and barbed tone the moment Fartihe was out of earshot. "I was beginning to fear—though preparing for—a scenario in which you declared yourself too indisposed to host your own dinner party, leaving me to manage the catastrophe."

Mary felt her jaw tighten at the barbed comment, but forced herself to maintain composure. She was an adult, and besides, Mynard had aided her tonight. Thanks to him she’d been able to have a conversation with Griselde which had proven invaluable. So, rather than rise to his bait, she inclined her head with what she hoped was gracious acknowledgment.

"Thank you, brother, for your assistance this evening,” she said in mild tones, “I won't forget your kindness."

Mynard's eyebrows lifted slightly, and Mary realized with a chill of alarm that her attempt at civility might have overshot its mark. The real Marianne would probably never have responded to his provocation with such measured civility or even gratitude. From what she knew of the unfortunately sour relationship between the twins was that she would have snapped back or found some way to turn his criticism back upon him.

Mynard’s golden gaze pinned her—not Lady Rozemyne’s warm gold eyes, she realized with a jolt, but their father Lord Ferdinand’s eyes, narrowed, appraising, stared at her. What an unfortunate time to make such a discovery. Mary needed a diversion—something to turn him aside before curiosity hardened into suspicion.

"I... that is..." she stammered, her tongue suddenly thick and clumsy in her mouth. "I noticed you speaking with Fartihe earlier. Is something amiss? She seemed rather... distressed."

The question sounded stilted even to her own ears, but it served its purpose.

"Nothing fatal," he replied, looking away. “The main cooling feystone for your ice-maker and winter room failed this afternoon—exactly why I told you to replace it with the design I use in my air-conditioning units: several smaller feystones, not one. That would have prevented total failure.”

Mary heaved a sigh.

He went on, “Anyway, I got permission from Mother and your servants managed to transfer the most perishable items to the castle's kitchens, but given the time it takes to go from the castle’s kitchen all the way heere, the sorbet course may lack the proper consistency. At worst, it will resemble chilled soup rather than the elegant finale your menu promised.”

“Oh that’s unfortunate,” Mary murmured, her brow creasing with concern, but then she sighed and shrugged knowing there wasn’t any help for it. She remembered her mother's dramatic reactions to far lesser catastrophes during dinner parties, yet Mynard recounted these setbacks with the same detached efficiency he might use to report the weather. Mary's own naturally calm disposition, coupled with her knowledge that an abundance of other desserts awaited, prevented any real distress from taking hold.

This measured response was not lost on Mynard. He studied her with those sharp, calculating eyes, his gaze lingering a moment too long before he sighed and shook his head, as if dismissing some troublesome thought.

"Additionally," he continued, "we appear to be the playthings of Chaocipher’s malevolent wiles tonight.”

“Wait, there’s more?”

Mynard chuckled, “The vintner's shipment arrived intact, but when we opened the cases, the cooling magic tools had also failed entirely. The white wines arrived at an entirely unsuitable temperature." He gestured toward a section of the runnel slightly removed from view, where a dozen elegant bottles stood submerged among the floating lamps. "I've placed them in the fountain's current to bring them down to proper serving temperature. It should look quite intentional, I believe."

Mary nodded approvingly. "That should remedy the situation quickly enough. Your quick thinking saved the evening, brother. I'm grateful you were here to manage these crises—I don't believe I would have found such elegant solutions on my own."

Something flickered across Mynard's features—surprise, perhaps, or embarrassment. His pale cheekbones took on the faintest flush of pink, and he looked away with uncharacteristic awkwardness.

"Reserve your gratitude until the evening concludes successfully," he said quietly. "We're not beyond disaster yet."

"Any other catastrophes I should know about, or expect?"

Mynard's laugh caught her completely off guard—warm and rich, utterly unlike the sardonic laughs he usually gave. He almost seemed a different person than the sour stick in the mud that had said such awful things to her just the day before. “We'll see; the night remains young. Look—Mother and Father have arrived. We must greet them properly.”

“Indeed.” Mary replied. However before she could give a single step, Mynard stepped closer and with surprising deftness, he retied and adjusted the ribbon around the flounce of her evening dress. She went still as he worked with the absorbed precision of a lady’s maid, then produced a handkerchief, lifted her gossamer veil, and lightly dabbed the sheen from her nose.

"All that hurrying about has left you rather dewy," he murmured by way of explanation, "Can't have you greeting your guests looking windblown."

Mary blinked in astonishment at the unexpectedly brotherly gesture. Nothing in Marianne's memories aided her in making his behavior make sense.

"There," he said, tucking his handkerchief back within his sleeve with practiced elegance. "Much better." But when he looked at her again, his eyes danced with barely suppressed amusement.

Mary opened her mouth to inquire, but before she could voice the question, Mynard was already guiding her toward the main gathering room where not just their parents but others were already gathering, and milling about the table spread with fruits and flowers.

It was only when everyone took their seats that she understood the source of his private amusement. Her twin was not, as she’d assumed, at her side. In his place sat Lord Ferdinand—Marianne’s formidable father. Glacial and terrifyingly intimidating, Mary had the sense that authority radiated from him like a winter draft.

…. as did his silent judgment.

Mary's stomach plummeted. He of all people would be sure to see through her.

She threw an accusing glance at Mynard, but he shrugged and gave her a sheepish smile.

Marianne stirred within, and screamed to Mary not to be taken in. That smile was anything but apologetic.

“I told your brother to switch seats with me.” Lord Ferdinand’s voice came. “He and your mother will entertain Richart of Dunkelfelger. I, meanwhile, wish to talk to you. May I?”

Mary was frozen to her chair. Deep within, Marianne stirred—agitated, distressed. Mary took a breath and briefly closed her eyes, and seeing that Marianne was still unwilling to come out, she willed her to settle down and be silent. Opening her eyes once again, she saw that at the far end of the table, her mother presided with effortless grace: Richart at her right, Mynard—that traitor—at her left. In Rozemyne’s orbit even the severe young man seemed to thaw somewhat. Meanwhile Griselde, Frederick, and Mynard talked and laughed together. They leaned toward one another with the unconscious intimacy of old friends, sharing private jokes that spoke of years of shared history.

And she... she sat trapped beside the most intimidating man in the entire duchy, or country for that matter, feeling like a fraud about to be exposed with every breath she took. Heart pounding and throat constricting, Mary could think of nothing she wanted more than to flee into the safety of the night—yet she inclined her head, unable to refuse her father's request.

As the first course was set down, the summer storm broke at last—rain rattled the windows while a low rumble of thunder rolled overhead, drowning out the sweet strains of music.

How lovely.

Chapter Text

MR HURST: Damn silly way to spend an evening.

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 1 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

The dining room gleamed under the soft light of candles and tinkling lamps, their warm glow dancing across polished silver, pristine linens, and an abundance of flowers. Meanwhile, rain drummed at the windows and the musicians gently played their instruments while the sound of conversation rose above the soft clink of silverware, crystal, and porcelain.

At the foot of the table, sitting opposite her mother, Mary sat very straight, wearing what she hoped passed for practiced composure while her heart hammered against her ribs. The beautiful little morsels on her plate, the so-called canapes, gleamed enticingly: butter-poached lobster, resting on a faintly spiced kind of cracker, crowned with bright orange petals; smoked fish called haiglm topped with lemon crème with a feathery herb like dill; tiny tartlets of silken vegetable purée topped with tiny, tiny violets and some other unrecognizable white blossoms. They were exquisite to behold—yet the mere thought of tasting one turned Mary’s stomach.

Around her, though, conversation hummed and plates emptied with evident pleasure as attendants refilled plates and goblets.

"I never took Professor Isadora for a romantic," Griselde was saying at the far end, where the conversation was centered on some delicious piece of Royal Academy gossip. "Marriage should never be tragic, but in this case it will automatically disqualify her from Zent Candidacy. That truly is unfortunate.”

Lady Rozemyne shook her head gently and gave a nostalgic sigh, “I remember Adolphine’s daughter. She was incredibly bright even as a child and would have been a worthy contender. It is little wonder Drewanchel had pinned such hopes on her..."

Mary had a vague idea of who the conversation was about, however she couldn’t really follow or join in because at the moment she was distracted by the intimidating presence looming at her right side: Lord Ferdinand, who since the beginning of the first course had been silent, except to give ordinary remarks or to answer questions from little Leo who sat beside him. The boy fairly radiated delight at being granted the opportunity to sit beside their father—a privilege that filled Mary with nothing but dread.

The contrast felt cruel. At the head of the table, laughter and easy talk flowed as smoothly as wine; here, at the fringe of Lord Ferdinand’s winter-cold orbit, Mary could scarcely taste her food. Back home in England she was used to never being part of the conversation, but at least she could enjoy her dinner whenever her mother hosted guests. Now she couldn’t even have that.

Marianne, get over here, she silently pleaded, I know you’re in there somewhere…

But Marianne was nowhere to be found. Mary probed deeper within, searching desperately for any trace of the silly girl. However, all she encountered was a churning maelstrom of anguish—waves of sadness and grief and heartbreak that threatened to spill over onto her. Marianne was there, somewhere in that tempest of emotion, and she decidedly did not want to emerge from whatever protective cocoon of sorrow she had wrapped around herself.

So this is heartbreak, Mary thought, dismayed and faintly reproachful. Another proof that romance is a silly, treacherous business.

The second course arrived with ceremonial precision—a crystal-clear consommé designed to awaken the palate and offer subtle hints of the flavors yet to come. This was Marianne's favorite dish, and despite the labor-intensive preparation required, Mynard had readily agreed that featuring the delicate, refined flavors of a proper consommé would delight their guests' palates.

In deference to the summer season, her cooks had added herb-infused oils that created gossamer pools on the broth's surface, each spoonful releasing bright bursts of herbs Mary couldn’t liken to anything she’d ever eaten in England, but which she was sure went well together. Mary watched as her guests lifted their spoons with evident pleasure, their expressions brightening as the flavors bloomed across their tongues.

Appreciative murmurs rose from around the table. Yet when Mary brought her own spoon to her lips, she might as well have been drinking warm water. The anxiety coiling in her stomach had stolen her ability to taste entirely.

Against her better judgment, she sighed—a soft, melancholy sound that escaped before she could stop it. Lord Ferdinand's spoon halted midway to his lips, the flawless consommé shining and steaming in the spoon while his pale gaze slid to her. He had the cool and clinical look of a physician catching a telltale tremor that betokened some great malady.

"Are you quite well, Marianne?" His voice, though spoken only loud enough for her to hear, carried a particular quality of paternal concern that somehow managed to sound both caring and vaguely threatening.

Mary straightened in her chair, forcing what she hoped was a reassuring smile to her lips. "I'm perfectly well, sir. Perhaps just a touch tired from all the preparations for tonight."

Something about what she said caused one of his eyebrows to twitch. If anything his penetrating gaze grew even more sharp, and she felt like a specimen pinned beneath a magnifying glass. Those pale eyes seemed to catalog every micro-expression, every minute shift in her posture, filing away details with the methodical precision of a scholar conducting research.

She was beginning to feel dizzy.

“Your physician reports no lingering effects from your accident beyond memory loss,” he said at last. “Your mother believes proximity to Richart may aid recovery. Nevertheless, now that I’m back I will make my own assessment and see if this is the case.” A faint crease touched his mouth; he lowered his voice. “It is regrettable that our journey south—which was long planned—could not be deferred.”

Mary seized the first safe shore she could find. “But I’m so glad you’re home safely,” she said—perhaps a shade too brightly. “How was the trip? I heard there were… difficulties with certain nobles?”

His eyes widened a fraction—at her bluntness, perhaps, or at the clumsy deflection. And somehow her words caught everyone else’s attention. “The southern nobles still require some persuasion regarding their loyalties,” he said. "However, Frederik and Griselde were very effective ambassadors. As your brother’s fiancee is from Dunkelfelger and relations with that duchy are particularly good, they seemed to be more accepting of her and Frederick."

From the other end of the table, Frederik's laugh carried over the general conversation. "Father makes it sound far more diplomatic than it was. I believe Giebe Berkergen nearly fainted when he walked into his audience chamber unannounced."

"The man is loyal to a fault, and while I can’t fault him for supporting your sister, he needed to know that making unfortunate assumptions and spreading unfounded rumors is… not wise," Ferdinand replied, his tone suggesting that Giebe Berkergen's assumptions had been corrected with typical Ferdinandian efficiency.

A soft murmur passed among the family—commiseration for Giebe Berkergen’s nerves, amusement at Ferdinand’s ice-cold methods. The casualness with which they discussed what was, to Mary’s ears, naked intimidation reminded her suddenly, almost queasily, that she now lived in a world much different than hers. Hertfordshire gossip and petty politicking was nothing to the ruthless relations between nobles. Here, power was wielded with almost medieval directness.

Mary felt a chill run down her spine. She had meant to steer them toward calm waters and had, instead, rowed straight into deeper seas. She sneaked a glance at Richart—sitting near the head of the table beside Marianne’s mother. She wondered what he made of all this. But he simply tasted his soup, his face betraying not a single emotion or thought on the matter.

Mercifully, the next course arrived and the conversation turned.

"I hope you'll find the next course to your liking.” Mary announced to her guests. Her voice sounded thin and unsteady to her ears.

She cleared her throat delicately and sought out Lady Rozemyne's face across the table. The older woman's warm, encouraging smile seemed to reach across the space between them like an offered hand, and Mary felt her courage steadying under that maternal gaze.

"This is one of Alexandria's newest recipes—courtesy of my brother," she continued, her voice gaining strength. "Fresh fish cooked in citrus juice and combined with various summer vegetables. There is chili involved, but I assure you it's quite mild."

This particular dish was actually one of Mynard's innovations. Unlike their mother, who loved fish and would occasionally eat it raw. Mynard, however, had never developed a taste for fish. Therefore, he had tasked his personal chef with developing a method to eliminate the "stinky" qualities of fish while preserving its nutritional benefits and the freshness that his mother loved so much. The solution had been elegant in its simplicity: the natural acids in citrus juice rendered the flesh opaque and firm as if it had been subjected to heat, while simultaneously mellowing its fishiness.

The kitchen had then added a medley of summer's finest offerings—diced cucumber for coolness, sharp onions for bite, those peculiar orange tomatoes, shredded carrot, sliced red chili peppers, and a carefully selected array of fresh herbs. The result was, according to Mynard, something remarkably tart and genuinely refreshing when eaten with the accompanying golden wafers that were both salty and deliciously savory.

After poison testing the dish, too anxious to actually appreciate it, Mary found herself watching the faces around the table with barely concealed anxiety. She hoped that trusting Mynard's judgment with this particular preparation hadn't been a grave miscalculation.

He had warned her that Richart showed little enthusiasm for fish and had insisted that the young man would need to be eased into their kind of diet if he was to marry into Alexandria.

"He'll need to learn to appreciate it," Mynard had said with characteristic bluntness during their planning session. "Every single meal we take with our mother must include some element of fish—it's practically a religious observance with her. There's no avoiding it."

Around the table, the guests were already expressing their appreciation—Griselde's eyes had brightened with genuine surprise at the dish's refreshing qualities, while Frederik was nodding approvingly as he piled some of the fish onto the crisp wafers. But it was Richart's reaction that would determine whether this course proved to be a failure or success.

Mary's gaze drifted to Richart, watching as he lifted his fork with that same mechanical precision he brought to everything. She found herself holding her breath as he took his first careful bite. His expression remained perfectly neutral, revealing nothing of whether Mynard's clever preparation had succeeded in making the fish palatable to him.

"This is a new way of preparing fish," Ferdinand observed, his fork hovering over his plate as he examined the colorful arrangement with obvious curiosity. "How exactly is this prepared?"

"Mynard can provide you with all the technical details," Mary replied smoothly. "He suggested this preparation for our fish course, and this recipe came from his cooks."

Ferdinand's pale eyes widened slightly, his gaze shifting between Mary and the dish as if she had just announced something utterly incomprehensible. "It is?"

Mary wondered why her father was staring at her as though she had spontaneously sprouted a second head. The bewilderment in his expression seemed entirely disproportionate to her simple statement.

"Oh, how delightful!" Lady Rozemyne's voice rang out with genuine enthusiasm, her face brightening as she savored another forkful. "So wonderfully refreshing for the season. Mynard, you simply must share this recipe with my kitchen staff. It would be perfect for a light dinner entree. Yes, we need to add it to the castle menu."

"Of course, Mother," Mynard replied, practically glowing. He cast a triumphant glance in Mary's direction that carried unmistakable smugness.

The pieces suddenly clicked into place. Mary understood now why Ferdinand had looked so shocked at her willingness to feature Mynard's culinary innovation at such an important gathering. Every dinner party she hosted served as a stage for debut performances—new recipes, fresh compositions, innovative presentations or inventions. That explained Mynard's involvement in virtually every detail: the modified musical selections featuring his own compositions, and now this fish preparation that bore his creative stamp. He had systematically positioned himself to claim the evening's creative triumphs.

Plus, their mother was exceedingly generous when it came to purchasing recipes, music, and inventions from her children, providing substantial additions to their allowances—a financial boost that proved essential for maintaining the various luxuries their positions demanded.

Mary had to admire the elegant efficiency of the system, even if she had stumbled into it blindly. In a world where noble children were expected to maintain appearances befitting their rank, yet were often constrained by carefully managed allowances, such entrepreneurial opportunities represented genuine necessity disguised as family affection. The silk gowns, the imported cosmetics, the delicate jewelry that nobles considered basic requirements—all of these luxuries required funding beyond what even generous parents might provide as standard allowance.

Mary sat in stunned realization of how thoroughly she had been outmaneuvered. Yet as the understanding settled, she found herself simply shrugging internally. Had she been Marianne, no doubt she would be seething at having her spotlight stolen in such an underhanded method. But she was Mary, and such competitions struck her as rather pointless. If Mynard was in such financial need, he was welcome to it.

"What do you think of it, Richart?" Mynard asked his best friend, his tone carrying a deceptively casual quality that didn't quite mask the underlying anticipation.

Richart set down his fork with characteristic deliberation, considering the question with the same methodical attention and seriousness he brought to everything else. "I've never encountered fish prepared as a salad before," he replied in that carefully neutral tone that revealed nothing, but was damning in itself with its faint praise. "It was... adequately executed, I suppose."

The words landed like stones dropping into still water. Mynard's face fell so dramatically that Mary almost felt sorry for her twin as his triumph at her expense deflated just a little.

Beside her, Lord Ferdinand made a low sound that was suspiciously close to a chuckle—a brief, quickly suppressed noise that suggested he found something genuinely amusing in the exchange. Mary turned to look at him in surprise, catching the ghost of what might have been a smile before he smoothed his expression back into its customary seriousness.

As Mary studied the man’s composed expression, a realization struck her—one that reframed everything she thought she knew about him: Unlike her own father back in Hertfordshire, Lord Ferdinand did not mock his children, nor did he laugh at their mistakes for sport. He might correct them, discipline them, even terrify them—but never humiliate them. Especially not in front of others.

Having known nothing but Mr. Bennet's particular brand of paternal amusement—that sharp-tongued wit that found humor in his family's follies and shortcomings—Mary found this restraint almost alien. Her father had wielded sarcasm like a favorite weapon, finding particular delight in highlighting the absurdities of those around him, his own children included. And in that difference, Mary felt the ache of something she had never known to want before.

"Father, I finished the book you assigned to me," little Leo chirped up, his round face bright with enthusiasm. "I think at this rate, once I enter the Academy I might be able to pass the written examinations for the first three years!"

Lord Ferdinand turned his attention to his youngest child—a cherubic boy whose pale coloring and features, so similar to his fathers, already hinted at the formidably handsome looks he would likely inherit.

His expression warmed perceptibly, though he maintained the measured restraint that characterized all his interactions.

"I look forward to receiving your tutors' reports," Ferdinand said, his voice carrying genuine pride tempered with paternal wisdom. "However, do not allow confidence to breed complacency. There have been instances where instructors altered examinations specifically to unsettle overconfident students during testing. Remain diligent in your studies."

"Of course!" Leo beamed, his enthusiasm undimmed by the warning. "I intend to achieve first in class, just like you, and Mother, and Frederik, and Mynard. It's our family tradition!"

Mary noted that Leo's recitation of academic luminaries conspicuously omitted her name. The oversight stung her pride a little, but she understood the reasoning behind it. While Mynard collected scholarly honors, Marianne had carved out her own path to distinction—excelling in the research projects featured in the interduchy tournaments, bringing both acclaim to Alexandria and substantial prize money to her personal coffers with the sale of the results of her research or trends. Different forms of excellence, perhaps, but excellence nonetheless.

As the family discussion meandered through Leo's upcoming first year at the Royal Academy and Armin's distinguished musical accomplishments as a third-year student, Mary felt a measure of relief that the spotlight had shifted away from her precarious position. The conversation flowed around topics she could safely observe without fear of revealing her ignorance or inconsistencies.

"Do your best," Ferdinand repeated, his simple words carrying the weight of paternal expectation and unwavering faith. But as he spoke, Mary noticed that his pale gaze swept deliberately around the table, encompassing not just Leo, but all of his children. Including her.

The next course rolled around. "My chef has prepared some specialties from our southern provinces that I hope you'll find familiar and comforting," Mary announced as the servers approached with covered platters.

The southern regions of Alexandria maintained close ties with Dunkelfelger, and their culinary traditions reflected that bond—those regions favored hearty game over the exotic spices that characterized the city’s more cosmopolitan cuisine. Personally, Mary had never liked the pungent taste of wild animals whose active lifestyles and natural foraging diet gave their meat a tougher texture and a flavor that was hard to cover up. But Mynard had been adamant that she acknowledge her Dunkelfelgerian guests in some way. So, she had relented.

Silver domes lifted in a shimmer of steam; the air filled with the scent of roasted meats, char, and vegetables. Mary, as was customary, took the first bite, chewing carefully. This was parague meat, a kind of wild boar, and it was served with a consomme-based gravy and a colorful medley of vegetables that had been roasted until their edges turned golden.

It was surprisingly delicious.

"Ah!" Griselde's face brightened with genuine delight as she looked down the table at Mary. "I see you've prepared Richart's favorite."

Mary blinked in surprise, her gaze darting to Richart for confirmation. He offered only a single, measured nod, but before he could elaborate, Mynard interjected with obvious confusion.

"I thought terbisher was more to your liking?"

Richart set down his fork with deliberate care, and seemed a little hesitant to speak now that he had everyone’s eyes on him, "I confess I have neither favorite foods nor foods I particularly dislike. I simply appreciate whatever is placed before me, as I do now." His gray eyes met Mary's briefly, and he inclined his head with courteous formality. "This dish, however, is prepared exceptionally well."

Mary felt herself smile before she could check herself, for his words of rare praise, especially after what he’d said about the previous course, had caught her almost completely off guard. Only when she noticed Lady Rozemyne’s sly little grin did she realize her mistake and quickly schooled her expression back into something more appropriately restrained.

She inclined her head, "I'm delighted to hear it."

"I forget, Mary," Frederik said, cutting into the parague with evident relish, "did you say that you were planning to visit the cove for ingredient gathering?"

"Yes," Mary nodded, grateful for the shift to safer conversational territory. "I thought it would be a worthwhile activity." She drew upon the scholar's careful explanations from her preparation. "The tides this time of year will be low enough during daylight hours to collect the pearls in the deeper caves—and the sonnentiers will have just finished laying their eggs in the surrounding cliffs."

Ingredients that were almost purely of one element—in this case, water and earth—were rare and precious. The cove was a place where they could be gathered relatively easily, making it a coveted destination for nobles seeking to enhance their magical stores. But Frederik's expression darkened with concern. "We've just received reports that a pod of belhaum have been spotted in those waters. You’ll want to exercise considerable caution."

“If we leave before sunrise, or if we camp there overnight and enter the caves to collect before second bell, it shouldn’t be an issue.” Mynard countered

“I suppose…” Frederick, clearly worried, glanced at her. “If you want, I could accompany the expedition.”

"You have work to do here," came a sudden voice from her right. Lord Ferdinand had spoken. “Your sister is an experienced swimmer and a Dunkelfelger Archduke Candidate will be in attendance; there's no reason to fear that any tragedy would befall her when her fiancee is looking after her..”

Further down the table, Mary caught the subtle tightening of a muscle in Richart's jaw at her father’s barbed remark, but he inclined his head with dutiful acceptance. "Indeed, Lord Ferdinand. You may rest assured that no harm will come to Lady Marianne under my protection."

Was that an icy cold draft that had blown in or was that her imagination? Mary suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with the thunder that rumbled over them.

"However, before the cove expedition comes Marianne's yacht party," Lady Rozemyne interjected brightly, her melodious voice dissolving the strange tension that had settled over the table like morning mist before sunlight. "It was regrettably postponed, but I believe the delay will prove worthwhile given what I understand she has planned."

Griselde's eyes sparkled with anticipation as she leaned forward conspiratorially. "Oh, how exciting! Might we prevail upon you for a few hints about what we can expect?"

"Then it would hardly be a surprise, would it?" Frederik protested with good-natured logic. "Where's the fun in that?"

“Surprises are vastly overrated,” Mynard said dryly, as dismissive as ever. His gaze slid across the table. “Don’t you agree, Richart?”

Richart set down his goblet with deliberate care, considering the question. When his gray eyes lifted—catching Mary’s for the briefest instant—something briefly flickered there. “That depends on the nature of the surprise,” he said at last. “Some are welcome. Others… less so.”

The silence that followed his words was awkward to say the least as everyone fidgeted remembering how the last “surprise” sprung on Richart not less than a week ago had ended—badly.

“However,” he concluded, “I will place my trust in Lady Marianne’s judgment. This time.”

Mary flushed, embarrassed, wishing she could find a hole to hide in. All she could do was hide her embarrassment behind her goblet as she took a long drink from her cup.

“There will be no reprise of that or any other kind of surprise,” said her father beside her—yet not to her. Lord Ferdinand’s voice was velvet over steel, and his pale eyes remained fixed not on Mary, but on Richart with a coldness that could have freezed over even the most ardent Dunkelfelgerian’s heart. "I trust the last 'surprise' proved sufficiently instructive."

The silence stretched taut as a bowstring. Ferdinand's gaze finally shifted to her, those pale eyes boring into her soul. "Understood, Marianne?"

Mary felt the blood drain from her face. Her throat constricted and her pulse hammered so violently she was certain everyone could hear it. She managed a jerky nod, then opened her mouth to speak, but no sound emerged. Her lips moved soundlessly, like a fish gasping on dry land.

"I… I’m not planning anything untoward, father. There will only be..." she began, her voice cracking like thin ice. "There will be fireworks from Betawia, and a play performed on the deck. Dinner will consist of five courses, we will sail from the harbor to the lighthouse in the south, to gaze at the glowing fish in the reef. And... and..."

“Mary?” Lady Rozemyne’s features twisted in alarm.

Mary, however, didn’t hear hear mother’s words. Her mind had gone completely blank. The room tilted dangerously around her and black spots danced at the edges of her vision as faces around the table blurred together into an indistinct mass of watching eyes and shocked expressions.

"Can... Can you bring out dessert, please?" The words tumbled from her lips in desperate panic, addressed to the nearest attendant who immediately moved to comply.

She’d totally skipped over the second meat course—but all she wanted was to end this miserable dinner. And anyway, who was to know?

Mynard. Mynard would know.

Her gaze flicked to her twin, expecting to see him grinning evilly, yet he was staring at her with an unconcealed alarm that was perilously close to brotherly concern.

She felt hot. Terribly so.

The room began to spin. Her chest felt tight, as if invisible hands were squeezing the air from her lungs. Candlelight shattered into bright shards; she shut her eyes and clutched the chair’s arms to ride out the lurch of nausea. In her mind's eye she saw a bright box inside her bursting open and a river of bright light flooding out from it.

No. Not again…

She’d sealed the box of heat and twisted the clamp so many times, and yet it was overflowing again? She needed to seal it… she needed to…

Voices thinned and receded, as though she were slipping underwater. Rain on the windows, murmur of voices, strains of soulful music—all distant and strange.

Then, clear as a bell through the fog: “Marianne—”

A chair scraped. Cool fingers found her wrist, then her throat. The touch seemed to steady the horrible spinning in her head.

Mary—or was it Marianne?—slit her eyes open and met her father’s worried gaze and a memory, forgotten, and precious stirred within her of a time when he had seen her through similar crises.

Daddy… it hurts… help me…

She recalled how, because they had been born with so little mana, she and her twin had been forced to learn to compress mana as tiny children years and years before other noble children ever learned at the Royal Academy. And through it all—her father had been with her. His arms steadying her, administering potions and medicines when she fell ill and her skin had bubbled, his voice low and inexorable as she drifted off, calling her back. Always calling her back and reminding her how to breathe through the crisis and compress her mana.

How many times had his voice anchored her to the present and prevented her from letting go for good?

I’m scared…. I’m so scared… It hurts...

The surge of voices, the stir of panic around her—she was not aware of any of it. Only the strength of arms lifting her from the dining room, the brush of a breath at her ear: “Shhh. It’s all right…”

Someone was carrying her. Lifting her effortlessly as if she were nothing but a rag doll, or a tiny sickly child.

What a… nostalgic feeling.

She breathed in a sigh of relief before the dark rose up and she let it take her.

— End of Part 1 —

Chapter Text

One week ago…

“Young master, the Aub has concluded his meeting with Lord Ferdinand. He requests your presence at once.”

Richart looked up from the letter he was not writing. Both ink and paper had been placed at his disposal, but in half a bell he had managed to write only two words—Dearest Daphne…—and even those letters seemed to transform into meaningless scratches against the paper.

Last time they’d talked she had begged him for details—he, who was part of the Archducal family, was in a singularly privileged position to witness Griselde’s engagement ceremony to the heir of Alexandria. Like the rest of noble girls all over Yurgenschmidt, Daphne was particularly enchanted by what she called a "fairy-tale romance" and had demanded he write that very night, before he forgot all the juicy details.

Though Richart himself cared little for such things, there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for his younger sister and had promised her that he would try.

Yet for the better part of half a bell, as twilight's afterglow faded into deep indigo darkness, he had sat motionless at the writing desk, his mind stubbornly refusing to form coherent thoughts. Each time he lowered his gaze to the pristine page and dipped his pen into the crystal inkwell, the same terrible image superimposed itself over everything else: bright red blood spreading through sky-blue tresses...

No. He wouldn’t think of that just now. He had barely managed to maintain his composure during the immediate aftermath of that unfortunate incident, and exhaustion already weighed on him like a leaden mantle of misfortune. The memory of Lady Marianne being carried away—unconscious, her head wound seeping crimson onto her pristine white dress—made the blood in his veins run cold. This incident was significant enough that it had almost come close to escalating into an actual fight between his retainers and hers. There had been shouting and accusations and had he not given his retainers a sharp command, everyone in the whole castle would have known what had transpired. Thankfully both parties had managed to withdraw before they drew more attention to themselves and disrupted the festivities.

Of course, he had not returned to the engagement feast. Instead, after the flurry of hurried explanations and formal apologies to both their hosts and his adoptive father, he had withdrawn entirely from the celebration. Mynard, of all people, had taken his side and after finding him he had guided him to a quiet study tucked away from the revelry, assuring him the room was at his disposal for as long as needed. Then his friend, sensing he needed to be alone to process, had withdrawn offering quiet assurances.

“Don’t worry, Rick—I’ll see you’re not disturbed,” Mynard said, turning at the threshold just before departing. “And worry not; I will personally wring Marianne’s neck the moment she wakes.”

Ever since then, Richart’s mind had been a storm of chaotic thoughts, though no one seeing him suspected as much. His retainers, having cooled down as quickly as they’d ignited, talked among themselves and speculated about how this would alter the relationship between the two duchies going forward. Yet no one suspected that the ever-stoic Richart just wanted everyone to leave him alone or at least shut up so he could process.

He had attempted to distract himself with a volume from one of the bookshelves, but the words had swum meaninglessly before his eyes. When that had failed, he had settled at the writing desk, and seeing the ink and paper arranged there, he had decided to occupy himself with correspondence.

But still, in half a bell's time, he had managed only those two words: "Dearest Daphne..."

It had been far too long since he had last seen his younger sister, and he had faithfully promised to regale her with every detail of his Alexandria visit. She was particularly eager to hear about the majestic seaside palace and the huge library—places she’d never been well enough to visit—and, most of all, the romance of the engagement he’d been privileged to witness firsthand as one so closely connected to the Dunkelfelger archducal family.

His letter would have to wait. He was grimly certain that any correspondence he might send to Daphne now would be of an entirely different character than what she had so hopefully anticipated. He suspected it would be laden with news of the darkest sort.

And so, when Lafferten’s voice came announcing the Aub’s summons, Richart did not feel dread. What he felt, oddly enough, was relief.

"Let's go, then," he said quietly.

His retainers, no longer chatty and now grim-faced with the knowledge of what lay ahead, fell into step behind him in the exact formation of a battle unit advancing into enemy territory. No one spoke. The corridors of the guest wing stretched before them, long, silent, and oppressive. His boots made almost no sound against the fine carpeting as they approached the appointed sitting room.

Yet from somewhere far off—Richart’s hearing was prodigiously good—the sound of music still reached his ears.

Though he was sure to face the harshest of reprimands, punishment, possible expulsion from the family—or in the worst case, death—Richart could still not help but be relieved for one thing. Thank goodness, at least Griselde's big day hadn't been ruined.

Yet.

Two of Lord Lestilaut's guard knights stood flanking the entrance, stone-faced and unmoving. At their approach, the knights swung open the tall double doors to admit him—but immediately barred the way behind, making it impossible for anyone else to follow.

Richart paused at the threshold, glancing at his adoptive father with a flicker of inquiry. Lord Lestilaut’s crimson eyes met his with ill-concealed irritation.

He was in a foul mood. That alone did not bode well. It could only mean one thing: Lord Ferdinand had bested him—and not many people could claim to have bested Aub Dunkelfleger.

Richart understood before a single word was exchanged: Lord Ferdinand had forced a concession—one that would cost them, both in the short and long term. Richart somehow sensed that he was to be the offering: a human sacrifice meant to appease the Lord of Evil’s twisted sense of justice.

"Come in Richart," Lord Lestilaut said curtly. “Everyone else can wait outside. Lafferten, you may stay.”

Lafferten, Richart's head attendant who had long ago served Lord Lestilaut and even his father before him, entered with a respectful bow. His short, wizened figure remained straight as an arrow, his stern, hawk-like gaze unwavering. He took his place behind Richart as the doors closed behind them.

Richart, ever observant, couldn’t help but take mental inventory the moment he stepped inside—scanning for points of access, vulnerabilities, and anything that might serve in an emergency.

Old habits were hard to break.

The room’s heat struck him first; the windows were shut tight. No wonder the atmosphere felt oppressive, and not just because of the company.

Lafferten noticed too. With the unobtrusive efficiency and confidence of an attendant that had served the Dunkelfelger Archducal family for many years, he crossed the room and unlatched one of the tall windows. However he was also careful to check with a thoroughness that spoke of his years in service that there was no threat of eavesdropping.

A welcome gust of wind swept through the newly opened window, stirring the heavy air and reviving Richart just enough for him to brace himself for what was coming.

“Sit,” Lord Lestilaut ordered, his voice clipped.

Richart obeyed, lowering himself into the high-backed chair opposite the Aub. At a glance from Lestilaut, his head attendant stepped forward, silver tray in hand, and set down two goblets of deep red wine between them.

Lestilaut took his, swirling it once before raising it.

“Well, Richart,” Lord Lestilaut said, lifting his goblet with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “a toast—to your official engagement to Lady Marianne. May this unexpected betrothal bring you joy… even if it also brings a swift and unceremonious end to any lingering ambitions we may have had for our duchy.”

He took a long, deliberate sip. Richart, however, only stared at him in cold disbelief, ignoring altogether the goblet in front of him.

“Oh, come now,” Lord Lestilaut drawled, voice sliding into mockery as he noted Richart’s reaction. “Surely you can muster a more fitting reaction to the news that you are to have arguably the most stunning woman of your generation for your wife—beating out that weasel prince who was after her. That’s got to count for something, right?”

Richart had expected something like it. But now that the reality was here, he found that he was still stunned, much as if he’d been hit by lightning in the middle of a clear day.

What’s wrong with you, get it together!

Right.

Richart took in a deep breath and reached for his goblet obediently, but before he could even sip from it, a quiet voice, firm and steady, cut through the mockery.

"My lord Aub," Lafferten said evenly, bowing ever so slightly next to Richart, "Young Master Richart is almost of age and no longer relishes games outside of the ditter arena—as, I may remind, neither do you. Perhaps we should address the gravity of this situation with the seriousness it warrants."

Lestilaut's smile thinned, then vanished entirely. Putting down his goblet, he slumped back in his chair and with a weary sigh ran his hand over his face. “You’re right, as always, Lafferten. I sent you to raise and correct Richart, and here you are correcting me," he half-chuckled. Then he looked up at his adoptive son, who remained still, though a little paler than usual under his sun-kissed tan.

“Still,” Richart’s adoptive father continued, “I’ll drink the wine. I need it, after locking horns with the Lord of Evil himself. And you—come, drink up. The last thing I need is you collapsing. Drink and pay attention."

"Sir," Richart said, sitting up straighter and gulped down the wine. It was good wine—different, but tasty. It refreshed him considerably.

Meanwhile, Lord Lestilaut’s attendant re-filled his lord’s goblet, and the Aub swirled the wine in his goblet, not drinking, just watching it catch the lamp light.

“In my father’s day,” he began quietly, “our duchy was known for being little more than good at ditter. Yet we have always been the Zent’s sword. For centuries we have bled for the Zent, sent our best warriors and bloodlines into Zent's service—and still, we were sidelined. Always third—or second, at best. Always behind Klassenberg, for almost a century.”

Richart said nothing, for he knew better than to interrupt. Lord Lestilaut finally sipped the wine, but this time slowly, almost meditatively.

“My father changed that,” he continued. “By the end of his tenure, we were first in Yurgenschmidt. Not by flattery or intrigue or marriage, but through strength. I’ve made no secret of my intent to keep us there.”

Richart knew all too well all that his adoptive father had done and was willing to do to strengthen his position. Yet….

“The next Zent selection looms, and whoever becomes the High Bishop of Yurgenschmidt will determine a great many things; it’s why I had every one of my children try for Zent candidacy.” His voice tightened, and he clenched his fist. “They failed.”

Richart hesitated, but still he spoke, “Griselde—”

Lestilaut cut him off with a raised hand. “Brighter than all of them, yes. But she was never meant to be Zent. She was always meant to marry into Alexandria—from the very beginning.”

Richart’s throat tightened. He knew what was coming—but he let his father say it anyway.

“You were my next hope,” Lord Lestilaut said, rising from his seat and pacing like a caged feybeast. “You were to be Zent. The first from our duchy in three hundred and forty years. Think of that.”

“I’m sorry,” Richart whispered. “I should have—”

“Don’t.” Lestilaut waved the apology away, a bitter smile curling at his mouth. “You will be a candidate.”

Richart stared. “But, sir—Zent candidates have to join the temple. It was settled at my mother and Lady Rozemyne’s graduation. Zent candidates become high bishops in their duchy, serving until the next Zent is chosen, dedicating mana and gaining as many blessings from the gods as possible until the selection. If I’m engaged, I can’t—”

“Lady Eglantine is both the High Bishop of Yurgenschmidt and a married lady. Celibacy is not the issue, the issue is that Zent candidates can only ever marry other Zent candidates,” his adoptive father said coolly. “Just because it hasn’t happened doesn’t mean it can’t.”

Something close to despair collapsed inside Richart when he thought about the woman he was now tied to. “But Lady Marianne… she’s not…” He trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence without sounding cruel.

Lestilaut raised a brow, then chuckled and dropped back into his chair with a sigh. “I admire your restraint. But you don’t need to say it—everyone already knows. She doesn’t have what it takes to be a Zent candidate.”

It was true. Lady Marianne, for all her privilege, had no ambition, no hunger for power, and no desire to do more than set trends, wear pretty clothes, and keep up with the latest gossip.

“She's beautiful,” Lord Lestilaut continued, “but nothing—absolutely nothing—compared to what her mother was at her age." Richart caught a note of wistfulness and noticed a strange look pass over his adoptive father's face. He remembered hearing tales of how this man had once hoped to steal Lady Rozemyne away from her duchy, by any means—fair or foul—only to be bested at the last possible moment.

“Was she as incredible as the stories say?”

Aub Dunkelfelger gave a rueful grin. “More. A force of nature. I was never fool enough to underestimate her—but many did. And they regretted it.” The warmth in his voice faded. “Unfortunately, I see none of her in Marianne. I’d have settled for her taking after her father, even though he is the most despicable man I have ever met. She’d at least be useful—if not particularly loving.”

Richart’s heart sank with every word. He had known this. He had seen the change in her. The childhood friend he remembered had vanished, replaced by someone he didn’t recognize. They spoke different languages now. Whatever bond had once existed between them had frayed beyond repair.

“And yet you must marry her.” Lord Lestilaut’s words sounded like funeral bells in Richart’s ears, “By marrying Marianne, you will marry into Alexandria. You’ll be demoted back to your original archnoble status, so your position won’t interfere with Frederick and your sister’s position in the duchy. Politically, it’s a tidy solution. I’ll give her father that.”

Richart swallowed.

Years of hard work, of intense study, training, preparation—wasted. The time separated from his family—time away from Daphne, from his mother and father, from home. And now it would end like this, with him being trapped in a gilded cage.

Would he spend the rest of his life escorting a wife he barely knew to a never-ending succession of meaningless social functions? Filling the long, echoing hours, days, and years with mindless distractions—training at the gym, raising wolfeniel hounds, perhaps taking up hunting just to feel something? Would their conversations slowly wither into remarks about the weather over breakfast and polite but uninteresting murmurs over dinner?

Most men would envy the comfort, the status, the ease of such a life.

But Richart was not most men.

He had no illusions about romance—Daphne was the romantic one. But he had hoped at least that when the time came and he married the person his father chose for him, he might marry someone with whom he might have something in common, someone whose opinions he could respect.

Someone he might, in time, come to like.

“I don’t want to marry her,” he said, desperation leaking into his voice. “I swear—I never encouraged her. I—”

“Yes. I know.” Lestilaut cut him off, voice sharp. “But in the end, you’re still responsible for her hitting her head on that bench. Couldn’t you have… not?”

Richart looked away.

No. He couldn’t have.

He had fended off her absurd attempt to pin him down and demand a bridal challenge. He had spoken firmly, clearly, made it impossible for her to mistake his rejection. Then, as he turned to leave, she had lunged again—this time wielding a weapon. The courtyard had erupted, everyone rushing to stop her. But not before his amulets had reacted to her and she’d slipped. He’d reached out, but it was too late.

She had hit the stone bench with a sickening thud. Blood had begun to pool beneath her temple. Her limbs had gone slack, and he—he had still been holding her arm.

He had stood there, paralyzed, while a horrified silence fell over the garden. No explanation, no context, could change what everyone saw: Lady Marianne, unconscious and bleeding, collapsed at Richart’s feet after having confessed, in no uncertain terms, her undying love and devotion.

And now—he would have to marry her for it.

Her father demanded it.

Honor required it.

He slumped in his chair, his massive frame collapsing inward like a mountain caving in on itself.

“Yes, well.” His father’s voice pulled him from the ghastly memory back to the present. “Marriage to Marianne was never in our plans, but there it is. So here is what you will do: You are to leave with us tonight, as planned, and then return in a week’s time to spend summer here.”

Richart’s shoulders jerked back “What?!”

“Supposedly,” Lestilaut said, drawing out the word with biting sarcasm, “you are to spend summer here to court her, though in reality you are here to help her regain her memories. Lord Ferdinand has dictated the terms: if, by the end of summer, she is not back to her old self, you will take full responsibility for the accident. You will be demoted and marry into Alexandria as an archnoble. However”—he raised a finger—“if she recovers her memory, he will consent to letting her marry into Dunkelfelger and join the Archducal family.” Lord Lestilaut frowned, looking fiercely disgruntled, “That is the only concession he gave, that son of a….”

Richart sighed, resignation sinking into his bones. “Why not just let her marry into Dunkelfelger then? She’s always said she doesn’t want to stay in Alexandria. And if I have to marry her, then at least I’d prefer—”

“No.” The voice came from his side, low and firm. Lafferten.

Richart startled. He’d forgotten the old man was still there.

Lafferten didn’t raise his voice, but he made his meaning clear and emphatic enough. “That doesn’t serve our duchy. Seligtor’s wife could never compete with the daughter of Aub Alexandria. The political instability would be immediate—and severe.”

“Exactly,” Lord Lestilaut said, picking up the thread without missing a beat. “There is no scenario in which I approve her marrying in as an Archduke Candidate. And there is no scenario where Ferdinand allows his precious daughter to be demoted. So there’s only one solution.”

His red eyes locked with Richart’s.

“You make her break the engagement.”

Richart stared at him, as if hoping he'd misheard. "But… how?"

"You're clever—far more clever than any of my sons," Lestilaut said. "And you have Lafferten. Treat it like a ditter match if you must. You've always risen above every challenge thrown your way—this is no different. This engagement must be terminated at all costs without incurring any negative repercussions to our duchy relations."

Richart lowered his gaze, "And if I fail?"

Aub Dunkelfelger shrugged with casual cruelty. "Then Alexandria isn't such a terrible place, is it? I'll just have to start over with someone else. Luckily, you're not the only child my sister bore."

Richart went pale. "Daphne is too frail. She's gets sick all the time!"

Lord Lestilaut waved a hand, dismissive. “She’s not that frail. It’s not as if she faints during tea parties like Rozemyne used to—yet look how far she got.” His eyes narrowed, calculating. “Besides, your sister happens to look exactly like Hannelore—and that’s no small advantage. She’ll win the supporters she needs the moment I revive the glorious tales of my sister's school days.”

Richart could only sit there, stunned, as his adoptive father turned to Lafferten to discuss timelines for preparations and which of Richart's retainers should accompany him—planning around him and speaking as though Richart had already ceased to exist.

A short while later his adoptive stepmother joined them, informing them that the feast was winding down and it was time to go back home. And so they began preparations for their return. Amid the hustle and bustle no one spoke to him, not even his retainers. It was as if they could tell that he needed to be left alone. He needed to think, and force himself to not fall into despair at the thought that one simple mistake had ruined his life and while he had been offered him a way out, beneath that offer was the grim reality:

They were already planning for his failure.

Chapter Text

One week ago…

The celebration was in full swing when Rozemyne, Aub Alexandria, and her husband Lord Consort Ferdinand sneaked away—as much as one could sneak away while trailed by an entourage of guard knights and retainers.

But this was their heir's engagement party, and every eye remained fixed on the radiant young couple, who beamed with the joy and boundless energy that only youth possesses when life stretches ahead, brilliant with promise and the prospect of sharing it with one's beloved. Their other children commanded attention as well: Rozemyne had noticed the nobles and admirers clustering around Marianne, and the gaggle of girls vying for Mynard's attention—unaware that it was in vain as his heart was immovably fixed on an impossible love and that next to them all others paled.

Armin was, predictably, absent. He would emerge eventually, but had informed Rozemyne that morning he was nearly finished with his composition for flute and twenty harspiels, a birth-season gift he was dedicating to her, so she was sure he’d not be seen until his song was completed.

Leo sat among the other noble children, charming them effortlessly (Leo could charm a rock), while simultaneously finalizing his choice of retainers for the Royal Academy.

This was her children's day, and after weeks of running about preparing for the delegation, the party, the ceremony, on top of running the duchy, exhaustion weighed heavily on her. When Lestilaut was called away from the guest table by his retainers, she seized the opportunity to excuse herself.

Ferdinand was at her heels.

As the doors closed behind them, she turned with a smile, giving him an arch look brimming with playful affection.

"Missing me already, Ferdi? I only needed to escape for a moment."

"You weren't planning to slip away to read, were you?" he asked, drawing closer.

She blushed faintly, finding a small alcove where she leaned against the window frame, the curtains concealing them both. "I was in the middle of a riveting book when the Dunkelfelger delegation arrived, and..." From a hidden pocket in her voluminous dress, she produced a soft-cover volume. "I simply must know how it ends."

Ferdinand chuckled. "You never change."

"I wouldn't be so certain. I'm beginning to feel my age—I can no longer manage all-night reading sessions, and Lieseletta discovered a silver hair in my brush. At forty, I'm vividly aware of time's passage."

Ferdinand contemplated her words. It was true she had changed in some ways over the years—but then, so had he. Silver now threaded through his own hair, though his coloring made it less apparent, and while he remained as tall and fit as he'd been at twenty, he could no longer deny time’s ravages; his sons were beginning to best him in their practice bouts more often than not.

Yet upon reflection, he felt only gratitude for time's passage, not regret. When he looked at Rozemyne, he didn't see her through the lens of memory, comparing her to the woman she'd been when they first wed, or the intrepid time traveler that had stolen his heart a second time. Time's gentle marks—the silver strands, the fine lines, the subtle changes—didn't diminish her radiance in his eyes. He saw her exactly as she was in this moment and found himself more deeply in love with her than ever before.

“You’re a stunning forty," Ferdinand murmured in reply, raising his hand to caress her cheek with gentle fingers. “You’ll always be as radiant and lovely as the day you stormed Ahrensbach to save me. My glorious goddess.”

"Flattery will get you nowhere," she said with a meaningful smile. "Well, not at the moment. We should be celebrating our children. Shall we return?"

Ferdinand grimaced. "Not unless you want them ambushing us with requests for a ditter match. Lestilaut's men were just proposing one—to honor the twenty-fifth anniversary of when you led their troops to claim this duchy."

She grimaced, "Oh no. Not another ditter match! This is supposed to be a celebration of an engagement. They'll be impossible to refuse once they spot us.” She grimaced, “though it would also be terribly rude not to return to our table..."

Ferdinand took her elbow gently, sweeping her toward the southern wing and away from the feast. "Eineliebe is a woman of Dunkelfelger—she'll understand her own people and won't take offense."

Rozemyne laughed. "True enough."

They walked side by side in companionable silence, Rozemyne humming softly under her breath. As they passed a window overlooking the harbor and the sprawling city below, she paused.

"Look, Ferdinand. Our playground."

Ferdinand sighed contentedly beside her as he gazed upon the library city they had labored so hard to create—the embodiment of the life they had built together. Their legacy. The afternoon sun blazed across the water, transforming the sea into a living jewel as ships laden with treasures bound for Batawia and the south streaked across the bay.

It was paradise.

"Will you be sorry to pass it on to Frederick soon?" he asked quietly.

Rozemyne hummed noncommittally. "Perhaps, but I'm confident we're leaving it in capable hands." She turned and beamed at him. "I'm also excited for what comes after—our next chapter, Ferdinand, the one we've waited so long for."

"Ah yes, when you'll finally be free to go on rampages without concern for whoever is running the duchy or what they'll suffer cleaning up after you." Ferdinand smiled and flicked her forehead playfully, careful not to hurt her. "I feel sorry for Frederick and Griselde already."

"No fair!" Rozemyne protested with a pout, because though she was an aub and a mother and she was discovering silver threads in her luxurious midnight hair, she still remained the irrepressible gremlin she'd always been.

He found it impossible to resist kissing her as distant cheers reached their ears.

Another toast was beginning. They would surely be missed by now, but Ferdinand found that at that exact moment he didn't care about anything beyond the circle of Rozemyne's embrace.

—

"Mmm," she hummed drowsily after they parted some delicious moments later. Her cheeks rosy pink. "What about you? Will you be a little sorry to leave the castle?"

Ferdinand considered this, encircling her in his arms and resting his chin on her head as they continued gazing out the window. "I’ll probably miss the view."

Rozemyne laughed, though she had to agree, in part. "The view?"

"I probably have more to look forward to than to miss," he said. "I'd love more time for research. I have a few papers I’d like to publish soon."

"Is that all?"

"That’s what comes to mind. A vacation is in order once Frederick takes over."

"Oh gods, yes! The day Freddie and Griselde are installed let's take one of the yachts north and escape the heat."

"We could always travel by teleportation circle. Or highbeast."

"But sailing, Ferdinand. Don't you love it? The ocean and sky, that unparalleled sense of adventure. It's delightful, don't you agree?"

Ferdinand didn't particularly care for transportation that was so inefficient, and he already had his life’s fill of adventure, thank you very much. However, he wasn't about to dampen her enthusiasm; he only hummed in response and let a comfortable silence stretch before he spoke again.

“Maybe,” he said softly, holding her a little tighter as he searched for the next words. “We could start spending more time with the twins. Your parents have done a remarkable job raising them, but…”

She turned in his arms. “Really? Ferdinand, do you mean it?”

“I don’t see why not,” he said softly. “You’re fully recovered now and I miss them as much as you do. We could settle in the archnoble district—or anywhere you’d like—and raise them together. We could spend time with them every day instead of just once a week.”

Rozemyne’s eyes brimmed with tears. “If we’re no longer too busy running a duchy, we could then watch over them properly and maybe… maybe this time…”

“Shhh,” he murmured, gently wiping her tears. “One thing at a time. I’m just grateful our first set of twins made it to the brink of adulthood relatively unharmed—even if they’re constantly at each other’s throats. As to our newborns, I’ve been assessing their mana levels and fluctuations, and I’ve determined that there’s no reason we can’t do it again… we just have to be even more careful.”

A shadow passed over Rozemyne’s face. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to them. What happened with Mynard—if we had a repeat of that…” she sighed, “I can only thank the Exalted Seven that Marianne was spared, and—”

But fate has a wicked sense of irony.

Even as the words left her lips, an ordonnanz swooped in through the open window, delivering a terse message to Ferdinand—one that made a cruel mockery of Rozemyne’s hopes the moment they were spoken.

“Lord Ferdinand this is Elise. Lady Marianne has suffered a head injury attempting to demand bridal challenges from Lord Richart. She is unconscious. Your presence is urgently required.”

Chapter Text

[INT. ROSINGS PARK - EVENING]

[Elizabeth plays on the piano. Col. Fitzwilliam sits on the piano bench next to her while Mr. Darcy stands beside the piano]

ELIZABETH: Your cousin would teach you not to believe a word I say, Colonel Fitzwilliam. That is ungenerous of him, is it not?

COL. FITZWILLIAM: It is, indeed, Darcy.

ELIZABETH: Impolitic too, for it provokes me to retaliate, and say somewhat of his behaviour which may shock his relations.

[Darcy smiles in amusement.]

MR DARCY: I am not afraid of you.

COL. FITZWILLIAM: What have you to accuse him of? I should dearly like to know….

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 3 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

Rain drummed relentlessly against the windows as Ferdinand returned to Marianne's grand sitting room. An elegant spread of tea and cookies and such had been set out for everyone, but they remained untouched as everyone anxiously waited for news.

Frederick spoke first, his voice carrying a weight of terrible certainty. "Marianne isn't herself—not just confused, but fundamentally different. As if she's become someone else entirely."

Ferdinand considered Frederick’s words. “She suffered a head injury,” he said. “Of course your sister isn’t herself.”

But Freddie shook his head. “It’s not just the memory loss, Father. Her entire personality has changed—too much.”

Across the room, Rozemyne perched on the edge of a chaise longue, her knuckles white where her fingers interlaced. Mynard, seeing his mother’s distress, rose from his seat and moved to her side, taking her hand and squeezing it gently in wordless comfort. She looked up at him with grateful eyes.

"Perhaps it's simply shock," Rozemyne ventured, her voice carefully measured. "I know it’s been a week but perhaps the rejection she suffered on top of her accident caused a mental strain that she can’t easily overcome. Such emotional trauma can alter someone profoundly."

Near the rain-streaked windows, Richart stood with arms folded. He ought to have left, probably, but for some reason it was wordlessly agreed that he was as much family as Griselde was, even if no official ceremony to unite him with Marianne had taken place. Her father would have been sure to order him out, but Lord Ferdinand hadn’t so much as even taken notice of him. Still, he was definitely an outsider, and though the room offered ample seating, he remained standing apart from the rest of the family.

A small voice cut through the heavy atmosphere. "Is Marianne going to be okay, Father?" Leo, being a shrimpy kid in spite of being almost ten, perched on his chair near where Richart stood, legs swinging above the floor. “She was so pale.”

Ferdinand’s expression softened. His youngest always had a way of piercing tension like sunlight through storm clouds. “She will be fine after she gets some rest,” he said. “She has regained consciousness. Even mentioned dessert.”

His gaze shifted to Mynard. "In fact, she insisted you take charge of the evening's conclusion. Said that since you’ve been so helpful all night, it’s only right you make sure everyone enjoys the dessert you both planned.” He paused, “she even said you could take credit for it if you chose.”

Murmurs of disbelief and confusion rippled through the room.

“You see?” Frederick gestured, looking more disturbed than ever. “Does that sound like Marianne?”

"Actually," Rozemyne said thoughtfully, "that sounds precisely like Marianne at her most devastatingly sarcastic."

Griselde nodded in agreement, though uncertainty clouded her features.

"Except she seemed entirely sincere," Ferdinand observed, settling beside his wife. Mynard released his mother's hand and moved toward Richart, sensing his friend's need for moral support.

Frederick leaned forward in his chair. "Griselde, you spoke with her earlier. What exactly did she say?"

Griselde looked conflicted, torn between respecting her friend’s confidence but also wanting to aid in her care. “She... didn’t recognize Richart at all. She came to my room in a panic and begged me to tell her everything about him. She said—and I quote—‘You must tell me everything I need to know about Richart. I’m terrified I’ll make some awful mistake tonight that will make him despise me even more.’”

All eyes turned to Richart.

Of course he felt like he wanted to find a hole to hide in. To his credit, however, he didn’t so much as flinch under the intense scrutiny of Marianne’s entire family and their retainers. He did lower his gaze, though—only to meet the wide, golden eyes of little Leo, who stared up at him, neck craned at a dramatic angle, gazing at him with innocent intensity.

Richart realized with a start that his eyes were so, so much like Marianne’s.

“Is it true?” Leo asked softly, looking like a hurt puppy. “Do you truly despise Mary?”

A single word from Ferdinand cut the question short. “Leonard.”

The boy blinked and turned to his father.

“You’re here to observe and learn. Don’t get involved, please.”

Leo nodded and looked down sadly, not because he had been chastened but because he felt awful for his beloved older sister. The room returned to silence, broken only by the steady rhythm of rain against the windows.

"Well," Mynard said finally, "Marianne is upstairs recovering, and we're down here worrying. If we're to have a family conference, why not make it more bearable with the dessert she—we—planned for you all?”

The suggestion seemed to lift the oppressive mood slightly as servers appeared with gleaming trays and delicate plates of confections.

—

“Flowers again,” Frederick grumbled as he picked out with his dainty desert spoon the flowers decorating his crème caramel. “Typical Marianne.”

"Exactly," Griselde said, her voice carrying a note of hope. "There must be something of her somewhere in her poor troubled head. If she were truly a different person altogether, she wouldn't have hosted us with such refined elegance or prepared the exquisite meal we enjoyed tonight."

"I helped," Mynard interjected.

"You did brilliantly. It's delicious. Now shut up about it already,” Freddie said.

"Frederick!" Rozemyne chided, then she turned to Griselde. "You spoke with her most recently. Tell me—what struck you as particularly odd?"

Griselde gathered her thoughts, sorting through their conversation. "Beyond her complete ignorance of Richart and their shared history, the moment she entered my chambers, she exclaimed in absolute wonder at the décor—completely forgetting that it took her nearly half a year to have those rooms prepared and fitted precisely to my preferences."

"Anything else?" Ferdinand asked, making a subtle gesture to his aged attendant-scholar who was already taking notes with practiced efficiency.

"She mentioned a book Prince Michel recently gifted her,” Griselde continued, “She spoke of it with genuine admiration. Said she'd lend it to me, remarking what a pity it was that she didn't know the ancient language as well as I did."

"She's mastered the fundamentals but refuses to advance beyond basic competency," Rozemyne murmured thoughtfully.

"She's declared herself uninterested in becoming a Zent candidate, so she sees no merit in deeper study of the ancient language," Ferdinand confirmed.

"Precisely." Griselde's expression grew more troubled. "But what's even more alarming is her complete obliviousness about Prince Michel. The two of them are..." She glanced apologetically at Richart. "Well, they're close friends, but their relationship is unique in many ways."

Richart thought he saw Ferdinand's face darken slightly, his lip curling in contempt. Lady Rozemyne squeezed her husband's hand in a silent signal of sorts.

“Nevermind that for now,” Aub Alexandria said, “After talking to her, do you agree with Frederick, that she’s changed too much?”

Griselde considered this. "No. I believe Marianne is still there, somewhere. She's as warm as ever, though something about her seems softer, more subdued. Like she's afraid to come out of whatever shell she's hidden herself in." Griselde frowned at Richart. "And no wonder she's like that. I read the report about what happened—how could you have said such awful things? You were too cruel."

"Griselde," Frederick said quietly.

Richart's sister pressed her lips together. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to speak out of turn. It's just that Marianne is my friend. I love her like a true sister and seeing her suffer like this breaks my heart."

"Speaking of reports," Rozemyne interjected, "I've received detailed daily reports from Marianne's retainers. While you three were away in the south, I decided to let Marianne rest and recover at her own pace, with her attendants simply observing."

"Oh?" Ferdinand raised an eyebrow. "Anything particularly noteworthy?"

"Well..." Rozemyne looked up as Elise entered, having just ensured her lady was sound asleep. "Is there anything you think we, her closest family, should know?"

Elise stepped forward and, with composed precision, recited a litany of Marianne’s peculiar behaviors—each detail drawing fresh ripples of disbelief from the room. "I thought I saw some improvement,” she concluded, “but on Earthday, out of nowhere, she suddenly decided to give away all her clothes to her retainers as an apology for causing them trouble."

The room stirred at that. "What!?"

"Of course, none of us would dream of accepting so much as a handkerchief," Elise said lightly. "Still, it is odd—how content she seems to remain indoors for such long stretches. That aversion to socializing hasn’t faded as we’d hoped, either. She seems happiest when she’s reading her books or practicing her harspiel.”

In spite of the seriousness of the situation Ferdinand couldn’t seem to resist teasing his wife. He nudged her gently, “You’ve corrupted her at last.”

Lady Rozemyne shook her head. “It won’t last. She’s your daughter—too curious to be kept inside forever.”

Elise ignored the bickering couple, “However we noticed she became more like herself when spending time with Lord Frederick and Lord Mynard. All things considered, we believe that leaving Lady Marianne to recover alone isn't actually helping her. If she could return to normal family life and socialize in safe settings—doing activities she enjoyed before, meeting friends and associates dshe can trust—she'll be back to her old self in time." Elise turned to Ferdinand. "Her physician recommended this as well."

Ferdinand nodded. "Very well, Thank you Elise. We'll end today here. I would appreciate everyone's cooperation and patience with your sister"—he fixed Mynard with a stern look—"especially you, Mynard."

Mynard, holding his wine goblet, bowed with a somewhat sarcastic smile.

“And Lord Richart,” Ferdinand continued coolly, “now that the circumstances are clear, consider this your formal welcome to the family—such as it is. As you are to marry into this duchy, it is imperative you become familiar with Alexandria’s customs and socialize with the nobles. To this end you will escort Lady Marianne throughout the summer. I trust you will conduct yourself with propriety.”

“I will be honored,” Richart said, stifling a sigh while Mynard gave him a sympathetic look.

“Let's do our best for Marianne’s sake, everyone,” Lady Rozemyne replied with a nod. Then she turned, voice warm but firm. “Leo, remember what we discussed—anything shared during a family meeting is to remain within these walls. Discuss what you heard only with us and your attending retainers—no one else, understood?"

“Yes, Mother,” Leo said solemnly. Then, with childlike earnestness, he added, “But is there anything I can do for Mary? Please tell me how I can help.”

“Just keep being kind to her. And if you’d like,” Rozemyne said, crouching slightly to meet his eyes, “why not invite her to a tea party in return for her inviting you to this dinner?”

Leo beamed. "I will!"

"And Armin—" She turned toward where Armin had been sitting, only to find his seat empty. "Wait, where did he go?"

Everyone knew the answer without needing to say it.

He had mysteriously vanished, and no one had even noticed him leave.

Rozemyne sighed and turned to Richart with a rueful smile. “You’ll get used to that, I suppose.”

Then, in a tone warmer than her husband’s, she stepped closer and offered him a sincere smile.

“I know this may not have unfolded the way you hoped. But I do hope, in time, you’ll find some joy here. You are most welcome in our family, Richart. Truly.”

As he looked at his gracious hostess—so warm, so effortlessly kind—he understood what his adoptive father must have once seen in her. And why her husband, a man known for his icy hauteur and cold ruthlessness, guarded her as jealously as Ewigeliebe did Geduldh. There was something luminous about her presence—like sunlight diffused through stained glass, gentle and radiant.

If only he felt even half—no, even a tenth—as much admiration for her daughter.

But where Lady Marianne was concerned, the thought of spending his summer at the side of an erratic, amnesiac mental case filled him with dread.

He didn't look forward to the summer at all.

Chapter Text

ELIZABETH: Goodnight, Mamma.

MRS BENNET: My head is very ill tonight.

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 1 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

The first summer storm—which, most unfortunately, chose to coincide with Mary’s very first dinner party—spent itself in a night of drumming rain and electric fury. By dawn, it had relented, leaving in its wake a humid stillness that pressed upon Alexandria like an unwelcome hand. The morning passed under heavy skies, but by late afternoon a blessed breeze stirred from the harbor—sharp with salt, fragrant with the perfume of blossoms and blooms from the noble-quarter gardens. It wandered through castle courts and corridors alike, diffusing the worst of the heat and offering brief mercy to those, who like Mary and the Dunkelfelger people, were unaccustomed to such oppressive weather.

The blessed seaborn breeze stirred at Mary’s window, bringing her much-needed relief.

Mary had found the day interminable and miserable. She had taken to her favorite tower alcove, overlooking the glittering sea, and there she remained almost all day—reclined on her divan, flanked by open windows, attempting to read. Though technically recovered enough to rise from bed, she remained pale and weary. Her physician had prescribed rest, but Mary couldn’t stand lying in bed for too long, so she had compromised with Elise who had agreed she might do this much.

Her head throbbed with a low ache, but she pressed on with her self-assigned task. On the small table beside her, a neat stack of reports, pamphlets, registers, letters, and a particularly irksome gossip column awaited her attention. Compiled by her scholars, these documents were meant to reacquaint her with a life she could no longer remember.

She studied them diligently, if not enthusiastically, pausing now and then to ask questions. Her attendants and scholars responded with calm precision, never hesitating—even when she asked them to repeat the most basic facts. Still, she occasionally caught a flicker of surprise when her ignorance revealed just how much she'd forgotten.

If only Marianne would come out, she thought more than once, setting aside a double-sided scandal sheet with particular distaste. This would be so much easier with her help.

But the “silly girl,” as Mary had taken to calling her inwardly, remained obstinately silent—no stirrings, no faint remembrances, not even the ghost of a shared thought. The girl whose body she inhabited had, for all intents and purposes, vanished.

Mary didn’t worry though. Marianne had vanished for much longer on earlier occasions. She’d return again.

She had to.

Mary gazed out over the ocean, its surface now tranquil and blue as silk, and let her thoughts drift. How strange it was, she reflected, that beauty, privilege, and status—things so often envied—offered no protection against grief and heartbreak. Even in this glittering magical world, suffering somehow found its way in. And yet, she considered, if one had to suffer, there were worse places to do so than in the silken robes and riches of a lovelorn noble girl.

Far worse, she imagined, to wake in the body of a child from the slums, lice-ridden, sickly, with no books to speak of, and no way out of such a situation.

Yes—she was fortunate. And with such privilege came duty.

Mary returned to her reading, determined to carry out her plan.

There were, after all, cures for a broken heart. Not another love—she dismissed the idea the moment it dared to surface—but time. Time and purpose. A reason to rise in the morning. A task to set one’s hands to and enjoy the fruits from. And so Mary resolved, with all seriousness, to make herself useful in this life—to learn, to serve, to lend her strength where she could. And if Marianne could for a brief moment stop focusing on herself and her own misfortunes, then she might find meaning too, and contentment—if not happiness.

Mary was still pondering this, while half-heartedly reaching for another pamphlet, when the soft click of steps on marble flooring announced Griselde’s arrival. She was a little earlier than expected, but Mary welcomed the break from reading about noble intrigues. Straightening she nodded at her attendants to prepare a seat for her guest and bring light refreshments before their quiet dinner.

Mary had long ago made an observation about people: some are born with an internal warmth—a kind of quiet sunlight that draws others in, makes them feel welcome, seen, and at ease. Such people need no effort to brighten a room; they simply are, and their presence is balm to those of a more subdued temperament.

Mary, for her part, had resigned herself to being one of the dimmer sort—not unkind, not incapable of affection, but rather lacking that peculiar radiance. She had no charm. Her gift, if she had one, was simply in appreciating the glow of others without a trace of envy, and doing her best not to dampen it. At best, she could reflect it like the moon reflects the sun; at worst, she might stand out of the way and let it shine freely.

Whether or not she judged herself too harshly is a question for another time. What was true—unavoidably so—was that Griselde possessed that elusive light Mary so admired. It was as Mary watched her ascend the stairs—hair slightly loosened by the brisk sea breeze, smile blooming and lovely as ever—that she realized who Griselde reminded her of: Elizabeth.

No wonder, then, that Mary’s eyes misted when Griselde took her hands and said her name with such unfeigned gladness.

The remainder of the afternoon, and indeed the dinner that followed, passed in quiet companionship. They spoke of the week ahead, sketching plans for excursions and tea parties and shopping trips, while Griselde, with admirable tact, shared the most pertinent bits of what she had gleaned from her recent social rounds.

What Mary did not yet perceive was the quiet generosity beneath her friend’s conversation. For Griselde truly was doing her a great kindness. In this critical season when was just settling in her new home as future Aub’s wife, she could have easily left Marianne to flounder about without the latest intelligence. But Griselde did none of that.

They spent a quiet evening together, and for a moment—buoyed by Griselde’s easy optimism and steady warmth—Mary felt as though she truly could face whatever awaited her, so long as Griselde remained by her side as an ally.

–

At night, Mary could not sleep.

The late afternoon breeze had offered a teasing promise of relief, but by nightfall the heat had doubled back with a vengeance. It was as though the very walls of the castle radiated some kind of heat while the lush gardens below sighed out their breath in waves of perfume.

Outside, the world was alive; it murmured and pulsed. The velvety dark vibrated with the hum of insects and the distant, melancholic calls of night birds.

The scent of late-blooming ylandewelns and amelyas mingled with the strangely primal tang of salt carried inland from the harbor. It was a perfume unlike anything she had known in England—wild and sultry, conjuring the image of a lush, untamed garden clinging to the edge of a sunburned coast.

It was, in short, far too intoxicating and hot a night for someone as prosaic as Mary—a sensible English spinster, self-disciplined and no-nonsense.

She lay restless upon her bed, the sheets warm and rumpled beneath her. One arm draped across her brow, the other trailing limp along her side, fingertips grazing the soft fabric of her clinging nightgown. Meant for comfort, the whisper-thin garment now felt traitorous—drawing attention to every bead of perspiration, every softened curve shaped by the heavy summer heat. Her hair, damp and heavy despite having been carefully plaited, curled rebelliously at her neck.

How foolish she had been when she was little and had dreamed of travel and adventure. How she’d longed to visit the sultry West Indies, with their exotic heat and tangled jungles! Those mystic islands had been, to her, the pinnacle of adventure. Now, sweltering in her bed and half-mad from the heat, she realized she would not have lasted a week.

She shivered as a single droplet of sweat traced a slow, meandering path across her skin, pooling in the hollow of her throat.

The sensation startled her.

No. It scared her.

This trembling awareness of being alive in a body that simmered and yearned and responded to the night, to perfume, to silken sheets and distant birdsong.

This body, not quite hers and yet inescapably hers now, held a heart so full—so unbearably full—that even drawing breath felt like a trial. Each inhale stretched taut with longing, each exhale edged with the ache of memory and something she could not, would not, risk putting a name to.

She closed her eyes and saw the flash of a familiar set of eyes set on a stern face—gray eyes that were both cold and disdainful.

Richart…

Mary started, realizing what her problem was.

It was this strange body’s fault—it wasn’t her skin but Marianne’s that remembered the hush and thrill of sultry nights. It was Marianne who had blushed easily, who knew how it felt when love and longing made the blood race along her veins.

A small voice inside her whispered that maybe it wasn’t just Marianne. Perhaps it was simply the familiar and incessant ache of loneliness that kept Mary tossing in the dark.

Mary shook her head, as if trying to dispel such treacherous thoughts. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe—slow, steady.

Outside, the world kept singing. And the scent of amelyas coiled around her sensuously.

“It’s like sleeping in a steam room,” she muttered, half-delirious from the heat.

And then, the sound of a familiar step. Elise came to check on her. Then, with the patience of a woman who had nursed fevers and fretful moods before, she soaked a linen cloth in a basin steeped with cooling herbs and pressed it gently to Mary’s temples.

Mary opened one eye, her voice thin with exhaustion. “Elise… I am in earnest. What can I do to repay your kindness?”

Elise offered a calm smile, one touched with fondness. “Serving you in any capacity is repayment enough, Lady Marianne. Truly.”

A small, indignant noise announced the arrival of Ermengarde, who swept into the room barefoot but undeterred, her cheeks flushed and braid slightly undone. In her hands she bore a silver tray with a goblet of chilled milk, delicately flecked with vanilla—an import from Batawia.

Mary suspected Elise had roused the girl. Poor darling. A pang of guilt mingled with the already heavy gratitude pooling in her chest.

But Ermengarde, unbothered as ever, delivered her offering with dramatic flair and a triumphant smile. “You can repay us by regaining your health!” she declared, setting the tray down as if concluding a royal proclamation. “Isnt’ it nice?” She said, pointing to Marianne’s drink, “Lord Maynard had his crew of artisans over to fix our winter room. Now we can have all the ice we want!”

Mary smiled faintly, “I’ll be sure to thank him.”

“I will change your sheets once I’ve cooled you down, milady,” Elise said, continuing her ministrations. She turned to the other attendant, “Ermengarde, get Lady Marianne a fresh nightgown and clean linens.”

”Already on it!” Ermengarde said, throwing open the doors of Marianne’s glorious closet.

So much energy.

In contrast, the exhausted Mary lifted her heavy limbs as Elise worked, readily cooperating with her, as if making her job easier was a way to thank her attendant. Mary watched through the haze of heat and weariness—Elise, calm and competent, and Ermengarde, bright, cheerful, and fluttering about like a well-meaning butterfly—and found herself caught somewhere between laughter and tears. All their fussing about, their unflinching tenderness—how had she come to deserve any of it?

“You truly are too good for me,” she whispered aloud. “Thank you.”

They replied in warm smiles, and assured her not to worry about it.

Once the feverish sheen had been wiped away, the sheets and linen were changed, and she was wrapped in a clean, flower-scented nightgown, Mary sank back into bed. She felt fresh and cool, as though she’d just emerged from a bath. Elise moved to the headboard and pressed a softly glowing feystone.

“Like this, my lady,” she said, demonstrating.

Immediately a glowing magic circle at the canopy of her bed came to life. It flared brightly at first before dimming back down so it shone no brighter than a candle. Almost at once, Mary felt the temperature drop—just a few blessed degrees, but enough to ease the weight of the heat pressing against her skin.

Ah. Magic, of course.

”Goodnight milady,” Elise murmured.

”Sweet dreams, Lady Marianne!” Ermengarde said cheerfully.

Elise quietly drew the bed curtains shut, sealing in the cooling effect around Mary. She left just a narrow gap—wide enough for Mary to glimpse the moonlight spilling through the window and to feel, faintly, the gentle heartbeat of the summer night beyond.

”Thank you. Goodnight.” Mary said, before closing her eyes.

She slept at last. However, it must have been the lingering, bewitching scent of late-spring amelyas that disturbed her dreams. For as she drifted off into dreamland, her sleep was riddled with strange jungles, dark churning seas, and fractured memories. And over and over again, lines from a woeful sonnet washed up on the shore of her consciousness, like bits of wreckage from a storm:

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
...Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care.

Chapter Text

LT. DENNY: What a fortunate meeting, for we were about to walk towards Longbourn in search of you.

LYDIA: We came into town in search of you!

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 3 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

Mary awoke groggy and unrested after a night of poor sleep. She blinked owlishly at a pale beam of sunlight that slipped through the gap in her curtains, and while she knew it was quite early, she resisted drifting back to sleep, for she knew at once that dozing off back to dreamland would only leave her even more sluggish and irritable by the time Elise came to rouse her.

She was also desperately thirsty. So with a resigned sigh, she rose from bed.

Not wishing to disturb her attendants, she quietly padded over to the washbasin. There was a large ewer with a magic stone at the side, as well as flower-scented soap and fluffy towels nearby. Having paid close attention to Francesca’s habits these past days and how she used the magic ewer to pour out fresh, warm water, she managed to freshen herself without assistance. The water revived her considerably and she was grateful to also note that the suffocating heat of the previous night had finally broken.

Returning to bed with a stack of reports and briefing materials that had been set for her in her little writing desk, Mary resumed her studies. Today was her final chance to catch up before she was expected to resume Marianne’s regular flurry of duties and social obligations.

The thought stirred a quiet panic in her, but beneath it was a firm resolve that was as Mary-ish as it got. She had never been one to dwell long on her misfortunes. Challenges, once acknowledged, were simply met. And once her hand was set to the plough—so to speak—she did not look back. Besides, she couldn’t remain hidden away in her villa forever; life moved on, and she felt a moral obligation to meet it with her best effort.

When Elise entered some time later, she found Mary seated in bed, still on her nightgown, poring over wooden tablets and countless sheets of parchment and paper.

Startled, Elise blinked. “My lady?”

Mary looked up and offered a calm smile. “Good morning, Elise. Mother usually comes to me in the mornings, but today I should like to go to her instead.”

Since arriving in this strange new life, Mary had come to expect her mother’s visits before she began her duties as Archduchess. Today, however, she felt a need to take the initiative—perhaps to show her mother she was recovering, or perhaps simply to prepare herself for what was ahead of her.

Elise’s expression softened with approval. “Very well. I’ll send word to her. Since the family isn’t taking breakfast together today, would after your meal be a good time?”

“That will be perfect, thank you.”

After changing into a sky-blue gown that nearly matched her hair and finishing a light breakfast, Mary set out for the castle. Instead of taking the shorter, more secluded path through the inner courtyards and gardens as she’d done before, Elise led her along the broader promenades and main gardens—routes more commonly frequented by attendants, castle scholars, and other nobles who either worked in the castle, or visited conduct duchy business.

“It’s important that people see you up and about,” Elise explained as they walked.

“Of course.”

Mary didn’t mind the circuitous route. At first, she’d been startled by the attention—nobles pausing mid-step, whispering to each other behind their hands, their expressions a mix of surprise and fascination before schooling their features into politeness. It had been uncomfortable for Mary who had so long been used to being overlooked in society. But soon, a curious realization settled over her.

They weren’t actually looking at her.

They were marveling at Marianne. How could they not admire the statuesque poise, the long light-blue hair glinting in the sun, the arch of her neck, the pale, milky skin and rosy cheeks, and of course, the glorious gown she was wearing? Both dress and mien formed a beautiful shell that did not belong to Mary. And so their admiration, however blatant, felt oddly impersonal.

It felt safe.

In fact, the longer she walked those sun-drenched promenades and caught the sidelong glances of passersby, the more it dawned on her: her inner self remained completely hidden. She was invisible where it counted. No one could peer through her eyes and see the foreign soul looking out from within.

So long as she was careful—oh, so very careful—not to let anything slip, she could maintain the illusion. No one needed to know until Marianne got back.

“I shall study even harder to keep this so,” she vowed inwardly.

The castle and the grounds were beautiful, and though the sun was bright, a gentle southern breeze drifted across the gardens in a very pleasing manner. They passed beneath tall hedges flowering trees, and under the cool shadows of tall and slender cypress-like trees, their path winding through the elegant southern gardens which reminded Mary of an Italianate estate in Sussex she had once visited. These gardens, however, were far more majestic, with grander fountains and a riot of strange, blooming flora that seemed lifted from a dream.

It was here that she saw her mother approaching.

Lady Rozemyne swept toward them, her signature dark blue cape billowing behind her, with her large retinue in tow. It was all very imposing, but the moment Mary met her gaze, all trace of intimidation vanished. There, in her mother’s eyes—or rather, Marianne’s mother’s eyes—shone unmistakable warmth and affection.

"Mary!" Lady Rozemyne clasped Mary’s hands warmly. "What a wonderful surprise to receive Elise's message. I’m so glad you feel well enough now. Now come, let's sit."

She gestured to a little bench set along the walkway, underneath a flowering archway. Once they were settled, her expression grew more serious.

"Your father desperately wished to come see you," Rozemyne said, her voice lowering to a confidential murmur. "But there was a little emergency that drew him away a little while ago. But he asked me to extend his apologies. It seems that in his enthusiasm to freeze Richart's heart, he may have unintentionally caused you some degree of distress as well."

Mary frowned. Marianne’s father remained something of an enigma to her, and the question escaped her before she could think better of it.

"Why would he do such a thing?"

"What, intimidate Richart? Because he cannot forgive any man who would reject his precious daughter, naturally." Rozemyne's eyes sparkled with fond exasperation. "Try not to be too harsh with him, Marianne. You know he’d move heaven and earth for your sake. He truly struggles with the fact that you're grown now, and that... well, he may not be able to keep you in Alexandria forever, much as he wishes to."

Mary exhaled slowly. Having an overprotective father was entirely foreign territory for her. While she believed her mother's assessment, it remained difficult to reconcile the intimidating lord who had terrified her that night with a man who was supposedly devoted to his "precious daughter."

A rueful smile tugged at her lips.

"Don't look so doubtful," Rozemyne said gently, noticing her expression. "Your father's always looking out for you. Please believe me."

"Alright. I’ll….consider it. Thank you, Mother," Mary replied sincerely, squeezing the hands that held hers. Lady Rozemyne returned the gesture, a single, reassuring press in reply.

They remained seated for a time, conversing softly—though truthfully, Mary had little of note to report. Still, the quiet companionship was soothing. Every so often, a pair of scholars or attendants would pass by, bowing with due reverence while clearly trying (and failing) to mask their surprise at the sight of Lady Marianne out in the garden—and in the company of the Archduchess, no less.

This happened once. Then again. And again.

After the fourth such interruption, Rozemyne rose.

“Perhaps we ought to walk,” she suggested, tone dry with amusement. “I’m beginning to feel like one of the creatures in your menagerie.”

Mary fell into step beside her mother as they strolled deeper into the garden.

They exchanged light conversation as they walked, most of it centered on household matters. Though Mary didn't ask, Lady Rozemyne casually brought up the fact that Mynard had taken it upon himself to act as substitute host the day before, and had done so with his usual relentless thoroughness.

“He spent the entire morning showing Lord Richart around the castle,” Rozemyne said, with a wry smile. Then, she told Mary, the two spent long hours at the training grounds after lunch returning battered, drenched in sweat, and retiring soon after dinner.

Mary offered a polite nod, but internally she bristled. So Richart had a pleasant first day, did he?

She wasn’t bitter—not at all—but while Dunkelfelger summers were as hot or even hotter than Alexandria’s they were dry, and Mary couldn’t help wondering if he had tossed and turned all night, suffering beneath the oppressive vapors following the storm. And if he hadn’t—if he’d slept peacefully while she wrestled humidity, sleeplessness, and the effect of suffering from heartbreak that wasn't even hers in the first place—well, she found that entirely unjust.

Let him enjoy the gardens and sparring matches, she thought, with a wry little sniff. I shall enjoy my slow descent into heatstroke.

"Will you be well enough for our excursion to the lower city tomorrow?" Rozemyne asked. "I don’t mean to rush you but we had long planned to outfit Griselde properly in Alexandrian dress, and I would very much like you to accompany us. We need tour expertise."

Mary hesitated for just a moment, then nodded decisively. "Of course I'll come."

Relief flickered across Lady Rozemyne’s face, and Mary felt a quiet, almost startled satisfaction at having been able to ease her new mother’s concern.

She could do this. She had to.

“Of course,” Lady Rozemyne said after a pause, her gaze turning thoughtful, “this does mean you’ll be seeing much more of Richart again... which I’m sure you’re looking forward to.”

Mary’s stomach twisted. Righteous indignation against the man that had so callously rejected Marianne was all well and good, but it didn’t stop the memory of Lord Richart’s cold gray eyes glaring at her from tightening like a vice around her heart. Even her knees felt shaky all of a sudden. Still, admitting as much would do her no favors. If she was to maintain the illusion of being Marianne, she had no choice but to play her part.

She forced a brittle smile. “Oh. Yes. I’m looking forward to it indeed,” she said, voice a touch too high.

Lady Rozemyne's brow twitched slightly, but she said nothing. She just gave her daughter’s hand a reassuring pat.

They strolled in companionable silence through the sun-dappled paths, the pebbles crunching softly underfoot. Here and there, cream-colored butterflies hovered over all manner of fragrant blooms, while bees busied themselves in the blossoms. As they continued their walk, talking a little now and then, Mary became aware of a subtle shift in her mother's demeanor. There was something more observant about her manner, something that almost made Mary feel as though she were being studied or examined as if looking for signs of... what? Illness? Recovery?

“Mary,” her mother said at last, her voice soft, almost tentative. “You needn’t say anything now—you’re still feeling lost, perhaps even unsure of where you stand. But when the time comes, I want you to remember this,” she reached up and gently cupped Mary’s cheek, her fingers cool and soft. “It’s perfectly alright to ask for help. From me. From your father. From all of us who love you. Even from Mynard. He’s worried too,” she smiled wryly, “though he tries not to show it.”

Mary blinked, caught off guard. Was the other woman aware of the truth? Her lips parted as if to speak, but no sound emerged. She tried again, fumbling for words—but they dissolved before they could take shape.

She and Marianne had made up their mind days ago to tell Lady Rozemyne the truth. And yet, now that the moment had arrived, the words refused to come.

Not now. Not like this. Not while Marianne remains so inaccessible.

“I… I don’t know what you mean,” she murmured at last, unable to face it alone. But even to her own ears, the denial rang hollow.

Lady Rozemyne didn’t press her. Instead, she smiled. “That’s quite alright,” she replied, tucking a strand of hair behind Mary’s ear. “You will. When you’re ready.”

They walked on, sunlight painting dappled patterns across their skirts, the garden alive around them, but for once, Mary’s heart felt strangely still—like a book closed gently but not yet put away.

After completing a full circuit of the garden—greeting every noble they passed with gracious nods—Mary and her mother were halted by the distant chime of a clarion bell ringing third bell.

Lady Rozemyne sighed and gave Mary’s hand a final, affectionate squeeze. “I would have loved to stay longer but duty calls. I have a meeting I cannot delay.” She paused, studying Mary’s face with satisfaction. “But I’m glad you came to me, Mary. Please don’t hesitate to do so if you need any help at all.”

Then, leaning forward she added, “Tomorrow, be sure to debut something from your summer wardrobe. You know the rule—no one may wear the newest fashions until you’ve been seen in them first.”

“I don’t particularly care for—” Mary began, then caught herself just in time. That wasn’t something Marianne would say. That was Mary Bennet of Longbourn.

She corrected herself smoothly, with a practiced nod. “Of course, Mother.”

With a final sweep of her cape, the Archduchess departed, her retinue falling into step behind her obscuring her petite form almost entirely from view. Mary remained still for a moment longer, watching the procession disappear beyond the garden path. Then she exhaled and turned back the way they’d come.

But just as she did, a familiar figure emerged from around a hedge—aristocratically tall and slender, with chestnut hair catching the light and sharp orange eyes that seemed to notice everything. Felix. This time he was alone, a small stack of documents tucked under one arm, clearly en route to some task or delivery.

Ordinarily, she would have greeted him as she had the others—with a courteous nod and little more. But when their eyes met and he smiled Mary felt something loosen in her chest, something uncoil. She realized, with a flicker of surprise, that she was… relieved to see him.

“What have you there?” Mary asked, nodding toward the bundle in his arms.

Felix halted before her and offered a respectful bow before answering.

“Documents and reference materials from the lower archive. One of the senior scholars asked me to retrieve them. I’m just on my way to return them.”

As he shifted the bundle, a sudden gust of southern wind swept through the garden. One of the volumes tilted just enough for a folded slip of paper to escape, fluttering like a pale leaf toward a nearby hedge.

“Oh!” Mary exclaimed, moving as if to run after it

But Felix moved swiftly. With a swift motion, he caught it mid-air and extended it to her, half-smiling, for her to take a closer look. “No trouble. Just a stray.”

It wasn’t a document at all, but a long slip of paper, whose upper part was folded in the shape of a paper cat’s head. It was no wider than a thumb and about five inches long. Pale cream, the feline’s ears were pricked and its blank ink eyes held a mischievous glint.

“Origami is very much in season just now,” he said, catching her expression of surprise. “The scholars like to compete from time to time, devising new animals and curiosities. This one’s the current favorite—the zentze. Meant to be a bookmark. It behaves far better than its living cousins,” he said, “At least this one stays where it’s put.”

“Except when the southern wind blows,” she countered, lips curving in amusement.

Felix gave a theatrical shudder. “Better than an eastern wind—which brings storms and misfortune.” His grin widened. “At least, that’s what the fisherfolk in the lower city believe.”

Mary blinked. Once again, she was struck by how much Felix knew. She had a feeling that he made it his business to know everything under the sun; perhaps it was because he, unlike her, was free to move easily between worlds.

There was a pause. Then Mary tilted her head slightly. “May I join you? Unless you’re in the middle of something pressing.”

He hesitated then turned toward her attendants with a slightly questioning glance. “I’d be honored to show you the archives but…”

Elise spoke up first, “Lady Marianne is in the middle of conducting important research, so–”

“So that makes his familiarity with the castle’s resources all the more valuable,” Mary replied quickly—too quickly, perhaps. She could see Elise preparing to steer her back to the villa, but Mary was already a step ahead. She had a mission.

Felix hesitated, but once it was apparent that Marianne’s retainer had no real objection to the plan, he turned to Marianne, "In that case I can point you in the right direction. I know every single archive, book room, and repository in the castle.”

Felix led the way with the easy, long-legged stride of someone who had walked the castle halls more times than he could count. Mary, flanked by Elise, Ermengarde, Francesca, two guard knights and a scholar followed just a step behind, matching his steps as best she could.

They entered the castle through a discreet doorway that Mary would have walked past without a second glance. She assumed it was one of the many service entrances used by staff to move about without crowding the far more opulent hallways reserved for the family and visiting nobles.

“I should warn you,” Felix said as they climbed a narrow staircase, his voice tinged with dry amusement, “we scholars tend to develop an unfortunate fondness for parchment, dust, and dimly lit corners. If you happen to faint from boredom—or dust exposure—I do know the quickest route to the infirmary.”

Mary blinked at him, caught off guard by his remark. Then, realizing he was joking, she allowed herself a faint smile. They emerged into a wide corridor, high-ceilinged and quiet, with arched windows on one side letting in angled morning light.

"First stop: the Archducal House Archive," Felix announced, gesturing toward an imposing door reinforced with black iron studs and several very complex-looking magic circles. A cream-colored shumil stood at attention nearby. It, of course, took no notice of either of them.

“We’re in the Southern wing, housing the Aub’s residential quarters,” he said. “Therefore this place holds some of the duchy's most sensitive diplomatic records which only she or those with her permission can access. Here you can find communications from the Zent, treaties and trade negotiations with neighboring duchies as well as with the land beyond the country gates. It also houses every charter that grants authority to barons, counts, and viscounts in the duchy, and all official correspondence to and from our Aub is preserved here as well, excluding personal letters, naturally. We have records spanning more than a thousand years, chronicling the decisions and dealings of every Archduke who has ruled."

Mary’s eyes widened slightly. “That sounds fascinating. I’d love to see it one day.”

He glanced at the shumil standing guard at the door. "Access is heavily restricted, of course. You'd need both a special key and direct permission from the Aub herself. Though your scholars can submit formal requests if their research requires it."

His gaze shifted to Aquilina—Marianne’s head scholar—a quiet, auburn-haired young woman with a composed and dignified air. She gave a single, acknowledging nod but didn’t offer a smile.

Mary noticed the way Aquilina’s sharp green eyes lingered on Felix—cool, appraising, and just a touch hostile.

It hit her then.

She’s sizing him up, Mary realized. As a rival, perhaps?

If that was the case, then the misunderstanding was entirely her own doing. After all, hadn’t she asked Lady Rozemyne about bringing in another scholar? Of course Aquilina would feel threatened. Poor girl—she probably thought Mary was dissatisfied with her work.

Mary quickly tried to smooth things over with an indirect but enthusiastic reassurance.

“I’ve no doubt Aquilina could manage it,” she said, aiming for a tone of effortless confidence. “She—and all my scholars—are remarkably skilled at finding exactly what’s needed. Truly, I’d count myself fortunate if she remained my head scholar forever.”

The declaration might have been a bit much, but Mary hoped the message was clear.

Felix’s lips curved in amusement. “Then I suppose that makes Aquilina one of the most enviably employed scholars in the duchy.”

Aquilina, for her part, gave no indication she’d heard—but Mary noticed the faintest softening at the corners of her mouth.

They continued deeper into the castle. Felix led them down several corridors and through a covered bridgeway that led to a different building, then through a door where they emerged onto a much wider corridor. This section of the castle bustled with considerably more activity—clerks entered and exited various doors along the hallway, hurrying along with armfuls of documents, and the sound of conversation drifted from various chambers.

"And this," Felix announced, throwing open a set of double doors, "is the Exchequer Records Hall."

The interior of the double-height chamber stretched wide and tall, its soaring windows casting generous panes of sunlight across the room. But there were also lamps along the tables where rows of scholars hunched in quiet concentration, quills scratching steadily across ledgers and parchment. The room thrummed an industrious silence broken only by the occasional rustle of pages, the click-clack of calculators, and the hushed murmurs of the scholars working within.

"This contains the financial backbone of our duchy," Felix continued in a lower voice. "Tax rolls and all revenue collected during the harvest festival are all stored here. This place also houses merchant guild agreements, fishing rights contracts, income from rents, and detailed accounts of all ducal expenditures." He shot Mary a slightly mischievous glance. "You have your own dedicated section here, I'm afraid."

Elise's eyes flashed with protective indignation. "My lady's pursuits have always benefited the duchy," she said crisply. "Every lyon invested has returned tenfold or more. Simply look at the fashion houses and artisan workshops in the city—they can barely keep pace with the demand her trends create."

"Of course," Felix replied quickly, looking properly chastened. "I meant no offense."

Mary gave Elise a grateful smile. While she suspected Felix had only been teasing, she appreciated her attendant's loyal defense.

Felix cleared his throat and gestured toward the busy scholars. "Everything is recorded here—from castle maintenance costs to Divine Wills, down to the price of ink and goose feathers for the castle pillows. No expenditure is too small to escape documentation."

The remaining archives were not too far, as they were all located in the castle annex that formed the administrative heart of the duchy. Felix led them through each with practiced efficiency, his explanations crisp and informative.

The Military Registry proved exactly as uninteresting to Mary as Felix had anticipated. She nodded politely as he described its contents.

The Public Works Archive that included details on town planning documents for every settlement in Alexandria and kept some of the most detailed records of the city. From sewage systems, wells, aqueduct routes, roads, and much more.

Felix stopped before a labeled cabinet and tapped it lightly. “Want to know where a public bathhouse draws its water from? Or why a certain part of town never floods despite the hill’s runoff? You’d find your answer here. Basically,” he added with a smirk, “everything that shapes the living spaces of our duchy begins here.”

Mary trailed her hand along a set of shelves and pulled a large folio-sized book holding within detailed records of the city dating 70 years into the past when the duchy was known by another name. Roads like veins. Wells like pinpricks of life. It was humbling to think of how much intention went into building the world she now moved through so daintily.

“The Genealogical Chamber,” Felix said as they passed through a set of doors with the duchy flag hanging proudly above it. “This is where noble bloodlines are traced, preserved, disputed… and occasionally fabricated.”

Mary raised an eyebrow. “Fabricated?”

He offered a sly smile. “Let’s just say some family trees, or rather some of their branches, grow suspiciously fast—especially when inheritances are at stake. Or when someone urgently requires a pedigree for a marriage or a job appointment.”

She didn’t quite grasp what he meant, but he clearly found it amusing. Not knowing how to respond, she simply nodded and gestured for him to continue the tour.

Felix led them downstairs to the ground floor.

“The Judicial Archive,” he said, pausing before a door reinforced with heavy brass hinges. “It’s actually conjoined with the patents and copyrights archive—an addition your mother commissioned when she became Aub.”

He opened the door, and the scent of old vellum and binding glue greeted them. Inside, leather-bound volumes lined floor-to-ceiling shelves. The room was dim but serviceable, lit by small orb-lamps glowing faintly along the aisles. Scholars hunched over massive tomes looked up, blinking their bleary eyes in confusion at the intrusion.

“Here,” Felix continued, keeping his voice low out of courtesy, “we preserve all codified law—legal precedents set by former Archdukes, customary law once passed down orally, criminal statutes, civil codes, property regulations, merchant law. Even annotations on cross-duchy treaties.”

He gestured for her to follow, leading her toward a recessed alcove tucked into the far side of the room.

“And there,” he added, his voice taking on a quiet reverence, “we keep the transcribed portions of the sacred Grutrissheit that form Yurgenchmidt’s legal backbone.

He turned to her with a knowing half-smile. “Though I suppose none of this is particularly thrilling to an Archduke Candidate who might someday hold the original in her own hands, no?”

Mary had the distinct feeling that Felix’s question had been a loaded one—and the faint, knowing smile he gave her confirmed it. Still, she wasn’t entirely sure what he was getting at. So she simply returned the smile and held her tongue.

They exited the gloomy legal archives and emerged back into the soaring main hall. Sunlight cascaded through the tall arched windows in golden columns, and as they crossed through one brilliant shaft, Felix's chestnut hair blazed copper-bright against the midnight fabric of his scholar's robes. Mary thought he looked very striking indeed. Yet he guided them away from the warming light, leading toward the shadowed far end of the hall where another door waited.

Without hesitation, he opened it, revealing a cool draft and a spiral staircase descending to a subterranean level. Mary followed him down, trailed by her retinue, their steps echoing softly off the ivory stone.

At the bottom, she found herself once more in the familiar underground archives where she’d met him only days ago, though Mary felt she had known him for far longer than that. But this time, Felix didn’t guide her toward the familiar chamber.

Instead, he gestured toward a door on the opposite side.

“Now this,” Felix said with genuine enthusiasm, “is one of my favorites.” He gestured toward the door with a flourish. “The Cartographic Collection.”

Inside, the room was pitch-black. But with a quiet flick of Felix’s hand, a magical tool activated overhead. A soft hum followed, and a series of magical tools flared to life, flooding the chamber with a steady, white glow. Mary blinked, adjusting to the sudden brightness. The air here was noticeably cooler and drier. Unlike the airy, sunlit archives above, this space had no windows.

The walls weren’t lined with traditional bookshelves, but with meticulously labeled cubbies, most of them filled with scrolls stored inside protective tubes. Several compartments were sealed behind glass or secured in locked drawers—evidently reserved for restricted or highly sensitive documents.

Felix’s tone took on a reverent tone, like a museum guide unveiling a masterpiece. “This place holds detailed maps of every corner of Alexandria—every hidden cove, every hamlet, every island, every river, lake, and forest. Every trade route. And more than that—architectural blueprints of anything shaped using Entickweln.”

Mary raised her brows in interest.

“That includes the castle and the entire city proper, of course,” he continued, “plus all the grand estates in the noble district, the temple, even the summer houses of Alexandria’s giebes. If it was made using foundation magic, you can find the plans here.”

"My villa as well?" Mary asked, smiling at her scholar.

Aquiline shook her head. "Those plans—along with the castle and temple blueprints—are actually stored in the Archducal House Archive."

"Interesting," Felix mused, clearly filing away this new information. "Why would temple plans be kept there rather than here?"

But Mary had stopped listening entirely. Her attention had been captured by a magnificent centerpiece dominating the far wall—a massive, two-story map of Alexandria rendered in exquisite detail. Colors bloomed across the parchment in rich hues, while landmarks were labeled in calligraphy so fine it might have been etched by master craftsmen.

She stepped closer without thinking.

“It updates with magic,” Felix said softly, standing beside her and clearly pleased by her reaction. “Every few generations, new giebes are appointed, province names shift, boundary lines move. The map adapts accordingly.”

Mary stared at it with rapt attention. She noticed that on the panel showing in greater detail the layout of the city she recognized the distinctive grid layout of the lower city. She even recognized the harbor and the curling coastline of the place she now called home.

Somehow she was filled with pride at seeing this beautiful map of the place that was now her home.

Odd.

“I had no idea something like this existed,” she murmured.

“Most don’t,” Felix replied lightly. “But scholars like us live for this sort of thing.”

“I can see why,” Mary murmured, awe in her voice. She looked up at him with a quiet smile, and in that brief exchange, something passed between them—an unspoken acknowledgement of fellow-feeling. Mary was sure that he had included her in the us he had spoken.

Once she had her fill of the enormous map, he led them across the hall to the now-familiar room where he’d once taken Mary when she’d collapsed on him on her first day arriving here. Indeed, there was the same couch where she’d lain, only a week ago.

“Alexandria’s magical text collection,” he announced, placing the stack of documents and books he’d been carrying onto the long table with care. "This is what is accessible to us at least. The truly valuable volumes are locked away in the Archducal House Archive.”

He unlocked a glass cabinet and lifted out one of the older volumes, its spine creaking faintly as he set gently pried it open for Mary’s scrutiny. “Still, these are far from common. This collection represents the accumulated magical knowledge of Alexandria over hundreds of years—painstakingly gathered and preserved. You won’t find many of these texts anywhere else.”

Mary surveyed the space with new eyes. Unlike the meticulously ordered public archives they'd visited, this room felt like a private space—almost homey in its very disarray. It reminded her of the way her father’s haphazardly organized bookroom felt. Books leaned against each other in shelves as well as every available horizontal surface. Scrolls lay unfurled across reading tables as if someone had stopped in the middle of research, expecting to return momentarily. Small slips of folded paper scattered about which probably were the origami figures he'd spoken of earlier.

“Few people have access to these underground collections?” Mary asked, running her fingers along a row of ancient volumes. She half expected dust, but her fingertips came away clean.

“Very few.” Felix pulled out a chair for her with an easy grace. “My position as assistant to one of the duchess’ scholars—my father—grants me certain privileges. Most of my days are spent retrieving documents from forgotten corners like this, researching and adding to this collection, and tinkering with magical tools on the verge of disrepair in the castle or the city. Please, sit. Tea?”

She shook her head, suddenly conscious of borrowing time that was not hers to take. “I shouldn’t impose further.” She held out the little origami cat she had been turning over in her hands, but Felix shook his head.

“You may keep it.” He plucked another slip from a nearby book and revealed a swan, folded with the same deft precision. “To add to your menagerie. I’m told you already have the living sort.”

“Thank you.” She looked down at the two bookmarks—strangely touched—and drew a steadying breath. From her sleeve she retrieved an anti-eavesdropping magic tool. Nobles carried them with their persons constantly, and Marianne used them a fair bit, from what she had gathered from her fractured memories.

Felix’s eyes gleamed with curiosity, his smile tugged faintly amused, though he did not reach for it. Behind her, Elise cleared her throat in obvious disapproval.

“Please,” Mary said, turning to her. “I have something important to ask.”

Elise sighed, her voice heavy with reluctant duty. “If you believe it necessary, my lady.”

Felix accepted at last, his fingertips brushing Mary’s palm. The contact was fleeting, yet it sent a surprising jolt through her. She motioned him a few steps aside from her attendants.

“Felix,” she asked softly and without preamble, “why did you leave my brother’s service?”

He considered her question for a moment, not looking at all startled or shocked. Then he gently asked, “Are you vetting me, my lady? Considering inviting me to your service?”

"Yes," she admitted. There seemed little point in pretense or deception with someone who read her so easily.

He smiled—softly, sadly. For a moment, Mary’s stomach dropped. She braced herself for the polite refusal she assumed was coming.

But instead—

“Then I should be plain. I didn’t leave your brother’s service; I was dismissed.”

Her surprise must have shown, because he continued gently, as if to cushion the blow. “You see, I’m incurably curious. It’s my fatal flaw. Here,” he motioned to the book room, “I'm comfortably employed, given just enough stimulation to keep me satisfied and occupied while pursuing my own projects. But if you were to become a puzzle I wanted to solve…” He paused, his gaze locking with hers. “If you became a mystery I felt compelled to unravel with single-minded determination… could you—should you—trust someone like me?”

Mary’s mouth went dry; she couldn’t answer right away.

The question lingered in the silence between them. His gaze held hers—searching, earnest.

She wasn’t imagining this… was she?

She’d made this mistake before, so many times in her old life. Misreading interest where there was none. Letting her heart leap at the smallest kindness. By her mid-twenties, she’d taught herself not to hope, not to assume. But now… now she wasn’t plain Mary Bennet anymore. She was Marianne—young, bewitchingly attractive, politically significant, and the very image of highborn grace. And still, she feared making a fool of herself.

And yet… her heart thundered.

Her cheeks flushed under the weight of his gaze—a gaze so openly focused on her, it left her breathless and quietly grateful that his back shielded her from Elise's line of sight.

What would it be like to be single-mindedly pursued by Felix? To be the mystery he couldn’t leave unsolved?

The thought broke the spell. Her breath caught, and she blinked herself back to reason. She couldn’t afford such a tremendous risk. Felix noticed. His expression shifted almost imperceptibly, closing off.

"I would be overjoyed to serve you," he said, his tone now more measured and formal. “But before you decide, conduct your own investigation. Ask your brother directly what transpired.”

"I understand." And she did, perhaps more clearly than she wished. "Thank you for your honesty."

"You deserve nothing less." He returned the anti-eavesdropping tool to her waiting hand, their fingers brushing once more in the exchange. Mary’s hand tightened around the small tool painfully.

"Thank you for today. For showing me all of this." She looked at the warm and cozy archive room. Oh to be able to spend all her days here much in the way he got to do.

He inclined his head, “The pleasure was entirely mine. I must confess, I wasn’t able to take you to the castle bookrooms. The places I showed you are only the official archives. But with scholars as capable as yours, I suspect you’ll find your way there soon enough.”

As Mary departed the archive with her retinue, she found herself glancing back at Felix where he stood looking back at her, his expression neutral, but his orange eyes glowing with an intense sort of light. Something in his expression lingered with her long after she left.

They returned to the villa, where Elise and the scholars promptly scolded her. Mary submitted to their reproaches, especially after learning that an engaged lady was not meant to conduct private conversations with a man, no matter how scholarly the setting.

She sighed and bowed her head, not only at the rebuke, but because, truthfully, she was also disappointed. Felix's brutal honesty had not been what she had hoped to hear. Yet beneath the sting of what amounted to a rejection lay something unexpected: a grudging admiration for his candor. How many men would have declined such an opportunity? How many would have woven pretty lies and promised perfect loyalty to secure a comfortable position in her household?

Very few, she suspected.

She pleaded a headache and retreated to her chambers. But instead of resting right away, she lay on her side, studying the little bookmarks he’d given her—one a cat, the other a swan. The bookmarks seemed to hold the warmth of his touch, the memory of that brief contact when he'd returned her anti-eavesdropping charm. She turned them over in her fingers, again and again, as if they might reveal something more.

Sleep, when it finally claimed her, found Mary curled on her side, the paper bookmarks pressed close against her chest like fragile talismans.

She drifted into dreams where her old self stood before a heavy, unyielding door—she was knocking, knocking, always knocking. No answer ever came. Only silence.

But she knew that beyond the threshold lay something vast and veiled, mysterious and terrible but also beautiful, calling to her with a promise she could not name. And in her chest bloomed that same quiet ache she had felt beneath Felix’s gaze—a sensation of standing on the very brink of something momentous… yet forever unable to cross over.

It was exactly as if the life she longed for, the one she had always waited for, was just out of reach—separated by a door that would never open for her.

Chapter Text

MRS BENNET: But the man he brought with him, Mr Darcy, as he calls himself, is not worth our concern. Though he may be the richest man in Derbyshire. The proudest, the most horrid, disobliging – he slighted poor Lizzy, you know, and flatly refused to stand up with her.

MR BENNET: Slighted my Lizzy, did he?

— Pride and Prejudice, Episode 1 (1995 BBC Adaptation)

— ⁕ ⁕ ⁕ —

A little after fourth bell Mary was gently shaken awake by Elise, “My lady, Lord Ferdinand just sent an ordonnanz requiring your presence in the castle.”

Mary rubbed her sleepy eyes, and realising that she still held Felix’s bookmarks, she hid them under her pillow. “What? Why? What’s happened?”

“Nothing too bad, I’m sure.” Elise said reassuringly, “Please don’t look so anxious.”

“Alright.” Mary said after pondering for a moment. She stifled a yawn and swung her legs over to the edge of the bed, preparing to go immediately, though her heart was sinking with dread and trepidation.

“Hold on a moment, my lady. You need to change for the afternoon.”

Mary sighed. She could never get used to these fripperies, but as it only delayed her having to meet Marianne’s father she subjected herself to the rearrangement of her hair, makeup, veil, and gown. The gown for the occasion was a light aqua blue, embroidered with delicate white flowers and leaves. Hand-sewn pink blossoms—like the ornaments worn in one’s hair—were scattered across the fabric, adding a soft touch of color. The hem didn’t quite reach the floor; only grown women wore full-length gowns. Still, it fell tantalizingly close—just a little longer than propriety allowed.

Mary studied herself in the mirror as Francesca spritzed some perfume on her. The top part of the dress was styled in what she recognized from Marianne's memories as a "halter," tied at the nape of her neck with a ridiculously long ribbon meant to stream behind her as she walked.

They went down the stairs and stepped out of her villa. But they’d not gone more than a few steps before Mary stopped. She felt dreadfully exposed showing off her arms and her shoulders in such a scandalous manner.

This was not England; this was Alexandria and she knew she had to get used to it, still….

“Please fetch me a shawl.” she said before moving another step forward.

Francisca hurried off, and while they waited, Mary turned to Elise.

“Did Father say what this was about? It feels rather… abrupt.”

“No, my lady,” Elise replied. “But perhaps your conversation with your mother this morning holds a clue? Did she mention him at all?”

Mary frowned in thought. “Only that he had wished to see me, but was called away by Mynard.

Flashes of Marianne’s past went through Mary’s mind: Marianne watching from doorways while her twin brother basked in their father’s attention, how he received Lord Ferdiand’s words of praise—words she had yearned to receive.

Mary's heart ached. She understood too well. Her own father had made no secret that Elizabeth was his favorite. As a girl, Mary had felt that same sharp pang of envy, but life had taught her that bitterness was a burden unworthy of the effort it demanded. When she at last perceived that nothing she might do could make her more beloved in her father's eyes, she had resolved not to lessen herself through resentment.

She sincerely hoped Marianne would learn the same before that old ache poisoned whatever bond she still had with her brother or father.

Francisca returned with a light shawl, more ornamental than functional, and her attendants spent several moments arranging it upon Mary’s shoulders. Only when every fold met with their approval did they finally set out.

As they made their way toward the southern wing, her attendants and scholars chattered amiably about the growing list of engagements already filling Marianne’s calendar. Unlike the introverted Mary they looked forward very much to returning to the whirlwind of activity that Marianne was more used to, even if it meant more work for them. Mary listened with only half an ear, and soon her thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Her thoughts were definitely not on longing for a good book and a cozy reading room to explore. Nor were they on the amiable young scholar she’d spoken with that morning—though if asked she would have been hard-pressed to say what else they were on.

The corridors gradually grew livelier as they entered the more frequented parts of the castle—nobles gliding past with their attendants, guards exchanging salutes, scholars burdened with folders and ledgers hurrying to their errands. There was no sign of Felix, of course; he was probably lost in some task in the archives he so loved. Yet, as she walked, faces that had once been indistinguishable began to take shape in her mind—names, titles, small fragments of memory surfacing as if whispered to her.

A woman that smelled strongly of perfume and who wore a revealing blue and silver dress passed her by with a smile. Lady Vulkatag. The woman was strikingly beautiful—a wealthy widow and the subject of many whispered rumors. She was often featured in the gossip columns Marianne liked to read. Yet, to her credit, she was more than her looks and wealth. She was also a prolific poet and writer and she had cultivated strong ties with neighboring Ehrenfest.

There was a man with bright purple hair that caught Mary’s attention because he was so strikingly handsome—and also, purple hair! He was a younger son of a viscount, who glanced at her with evident admiration. By the flush that spread across his cheeks when their eyes met, Mary realized he was infatuated with Marianne.

Nestor, son of Lord Seitzen. Married just last year to Lady Violette. Lady Violette has great wealth but little in the way of beauty.

Mary frowned. If he was married, then this lord ought to be keeping his eyes and his flushes to himself.

They crossed through one of the interior gardens where the head landscaper paused from instructing a team of gardeners to give her a respectful bow as she passed. His work-roughened hands were still dusted with soil, and his silvery white hair denoted his age, but his smile was kindly. He was surrounded by white butterflies that hovered and drifted lazily around him, drawn to him as though the old gardener himself carried the scent of every flower he had ever tended.

Moren. He has a wife and six daughters. Not a single son, for which he is always teased. Yet everyone knows that his family is the pride and joy of his life.

A few steps later, Mary spotted Kiriendra—her mother's youngest scholar. The girl was striking, with a full figure Marianne both admired and envied. She had silver-gray hair pulled into a loose braid, a monocle perched on her nose, and eyes the peculiar shade of amethyst that gleamed almost like a cat's. She walked briskly, clutching an overflowing folder, her gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the corridor. So lost in thought was she that she nearly brushed shoulders with Mary before realizing whom she was passing.

She didn’t look unfriendly, merely absorbed—and Mary, with a sudden and inexplicable certainty, knew that the girl’s reputation for coldness was undeserved. Kiriendra wasn’t aloof at all, merely painfully shy, much like her mother before her.

Bonifatius, a young archknight, strode down the corridor alongside several others, helmet under his arm, his deep-blue eyes bright with anticipation as he made his way toward the training grounds. His green hair—pulled back into a long, neat ponytail—caught the light as he passed, and Mary couldn’t help but think him absurdly beautiful in that effortless, heroic way common to men descended from the House of Linkberg, as her brothers were. Yet it was said that his beauty and lethal speed when fighting most resembled that of his mother, the legendary Angelica of the Talking Sword.

He was also, technically, Marianne’s cousin.

Lord Kirheru followed soon after, exchanging brief nods with those he passed and bowing deeply when he greeted Marianne. Lady Sophia, who was one of the most gifted musicians in Alexandria (barring the members of the Archducal family, of course), glided by in her pale lavender gown, a serene contrast to the brisk rhythm of the castle. Even Rimo, the wolfhound who belonged to one of the guards, padded faithfully at his master’s side, tail swaying happily.

And so the names and faces passed in a steady procession—each familiar now, each no longer a stranger in the castle she was slowly learning to call home.

Her studies, it seemed, were bearing fruit, for which she rejoiced.

By the time they reached the southern wing, the corridors had thinned considerably as the residential quarter was more exclusive than the bustling passages they'd left behind. Despite the labyrinth of courtyards and gardens they had traversed, Mary found comfort in the growing familiarity of it all. Perhaps, if left to her own devices, she could even find her way back unaided.

Perhaps she was at last beginning to learn her way around this strange world. And perhaps Marianne's memories were returning to her.

The thought cheered her, though she wished Marianne herself would stop hiding and help her see this through.

I know you’re heartbroken, but you must be strong, you must exert yourself. Marianne said to the silly girl who remained hiding somewhere in her consciousness.

Marianne said nothing. However, her attendant spoke up at that moment.

"You're very quiet, milady," Elise observed gently.

"I'm sure you needn't be so anxious about meeting your father," Elise continued. "It most likely concerns Lord Richart—and the matter of the dinner the other evening."

The mere mention of Richart sent the smallest trace of Marianne that Mary had been coaxing scurrying back into hiding. If Mary hadn't been raised to mind her manners and behave like a lady at all times, she might have cursed.

"I see," was all she said.

“We’ve already sent detailed reports about your recovery,” Elise added quickly. “He is probably just eager to confirm your wellbeing for himself—nothing more.”

Mary tried to take comfort in that, though her pulse told a different story. The halls grew quieter as they ascended a sweeping flight of marble stairs and turned down the corridor leading toward her father’s study. Sunlight streamed through tall arched windows overlooking the ocean and far below, the city shimmered in the heat haze, its blue-tiled domes and roofs glinting like scales.

The air in this part of the castle was markedly cooler. That was Lord Ferdinand's doing, of course. Years ago, not long after Alexandria had been established as a new duchy with her mother as Aub, he had sealed the entire wing with a climate ward to protect his future bride from Alexandria's oppressive heat and humidity.

Ahead, the great double doors of her father’s study loomed. Standing watch before them was a green-haired knight, silver streaking his temples, his blue eyes as sharp and vigilant as ever. Their gazes met—he gave a brief nod, the faintest curve touching one corner of his mouth.

Uncle Eckhart.

Mary had seen him many times since waking in this world. He was her father’s ever-present shadow, silent and steadfast, rarely speaking unless addressed. Despite being Lady Rozemyne’s elder brother, he never presumed upon his rank or kinship to voice his opinions or thoughts. Yet Marianne, she knew, had respected him deeply—though she did not idolize the man as much as Freddie did.

From infancy, Frederick had been inseparable from their uncle, and the feeling seemed mutual. It was said that the moment Frederick could hold a sword, Eckhart had taken him under his wing, training him with the same rigor and precision that defined the man himself. Some called Uncle Eckhart peculiar; others whispered that he was paranoid. Whatever the reason, Lord Ferdinand had entrusted him with molding his eldest son into a protector and a warrior—one who would stand as the family’s shield, in case he should become the heir.

Their mother had once reminisced about those days with fond amusement, saying, “It was quite a sight: Frederick, so like his uncle in coloring, almost like a little Eckhart in miniature, training every morning with such earnest zeal.”

Marianne, by virtue of following her older brother wherever he went, had been the only other sibling besides Frederick to forge any real connection with the stoic man. She had tried to love him as much as one could love someone so reserved and stern.

Unfortunately, she had proven too slow and weak to keep up with their training. While Eckhart had given her words of encouragement, he had proceeded with Frederick's instruction and left her in the dust—his attention, his care, his peculiar intensity all reserved for the eldest son of the family.

But that was fine with Marianne. As long as she was allowed to watch and be part of it and receive encouragement on occasion—that had been enough.

He walked over to them, his armor faintly clinking with each step. “There’s someone with him,” he said in a low voice. “Lord Richart.”

Mary froze. “What? Why? Is that why he summoned me?”

“Most likely.” Eckhart shrugged. He never bothered to question why his master did anything, he simply obeyed. Mary thought that it was remarkably kind of him to warn her ahead of time about Richart so she wouldn’t be caught off guard when going in.

“Don’t look so pale,” he said. “He’s an Archduke Candidate of the first-ranked duchy—he won’t actually come to harm.” His eyes narrowed, a steely gleam flashing in them. “Though if you ask me, he rather deserves it.”

Mary instinctively placed a hand on his forearm, the fabric of his sleeve coarse beneath her fingers. “It’s quite all right, Uncle Eckhart,” she said softly, hoping to calm the sudden flare of protectiveness that, while terrifying, warmed her heart all the same.

“Um… how are you feeling? Have you had a chance to exercise at all?”

Marianne assured her uncle she was managing well enough, though she admitted she hadn’t kept up with her drills.

“You can’t afford to neglect training,” her uncle admonished. “Stop by the training grounds whenever you wish.”

Mary smiled but held her tongue—the last thing she wanted was to pick up a sword and start stabbing things with the sharp end. It didn’t matter anyway, for her uncle suddenly straightened, head tilting slightly as if catching a sound only he could hear.

“It seems your father’s business is concluded,” he said at last. “You’d best go in.” He paused, his gaze sharpening. “And remember—back straight.”

Mary straightened immediately at the stern command, and as she lifted her chin she caught the warmth of approval in his eyes before he gave a single nod. "Good."

She held onto that small measure of praise and let it fortify her as she stepped through the doors to face her ordeal.

—

Earlier….

The golden tones of the fourth bell rang through the quiet, lingering for a moment before fading into the stillness of a room where the only sound was that of the the scratch of quill against parchment.

Lord Ferdinand, sitting in his gloomy private study, was crafting a contract.

Seated across from him, Richart resisted the urge to shift in his chair, for the last thing he wanted was for the man in front of him to begin to think he was squirming or fidgeting from anxiety or nervousness.

He wasn’t.

It was just that the chair was simply unbearable, and unbeknownst to him, it was meant to be so—compliments of Lord Justus.

But Richart was made of sterner stuff; he did not so much as twitch. While Lord Ferdinand remained absorbed in his writing, Richart let his gaze wander across the study.

So this was the infamous Lord of Evil’s lair. There were no gruesome trophies, no heads on spikes, no feybeasts brought down in a hunt mounted on the walls, and no displays of sinister weapons to justify the name the man was notoriously known to others by. Instead, the walls were lined floor to ceiling with books—two stories worth of them, more than Richart would ever be able to read in a lifetime—and in the air hung the faint scent of parchment, ink, leather, and a crisp herbal scent that was not at all unpleasant.

Heavy velvet drapes were drawn just enough to cast the room into a dusky gloom. Slivers of sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, scattering jeweled patterns of crimson, gold, green, and blue across the ornate carpet. Potted ferns softened the severity of the dark, wood-paneled room, while climbing vines curled gracefully around the soaring columns that upheld the magnificently painted dome above.

It was an impressive room. Beautiful, even. But also utterly suffocating.

Richart was no stranger to power. He had accompanied his adoptive father to negotiations with Aubs from other duchies and faced down ambitious nobles who attempted to counter Dunkelfelger's military might with elaborate displays of wealth or influence. But never had he encountered someone who wielded silence itself as an instrument of interrogation.

Without looking up, Lord Ferdinand spoke at last, “I trust you understand why I’ve called you here, Lord Richart.”

Richart inclined his head. “To discuss your daughter, I presume.”

Putting the quill back in its resting place, and satisfied with his work, Lord Ferdinand’s eyes lifted—sharp, gold, and cutting as glass. “You presume correctly.”

Marianne’s father leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “She is… not herself. You heard during the family meeting the extent of the damage to her mind. And until she returns to her proper state, you may consider yourself bound to her and to this duchy.”

He was only stating facts. There was no heat in his tone, but Richart could still feel the disdain in the other man’s voice. Richart wondered, if the man disliked him so, then why had he demanded this arrangement in the first place. Dunkelfelger had offered a fortune in recompense for the harm done to the sole daughter of Alexandria, but her father had only grown more outraged at the offer—had even gone so far as to be offended at what he had seen as a slight to his precious daughter. Richart’s father had offered other compensations, trade deals, exclusive contracts, and so on, but still the man had not budged.

Now, perhaps, Richart would learn why.

Lord Ferdinand’s attendant—a wizened old man with gray hair—handed his master a document which Ferdinand presented to Richart. Richart recognized the document and its contents at once—were they not burned into his memory by now? It was a copy of the contract his father had signed after the failed negotiations with Lord Ferdinand just a little over a week ago. The writing on it, like his future, was bleak, indeed.

“However,” Lord Ferdinand continued, “if she does recover, you may return to Dunkelfelger and her mother and I will consent to her marrying out of the duchy.” He paused, and fixed him with a cold glare, "You understand these terms?"

Richart wanted to object. He understood the contract and knew it backwards and forwards. Yet he had never agreed to this arrangement—not truly. Richart wanted to point out that Marianne had broken her silly head because of the incompetence of her guards and because she had acted in a very unladylike and reckless fashion. And then refusing to be reasoned with, she had demanded a bridal challenge despite having all the martial training of a decorative vase.

But of course he couldn’t say all that, not just because of diplomacy but because a sudden weight pressed at his chest, so heavy it stole his breath.

"She came to harm because of you." Ferdinand's voice remained perfectly pleasant, conversational even. "You acknowledge this, don't you?"

Richart's eyes widened fractionally. Lord Ferdinand’s face remained serene, his expression as inscrutable and unreadable as the surface of a smooth granite rock. Yet the mana pressure radiating from him was monstrous—it was an inexorable force that pressed the air from Richart's chest and caused his vision to darken at the edges like parchment held too close to flame.

The Lord of Evil was crushing him!

A lesser man would have surrendered to instinct, would have gasped, clutched at his chest, revealed his distress.

Begged for mercy.

Richart did neither. Behind him, his own attendants remained still and silent; had they sensed even a flicker of what was happening, they would have rushed forward in alarm. But they noticed nothing. Not yet.

A thought flashed in Richart’s mind.

No one would notice—not unless Richart himself betrayed his predicament. And if they did become aware, it would spark a diplomatic incident that would cause his adoptive father an even greater headache. He might even discard Richart altogether.

No.

He would endure it. He must. For Daphne’s sake, for the sake of Dunkelfelger’s longstanding alliance with Alexandria, and for himself. He could not squander his father’s last opportunity. And so, with the stoicism expected of Dunkelfelger's finest and drawing on every ounce of training and willpower he possessed, Richart forced his voice to remain steady as though the invisible weight crushing his chest were nothing at all.

“Yes,” Richart said, his tone miraculously steady though his pulse thundered in his ears. “I am solely responsible.”

“It gladdens my heart to see there is still honor in the land of fire.” The Lord of Evil said, “You had never expressed any sort of responsibility for it, so I wanted to be certain of your sincerity before we proceeded.”

Still the crushing did not abate. Richart groaned softly as he sat up straighter and looked at the man in front of him, “I am bound in honor to her, Lord Ferdinand.” He ground out, “You may rest assured that I will uphold our agreement to the letter. Once we are starbound, whether here or in Dunkelfelger, I will honor and protect Lady Marianne as I should. I am willing to sign a magic contract, if you require it.”

A flicker—amusement, perhaps—passed over Ferdinand’s features as silence settled between them. Then, at last, he inclined his head. “Well spoken, Lord Richart. Perhaps there is more to Dunkelfelger than brawn and bravado after all.”

Then—at last—the suffocating weight vanished.

"It would be unfortunate for Lord Lestilaut to lose such a promising Archduke Candidate." Ferdinand's tone carried the finality of dismissed business. "See that you help Marianne recover her memories. I am counting on your cooperation this summer."

The interview was clearly concluded. Any sensible man would have risen, offered his gratitude for being permitted to leave with his life intact, and departed with all due haste. But Richart, as previously established, was not like other men. He possessed a singular character flaw—one he had labored to correct with varying degrees of success. In moments of stress or strong conviction, he became dangerously blunt. And that unfortunate tendency now lifted its troublesome head.

"Lord Ferdinand," Richart began just as he had recovered his breath, “with all due respect, are you not risking your daughter repeating the tragic story of Lady Gabrielle of old Ahrensbach when she married into Ehrenfest?”

The silence that followed was absolute—though, behind him, one of Richart’s retainers (most likely Rowan) inhaled sharply—a small sound that seemed deafening in the sudden quiet. But no one else moved, no one else spoke. Even Lord Ferdinand appeared momentarily arrested by the audacity of the question.

Richart pressed forward, committed now to his chosen course. "Should I succeed in helping Lady Marianne regain her memories, she would forever be at odds with my brother's first wife. The political balance in our duchy would be fundamentally disrupted. Though she is universally adored as an Archduke Candidate of Alexandria, she would be far less welcome in Dunkelfelger—even if she were demoted, which I am certain you would never permit. In that case, she would be regarded as a rival to the future Aub’s first wife and a threat to the duchy’s stability." He paused, weighing each word with care. "I would have thought that you, of all people, would wish to spare your daughter such grief”

It was bold—perhaps even dangerous—for him to speak so. But Richart believed with absolute certainty that it needed to be asked. Lord Ferdinand studied him with a gaze that revealed nothing. When he spoke at last, his tone had cooled from disdain to something more appraising.

“You are either very brave, or very foolish. I have yet to decide which.”

Richart held his silence. After a long moment, Ferdinand’s fingers tapped once against the desk, then he sighed as though arriving at a conclusion.

“First, to your point…” He cleared his throat, “I commend you. Not many people outside Ehrenfest know that tedious and unfortunate history."

He inclined forward, and smiled in a way that sent chills down Richard’s spine, “Second, since we are speaking plainly and you brought up the issue: I might as well admit that I never intended for my daughter to marry into your duchy—under any circumstances.”

Richart’s eyes widened in surprise. Whatever he had expected, it was not that. “Then why—” His voice broke, unsteady. “Why insist on the engagement at all?”

Lord Ferdinand scoffed, "As if I would answer that, fool. Surely you have more rattling around in that head of yours than ditter. Draw your own conclusions." Richart blinked in surprise. For a fleeting moment, Richart sensed that the man’s mask had slipped.

Lord Ferdinand slid the contract he'd been crafting across the polished mahogany surface with deliberate precision. "Here."

Richart, his thoughts reeling and still struggling to absorb the shock of what Lord Ferdinand had revealed, accepted the document mechanically. For a long moment, he only stared at it. Then he forced himself to read, carefully and without haste, the clauses, terms, and injunctions of a magical contract that bound him to the whims of a man both feared and admired for his cunning and negotiating skills. Every clause was airtight, every condition meticulously phrased. As he read he had the notion that he was slowly tangling himself in a snare laid out by the Lord of Evil.

And yet, by the time he reached the final paragraph, something in him had shifted. The constriction that had been coiling in his chest since the day of the accident—the sense that his life was being written away to a future he neither wanted nor looked forward to—suddenly eased.

He had been wracking his brain for days, trying to think of a way to make Marianne end the engagement herself. But now the answer presented itself…a way out, plain and uncomplicated.

He looked up sharply. “Is this a test of some sort?”

Lord Ferdinand, who had been observing him with hawk-like intensity, actually snorted at him. "No, this is not some elaborate entrapment, if that's what concerns you. I assure you I have far better uses for my time than ensnaring schoolboys in convoluted schemes." His tone turned dry, almost weary. "After this conversation, I will not spare another thought to this matter until summer's end. The demands on my attention are considerable, and this—" he gestured dismissively at the contract, "—is merely one thing among hundreds I have vying for my attention."

He leaned back with a sigh as he gazed up at the family portrait hanging in a wall of the study, and for the first time, something almost human flickered behind those golden eyes. "I simply want my daughter restored to herself. Whether she ultimately marries outside Alexandria or remains here matters far less to me than ensuring she returns to who she was—and that the man she marries is someone who values and cherishes her." He looked at Richard, gaze hardening. "Not someone who views her as dead weight."

Though spoken quietly, the words struck like a blade between Richart’s ribs—cutting all the deeper for their lack of heat and Richart recognized the rebuke for what it was: retribution for his earlier impertinence. Properly chastened, he resolved to think twice before speaking so bluntly again.

“Cooperate in this simple matter and I will release you from your obligations to Marinne.” Lord Ferdinand continued, “I will speak to your father myself—but you must first fulfill your end of the bargain. You have until the end of summer.”

From the doorway came a voice: “Just received word that Lady Marianne is on her way, Lord Ferdinand.”

“Keep her outside until we’re finished, Eckhart.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Lord Ferdinand gestured toward the contract. “Have your retainers review it if you must. But I expect my daughter soon, and I’d like this business concluded before she arrives.”

Richart set the parchment down, pulse steady but fast. When he looked up, Ferdinand was smiling—but the smile held no warmth at all.

“Well?” The Lord of Evil asked softly. “We’ve little time left, and that—” he nodded toward the contract “—is your last chance.”

—

Mary stepped through the doors of her father’s study, surprised by how dim the room seemed. Even so, it wasn’t so dark that she failed to recognize those present—her father, his trusted attendant Justus, Richart, and Richart’s retainers.

“Father? You summoned me?” she asked, her voice a touch uncertain as she felt every gaze turn toward her. There was a strange tension in the air that made her uneasy, and the weight of their stares did little to help.

She didn’t realize that the intensity came from the topic they had just been discussing—her. Now the subject of their deliberation had entered the room, stepping by chance into a pool of sunlight that caught her hair and cast her in an almost ethereal glow. In the study’s gloom, her sunlit figure seemed otherworldly—radiant, and her beauty was certainly a sight to behold—not many men in Yurgenschmidt could have resisted such a spectacle.

The effect was short-lived, for the doors burst open and Mynard strode in. “You called for me, Father?”

“Yes,” came the calm reply. “Lord Richart was about to escort your sister to the water gardens for lunch. You are to chaperone them.”

“What?” Mynard’s disbelief was palpable. Mary, feeling his glare, could only lift her shoulders in a helpless shrug—trying, without words, to say she had nothing to do with it.

“Do remember that you promised to cooperate in your sister’s recovery,” their father said evenly. “This is for her sake. Be a good brother. Now go.”

The moment they were out of the study and the door was shut behind them, Mynard turned on her.

“What did you do this time?” Mynard demanded, exasperated. “You’ve got an entire army of attendants trailing you—why can’t one of them play chaperone?”

“I don’t know! I—”

“Never mind,” he cut her off with a sigh. “You never do know anything, do you?” Turning to Richart, he added, “Sorry about her, Rick.”

Richart shook his head. “She had nothing to do with it, Mynard. Your father asked me to take her, that’s all. Don’t fault your sister for following orders.”

Mynard muttered something under his breath but relented, crossing his arms with a scowl that didn’t quite hide his reluctant concern. “Fine. But if she faints halfway there again, you’ll be the one stuck carrying her back to her villa.”

Mary chose not to respond to that. Instead she walked behind the two men as they made their way out to the water gardens in the west grounds of the castle, letting their conversation wash over her, pretending that she wasn’t hurt at all by their dismissal of her.

She didn’t realize that, at that very moment, Richart was doing his best not to meet her eyes—or to speak to her at all. The addition of Mynard to their party was, to him, a welcome reprieve. Her father’s offer had rekindled a flicker of hope, yes—but it had also left a bitter aftertaste.

For the first time since the incident that had begun it all, he could no longer tell himself that his conduct was entirely honorable. And with that realization came an unfamiliar and nameless unease, one that made it strangely difficult to look at her without guilt stirring in his chest.