The air on the island was different—heavy with the scent of damp earth and the silent weight of centuries. Maria led the way, her footsteps sure on the overgrown path, while the boat remained at the shore, a tether to a world that suddenly felt very far away.
Emerald followed, his eyes sharp, scanning the shadows. Through the thicket, a house emerged—a solitary sentinel in the heart of the woods. It was impeccably maintained, its white paint gleaming like a bone in the moonlight. A single light burned at the front, a flickering glow that seemed to be reaching for something the world had long forgotten.
"It's not good etiquette to keep the guests in the cold, Maria," a voice drifted from behind Emerald. He turned to see a figure approaching with a warm, weary smile—the kind of smile that hides a grief too old for tears.
Inside, the house was a sanctuary of wood and ink. While Eva and Maria fell into the easy rhythm of old friends reminiscing, Emerald drifted toward the chimney. He liked the heat; it felt honest. But the interior called to him. The walls were lined with a massive collection of books—leather-bound volumes that smelled of dust and wisdom.
As he explored the quiet hallways, he stepped into a bedroom and stopped. Hanging on the wall was a portrait of a young man. It was hand-drawn with meticulous, agonizing detail. Emerald realized then that the house, despite having only two inhabitants, felt crowded with life—not the life of the living, but the lingering energy of a memory kept on life support.
Dinner was a quiet affair of clinking silver and soft laughter. Eva teased Maria, and the lady of the house—introduced simply as Mrs. Larsson—offered heartfelt smiles but few words. She was a shy ghost at her own table.
The dying embers of the fire hissed in the hearth, their orange glow struggling against the encroaching shadows of the island night. Emerald sat deep in the cushions of the couch on the altan, his gaze fixed on the darkness that seemed to stare back at him. The silence was heavy, broken only by the skeletal rustle of the surrounding trees.
The silence splintered as the lady of the house emerged from the interior, her movements fluid and ghostly. She held a small dish of dessert, extending it toward him with a quiet grace. Emerald didn't question her; he simply took the offering, the sweetness a sharp contrast to the bitter chill of the night.
"Have you ever swung a sword, little one?" she asked, settling into the seat beside him. Her voice carried the weight of someone who had seen centuries turn to dust.
"Not yet," Emerald replied simply, his focus on the food.
"My name is Margareta Larsson, an old fellow of Eva's. What about you?"
"Emerald. Fiancé of Genna Embridge."
She tilted her head, a faint glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "Being called out in the name of a woman... does that concern you, little one?"
"What others abide by isn't mine to be concerned with, Greta," he answered.
The use of her informal name struck her like a physical blow. Margareta's eyes widened, a flicker of surprise dancing across her features before she masked it with a weary smile. "You are a quiet one. How is it that you're tangled in all of this tale?"
"Same way as you are."
"You know my tale?"
"No," Emerald said, his voice level. "A speculation, that's all."
"From what I know," she mused, "you are in your teenage times—the season of great rebellions. So, how?"
Emerald gave a small, warm smile, the first sign of softness in his otherwise guarded demeanor. "Curiosity killed the cat, that's all. Bunked some sleep for a young lady... now I'm her lord husband. I spilled the beans, just like that."
Greta's expression turned somber, her gaze drifting toward the dying fire. "For me... I am a noble born. I hanged myself in my home, and here I am."
"Why did you hang yourself?"
The bluntness of the question hung in the air. Greta froze, her lips parted as if the words had been physically snatched from her. For several long moments, the only sound was the wind. Then, suddenly, she began to laugh. It wasn't a sound of joy, but a hollow, melodic release of pent-up irony.
Bewildered, Emerald looked at her. "Why are you laughing?"
"I'm just thinking so many things, little one," she said, slowly regaining her composure. "I was born in 1650. When I was eight, my mother died. Everyone withered; even my older brother, Gustaf, cried. But I didn't. The elders teased me for it—'heartless child,' they called me. I was the black sheep. If you don't understand the problem I had, then you haven't heard about the suffocating weight of a noble household."
"You were a Larsson, right?" Emerald asked, a hint of doubt creeping into his voice. "I haven't heard of a noble household named Larsson anywhere."
"Oh," she whispered, her eyes turning distant and soft. "I took that name from mitt hjärta—my heart. He was a naval boy I met in my rebellion. God betrayed him when they said they wouldn't."
She sat up straighter, her presence suddenly commanding. "My real name is Margareta Stenbock. I am the youngest second daughter of Sir Gustaf Otto Stenbock. My brother was the famous Field Marshal, Magnus Stenbock; perhaps you have heard the name. But out of gratitude, you may call me Greta. No need for honorifics anymore."
"Why is that?"
"You're the first one since my death to whom I have told all this. Not even Maria has ever tried to hear it."
"Not many folks out there like listening to tales of sorrow," Emerald replied, his voice grounding the heavy atmosphere. "In my case, you could say I just love stories. That's all."
Greta looked at him with newfound respect. "I can see that. It tells the sum of your journey with Genna."
Emerald let out a short laugh of his own. Inside the hallway, Eva caught a glimpse of them—the boy and the ghost—sitting together with an odd, resonant energy. She paused, briefly questioning her own psychological approach to Emerald's growth, before shaking it off and returning to her business.
"I didn't mean to pry," Emerald said, leaning forward slightly, "but it would be nice if you could tell me about your heart."
Greta leaned back, the memories flooding her face. "I was a little boisterous in my upbringing. I used to pick fights with the local lads in the village. I showed more likeness in riding horses and holding a sword—taking my own little adventures, anything I could do to anger the Stenbock name. Once, I tried to run off with a wagon, but it didn't end well. That's where I met Larsson."
She paused, a faint blush of life seemingly touching her ghostly cheeks. "He was a quiet, profound gentleman. Didn't talk much, always on business... totally disciplined. I liked that. The next time I saw him, I thought the Angel of Death was waiting. When the offers for my marriage started to flourish, I broke them the hard way. My father sent me to a convent, but I broke out and ended up in a stream."
She took a breath, the tragedy of the story beginning to peak. "Larsson found me. He pulled me out and sat me on his horse. He walked alongside me all the way to the mansion, not even bothering to give me a glance of lust. He was just... pure. I didn't wait. I pushed my way up quickly and made him my own. Captain Erik Larsson was mine... until the gods forbade me for mocking destiny."
Greta went silent, her eyes shimmering with a 350-year-old grief. Emerald didn't press her. He simply waited.
"My mother's people said the sea cannot claim a man who wears the heart of the earth," she whispered, her voice cracking. "The gods were wrong. Commander Erik Larsson died in the sea together with his kin. For I am a foreign cat—a wild cat—not meant to be continued in his tale."
To ease the crushing weight of the sorrow, Emerald spoke softly. "You're quite a wonder of a woman, Greta."
Greta turned to him, her gaze suddenly piercing and unnervingly sharp. "I am. But I am not as your Lenya is for you, little one."
The world seemed to stop. Emerald's eyes widened, his skin crawling with a sudden, violent shiver. The name—a name he had never spoken to her, a name that belonged to a different life and a different ghost—echoed in the cold night air.
(To be continued)