Scene 1: Waking Dream
While Lyra jostled along in the caravan, pressing herself into sacks of wool to avoid the carters' eyes, Carl Nowenstein, head of House Nowenstein, ninth name in the kingdom's registry—was asleep.
In the Nowenstein household, however, this surprised no one. The couple had a strange, almost defiant habit—staying up well past midnight, and then allowing themselves the morning. Eleonor—in the orangery or with books in the small drawing room, Carl—in his study with papers that could have been sorted in daylight, but for some reason acquired a particular clarity for him at night. The servants had long grown accustomed and even found their own advantage in it: a quiet morning without the Earl wandering the corridors was almost a gift. The aristocracy, occasionally, would wrinkle their noses, arriving for visits around noon and finding the master still in his robe, but Carl, frankly, couldn't care less. He paid his taxes on time, his word was stronger than steel, and the opinion of the capital's idlers about his daily routine interested him about as much as last year's snow.
Now he lay on his back, arms spread wide, and he was dreaming.
The dream was strange—not that sticky, heavy nightmare that had suffocated him for years in that other life. Not the void into which he had fallen after death. But something else. Golden, warm, viscous as honey.
He was floating. Or hovering. Everything around was soft and unsteady, and from somewhere far away, through this sweet haze, a voice broke through.
A woman's voice. Slightly husky, with a velvety depth that sent a pleasant shiver down his spine. The voice called his name, but not anxiously, not insistently—tenderly, as one calls someone they don't want to wake, but very much want to see.
Carl...
He smiled in his sleep. Foolishness, of course—Earl Nowenstein, smiling like a boy, but who would see? In dreams, it's allowed.
Carl...
The voice drew closer. He could almost see the outlines now—a feminine silhouette in the golden haze, slender fingers reaching toward him.
Carl Nowenstein!
A chill crept into the voice. Not angry, no—rather, stern. That very tone Eleonor used when, for the hundredth time, he forgot he'd promised to come home early for dinner.
Carl opened his eyes.
Eleonor was leaning over him. Her auburn hair was gathered in a neat, everyday knot—meaning she had not just risen, but had already tidied herself, perhaps even visited the orangery. She wore a simple morning dress, grayish-blue, with a high collar from which the edge of a snow-white chemise peeked out.
But the main thing was her face.
Frowning. Stern. With a barely noticeable crease between her brows that appeared when she was displeased with something. In this case—his reluctance to wake up.
And then the crease smoothed away. Her eyes—gray with green flecks, the very ones that still made his knees weak—warmed.
"Get up," Eleonor said. Her voice was softer now, but the firmness remained. "You need to wake Amalia for breakfast."
She bent down, lightly, barely touching, kissed him on the cheek—and straightened. The scent of lavender, familiar, beloved, filled all the space around for a moment. And then she was walking toward the door, her dress softly rustling against the carpet.
The door closed. Carl remained lying there, staring at the ceiling.
He blinked. Then again.
This was... real?
He raised himself on one elbow, surveyed the bedroom. Morning light filtered through the heavy curtains, painting golden stripes on the floor. On the bedside table stood yesterday's unfinished tea—Frederick must have looked in, but seeing the Earl asleep, tiptoed out.
Carl swung his legs to the floor. Sat there for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
How long had it been since he woke up like this? Not in a cold sweat, not with a scream stuck in his throat. Not with emptiness in his chest and the thought "she's gone." But simply—because his wife had woken him. Who was alive. Who was standing somewhere in the house now, occupied with her own affairs.
In his previous life, after... after everything—sleep had become a luxury. And then it disappeared altogether, replaced by an hour or two of oblivion, after which he would rise shattered, as if he hadn't slept but had been hauling sacks. And when Eleonor died—he stopped lying down altogether. Sat in that other study, stared at one point, and waited. For what? He didn't know himself. For news of Amalia, which never came. For a miracle that didn't happen. For death, which came too late.
Carl ran his hand over his face, driving away the remnants of sleep and delusion.
Enough. Don't think about it. That was. It's over. Now is different.
He stood, went to the washstand. The water from the pitcher burned with cold—Frederick, knowing the Earl's habits, always left both hot and cold, but now Carl splashed icy water on his face. To fully come to his senses.
He dressed quickly, but without that feverish haste that had consumed him these past days. This morning was different. Calm. Almost peaceful. He caught himself thinking, for the first time in... how long? A week? A month?—not about conspiracies, enemies, and plans. Thinking that he had to wake his daughter.
Amalia.
The name echoed in his chest with warmth and pain simultaneously.
He hadn't seen her since that morning when he woke up in this life. Deliberately hadn't seen her. Fled first to the capital, then to Lyra—hid from the meeting because he knew: if he saw her, he wouldn't be able to control himself. And frightening his daughter with tears, embraces, and incoherent explanations was the last thing he wanted.
But now he couldn't postpone it. Eleonor was right. He was a father. And Amalia had probably already begun wondering why her father, returning from the capital, was avoiding her like the plague.
Carl straightened his collar, ran his hand through his hair—the mirror showed a man of about thirty, with amber eyes in which a strange mixture of determination and... timidity? He smirked at his own reflection.
Earl Nowenstein is afraid to go to his own daughter. Quite the picture.
But he was afraid. And that was honest.
Because for her, only a few days had passed since he left for the capital. For him—three years, an eternity, a whole lifetime filled with longing and regret. How do you explain to a child that you look at her and see not yesterday's mischief, but the emptiness where she should be? How do you speak ordinary, fatherly words when inside everything screams with joy that she exists, that she's alive, that she's here?
Simply, he told himself. Just be a father. At least for this morning.
He left the bedroom and headed down the corridor toward the children's wing.
Scene 2: Little Volcano
The castle corridors greeted him with their usual morning life. Servants, catching sight of the Earl, would respectfully pause and bow. He mechanically nodded in return, not slowing his pace, but noticed from the corner of his eye: they looked at him differently than before. Not with that languid deference he was used to, but with attentive, assessing interest. Rumors spread quickly—the Earl, since his trip to the capital, was not himself. Sat in his study until late, brought back some wild girl and put her in the attic, and now here he was going to his daughter in the middle of the morning, though usually the nanny or Eleonor handled that.
Carl ignored the glances. Let them gossip. Extra attention to him meant less attention to what truly mattered.
The door to Amalia's room was ajar. He stopped on the threshold, not daring to enter immediately, and peered inside.
The room was flooded with sun. Light wallpaper with embroidered flowers, a bed with a canopy of light fabric, a study table by the window with books and notebooks stacked neatly. Dolls on a shelf—no longer the ones you play with, but those that stand for decoration, a memory of a childhood that is ending. And on the windowsill—a pot of lavender. A small copy of mother's orangery.
Amalia sat on the bed, legs crossed, concentrating fiercely on a battle with her hairbrush. Long, dark-auburn hair—thick, unruly, inherited from her mother, but with a darker, deeper undertone—tangled in her fingers, refusing to submit. She grimaced, tugged at strands, but didn't give up, fighting with the rebellious mane with a stubbornness Carl recognized in himself.
She was in her nightgown, barefoot, and looked... alive. So alive it took his breath away.
In that other world, he remembered her differently. Not this girl with the concentrated expression in her amber eyes—his eyes, his color—trying to conquer a hairbrush. But the one he had seen last—in her ceremonial dress, pale, with eyes full of fear, at the Academy gates. And then—emptiness. Silence. Belongings no one had sorted.
Carl swallowed the lump in his throat.
Don't think. Just call her.
He called softly, almost in a whisper, so as not to startle her:
"Amalia..."
She looked up.
For a second, incomprehension flickered in her eyes—she clearly hadn't expected him here, at this hour. And then her face lit up. Joy—immense, sincere, childish—flared in her amber eyes, her lips stretched into a smile...
And then it suddenly went out.
Amalia froze. Looked at him—and demonstratively turned away, her nose lifted proudly. The hairbrush flew onto the bed. Her arms crossed over her chest.
Carl froze on the threshold.
There it is.
"Little volcano"—that's what the servants called her among themselves. Not as an insult, no. With a kind grin, because they loved the girl who had grown up before their eyes. Usually calm, sensible beyond her years, Amalia rarely showed her temper. But if an "injustice" brewed in her soul—and her childish sense of justice was sharpened to the limit—she could explode. Rarely, but spectacularly. So that everyone around shuddered.
And now, looking at her tense back, her lifted chin, the way she stubbornly stared at the wall, pretending her father didn't exist, Carl understood: this was just such a case.
She's offended. Of course, she's offended. He left without properly saying goodbye. Came back—and hid in his study, didn't visit. For her, only a week had passed, but for him, it was an eternity.
A pang shot through his chest. Painful, but fair. He deserved this cold profile. Deserved every second of this silent protest.
Carl stepped into the room. Slowly, so as not to frighten her, not to provoke another outburst. Approached the bed, sat on the edge. Amalia didn't even turn, only her shoulder twitched—holding the line.
He reached out, picked up the hairbrush lying on the blanket. Then, gently but insistently, drew his daughter toward him, settling her in front of him.
Amalia started to pull away, about to break free, but he had already begun running the brush through her hair—carefully, tenderly, as one handles crystal that might shatter with one awkward move.
She froze.
Her father's hands moved with a gentleness she hadn't expected. He untangled the strands without pulling, without causing pain, though she knew—her hair could drive even her mother to distraction, and father usually gave up after the first minute of struggle.
But now his hands were different. Like the ones she remembered—and yet different. As if he had done this not once or twice, but hundreds of times. As if each strand was familiar to him. As if he... had missed them.
Amalia was silent. The resentment still smoldered somewhere inside, but its heat was subsiding, replaced by bewilderment. Papa wasn't explaining himself, wasn't making excuses, wasn't saying "I'm sorry" first—he was simply... brushing her hair. Like when she was little and afraid that Mama would hurt her.
A minute passed. Maybe two. The silence was broken only by the scritch of the brush through her hair and the distant sounds of the waking estate.
Carl looked at the auburn crown of her head, at how the light played in the dark strands, and searched for words. Heavy, important words that couldn't be spoken lightly.
"Forgive me, Amalia," he said at last. His voice was quiet, slightly hoarse, and in those two words lay more than she could understand.
But something—the intonation, the weight of those words, the way her father's fingers trembled for an instant—reached deeper than her mind.
Amalia spun around sharply. In her eyes, amber like his, moisture gleamed. Her lips trembled.
And she threw herself at his neck, wrapping her arms around him so tightly it was as if she feared he would disappear. Pressed her cheek to his chest and went still.
"Papa..." she breathed into his shirt. "You... you won't leave for a long time without warning again, will you? I... I was worried."
Carl hugged her back. Held her close, feeling her heart pound, smelling her hair—still that same lavender that permeated the whole house, and something else, childish, dear, elusive.
"I won't leave," he said. "I promise."
She sniffled, burying her nose in his shoulder. Then pulled back, sniffed again, and looked up at him—eyes red, cheeks wet, but a smile already warming the corners of her lips.
"Really? You're not lying?"
"Really."
"Honest and true?"
Carl smiled—for the first time that morning, truly, without anguish or pain.
"Honest and true."
Amalia wiped her nose with the back of her hand, sniffed once more, and suddenly frowned.
"But my hair? You didn't finish. There's still a tangle in the back."
Carl laughed. Briefly, hoarsely, but sincerely.
"Sit down. I'll finish."
She obediently turned around, presenting her back. The brush scritched through her hair again.
"Dad," she said thoughtfully, looking out the window. "Why do you smell... well, of lavender? Did you take Mama's perfume?"
Carl choked on air.
"No. It's just..." He hesitated, not knowing how to explain that the scent had soaked into his skin from years of living with her, from nights by her bedside, from memories he couldn't escape. "Mama just sometimes leaves her scent everywhere. You get used to it."
Amalia snorted, accepting the explanation.
"Shall we go to breakfast? Mama said there are pancakes with honey today. And you promised a horseback ride ages ago. And since you're here, it has to be today!"
"Alright," Carl put down the brush, ran his hand over her now-tamed hair. "Just get dressed. And don't forget your shoes."
Amalia hopped off the bed, grabbed the dress laid out since evening, and paused for a second. Came over, pecked him on the cheek—quickly, as if stealthily—and dashed behind the screen.
"I'll be fast!" came from there. "Just don't go away!"
Carl sat on the edge of her bed, clutching the hairbrush, and looked out the window. Out there, beyond the glass, Erlenholm was waking. Somewhere far away, on the road to Ebros, a girl with a silver raven in her pocket jostled in a caravan. Somewhere in the orangery, his wife talked to her flowers. And here, behind the screen, his daughter hastily pulled on her dress, muttering under her breath about pancakes and the injustice of the world if she was late.
This is it, Carl thought. For this, it was worth coming back even from the dead.
From behind the screen burst Amalia—already dressed, but barefoot, shoes in hand.
"Dad, will you help with the laces? I always get these ribbons tangled..."
Carl stood, took the shoes, gestured for her to sit on the edge of the bed. Squatted down, began carefully threading the laces through the holes.
Amalia watched the top of his head, his concentrated face, and suddenly said quietly:
"Dad... You're really not going to say anything? About me being angry at you?"
Carl looked up. Met her gaze—amber into amber.
"You had the right," he answered simply. "I was... wrong. Forgive me again."
Amalia blinked. Then smiled—brightly, openly, forgiving everything she didn't understand but felt in her heart.
"Okay," she said. "I forgive you. But if you do it again—I won't just turn away. I'll hide all your papers. And I'll tell Frederick not to bring you tea."
Carl snorted.
"Deal."
The laces were tied. Amalia jumped off the bed, grabbed his hand, and dragged him toward the door.
"Let's go, or the pancakes will get cold! And Mama will be waiting. And anyway..."
She chattered on nonstop, but Carl wasn't listening. He was listening to something else—the beat of her heart, the pulse of life, the warmth of a small hand in his own.
I made it in time, he thought. This time—I made it.
And he followed her into the corridor, toward the morning, toward breakfast, and toward a new war that could wait. At least until the pancakes were finished.