Laurence departed for boarding school one month after Sophia's sixth birthday.
The estate felt unnaturally still that morning.
Not silent — De Montfort was never silent — but restrained. As if even the gravel understood it was not to crunch too loudly. As if the wind itself had softened in respect.
Early autumn lay pale across the grounds. A thin mist hovered over the lawns, lifting slowly as dawn widened. The trees lining the drive were just beginning to turn — faint gold at their edges, reluctant to surrender to change.
Sophia had risen before sunrise.
Her curls were only half-brushed, ribbon askew, but she refused assistance beyond what was strictly necessary. She insisted on being presentable. Proper. Brave.
She stood beside his trunk while servants loaded it into the carriage.
Laurence, at sixteen, already bore the shape of the man he would become. His shoulders had broadened fully now, coats sitting clean and structured against lean muscle. His height commanded attention — tall without heaviness, strength evident but controlled. His jaw was sharper, cheekbones more defined, dark hair precisely kept though a strand had already escaped over his brow in the morning damp.
He did not fidget nor hesitate.
But his eyes lingered.
Sophia pressed something into his hand — a small blue ribbon.
"I chose it," she informed him with solemn authority, "because it matches your eyes. So you do not forget me."
Her own — warm brown flecked with amber — shone too brightly.
"As if I could forget you," he replied. "Write to me whenever you wish, however trivial."
He did not tie the ribbon to his coat. Instead, he folded it carefully and placed it inside his trunk — deliberate, preserved.
The carriage door closed. The horses shifted.
The drive looked too long. Too open. Too ready to swallow him whole.
Sophia stood rigid beside Charlotte, refusing to blink until the carriage vanished beyond the trees.
Only then did she inhale.
He was gone.
The years resumed. They did not pause for longing, instead unfolding and bringing something new.
Letters bridged distance. Visits became ritual.
Two weeks at Christmas.
Four in summer.
Sophia learned to count time not by seasons, but by returns.
The first winter Laurence came back, he seemed subtly altered.
Taller. More structured in posture.
His voice had deepened slightly — no longer uncertain in lower tones.
He carried himself with a restraint that felt sharpened by absence.
The following summer, broader still.
Shoulders filling coats differently.
Arms defined from fencing practice and relentless training. Not heavy like Theodore — never heavy — but precise, sculpted.
He moved with controlled economy now, as though unnecessary motion had been disciplined out of him.
And always —
He brought stories.
Snow falling in silent courtyards.
Debates that lasted until midnight.
Fencing matches fought beneath chandeliers.
He brought gifts too — never extravagant, always chosen.
A pressed flower sealed between glass.
A small volume of poetry.
Ribbons finer than those sold in the village.
Occasionally, he brought companions.
And that required adjustment.
No more bursting into rooms mid-conversation.
No more collapsing across carpets in untidy sprawl.
In the presence of gentlemen of noble standing, she was expected to be measured.
Reserved.
Ladylike.
She adapted quickly.
But she resented the sharing.
By the time Sophia turned ten, something within her had refined.
Childhood had not vanished — she still laughed freely with Arthur, still argued sharply with Fredrick, still held her ground against Maxim's corrections — but a layer of awareness had settled.
She was no longer merely the sister who followed.
She was being observed.
Servants noticed.
Visiting families noticed.
Her beauty was no longer abstract potential.
It was emerging.
She stood at approximately 1.55 meters even at that young age — tall for her years, posture instinctively straight, neck long and elegant. Her curls had deepened to a rich chestnut, falling in controlled waves when brushed properly. Her features were delicately symmetrical — straight nose, expressive mouth, high cheekbones softened by youth.
But it was her presence that lingered.
When she entered a room, conversation shifted slightly.
Not because she demanded it.
But because she carried something quietly luminous.
That summer, Laurence returned not as a schoolboy.
But as a university man.
His presence had settled fully.
At nearly 1.90 meters, well-built, lean muscles defined beneath tailored coats, he no longer resembled the boy who had left at sixteen. His movements were efficient, assured. His blue eyes sharper, voice steady and unmistakably masculine.
And he did not return alone.
There were three of them.
Young men of pedigree and promise.
Polished and confident.
The kind who had already begun practicing the art of society as if it were sport.
But among them was Florian.
He did not simply enter a room.
He arrived.
His height rivaled Laurence's — perhaps a fraction shorter, but built differently. Where Laurence was controlled strength, Florian was aesthetic elegance. His frame was refined, his posture effortless rather than deliberate.
His hair was light brown — almost golden when caught by sunlight — thick and swept back carelessly yet precisely, as though he understood the effect and allowed it. His eyes were blue, but brighter — carrying a perpetual glint of amusement, of awareness.
He smiled easily.
Not arrogantly nor sharply.
But warmly — as though he found the world mildly delightful.
His clothing was immaculate — coats cut perfectly to shape, waistcoats chosen in subtle but rich tones, boots polished without ostentation. He wore refinement like a second skin.
And his mannerisms —
Measured.
He did not speak over others but instead listened.
He inclined his head slightly when introduced.
He knew precisely how long to hold a gaze — and when to release it.
He had been raised among sisters.
Courtesy was instinct.
Charm was not effort.
It was atmosphere.
Sophia saw him first from the upper landing.
She had been leaning over the balustrade — not inelegantly, merely curious — when the carriage door opened below.
She saw Laurence step down.
Then a couple other gentlemen whose faces she couldn't even remember.
Then—
Florian.
Sunlight struck his hair.
He laughed at something one of the others said — easy, bright.
And something inside her startled awake.
Not fear.
Not recognition.
A flutter.
Heat in her cheeks.
A sudden awareness of her own posture.
Her own hands.
Her own voice.
When Laurence called her down to be introduced, she descended far more slowly than usual.
Her usual confident stride dissolved into careful steps.
Florian turned as she approached.
His expression shifted — not dramatically — but attentively.
"Miss Sophia," he said with a small, perfect bow.
His voice was warm.
Unhurried.
Cultured without stiffness.
She could not look at him.
Her gaze fixed resolutely on the polished floorboards.
She managed a curtsy — graceful, though slightly too quick.
"Good afternoon," she murmured — voice softer than her brothers had ever heard it.
Florian straightened and extended something forward.
A bouquet.
Fresh summer blooms — wild roses, pale lavender, small white blossoms gathered thoughtfully, bound with a simple baby blue ribbon. Baby blue was one of her favourite colours.
"I was informed," he said lightly, eyes bright, "that no one in this duchy appreciates flowers more."
Her heart nearly stopped.
Laurence must've mentioned her preferences in passing but he had listened.
He had remembered!
Sophia accepted the bouquet with fingers that did not entirely obey her.
Her cheeks flushed fully now — warmth climbing to her temples.
"Thank you," she whispered.
And then—
Overwhelmed —
She turned and fled.
Skirts catching lightly in her haste.
Curls bouncing.
Bouquet clutched to her chest.
Behind her, laughter erupted and one of the gentlemen teased Florian "Don't go breaking hearts, we've just arrived."
Florian laughed off the remark but didn't challenge it. Sophia was merely a young girl and reminded him of his sisters.