Thornwell led her to the manor's banquet hall she followed quietly The hall was immense, a cavern of cold, polished stone and faded banners. High, arched windows let in the weak morning light, illuminating motes of dust that danced like forgotten spirits. The long trestle tables were bare, their surfaces gleaming darkly, waiting to be draped in linens and set with silver. At the far end, on a dais, stood the high table, a massive slab of oak where the Duke would preside.
Thornwell moved with his usual brisk efficiency, pointing out the placement for the musicians' gallery, the route the servers would take from the kitchens, the position where Giselle would enter on the Duke's arm. Giselle took in the dreary atmosphere and began to wonder if the funds the Duke supplied her would be enough. Thornwell went on and on but the only thing she could focus on was how lifeless the space seemed. The funds were not insignificant, but neither were they extravagant. The Duke's allowance for the banquet was precise, a sum allocated in the same ledger that had declared her dowry insufficient. Every candle, every length of silk, every pheasant would be accounted for, weighed against its worth. The thought was a fresh sting.
Thornwell's voice cut through her reverie. "The centerpieces, Your Grace. Will you prefer the silver candelabra or the gilt?" He gestured to a side table where two sets stood, both grand, both cold.
Giselle did not look at them. Her gaze swept the hall again, seeing not a dreary cavern, but a canvas. A challenge. He thought her insufficient?
"Don't you find those options rather dull?" She inquired tracing a finger along the table. Thornwell's lips thinned into a line, the skin around them pale.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Giselle cut him off with a sharp gesture. She stepped past him, the hem of her gown rustling against the stone floor.
"I want something living," she declared, turning to face him. "Branches. Greenery. The reminders of the beginning of spring. Something that doesn't look like it was pulled from the treasury because that's all that remains." She crossed her arms, the ledger still clutched against her side. "The Duke's approval for the banquet was conditional, was it not?"
Thornwell's silence was answer enough. Giselle smiled, though it held no warmth. "He wants it to be grand, so we will do just that." She breathed in deeply, "We have much work to do. Have something to write with?"
Thornwell produced a small, leather-bound notebook and a pencil from within his coat, his movements stiff with reluctance. He handed them over without a word.
Giselle took them and moved to the high table, clearing a space amidst the dust. She opened the notebook, the blank page a stark contrast to the cramped columns of the ledger. Here, she could write her own figures, her own vision.
"First," she began, her voice echoing softly in the vastness, "we will need greenery. Not just ivy, but hawthorn branches, early buds of willow, anything the groundskeepers can cut without harming the gardens. Send a boy to the head gardener immediately." Her pencil scratched against the paper, the sound sharp and decisive in the hollow quiet. She wrote in quick, slanted strokes, the list taking form as a counterpoint to the Duke's meticulous accounts.
"Fresh candles," she continued, "beeswax, not tallow. I want the hall to smell of honey and pine, not of rendered fat. And flowers. Whatever can be forced in the hothouse. Snowdrops, if there are any. Hellebores."
Thornwell watched, his pale blue eyes unreadable. "The expense, Your Grace."
She smiled at Thornwell, "All within budget. See?" She taps the ledger with the blunt end of her pencil. "The Duke's own figures. He allocated for beeswax in the solar for his own meetings. We will simply redirect it for one night. The flowers are a matter of shifting priorities, not additional coin."
Her gaze lifts from the page, sharp and clear. "The hothouse exists to serve the house, and this banquet is the house's most vital function this season. Are we understood?"
Thornwell gives a slow, shallow nod, the movement so slight it is barely a concession. "The head gardener will require a direct order."
"You may tell him it comes directly from the Duchess of Greyhaven." Before Thornwell responds, "Next, the decor and silverware."
Her pencil hovers over the page, a dark slash of intent. "The silver must be polished until a person can see their own determined face in every spoon. I want no tarnish, no shadow of neglect. And the candelabras every crystal droplet cleaned until they catch the light like falling stars." She writes with a swift, sure hand, each item a declaration. "The tapestries along the west wall are to be taken down and beaten free of dust. They depict the founding of Greyhaven; let our guests remember the strength of this house."
Thornwell's posture remains rigid, a statue of withheld opinion. "The tapestries are ancient, Your Grace. The weavers would advise extreme care."
"Understood, we need more life and color. Can we add-" Giselle pauses, the pencil hovering above the paper. She imagines the hall as it was moments ago dark, cavernous, lifeless and how it might be.
"Can we add ribbons?" she asks, half to herself. "Scarlet or gold, something that catches the firelight. The musicians' gallery needs to feel part of the hall, not suspended above it. If we hang banners there, the music will seem to fall through the air rather than drift down from on high."
Thornwell exhales, a quiet sound that might be disapproval or resignation. "Banners would require the seamstresses."
"They can cut lengths from the old standards in the armory. No new fabric." She turns the page, her eyes scanning the list she's already made, searching for gaps. "The floorhave the servants sweep it with salt first, then lay fresh rushes scented with rosemary. And the tables—"
Thornwell clears his throat, a dry, reluctant sound. "Your Grace, the floor needs no salt. The stone is clean."
Giselle looks up, meeting his gaze steadily. "Then it will be cleansed again. Symbolically, if nothing else. I want the hall purified before the guests arrive."
He inclines his head, conceding the point without enthusiasm. "As you wish."
Her pencil scratches once more, adding salt to the list.
She taps her fingers, "Anything else you can think of Thornwell?" Thornwell shifts his weight, the leather of his belt creaking faintly in the stillness of the study. "There is the matter of the musicians, Your Grace," he says. "The hall has not hosted a full ensemble in many years. We will need to send word to the capital for a harpist, if you intend—"
"I do not wish for a harpist from the capital," Giselle interrupts, her voice steady but firm. "I want someone from the village. Someone who knows these stones, who has walked these halls." Thornwell's brow furrows slightly, the first real reaction he's given beyond his usual reserved manner. "The village musicians, Your Grace? I... I must admit, I had not considered them capable of such a performance."
"Then consider them now," Giselle replies, not unkindly. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk. "There's a fiddler in the village, isn't there? Old Man Garrick? And his daughter plays the lute."
Thornwell's lips press into a thin line, but he inclines his head. "There is, Your Grace. A skilled player, by local standards." Giselle watches him carefully, reading the faint crease between his brows, the subtle tightening of his jaw. She knows Thornwell values precision, tradition, control. He sees risk where she sees possibility.
"I want them both," she says. "And if there's anyone else anyone who plays with feeling, not just with precision bring them to me. I want this banquet to feel like a celebration, not a transaction."
Thornwell exhales again, slower this time. "As you wish," he repeats, though the words sound less like obedience and more like acknowledgment.
Her pencil hovers over the page once more, and she writes: Village musicians. "There. A place to start. We have 2 months start the orders immediately."
The silence that follows is not empty, but filled with the weight of her command. Thornwell watches the duchess as she writes, the scratch of graphite against paper a small, defiant sound in the cavernous room. Her hand is steady. He has seen that steadiness before, in men holding sword hilts before a charge. It is a quality he did not expect to find here, among the lists of linens and beeswax.
"Very good, Your Grace," he says, the words measured. He retrieves the notebook, his fingers brushing the page where her handwriting looping, assured sits beside his own precise script.
She stands up dusting her dress, "Thank you, Thornwell I'm to go to the village with Clara after lunch can you arrange an escort?"
Thornwell inclines his head, his shoulders drawing back into their usual rigid posture. "Of course, Your Grace. I shall see to it that an escort is prepared."
His voice is measured, but there is a faint hesitation in the movement of his hands as he closes the notebook. "The village roads are muddy this season, however. The Duke's men would be... more appropriate for such a journey than the household guard."
Giselle studies him, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the desk. "Appropriate or safe?"
"Both, if one values propriety," he replies, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward—a small, involuntary sign of humor that passes quickly.
"Very well, it makes no difference to me." With that she turns and leaves, she was eager this was the most exciting thing she had done in weeks.
The prospect of visiting the village, of selecting musicians who would bring life to the stale halls of Greyhaven, filled her with a sense of purpose she had not felt since arriving at the manor.
Thornwell watches her go, his expression inscrutable but his mind working. He had known the Duke's household for years, had seen the rigid formalities and the stifling atmosphere that had settled over Greyhaven like a shroud. Now, this young Duchess with her sharp eyes and even sharper will was stirring the stagnant air, and he found himself both apprehensive and intrigued.
*******
The courtyard air carries a chill, damp with the promise of spring that hasn't quite arrived. Giselle pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she steps from the manor's shadowed archway into the pale afternoon light. The carriage waits before them, its black lacquer polished to a dull sheen, harnesses creaking softly as the horses shift their weight. Two of the Duke's men stand at attention beside it broad-shouldered, faces set in that impassive calm Thornwell insists upon in his soldiers.
Clara falls into step beside her, her boots crunching faintly on the gravel. "You're sure about this?" she asks, not looking at Giselle but watching the men by the carriage.
"Of course." They step closer The wind tugs at Giselle's hood, carrying the sharp, clean scent of the sea from the cliffs beyond the walls.
She meets the gaze of one of the soldiers a man with dark hair and the weary, weathered face of a seasoned retainer. He dips his head respectfully, but his eyes remain alert, scanning the courtyard. It is not the casual watchfulness of a household guard; it is the practiced vigilance of a man who has known conflict.
"Your Grace," he says, his voice low and rough. "I am Alexander. This is Edward. We are to see you safely to the village and back."
The names land with a quiet weight in her memory. Alexander, Edward.
Giselle's voice is steady, though she feels the weight of their silent scrutiny. She offers a small, formal smile, one she has practiced in the mirror—the kind that suggests grace without warmth. Clara shifts beside her, her own expression carefully neutral, but Giselle can sense the tension in her friend's stillness.
Alexander opens the carriage door, his movements efficient and economical. "The roads are rough after the rains, Your Grace. It may be a slow journey."
Giselle nods, gathering her skirts as she steps up into the dark interior. The carriage smells of old leather and damp wool, a familiar scent by now, but today it feels different charged with possibility. Clara followed in after her sitting across from Giselle The carriage lurches into motion, the wooden frame groaning slightly as the wheels find the packed earth beyond the courtyard. Outside, Alexander and Edward ride alongside, their horses stepping in unison with the carriage's slow rhythm. The morning is cool but bright, the sky an endless stretch of pale blue, clouds like wisps of silk catching the sunlight.
Giselle smooths her skirts, the fine fabric whispering against itself. The movement is automatic, a gesture she has made countless times before, but today it feels different.
She glanced at the men from outside the window watching them with thoughtful eyes, "Don't you think this is a bit excessive? They didn't accompany us last time."
Giselle studied their backs they were also broad similar to the Duke however not quite the same. Their shoulders were set with the same disciplined strength, but where the Duke's presence was a storm contained, these men carried the stillness of stones worn smooth by relentless tides. Giselle's fingers traced the cold glass of the windowpane.
"They are not merely guards," she murmured, more to herself than to Clara. "They are his eyes. His trust does not come lightly."
Clara's gaze flickered toward the window, then back to Giselle. "The Duke values your safety, Your Grace. The roads have been restless. There are whispers."
Giselle sighed, "Again?" Giselle's fingers tightened against the cold glass of the carriage window. The Duke had mentioned nothing of unrest, nor had Thornwell though perhaps they had thought her too delicate for such news. Outside, the countryside rolled past in soft greens and pale golds, the road winding toward the village like a ribbon unfurling across the land. The sun was climbing higher now, its light spilling over the fields in warm stripes, but Giselle felt the chill of something unseen.
"Whispers of what?" she asked, though she already suspected.
Clara hesitated, folding her hands in her lap. "The borders have been tested," she said carefully. "Riders have come from the east with reports of movements."
"Will the Duke have to ride out again?" Giselle asked brows furrowed Clara nodded, her fingers twisting together.
"That is the impression, Your Grace. The Duke is a soldier first. That is what he was raised to be." A pause. "That is what he is."
Giselle exhaled slowly, looking back out the window. The road had narrowed, the trees pressing in on either side like sentinels. Beyond the branches, the village was visible now a cluster of slate roofs and wooden beams, smoke rising in lazy spirals from chimneys. A familiar place, yet suddenly it seemed smaller than she remembered, dwarfed by the vast sky and the rolling fields.
Clara cleared her throat. "The Duke's men they are not just guards, Giselle." Clara's voice dropped low, barely audible over the steady rhythm of the carriage wheels. "They are his most trusted scouts. Alexander served under him at the Battle of the Blackwater, and Edward saved the Duke's life during the eastern campaigns. They don't just watch the road they watch the shadows in it."
Giselle felt the weight of that statement settle over her. It was a compliment, she realized, and a warning. The Duke was not merely indulging her request for a village visit; he was allowing her a glimpse into his world, a world of strategy and silent threats. She straightened her spine, her gaze fixed on the approaching village.
The dressmaker's shop sits nestled between a baker's oven and a cordwainer's stall, its wooden façade adorned with hand-carved leaves and vines though many have darkened with age.
Alexander dismounts first, his boots striking the cobblestones with practiced silence despite their heft. Edward follows, his scarred face impassive as he scans the street with the disciplined gaze of a man who has survived countless battles. The villagers give them a wide berth, some nodding respectfully while others avert their eyes entirely. The dressmaker's door swings open before they can announce themselves. A woman with silver-streaked hair bound in a practical knot stands framed in the threshold, her hands dusted with fine powder from working with delicate fabrics. Her eyes, shrewd and assessing, take in Giselle's fine silk dress, the Duke's men, and the carriage bearing Greyhaven's crest.
"Your Grace," she says, her voice carrying the distinctive lilt of the eastern provinces. She curtsies smoothly, though her gaze remains fixed on the men beside you. "I am Mistress Evaine. We expected you at midday, though we've prepared all morning."
Giselle offers her a smile, "I am very thankful you will be paid well." She glances at the door behind Evaine, "This is Clara my attendant, may we come in?" Mistress Evaine steps back, holding the door open wider to allow you entrance. "Of course, Your Grace. Please, come in." She speaks with a practiced grace, though her eyes still flicker briefly toward Edward and Alexander, their presence undeniably commanding.
The interior of the shop is narrow but tall, with bolts of fabric lining the walls and wooden dress forms standing like silent sentinels. A long table down the center holds rolls of parchment covered in meticulous sketches of gowns, their details rendered in fine charcoal. The air smells of starch and aged silk, the fragrance of countless hours spent in precise craftsmanship.
Evaine gestures toward a plush velvet chair by the window. Giselle takes a seat in the velvet chair, the soft fabric yielding beneath her weight. Clara stands nearby, her posture relaxed but attentive, while Alexander and Edward position themselves near the door, their eyes scanning the shop with quiet vigilance. Mistress Evaine moves to a nearby cabinet, her fingers brushing over neatly arranged pins and measuring tapes before selecting a length of silk ribbon.
"You're to be fitted for a gown, Your Grace?" Evaine asks, her tone professional yet carrying a note of curiosity. She kneels beside Giselle, ribbon in hand, ready to measure her waist. "A fine occasion must warrant such an effort. The Duke's banquet, I assume?"
Giselle dismisses the men before they continue, "Yes. I need to look radiant, you see we have some neighboring nobles attending." Mistress Evaine nods as she deftly winds the ribbon around Giselle's waist, her fingers cool against the warm silk of her dress.
"Radiant suits you, Your Grace," she says, the words practical but not unkind. She steps back to examine the line, her brow furrowing slightly as she considers. "The Duke's banquet... it is said he rarely entertains guests. This will be quite the event."
Giselle watches her work, the careful way Evaine's hands move steady, practiced, unhurried. "It will be," she agrees, though something in her tone suggests she speaks of more than cloth and stitching. "I wish to make an impression."
"Do you have a color in mind?" Giselle pauses, her fingers brushing the edge of the velvet chair as she considers. The light from the window falls across her hands, softening the lines of her rings.
"Something... not of Greyhaven," she says at last, her words measured. "The Duke's colors are stone and iron. I would prefer warmth. Crimson, perhaps, or a shade of amber that catches the firelight."
Mistress Evaine's hands still for a heartbeat, then resume their careful work. "Crimson," she repeats, as if tasting the word. "It would suit your hair, Your Grace. Though such a hue demands precision. The stitching must be flawless, or it will look... vulgar."
Giselle smirks, "Will you be up for the challenge?"
Evaine meets her gaze, her own eyes sharp with professional pride. "I have dressed barons' wives and merchants' daughters who wished to look like queens. I can certainly dress a duchess who wishes to look like herself." She gives the ribbon a final, precise tug. "Crimson silk, then, from the capital. Embroidered with gold thread in a pattern of your choosing. Vines, perhaps. Or birds."
"Birds," Giselle decides instantly, thinking of the starlings that wheeled above the southern fields of her childhood, their flight a promise of freedom. "Small, in flight, scattered as if startled from a thicket."
A rare, genuine smile touches Evaine's lips. "I have the very silk," she said, turning to a carved wooden cabinet and unlocking it with a key from her belt. "It arrived last month. I thought it too bold for most, but for you..." She drew forth a bolt of fabric that seemed to drink the light from the room, a red so deep it was almost black in the folds, shimmering to a vibrant, living crimson where the sun caught it. "It will look like embers and wine."
Giselle reached out, the silk cool and heavy under her fingers. It felt like a declaration.
Outside the shop window, Alexander shifted his stance, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword.
Giselle's eyes widened in awe, "This is perfect!" a genuine excitement filled her chest. The silk's rich texture runs through Giselle's fingers, its opulent weight a tangible symbol of the power she seeks to wield. "Crimson silk embroidered with flying birds," she murmurs, half to herself, half to Evaine. "It will be... striking."
Evaine nods, her practiced hands already moving to spread the fabric across a worktable. "I will need precise measurements, Your Grace, and your final decisions on the design. The bodice, perhaps, could be fitted closely to accentuate your figure, with the sleeves flowing like banners in the wind." Giselle sucked in a breath her eyes twinkling, "Shall we get started?"
*******
After a quick hour Giselle and Clara exited the shop the sun was high in the sky and the village was awake the two men bowed, their polished armor gleaming in the bright noon light. Alexander stepped forward, his gaze sweeping the bustling street before returning to Giselle. "Your Grace," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The carriage is ready. We should return to the keep before the market crowds thicken."
Giselle nodded, her mind still swirling with visions of crimson silk and golden birds. She could feel the weight of the Duke's expectations, the silent scrutiny of the village, and the unspoken tension that clung to Greyhaven like sea mist. She began to step into the carriage when she caught the sight of a familiar face, it was Alina. She hadn't noticed Giselle yet but her head was down, her hands smudged with soot as she carried a heavy, cloth-wrapped bundle from the smithy across the square. The sight was a cold splash of reality against the warmth of Giselle's recent reverie. Alina moved with a weary determination, her stride purposeful but heavy, as if the burden in her arms was not just iron and wood, but memory itself.
Giselle paused, one foot on the carriage step, the other still on the cobblestones. Clara, already inside, followed her gaze and gave a small, warning shake of her head. Giselle sighed, "I should check on her....it doesn't feel right."
The words were out before she could reconsider them, a quiet murmur that carried more weight than she intended. Alexander's hand, which had been reaching to assist her into the carriage, stilled. His eyes, the color of weathered steel, flicked from Giselle to the smithy and back.
"Your Grace," Edward said, his tone carefully neutral. "It is not advisable. The market is growing crowded. Your safety—"
"Is assured by your presence," Giselle finished, her voice gaining a firmness she did not entirely feel. She withdrew her foot from the step, the soft leather of her boot settling firmly on the rough stone. "She is a servant of Greyhaven. I would speak with her."
Before she let them respond she went after the woman leaving Clara and the men flustered, "A-Alina!" The name cut through the market's din, sharp and clear.
Alina halted mid-stride, her shoulders tensing beneath her worn tunic. Slowly, she turned. Her eyes, shadowed by fatigue and lingering soot, met Giselle's. There was no warmth there, only a guarded stillness, like a wolf caught in torchlight. The bundle in her arms shifted, a heavy, metallic sound clinking within its wrappings.
Giselle closed the distance between them, the rustle of her gown a soft whisper against the cobblestones. Alexander and Edward fell into step a few paces behind, their presence a silent, armored perimeter. Clara remained by the carriage, her face a mask of polite anxiety. Giselle smiled gently, "It is great to see you, how are you doing? I know our last conversation....." she paused, remembering Alina's harsh dismissal. Giselle cleared her throat.
Alina's gaze drops to the bundle in her arms, her fingers tightening around the rough cloth. The metallic clinking within grows louder as she adjusts her grip. "I am well enough, Your Grace," she says, her voice flat as hammered steel. The words lack any trace of the fire that once burned in her voice when she spoke of her craft, of Victor, of justice. Now they sound hollow, like words spoken by someone reciting lines they do not believe.
She does not look up at Giselle, instead focusing on some point just past her shoulder. The soot smudges on her face seem more pronounced in the bright sunlight, the lines around her eyes deeper.
Giselle racks her brain for a moment, "We can take you back to the smithy if you would like?" Alina's fingers flex around the bundle's cloth, the knuckles whitening beneath the grime. The metallic clinking within grows sharper as she shifts her burden, the sound cutting through the market's ambient noise like a blade. Her gaze remains fixed somewhere past Giselle's shoulder, refusing to meet her eyes directly.
"No," she says, the word clipped and final. "The Duke's steward requires these repairs. The bellows' mounting cracked during the night. I have promised it by sunset." She speaks with the mechanical precision of someone reciting a litany, each syllable weighted with exhaustion.
A strand of hair escapes her braid, falling across her face like a shadow. She doesn't bother to brush it away.
Giselle doesn't back down, her own gaze softening with genuine concern. "At least let Alexander carry that for you," she insists, gesturing toward the heavy bundle. "Your hands are meant for finer work than hauling iron through the streets."
Alina's jaw tightens, a flicker of the old defiance surfacing in the set of her shoulders. "My hands are what they need to be," she replies, her voice low. "Just as yours are, Your Grace."
The words hang between them, weighted with unspoken history—the memory of shared confidences, of promises made in the dim light of the forge.
For a moment, the market's noise fades into a distant hum.
Giselle's smile twitches, "Very well. I shall leave you to it. I'm glad you are well." Her words feel thin against the palpable weight of Alina's silence.
She takes a half-step back, the sun-warmed cobbles suddenly hard beneath her slippers. The distance between them, once bridged by whispered secrets and the shared heat of a forge, now feels as wide as the moat around Greyhaven.
Alina gives a curt nod, the motion stiff and formal. "Your Grace," she murmurs, and without another word, she turns, hefting the heavy bundle against her chest.
The metal clanks mournfully with each step she takes, a discordant rhythm that fades into the bustling sounds of the market. When suddenly the woman falters, Giselle notes it and before she could open her mouth the woman collapses before them The heavy bundle clatters to the cobbles as Alina collapses, her knees hitting the ground with a dull thud. The metal tools within scatter across the street, their sharp edges glinting in the sunlight. Alina's hands, once strong from years of working the forge, tremble as she tries to catch herself. Her soot-streaked face contorts in pain, and she gasps for breath, her chest heaving beneath her rough-spun dress.
Giselle moves quickly, crouching beside her. "Alina!" she calls, her voice sharp with concern. She reaches for the woman's shoulder, steadying her, but Alina flinches at the touch.
Giselle's hands remain poised at Alina's shoulder, feeling the thin fabric of her dress beneath her fingertips. The soot-streaked woman's breathing is labored, her entire body shaking with exertion.
Alina's head hangs low, strands of her dark hair clinging to her damp face. "Easy," Giselle murmurs, the words soft but firm. "You've pushed yourself too hard."
Alexander steps forward, his hand moving instinctively to support Alina's other shoulder. His touch is more cautious, giving her space, but his presence offers a solid anchor. "She's exhausted," he says, his deep voice a steady, reassuring presence. "And probably hasn't eaten properly in days."
Clara is by them in moments, Giselle begins barking orders, "Edward collect her things, we're bringing her with us."
Clara immediately kneels beside Alina, her hands moving with practiced efficiency to check the woman's pulse. "She's weak, but she's breathing," she reports, glancing up at Giselle.
Edward, after a brief hesitation, gathers the scattered tools and re-bundles them, though his movements are stiff, unused to handling a smith's implements.
Alina, still struggling to catch her breath, tries to push herself up, but her arms tremble beneath her. "I... I can't," she whispers, her voice raw. "I need to finish the Duke's work."
Giselle's jaw sets in a firm line. "I am the Duke's wife, you leave that to me." The declaration hangs in the air, a clear, sharp note above the market's din.
Giselle's gaze does not waver from Alina's pale face. She sees the conflict there, the ingrained loyalty warring with sheer physical collapse.
"Clara, help me support her," Giselle instructs, sliding an arm around Alina's back. Clara immediately takes her other side, and between them they lift Alina to her feet.
The woman sways, a sapling in a gale, her weight leaning into them. Her eyes are wide, glazed with fatigue and something like fear.
They load her into the carriage with the help of the men, Giselle slams the door, "Make haste!"
The carriage lurches forward, the horses' hooves striking the cobbles with a sharp, urgent rhythm. Inside, the air is close, thick with the scent of old leather, wool, and the faint metallic tang from Alina's bundle. Alina herself is propped against the velvet cushions, her head lolling slightly with the motion. Clara wets a corner of her own shawl with water from a flask and dabs at the soot on Alina's brow. The grime smears, revealing patches of pale, clammy skin beneath.
Giselle watches, her earlier resolve hardening into something colder, clearer.
"Alina, how long have you been like this?" She leans forward
The carriage wheels jolt over a deep rut, and Alina's eyes flutter open. She stares at the Duchess's face, so close and so clean, framed by the rich interior of the carriage. Her own reflection in the polished brass fittings is a smudged ghost.
"Since the frost took the last of the apples," Alina says, her voice a threadbare thing. "The forge must burn. The Duke's horses need shoes. His men need mended mail." Each statement is a stone dropped into the silence. She tries to sit straighter, but the effort sends a tremor through her shoulders.
Giselle nods, "We're almost there. Just hold on." she looks away biting back anger, she know is Alina's grief but how could she have missed this.
The village gives way to the winding road that climbs toward Greyhaven Manor. The rhythmic clop of hooves and the creak of the carriage frame become the only sounds inside, a stark contrast to the ragged sound of Alina's breathing. Giselle's fingers curl into the plush velvet of the seat. She can feel the ghost of her own mother's exhaustion in the air, the silent martyrdom of a woman who worked herself to bone and shadow for a household that scarcely noticed.
Alina's gaze is fixed on the window, but she sees nothing of the greening hedgerows or the sky streaked with late afternoon gold.