“Land and gold mean little, Aunt Margaret. I’m sure Bleaner will appreciate your pood intentions Se
“Beatrice’s voice drifted silkily through the
door.
1 paused mid–step, turned back, and shoved it open.
“Oh, one more thing, Mother,” I said, tone light but sharp as a blade. “Rosewood Hall was mine–granted by Father while he still lived. Beatrice has merely been borrowing it for the past decade. It’s time she returned what isn’t hers.”
I stepped further in, gaze fixed on them both.
“And the rest–Father’s silver–handled mirror, the velvet mantle lined with fox fur, the ring Grandmother wore on her wedding day–they were part of my Inheritance, weren’t they? I may be shallow, as you say, but after lending them to her for over ten years, I think I’m entitled to want them back.” With every item 1 named, Mother’s expression tightened, and Beatrice paled. She gave a tremulous smile. “Of course. If
f you wish.”
I leaned in close, voice low and cold. “Then be quick about it. I’m not in the mood to be patient. And you wouldn’t want the Queen’s ladies hearing about how things are handled in this house, would you?”
The threat bung heavy between us.
Beatrice’s maids exchanged nervous glances, then scurried without a word, gathering her gowns, her ribbons, even her carved combs. Within the hour, she had been moved out in haste.
When I stepped back to Rosewood Hall, it felt like stepping into another life. The vaulted archways, the carved oak beams, the old tapestries–all faded with time, but still familiar. Still mine
I went to the old storage chest tucked behind the hearth and lifted the lid.
Inside, dust covered memories waited.
A carved yewwood bow Father made for me, the old swing from the orchard, my seventh birthday gift a wooden sword paired with a knight’s training
manual.
There was a time
a time I had been the heart of Hawthorne Manor.
Father would hoist me onto his shoulders, laughing as he showed me how to block and parry.
Mother would stand nearby, smiling faintly, a basket of fruit in her arms. William, still wide–eyed and gap–toothed, would swing his own toy sword with
wild abandon.
“Come now, William,” Father would chuckle, “master your blade–one day, you’ll guard your sister’s honor.”
And I’d jump down with a laugh. “I don’t need guarding! I’ll defend us both.”
We’d all laugh then, under asky untouched by grief.
But everything changed in sumater
The sky burned red the day word came–Father had fallen in battle.
I remember standing in the great hall, numb, when Mother brought a little girl into the manor for the first time.
He was Beatrice. Her father had died tou.
But while I lost everything, she gained it all. A new family, a new home, and a mother who, from that moment on,
I folded the keepsakes gently and tucked them into the side chest.
Sleep came late, and restlessly, I dreamt of fire and iron, of a garden long vanished.
It was near dawn when I wol to the sound of voices raised and something crashing outside.
barely looked my way.
“You think o
one noble errand gives you the right to steal her sail and cast her out?”
“They’re right—you’re no lady. Just a bitter, grateful wretch.”
ew on my cloak and stepped out, where the hallway was a wreck.
Father’s manual lay in shreds. The wooden sword had been snapped in two. His bow lay splintered, flung aside like kindling.
GoodShort
And in the middle of it stood William–now nearly grown, dressed in crimson doublet and boots polished like a courtier’s, his hand still wrapped around
the hilt of a blade.
“What is this trash?” he said, kicking a broken plank aside. “Clear it out before Beatrice sees. This place isn’t yours anymore.”
He turned to me, sneering. “Don’t act like going to court makes you her savior.”
“That betrothal to Lord Cedric? Mother meant it for Beatrice. But you shameless–you seized it first. That’s why we sent you in her stead. It’s the price you owe her.”
My hand moved before my mind caught up.
The slap rang through the hallway.
William staggered, stunned, one hand on his check.
I had never struck him before. I had once adored him–protected him. But now, this boy who desecrated our father’s memory, who threw barbs like stones, felt like a stranger in my home.
Was this truly my brother?
When had his smile tumed into a smirk? When did he first blush at Beatrice’s praise? When did he first look at me like the villain of her tale?
“You you struck me?” His voice shook with rage,
Without a word, 1 slapped him again
