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Chapter Text

Vanity was the beginning and end of Grégoire von Varley’s character. Those who knew him would say that it was all he was: a vanity so black and all-consuming that was the cause of his ruination.

He had inherited the title of Count Varley at the young age of twenty-seven years old and led it from a prosperous land of craftsmen and piety to a county that was taxed to the gills and ruined by his own greed. His insatiable greed led him to owning the finest homes, wearing the latest fashions and throwing lavish parties that attracted sycophants and snakes alike, all eager to praise him.

But a few short years into his rule, his accountants suggested economies for them to take in order to extend the estate’s wealth. Grégoire ignored this and instead raised taxes all throughout the county. This, of course, was unwelcome to the public who were already displeased with him.

By his wife Countess Elodie, he had six children, three boys and three girls: Louis, Emmanuel, Bernadetta, Francois, Colette and Heloise. These children burdened the estate and Grégoire’s pocketbook.

But soon he realized that advantageous matches could between his children and other noble houses. He arranged for Louis to marry a wealthy woman of rank and then for Emmanuel to follow the trend and find employment as a barrister. 

Grégoire took a particular interest in his eldest daughter, Bernadetta, whom he believed could make a good match. With her delicate features and growing accomplishments, Grégoire was certain she would be swept up by a suitable gentleman and thus placed saving the family from ruin upon her shoulders. He subjected her to his brutal training from an early age in the duties of a wife. 

In Imperial Year 1182, the need for retrenchment and fears of ruin became so apparent that the family fled to Enbarr under the guise of the social season. On the eve of their departure, Grégoire advised his daughter, quite openly, that she was to make her debut into the ton and marriage market in the earnest hopes that she would make a most advantageous match. 

“W-What about the estate?” Bernadetta squeaked. “T-The taxes and rent from our renters? The profits from the land?

“There is nothing left, aside from an emergency fund.” Grégoire explained tersely. “A prosperous match is our only hope.”

Bernadetta looked positively terrified. 

“It is up to you.” He insisted. “And I am certain you will not fail. Image is everything and thus can be morphed as needed: you will be the model lady.”

Thus brings us to the heroine of our story: Miss Bernadetta von Varley, formerly of Burgundy, Varley territory and eldest daughter of the vain self-titled family. She, in the days of her bloom, was perhaps the most accomplished woman that ever walked Adrestian soil. 

Unlike most other bachelorettes on the marriage market, she did not excel in one or two occupations. Nay, Bernadetta practiced and almost mastered all of them—and coupled with her father’s loud boasting—earning her an illustrious title as the most accomplished woman in Adrestia. Her paintings were delicate and beautiful watercolours of the countryside of her birth; she played the harp, pianoforte and even a strange little instrument called the trumpet with a proficiency found in few. Her etchings and stitchings were precise, masterful, and you would find no better writer than her in all of Fodlan, even to this day dear reader.

However, regardless of her accomplishments and their depth, she lacked social skills, namely in the art of conversation. Many a ball had passed where her dance card was empty—usually by her own volition. She was often seen skittering, like a flash between hiding spots: hiding under arches, behind statues and even in closets during the promenade and allemande when many a gentleman searched for a pretty, idle lady. Those who could catch her for a dance were usually met with the sight of her curled bangs, or the sight of her neck, as her eyes fastened to her feet. 

Dinners with Miss Varley were usually silent, awkward affairs, if they ever even occured. After desserts of petits fours and powdered Noa fruit tarts and stuffing spares into her mouth, she would promptly excuse herself with a single rushed breath and hide in the sanctuary of her room. 

In Imperial Year 1182, at the beginning of social season wherein the most ancient customs and communal obligations would be upheld, Miss Bernadetta von Varley, who was making her debut on the marriage market, was cited as the most eligible bachelorette in the ton. Scuttlebutt said she had inheritance of over 10,000 gold marks, access to great resources and connections—rumoured to even be close with the Emperor’s daughter—and accomplished to the point of exhaustion, Bernadetta was quite easily described as the ton’s most eligible lady.

But to begin this story properly, we must begin five years ago and tell the story of the dangerous powers of persuasion.

Chapter Text

As the ground thawed and the air grew warmer, all the loveliest creatures of the ton emerged from their winter hibernations and shook off the thick down of winter. Spring and its lively blooms returned colour to the cheeks, a sly smile to a lady’s face and a rakish smirk to the lips of a lord. Hunts and parties, tea time and business all coincided during these lively months, where all comes alive once more.

Any man of wealth, name and rank is in obvious want of a wife; and any woman is bound to marry, lest she retire a spinster and burden her family. And year after year, beautiful young creatures gathered to play the deadliest game known to man: love.

The opening of the social season was marked by an extravagant ball at the Imperial palace, held by the Emperor and his family. It was the social event of the year that many young creatures looked forward to, purchasing new muslin and feathers for gowns and polishing the finest boots and adjusting of cravats. The purpose was simple: to take stock of the eligible and the well-connected and to compare one’s own wealth and connections, and when those did not exist, show off one’s beauty and charms and accomplishments. It was an overblown party in which all were greeted, all were known of, and all were gossiped about. In the gilded halls of Hresvelg Hall, the Enbarr estate and ancestral home of the Hresvelg family, music filled to the air, dancers took to the floor and hopes fly to the skies above.

And, of course, Bernadetta von Varley, beautiful, accomplished and reclusive, had not the slightest inclination to go.

She had been roused that morning to an onslaught of maids and stylists invading the inner sanctum of her room to prepare her for her debut in society proper and foray into the marriage market. The better part of the day was spent in preparation for the event, and with every passing hour, Bernadetta found her anxiety rising until it reached a boiling point, in which she simmered and stewed in her nerves.

Her hair was curled and set in a tight little topknot with ribbon that threatened to give her a headache. Her dress was the finest that the seamstress could run up and the corset was laced so tight that she could scarcely breathe. Her face was powdered, rouged and glossed to appear perfect like a porcelain doll’s. Even her gloves were carefully selected, an act that had taken her mother almost a quarter of an hour and she was decorated in gold and paste jewels.

“I-I really can’t go! M-My pianoforte! Hadn’t I be better at h-home practicing it?” Insisted Bernadetta.

“Nonsense. You may practice your music before the suitors you attract tonight. The Hresvelgs have a beautiful pianoforte of their own. A Broadward Grand, if I recall.” Replied her mother, Elodie.

A back and forth continued—

“But my filigree!”

“You may work on it in the carriage if you desire, dear.”

—all throughout—

“What about my sisters Heloïse and Colette? They will miss me, we’ve grown close in the last month!”

“They have each other entertain them, Bernadetta.”

—the carriage ride and into—

“I’ve a headache!”

“Hush! A cup of brandy will remedy that.”

—Hresvelg Hall.

The Varleys, Grégoire, his wife Elodie and their eldest daughter, Bernadetta, appeared before the entering crowds with eager expressions and dour looks. The parents bore the practiced smiles that years in the ton mastered easily; the daughter wore a gloomy visage and anxious eyes that flitted to and fro, looking for attacks and offences.

Grégoire the eldest son of the previous count Varley had quickly succeeded his father. He employed his brother, Francois, to peddle and sell Varley’s goods—an odd match of scripture books and weapons amongst other Adrestian goods and imports—and Grégoire quickly made the Varley fortune bigger. While putting his sister out in society, Grégoire became acquainted with Elodie Bertram, the well-to-do daughter of a leading politician. An engagement was quickly made and their union was known as the most striking of the ton in that year.

Now, the couple wished for their daughter to strike a similar match.

Her parents were increasingly eager to have her settled and Bernadetta presumed it was because of the ton’s silly social rules regarding marriage and social courtesies. If, say, her middle sister Colette became engaged before her, it would not look good in the eyes of society.

And besides, she was a Varley. Her house and name were one of the oldest and most well-known in Adrestia. Her territory produced the symbols of love and war: piety and affection in the hands and mouths of priests and clerics, hate and conflict in the strings and metals bows and swords. 

And, in more personal terms, Bernadetta was regarded as a beauty inside and outside her county. Her delicate features and fine eyes were seen as lovely, both by farmhand and wealthy minor houses within the county. 

The push of people together to enter Hresvelg Hall sent Bernadetta into a state of alarm. She startled, panicked and squeaked amidst silk dresses, feathers, fine shoes and heavy cotton coats.

“Shhh, Bernadetta.” Cooed her mother tersely, grabbing her hand. 

Bernadetta did not stop nor cease. Her head whipped back and forth as she looked for someplace safe to hide in or under. An arch, a marble pillar, a staircase, even beneath the pianoforte’s shadows would do.

“Shut her up, my dear.” Grégoire hissed. He sneered as a servant handed him a dance card for the young debutante.

“I am trying, my love.” Elodie replied as she quickly grew exhausted with their daughter.

These were the typical occurrences between Bernadetta and her parents. Her panic, their annoyance; her hesitance, their annoyance; her delight, their annoyance. No matter what she did, they were displeased, annoyed, frustrated and disappointed in their eldest daughter. She could do no right in their hardened gazes and pursed lips. 

Panic rising, Bernadetta felt a sharp pull on her arm. Her father pulled it too straight, too hard and tears sprung to her eyes. After catching his gaze, Bernadetta looked down at the roseate floors of the glided hall. She submitted quietly as Grégoire tied the card around her wrist too tightly.

Lowly, he warned Bernadetta: “You will be the model lady tonight.” 

Bernadetta, a familiar well of panic in her stomach, nodded. She knew what that stern voice of her father meant, the gravity of it, and understood the weight of what he was saying. This would be her debut and there would be no mistakes, not a single one.

Against better judgements, she found her mind focusing on the little things. Her tight corset, her tightly knotted hair, the sheen of sweat that broke out beneath her rouge and powder, and the card on her wrist, like a cattle tag. It was knotted into a perfect little bow and was tied too tight around the wrist of her glove; it would surely leave a mark for a few days to come. 

The Varleys pasted on their best smiles and began towards the ballroom, where the first event of the Adrestian social season was in full bloom.

Had she not been panicking and perhaps if she were alone and secure, Bernadetta would have found amazement and visual delight in the high ceilings, the crimson walls, the alabaster marble and the glowing chandeliers and hundreds of candles that lit the ballroom in a warm glow. She’d always enjoyed interior design and helped her mother decorate the manor back home… At least, figured out the ideal placement of the sofas and chairs, as she was not trusted to actually select the furniture.

This night, the first outing of Miss Bernadetta von Varley, aged twenty, would leave an impression on her mind for the rest of the life.

She was whirled around the ballroom in a display befitting a woman of her rank, title and supposed wealth—she was introduced to and bolstered by her parents and respectable suitors from every point of the land. Some were entreated to speak longer, to write their names on Bernadetta’s dance card for a frolic around the ballroom by her parents, while others were politely nodded to before she was shepherded away to someone more promising, more fetching, more wealthy.

Names and faces blurred together, but thankfully her only occupations were to smile at every word, to curtsey—though she was not very stable and shyly affixed her eyes on the ground beneath her feet—and to remain silent. Even when spoken to by suitors, her parents answered amiably, with predictable answers like, “ah yes, Bernadetta is a great musician, she knows many duets, perhaps you can play together” and “she enjoys filigree work, yes I dare say her work is the finest in Adrestia, the little, er, rodents at the tops of her gloves were made by her, are cute, no?”.

After the opening remarks from Marquis Vestra on behalf of the Emperor, Bernadetta was engaged to dance over and over and over. While she was an accomplished dancer, she failed on the grounds of conversation.

Count Bergliez’s chatty second son danced a particularly quiet quadrille with her and a foreign princess and young knight whom she shied from. Many of his questions were answered with nods or shakes of her head, and when words were necessary, stumbled awkwardly into a single sentence with a single deep breath. The same occurred with the others: staring at her feet, monosyllabic answers and awkward dances that were mostly stumbled through despite her proficiency. 

Her father, putting her forth well to suitors with her demure countenance, her submissive and obedient personality, seemed to have her engaged at every waking moment that very night. Her mother had been called away by a friend in search of wine and refreshment, leaving the two alone. The ball continued in practiced chaos around her as she caught her breath and took her ease. It was much too hot to be comfortable and the room was quite loud, thanks to the acoustics of the ballroom and her closeness to the musicians. It was much too loud for Bernadetta to hear the footsteps of encroaching visitors.

“Grégoire.”

“Ah, Ludwig, your grace, how good it is to see you again! You look well! I hope that the new year has been kind to you and blesses your family.”

Bernadetta pulled her eyes from the floor and met with the fine countenance of a man the almost the same age as she. He offered her an easy, warm smile; she coloured and her eyes darted back to her floor. 

Grégoire’s hand slithered around her arm and Bernadetta stood straighter.

“I trust that this young woman is your niece?”

Her father shifted roles from the tyrant to the sycophant and smiled pleasingly at the gentlemen. It took Bernadetta a moment to recognize Ludwig as prime minister, and another moment that the man beside him was his son. The lack of hairline on Ludwig was the real problem.

“No, no.” He laughed. “Francois has never married, and Amelie is still childless. This my eldest  daughter, Bernadetta.” Grégoire said as Bernadetta obediently curtseyed and kept her eyes down. “And this, of course is your Ferdinand, yes?”

“Indeed.” Said Ludwig. “He has just returned from university.”

“Welcome back, my lord.” Said Grégoire placatingly.

The two gentleman began twittering on, designs and schemes here and there as Bernadetta and Ferdinand stood awkwardly. She stared at her feet and he stared at her unabashedly.

After a moment, he said, “Miss Varley, in the flesh!” He proclaimed, startling poor Bernadetta. “I have heard tale of your accomplishments from the Emperor’s daughter and other fine ladies of renown and taste, but to see you in person is another experience altogether.”

Bernadetta remained silent, her eyes fastened to the floor; she wished the ball was over and consumed herself with wondering how much the marble floors cost. The song drew to a close, and the crowds applauded. She heard Ferdinand clear his throat to garner her attention.

“Are you enjoying the ball? Is it not a beautiful event? I always look forwards to it, the Emperor always outdoes himself.”

Silence returned. She could sense his vanishing patience. Bernadetta panicked, but with her father beside her, could not escape, and like a frightened rabbit, she remained still. 

“Perhaps you could care to dance, Miss Varley?” Suggested Ferdinand. “Dancing would encourage a closer connection…We could get better acquainted on the dance floor.” 

This caught her attention. Her hand slapped over her dance card, as to hide the empty spaces and she raised her gaze higher but not enough to meet his eyes. The sound and movement caught Grégoire’s attention and earned a glare amidst Ludwig’s speech on diplomacy or decor—Bernadetta had not been paying to their conversation.

“I…” Bernadetta stumbled, then forced a nervous smile. “I-I would b-be d-delighted.”

Ferdinand smiled warmly. “Then the moment may not arrive soon enough. Here, allow me to write my name.” Said he, taking the card from her wrist, a pen from a nearby writing table and wrote his name at the bottom. “There. It is set.”

Tenderly, with the utmost care befitting a gentleman of his gravity and station, he tied the card around Bernadetta’s wrist. She stared at him as he did so, taken with how his brow knit, how his eyes focused on his work, and the constant smile on his lips as he completed such a mundane task.

His eyes met hers. Bernadetta felt her face heat and quickly looked away.

Soon thereafter, Duke Aegir and his son bade farewell with a promise to return after the next three dances. Bernadetta recognized the telltale traits of pleasure upon her father’s face: a thin smirk, raised brows, an erect posture with his shoulders drawn back that oozed impertinence and vanity.

“Very good. Very good indeed.” Murmured Grégoire over the din of strings and laughing flirts.

Seeing her father’s pleasure—and the few blank spots on her card—as her chance to steal away for a moment to herself, Bernadetta seized it. A second’s alleviation from the crowds and stimulation was too alluring.

“F-Father.” Trembled Bernadetta uneasily.

Grégoire did not look in her direction. 

“I… Um… I need a moment to powder my nose.” She whispered quickly. “I-It’s getting shiny. And I wouldn’t want to look, um, bad for Mr Aegir, or any of my partners really—”

He sighed brazenly. “Go, Bernadetta.”

With a measured, cautious step, Bernadetta left the wallflower wings of the ballroom floor and left for the even more crowded halls. She slipped through as easily as a viper in the grass, quickly walking past ladies and lords, flirting and quarrelling, and back, back, back towards the kitchen and the scullery. 

In a halfway point between the splendourous chaos of the ballroom and grand hall where the young and beautiful played and the loud and hot discord of the kitchens, Bernadetta found solace. It was not quiet, but not loud. It was not hot, but a comfortable warmth in the cool night of the Great Tree Moon. There were people, but only impertinent lovers flirting behind fans and too wrapped up in their own schemes of making fools of themselves to take notice of her.

And as if she had a hidden talent for hiding secure locations, Bernadetta found a linen closet, filled with fine napkins, luxurious table cloths and other textiles meant for fine luncheons and delicate dinners. She shut herself inside, and for the first time since she went to sleep the night before, was alone.

A sigh escaped her lips as she felt linens beneath her, and tried to figure out through the touch of her evening gloves which ones were silk or cotton. She found herself not caring after a short while, and instead taking the moment to gather herself. Grounding herself to the linens, she shut her eyes and steadied her thin breath. 

Her feet ached from the tight dancing slippers that were laced to her feet. Her head pounded from a headache caused by the tight topknot her father insisted upon. Her corset was bound so tightly, as to accentuate her décolleté and bosom, and caused her back to ache profusely. The palms of her gloves, were wet with perspiration and darkened in colour. 

And the people she had met… The coy daughter of Duke Goneril, the sly son of Duke Riegan flirting with the Emperor’s daughter. The doe-eyed opera star and two Faerghan noblemen with her, seemingly fighting for her affection through proud smiles and lidded gazes. The esteemed and proud son of Count Gloucester who serenaded her lovely features too much, and of course, eager Mr Aegir who was so earnest and kind that it made her head spin. She’d seen more people in a mere hour or two than she had all winter long… 

Bernadetta counted these woes over and over, then thought, of how in a few short-yet-long hours she would be back in Varley Manor and taking her ease. She could hide in her room once more, secluded from the world and indulging in her hobbies and accomplishments that made her so illustrious and so famed. 

But that would not be for a while. She would have to stick it out through the rest of this awful night before she could indulge in the quiet heaven of her rooms. Still, the darkness of the linen closet was welcome and inviting.

Quietly, as her hands roved over the muslin and calico, her mind wandered to Leonie Pinelli, her dear friend from Leicester. 

“What would Leonie do?” Bernadetta thought aloud in the dark.

The two had met at ages 5 and 7. Bernadetta, who had been “causing behavioural problems”—see: Grégoire von Varley was an unfit, cruel parent and Bernadetta was of a nervous temperament and delicate disposition—had been placed as a ward of her uncle, Francois, for a season. In his travels doing business, he had taken his niece along.

The two shared similar temperaments and quiet dispositions. Sir Francois, who had always felt remorse for his poor niece, treated Bernadetta with the utmost care and indulged her every wish as best he could. But he had no wife to keep his house, and needing to complete a single transaction before he could devote himself to her happiness for a three month, took the girl and set out to Sauin Village.

She had cried and cried and protested against being left alone with a strange young girl in a strange old house, but after some coaxing from said strange girl, Bernadetta found herself her first friend. Francois had trouble prying Bernadetta from Leonie’s side, and, found himself renting a small house a town away from Sauin so that Bernadetta and Leonie could be close to each other.

To the present, Bernadetta mused on her dearest friend. Leonie, who had been set on becoming a lady to prove her father, amongst others, wrong had attended the same finishing school as she. 

What would she do? Leonie was a country girl, well-versed in the necessities of hard work and labour over the fluffy education which Bernadetta received. Her balls and dances were held in the village square with timbrel and guitar instead of violins and harps and in gilded rooms.

Surely, if Leonie were here, she’d be making her way through the crowds dancing with whichever man she pleased. No waiting for anyone, no being prompted to and certainly no dance card upon her wrist. Now that Bernadetta had thought of it, Leonie would have likely taken her hands and dragged her to dance. 

Such a thought made her smile a little.

The door opened, which made her start. She squeaked, barrelled back into the pads of neatly folded linens as light flooded her dark paradise.

“Oh! Sorry, I’m so sorry!”

Bernadetta squealed nervously, then took off, she tripped over a fell table runner, then fell into the arms of the gentleman who had found her in the closet.

His arms were warm and solid, like that of a farmhand or tradesman, someone who worked hard for their living. Bernadetta trembled, stilled and looked up at the man who caught her.

The first thing she noticed about him was his size. It made her heart pound in double time: he was positively huge, tall as the scraggly old pines back home in the county and as wide as the boulders that peppered the landscape. His clothes were a bit tight on him, not quite big enough for his frame. 

The second thing she noticed was his warmth. It was in his large hands which held her waist, his torso which braced her and his concerned expression. He was like the sun incarnated: warm and comforting. She thought, briefly, of a moment as a child playing in the garden with her only friend—the assistant to the gardener—where they laid in the sun after playing all afternoon. He felt like that: warm, comforting, gentle.

The thing she noticed was that she was in his chest. Quite literally, her painted face was against his broad chest. He held her waist gingerly, almost kneeling down to brace her. He supported her like she were nothing at all, the weight of her massive title as Komtesse Bernadetta von Varley, the most accomplished debutante in all of Fodlan, like it was nothing more than a dried leaf. 

“Are you okay?” He asked. He had a very bright and curious voice—nothing like the posh, practiced tones that people like her gained from elocution lessons.

Wordlessly, she nodded. 

He broke into a soft smile, like a slash of sunlight through dark clouds. “Good, I’m glad.”

He helped her up, asking again if she were alright, if she needed anything. Bernadetta did not answer, for once not running in the opposite direction. Perhaps it was his smile, so sincere, so real amongst powdered grins and practiced smirks, that drew her to stay.

Maybe it was that he did not immediately recognize her and she found that refreshing. Bernadetta von Varley had become a commodity, an ideal, a perfection amongst her father’s constant touting of her accomplishments and her mother’s incessant whispers of her beauty. To be just another girl at the ball, unknown to a single person, was wonderful and strange. 

“I was just looking for the kitchens,” said the man gently. “Sorry, wrong door.”

Her words came out in one breath, a slurry of syllables and sounds. “It’sfine.”

He watched her for a moment, then asked in a quiet voice. “Were you looking for something too?”

Seeing this as a prompt, Bernadetta blushed and nodded. “Theballroom.” She said.

“Oh! I know where it is.”

She kept her eyes to her feet, not daring to look up. Bernadetta could scarcely breathe, let alone talk, and watched her feet. 

“Could I escort you, miss?”

Bernadetta blushed harder, no longer needing the copious amount of rouge that her mother insisted upon for her pallid complexion. 

“S-Sure…” She found herself acquiescing nervously. “B-But…”

He paused and looked at her earnestly. “Yeah?”

“I…” She paused and drew a deep breath. “I-I’m not quite r-ready to go back. I’m… Um… Scared.”

“Come to think of it, you do look a little nervous.” He said. “Is there anything we can do to fix that?”

Bernadetta went silent.

“I have a little sister and sometimes, well, she used to get nervous.” He explained. “One day I told her, it’s not about what you can’t control, it’s about what you can.”

Oh. That makes sense. Bernadetta thought. Sort of.

“Is there anything that we can control in your situation?”

Bernadetta thought for a long moment and then gestured to her slippers. The gentleman stared at her as she passed him her shawl and asked, “Pl-Please hold this.”

He obliged her and she loosened her slippers slightly. Her feet began to ache a little less and she felt better. She could do nothing about her hair or her corset, but at least her feet were no longer at risk to cramping.

“Let’s try some deep breaths.” He said. “It always calms me down.”

She watched as he closed his eyes, laid a massive hand on his chest, over his heart and took a few deep, slow breaths. Bernadetta, despite feeling silly, did the same. Through the layers of silk and gold, she felt her timid heart flutter like a bird’s wings and willed it to slow. It was not a cure, but it was a small fix. After a few moments of quiet, he asked, “Are you ready to go back?”

“Y-Yeah. I think so. Wh-Where did you learn that?”

“It’s something my mother taught me.” He smiled warmly. “She told me that I can’t control a situation, but I can control how I react. And I want most of my situations, or problems I guess, to end well!”

“Th-That’s actually quite wise.”

Then he chirped loudly, “Thank you!” 

He offered his arm and she took it with great hesitance. They walked back into the chaos of the ballroom, the whirling bodies and the tinkling laughter of ladies and lords amongst beautiful music.

“What’s your name?” Asked Raphael as they walked.

People parted for him as they moved and Bernadetta felt both a comfort and uneasiness at this. She swallowed hard and answered. “Bernadetta von Varley. And… wh-what is your title?”

“Raphael Kirsten.” He said. “I’m here with Lor—I mean, Mr Gloucester as his guest.”

Bernadetta remembered the gentleman singing her praises before sneaking a glance at her dance card. A raised brow and a smarmy look was her memory of him, and it was not a good one. 

The warmth of the ballroom grew closer and Raphael’s steps slowed as if to extend the time with her. “Do you like balls?” He asked.

Bernadetta shook her head. She fought back against her nerves by telling herself she could control how she reacted. “N-No. Not at all.”

“This is my first and it’s… overwhelming to say the least.” He laughed. “There’s a lot to remember. Manners, dance moves, everything.”

“Y-Yeah…” Bernadetta found herself growing slightly easy. “It’s my first big one too. And it’s difficult to figure out what’s, um, appropriate.”

“At least it’s a little comforting to know that it’s not just me.”

“Y-Yeah. It helps. I guess.” 

He moved closer to her, his arm and chest enveloping her lithe arm. They approached the wallflower wings where giggling and chattering and gossiping and flirting became the chief occupation. Finally, they glanced at each other and Bernadetta found herself able to hold his gaze, admiring how deep and fine a gold his eyes were.

“It was nice to meet you, Miss Varley.” He inclined his head in an unsteady bow.

“And you as well, Mr K-Kirsten.” Bernadetta agreed with a clumsy curtsey.

She moved too quickly, rising too fast and her foot caught the hem of her too-long gown. Bernadetta fell into Raphael’s arms once more, her face on fire. 

When she rose, she looked up at Raphael with her face positively red and then looked around her at the gawking couples and widows and widowers with nothing better to do than gossip. Through the bodies and glitter and candour, Bernadetta stared in horror as her father caught her eyes and glared back at her. 

Bernadetta looked back at Raphael, her lips parting before standing tall, inclining her head in a polite nod and hurrying around the dancing couples back to her father.

Her stomach soured and twisted into knots at she saw the prime minister and Ferdinand looking at her too. Her escape had obviously been too long.

“There she is.” Ludwig observed. 

Ferdinand laughed and joked, “Call off the dogs, no need to worry.”

“Yes, indeed.” Agreed Grégoire disdainfully. “She needed to powder her nose, just as I said.”

A red-hot blush enveloped Bernadetta’s face. Her gaze slid down to the floor and her heart thudded rapidly in her chest. “A-Apologies.” She summoned a greater strength, that control in reaction that Raphael spoke of. “I… I wanted to look my best for this dance.”

“How kind of you. Though you look beautiful enough already, Miss Varley.” Said Ferdinand. His voice was drowned out as the song finished and the ballroom erupted in complimentary cheer for the musicians. 

Ferdinand held out his hand. “Shall we, Miss Varley?”

Bernadetta hesitantly nodded and they walked to the floor, where she proved to Ferdinand that she was a fine dancer but not a conversationalist.

Following the event, Bernadetta could not recall any conversation she had with Ferdinand, or if he was even a good dancer. Soon, the ball closed and there was a great rush and to do to get home first but also be seen with those who were equally important and fashionable. 

The carriage ride home was silent: Bernadetta stared glumly into her lap, her father did not acknowledge her, and her mother filled the small space with talk of the gowns and jewels and manners and gossip of all the ladies she’d seen that night.

Once, Bernadetta glanced up and caught her father glaring at her. A shard of ice was thrust into her heart, cold and cruel, and she quickly looked back down and remained silent for the remainder of her the ride. Upon return to the manor, she fled to her room and shed the makeup and clothes and jewels and did not emerge until the next day.

Bernadetta’s mother, Elodie, soon became privy to incident at the ball and Grégoire swiftly delivered punishment. Bernadetta’s parents forbade her from escaping to the garden, shrubbery or any place outside the manor until the event had faded from the ton’s consciousness. She was placed in exile in the house and mostly hid in her room. 

Grégoire did not address her for almost a week, and Elodie as well restricted her comments to the dire and necessary—any other communication came through servants and maids at her door. Her siblings, bowing to the iron-grip and austere vision that Grégoire von Varley had of his family, ignored her as well. All three that remained under the Varley name and  were younger than her—Francois (the younger), Colette and Heloïse—and all pretended she were a ghost when they passed her in the hallways.

Bernadetta, however embarrassed she was for tumbling into the arms of a pure stranger, relished in the quiet, and bided her time by embroidering pillows and quietly writing to Leonie in secret. She received a letter, by the hands of a kindly maid, who delivered it with her evening tea. Bernadetta giddily took the letter and read it by the light of her candle.

Pinelli Farmhouse, Sauin Village
25th of the Great Tree Moon, Imperial Year 1182

My dear Bernie-Bear,

A social season… Of course you’d be there in the centre of a social season! Your family and you would spring for that! Goddess, why am I surprised by that?

I suppose it’s your disposition. And you know I mean this in the warmest terms, but you’re quite nervous and shy; you lack outward confidence. Outward, underlined. I’ve seen that inward confidence burst out in your art, your writing and sewing, I remember seeing it well at the finishing school! If only you could harness that confidence, then you’d take the social season by storm—people would be in awe of you, just like I am.

Regardless, you’ll do amazing, I’m certain of it, Bernie. You have a grace that I severely lack, and our time at the academy together proves it! You excelled in every subject where I failed. You are a natural born lady… And engagement ring or not, I love you.

But my Bernie-Bear, you better not be putting on any airs. There is no use to wearing a fake face if your goal is to get hitched. What’s the point of that? Lying gets you nothing but unhappiness, especially when you’re going to spend the rest of your life with someone. And yes, money and advantage is great and all, but one slip-up and your partner could decide that’s it and be gone. Love can last, and is what you should aim for.

That said, I’m sure marriage isn’t in the cards for you… At least not yet, you’re too young! Besides, you can’t get married before me, then I’ll be an old maid for certain! And you wouldn’t do that to your best friend, would you?

I got this letter just at the right time. Things in Sauin are so grey. I have little engagements or employments. But getting a letter from you makes me really happy. Write me another pretty one as soon as you can.

Your stingy hornet,
Leonie

Bernadetta had sighed and frowned. Many people had assumed that she, like any other woman debuting in the social season, would be in want of a husband. 

True, Bernadetta had fantasized multiple times about a dashing man to sweep her off her feet and carry her away from her wretched family, but she was no fool. She knew she was to marry for advantage, for money, for rank. It had been clear to her from the moment she came of age: hers would not be a love match.

She also knew, no matter how well her father hid it behind bone china, handsome carriages and gilded coats, that her family would be living in poverty very soon. That is, unless she did what they came to Enbarr to do and got engaged, heedless to her wishes.

Bernadetta resigned herself to another afternoon of silent anger on her father’s behalf, and began to work on embroidering a new pillow cushion that would join a mountain of others that would be regarded as fine and contribute to her reputation as the most accomplished woman in all of Adrestia. Her room faced the west, where the sun melted along the horizon of Enbarr’s finest buildings and where the driveway began up to the manor. Her chair was positioned by the window, where her precious plants thrived in the little sill. Bernadetta, so absorbed by her work, did not take in a white stallion trotting up the driveway and it’s handsome rider.

Grégoire von Varley, noticed the moment he saw the horse. He hurried upstairs to her exiled daughter’s room where he frightened his daughter, causing her to cry out. He ignored this, took her by the hand and pulled her down the stairs and to the drawing room.

Such movement made Bernadetta panic and she fought against her father for a moment as he forced her into a chair. Her siblings glanced in her direction and her mother came into the room, flush from running in from the outside.

“Shut her up, my dear.” Grégoire ordered. He exited the room for a moment to yell at some servants to clean the parlour where Bernadetta sat.

Elodie looked at her terrified daughter and soothed her as best she could. “Be still, dearest.” She cooed.

Bernadetta fought painful memories and steadied herself, submitting to her mother’s touch. Her chest heaved as she almost hyperventilated. 

I cannot control this, I cannot… She thought as her instincts yelled at her to run away.

“Calm, be calm.” Elodie said, fluffing her hair which had not been set in curls yet and checked her face for any blemishes. “There is a suitor coming to see you, you must look your best!”

This hung in Bernadetta’s mind as Elodie posed her daughter like an anxious doll in a chair. Her mother pinched her cheeks to draw colour to her pale complexion while Bernadetta watched her father hurry back into the room. His tone was originally bitter and sharp, but turned soft and plying when Elodie mentioned the name of Aegir.

“I saw his crest on the horse. I swear it is him, my love.” She said as she set the embroidery hoop, which had been clenched in Bernadetta’s hand the entire time, into her lap.

The drawing room became a chaotic flurry of voices. Grégoire yelled at Colette and Heloïse, who had found employment in a game of cards and Francois who had been reading, to leave at once; Elodie set to work making Bernadetta presentable; two quick-footed maids came in to clean up the invisible mess that she could not see; and while Bernadetta watched this chaos of organization take place, Grégoire hurried outside with a footman to greet the guest as he rode down the drive.

Bernadetta did not hear anything for those moments, staring blankly ahead and paralyzed by fear and panic. Yet through the fog, she heard a voice, repeating over and over: “It’s not about what you can’t control, it’s about what you can.”

That’s… True I guess. Bernadetta thought briefly, but the panic returned. But there’s so much… Too much going on…

Her father’s happy tone—noted by a higher pitch and forced smile that tainted his words—and the noble announcement of Ferdinand arrival by his herald filled the drawing room as they entered.

There, in the doorway of the cold room, stood Ferdinand in a red tailcoat. He removed his riding hat out of consideration. His boots were dusty, his eyes sharp and his countenance genial and amiable. 

Outside of the ballroom, Ferdinand von Aegir was a man of bright smiles and warm greetings. From what Bernadetta had heard and observed, his heart was true, his manners refined and his attitude warm and friendly. He was also of fine face, large wealth and expansive property. His family line produced the prime ministers of Adrestia, and he, of course, was set to become the next prime minister following his father’s retirement. 

She had heard this all before the first ball and during her rigorous training which took all of her attention for nearly a year. She was aware of most of the bachelors, and had met many more the night of ball, but Ferdinand was the one her father focused upon most.

As the world came back into focus, Bernadetta realized that her mother had quitted the room already. Her eyes flickered to the hearth where her father had taken his ease in a nearby chair and to Ferdinand who greeted her with a courteous bow. Her eyes moved back to her father, who shot cold daggers at her and motioned for her to do something. She rose quickly to greet him with a proper curtsey, and the embroidery hoop fell off her lap. 

“Ah, allow me.” Ferdinand insisted, stooping down to pick up the hoop. He handed back it to Bernadetta with a genial nod. “I trust you are feeling better today, Miss Varley?”

“Er… Y-Yes…” Bernadetta murmured, feeling her father’s eyes on her. “I w-was simply tired.”

“Such things are normal in the season, but I hope you will be well-rested in time for the annual Aegir picnic.” He said, with a distinct tone of hope in his voice. “It will be held on the 15th of the Harpstring Moon, of course. 

“Ah.”

“I had actually just come from the printer with the cards.” He said, producing a single cards addressed to Count Varley & his Family. “I hope you do not think it improper to give you this right now.”

He extended a hand, offering her a cream-coloured piece of card stock. Upon it, in beautiful calligraphy was the date, time and a well-worded invitation to the picnic in a week’s time. The paper was beautiful, the words carefully written, exemplifying the Aegir’s wealth and connections in only a card.

“Of course Bernadetta will attend.” Grégoire interjected quickly. “She will be more than happy to join you for an afternoon.”

“Excellent!” Ferdinand chimed happily. He smiled at the two of them.

Bernadetta opened her mouth to properly ask if he were in good health, how his family fared, but was cut off by Ferdinand. She coloured in embarrassment.  

“Then I shall take my leave. Much to do.” He said. Ferdinand donned his hat once more and gave her a gracious bow, to which Bernadetta clumsily curtseyed again. When he looked back up at her, his cheeks were distinctly red and there was a small smile on his lips. 

“It was good fortune that other gentleman was there to catch you the other night.” He observed kindly. Bernadetta watched her father smile through the mention of the incident. “Ah, a Mr Kirsten I believe? I hear that he is here with Count Gloucester’s son. He is a good man, the best of us perhaps. And I am quite pleased that you are feeling better, Miss Varley.”

Grégoire rose from his seat quickly. “I shall see you out, my lord.” He insisted, trailing after Ferdinand.

As soon as they exited the room, Bernadetta collapsed back into her chair with a gasp. Her mother flitted in, eyes wide and neck craning to catch a glimpse of Ferdinand and Grégoire from her vantage point by the windows.

“That went very well, dearest!” She cried, fanning her daughter. “Now up-up, come, look your best. He may come back.”

Bernadetta lurched forwards. “W-What?” She cried out. “Oh please, no no no no nooo…”

Elodie hushed her quickly and clucked on about how dashing and handsome Mr Aegir was. “Such a gentleman, so amiable! And refined manners too. His education must have been expensive.” Observed Elodie. 

Grégoire returned inside and Elodie stepped back from her daughter. The room went quiet. The two woman took erect posture and stared at him. Elodie, at least, did so; the best Bernadetta could manage was staring at the floor.

He crossed the room and stood before Bernadetta. She stared at his shined shoes and felt her entire being swell with anxiety: her legs turning weak, her heart thudding quickly in her chest, tears flooding her vision.

Grégoire’s cold hand cupped her chin and tilted it up. She stared up at him through threatening tears, her eyes darted away from and back to him rapidly..

Gravely, Grégoire warned his daughter: “You are not to make fools of us at the next outing.”

Bernadetta bowed her head and trembled. “Yes, father.”

He dropped her chin and her eyes fell to the floor. Her hands knit into shaking fists, which the embroidery hoop withstood. 

“It is good fortune that Mr Aegir is showing such an interest in you.” He said in a tone that wavered between weary and woeful. As he turned to leave the room, said: “Perhaps we can make a good match rather easily.”

Chapter Text

The picnic at Duke Aegir’s estate was the first big event of the season. Of course, after the season’s commencement ball, which was always hosted by the Emperor and his family, such an event could never be compared to... But it was the perfect opportunity for the Aegirs to showcase their wealth in the form of delicious and extravagant food, beautiful outfits and fine games on their expansive Enbarr estate.

The picnic was just as big, just as exciting and to some, better than the ball, for there were sporting events for all. Horseback riding for men and women, hunting was provided outside on the far reaches of the green and billiards in the house away from silly wives for the gentlemen, with cigars and drinks and vulgar talk not meant for genteel or sensitive ears. 

For the ladies, there was obviously croquet, where the finely-dressed women donned their parasols and bonnets and went toe-to-toe while whispering about the most eligible bachelors and assessed their competition.

Bernadetta was plucked from bed early that morning, in a tired daze from sitting up by her candle and writing until she could barely keep her eyes open. She collapsed in bed in a mess of unbraided purple hair and cotton linens, only to be awoken short hours later when her mother and the lady’s maids came in to make her presentable. 

She was dressed in her finest day frock—a dark purple dress with gilded threads—complete with purple lace gloves and a matching coat. She was horribly overdressed for a day outside, but her father insisted that she look “eye-catching” for Ferdinand. 

Such a thought made Bernadetta not want to go. She had to be pried from the carriage by her mother, who coaxed her out on the promise that she would not be bothered for the next day.

Her younger siblings, of course, were invited too. Francois, Heloïse and Colette are let off beyond Elodie’s eyes to play with Aegir hounds and other young adolescents off in the garden. 

The first hour flew by, as Bernadetta spent most of her time being forced greet people who came to gawk at the odd bachelorette of Varley and the seconds of solitude hiding behind large plants and tables of grandiose food. Soon Grégoire and Elodie grew wise to her attempts to blend into the greenery and food and they sandwiched her between them so that she could not flee for a quiet spot. She listened, wringing her handkerchief between her trembling hands to the opening remarks and the greetings from the Aegir family. 

She partook in the luncheon—cold pheasant meats, still-warm fish, aromatic spiced grains and other delicacies—and picked at her plate with a tiny salad fork. As she nibbled, she glanced up and found eyes upon her, their gazes varying in between regard and concern. She opened her mouth to ask why, but her mother already had the answer prepared for her:

“This is because of your little trip, dearest.” 

Bernadetta felt a hot blush of embarrassment at the realization. She stared at the green grass beneath her feet, wishing to be swallowed whole. 

“Pardon the intrusion. But my lady wishes to play her compliments.”

Bernadetta glanced up to meet the visage of a tall, foreboding man, right beside the emperor’s daughter, Edelgard. She squeaked in surprise and she heard her father make a similar sound.

The family, or those who remained as Elodie and the children fled quickly for friendlier faces and more genial conversations, went silent and still.

Bernadetta had met Edelgard a few times before in courtly engagements and on the rare times the emperor called upon the Varleys in Burgundy. She felt a rush of relief at seeing her; she rather liked Edelgard, despite her cold demeanour and occasionally distant attitude.

“Miss Varley, Count and Countess Varley.” She greeted coolly.

“Your majesty, it is always a pleasure to see you!” Grégoire greeted placatingly. “My goodness, you bloom is… Well blooming! You look very fine.”

Edelgard gave him no more than a glance. Elodie dared not utter a word. Edelgard focused upon Bernadetta. “Miss Varley, some friends and I are about to partake in a game of croquet. Would you care to join? The sun would do wonders for your complexion.” 

Bernadetta practically leapt at the suggestion, happy to be free from her father’s searing gaze and her mother’s remarks on who was around. She knew well that Grégoire would drag her around the lawns, searching for Ferdinand, only to then force her to flirt with him. Last she had heard, Ferdinand— a natural sportsman—had finished his initial greeting and gone off to partake in horseshoes or something in that calibre. 

“Yes, I-I’d love that.” Bernadetta said and forced a smile. She glanced to her father who nodded in consent and began another wave of sycophantic compliments in regards to Edelgard’s suggestions. 

“Excellent. We were in need of another player.” Edelgard said, leaning close to Bernadetta. “And the freedom will do you more good than the sun.”

Bernadetta bit back a snort and swallowed it with a smile. “Y-Yes. Yo-You’re right, your majesty.” She agreed as Edelgard took her hand and placed it upon her arm.

The three quickly turned to two as Edelgard’s vassal left to seek out something or other, walked to one of the many croquet courts that had been prepared for the picnic. The Aegir Enbarr estate, the largest aside from the emperor’s, was expansive and ever-ready to be transformed to something new.

A servant finished preparing their court, and standing before the chalked spots and flagged holes, dressed smartly were her opponents. A beautiful tanned woman, dressed in a deep pink dress grasped a croquet handle like a rapier. She looked slightly uncomfortable in her garb, but bore the bearing of a confident noblewoman. Beside her, whispering that she should lower the croquet club lest she scare off suitors, was a woman with green eyes and the most beautiful voice Bernadetta had ever heard. She looked infinitely more comfortable, in both clothes, manners and attitude.

The two stopped their tête-à-tête and regarded the princess. Edelgard smiled. “Hello girls. I found a fourth for our game.” 

The two smiled at Bernadetta. She felt her face warm and redden.

“Bernadetta, may I introduce her majesty, Petra Macneary, the crown princess of Brigid.” Edelgard nodded towards the gorgeous tanned woman with the croquet club. “Lady Petra is here to experience the social season of Fódlan.”

Petra regarded Bernadetta with an improper bow—this was reserved for men, as women took the modest curtsey. “It is being my honour meeting you.” She said confidently. “I am hoping we shall be great friends.”

“L-Likewise.” Bernadetta awkwardly matched her bow, throwing customs out the window in favour of pleasing a future queen. 

Edelgard turned to the other woman with green eyes. “And this is Miss Dorothea Arnault. Dorothea is the current star of the Mittelfrank Opera Company, and my dearest friend.” She introduced.

“Oh, her highness is too kind.” Dorothea politely curtseyed and under her action, the move was swift and perfect—the way Bernadetta should have mastered it several years ago. She smiled and charmed Bernadetta to the point of blushing. “It is a  pleasure to meet you, Miss Varley.”

“Ladies, this is Miss Bernadetta von Varley. She is the daughter of one of Adrestia’s six counts and the eldest daughter of House Varley. She is a good friend of mine.”

Bernadetta’s heart skipped a beat at the thought of being a good friend to Edelgard. She’d had so friends before, barring Leonie.

“You’re as beautiful as they said you were, Miss Varley. Your features are so delicate.” Dorothea praised. 

Bernadetta felt another hot flush and thanked her.

The princess’s brow furrowed, as if sifting through murky memories. “You were the one who fell, yes? At the ball?”

“Your majesty,” Dorothea admonished quietly. “Darling, perhaps we should not speak—”

Bernadetta hung her head and sighed, “Y-Yes. That was me.”

“Are you better now?” Petra asked with genuine concern. “I am hoping it was only a moment of… weakness, yes. Weakness.”

“Yes, it was that.” Bernadetta cringed. Except I’m weak all the time. She thought bitterly.

“Good!” Petra smiled sunnily. “That is bringing me relief. It would not do to be sick during the season of socials.”

“Social season, your majesty.” Dorothea corrected gently.

“Ah yes, social season. Thank you, Miss Arnault.”

Edelgard cleared her throat and said, “It is about time we begin the game, ladies. Doubles, yes?”

Petra and Dorothea agreed, Bernadetta remained silent. Edelgard asked, “I trust you’ve played, Bernadetta?”

“O-Once or twice. I’m afraid I’m not good.” Bernadetta admitted,

“Well I am.” Dorothea said happily. She linked her arm through Bernadetta’s. “You’ll be my partner, won’t you?” 

She couldn’t resist the songstress’s siren smile. She nodded, with tight-lipped grin on her face and her cheeks glowing red.

Bernadetta was no croquet master and she easily brought Dorothea down. Bernadetta gathered, from idle chitchat that Dorothea attempted to coax her with, that she had been to many of these festivities, and had been an active member of the ton for sometime. 

Petra—also a beginner to the game, but unlike Bernadetta—was a natural. Edelgard was quite adept too, making short work of the pins. Against them all, Bernadetta was nothing more than an overdressed fool that stuck out in more ways than one.

The rules, which were haphazardly explained to Bernadetta, blurred in her mind, and she could not keep her score. Coupled with Dorothea’s somewhat intrusive questions about her father’s business, if she had a trousseau and the size of her inheritance, if the family had a second or even third home in their home territory of Varley, Bernadetta felt her frustrations mount.

“Do you enjoy the opera, Miss Varley?” Dorothea asked.

Finally, a question I can answer. Bernadetta thought. They watched as Petra swung her club. The ball gracefully glided toward the pin like a viper in the grass. 

“A b-bit, Miss Arnault.”

“A bit? What an odd answer. I usually get a full yes or a flat-out no.” She mused. “Nevertheless, you simply must hear me sing.”

“Oh, are you a proficient in music?” Bernadetta asked.

“I play the pianoforte well enough, but I’m a singer mostly.”

“Modesty is not becoming on you, Dorothea.” Edelgard interjected from across the green. “Dorothea is one of the foremost singers in the Mittelfrank Opera Company as of late. Though, she is taking time away to be my personal companion this social season.” Edelgard explained. “She charmed Enbarr, and myself to be honest.”

Dorothea giggled, “Oh stop it your majesty, you’ll make me blush!”

Edelgard nodded to Bernadetta to take her turn and the debutante almost dropped her reticule. Once more she adjusted it and attempted to guide her ball—pastel purple—toward the first pin. The other ladies already hit the fourth or fifth pins. To say that croquet was not Bernadetta’s game was an understatement; it was now her mortal enemy that she would fight in her dreams.

But the title of mortal enemy was still not enough, as Bernadetta put too much power behind her swing. The purple ball flew, caught by the spring breeze and sailed through the air, landing a long distance away from their court of play.

Bernadetta whimpered. She looked back to her partners who regarded with wide eyes and concerned looks. A feeling of dread welled up in her stomach, and all senses yelled at her to run for private quarts, of course, until better judgement took over.

“I-Ishouldgetthat.” She tried to say it slowly, but it came out in a single, nervous breath, her words slurring together.

Before her companions could comprehend what she said, Bernadetta dropped her club and ran after her ball. It had rolled down a gentle incline and nested at the bottom of a hill amidst weeds. At the foot of the hill was an extensive garden, which the Aegir family took pride in.

The garden was home flowers and plants of all types, from life-saving herbs to rare, beautiful blooms. There was even an ancient greenhouse, supposedly built by Derrick von Aegir’s heir. Bernadetta stopped on the foot of the hill and admired the greenhouse for a few moments.

It must be so peaceful in there. So warm and beautiful. She thought longingly. Her father refused to light the fireplaces, insisting even when spring had barely bloomed that it was warm enough, and that their blood should still be thick from the winter. Most nights, Bernadetta had to ask the maid to bring her a spare blanket. 

Of course, when an esteemed visitor was to arrive, Count Grégoire von Varley insisted on only the finest being served, no matter the price or debt it added to his accounts. 

Quickly, Bernadetta abandoned her search for her croquet ball. She glanced over her shoulder, and seeing that she was all alone in the garden, moved closer to the warm greenhouse. The doors beckoned her like open arms. Stepping in, the heat hit her like a wall, thick and humid. She greeted it with joy, her nerves and complaints easing as soon as she began to gaze at the flowers and plants that surrounded her. 

She walked around the greenhouse for a moment, greeting tiny periwinkles and massive sunflowers. After a moment, she took a seat by a large Venus fly trap, it’s leafy teeth open for its prey. How lovely it would be to be you. Bernadetta thought happily. Your food comes right into your mouth! No work at all!

She let out a heavy sigh, her shoulders sagged, and her entire body frame was pulled to the floor. Her eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment, as peace washed over her with welcomed ease.

Bernadetta glanced at the fly trap. How beautiful and deadly it is, lulling it’s prey to its very mouth. How lovely would that be; to do nothing more than exist. To her, to exist was to suffer. To be forced to tighten her corset, to not perspire, to sit straighter than possible, to barely breathe.

“It must be nice to be a flower.” She admired quietly. “Sit here all day long and do nothing but soak up the warmth and bloom.”

The heat enveloped her like a blanket. She glanced around once more checking for any lingering guests and then produced a book from her reticule, no bigger than her hand. It was a collection Saint Indech’s poems, perhaps her favourite written work; she owned three copies including the one in her hands. The reclusive saint’s words were a comfort to her and so carried it with her everywhere she went. To know that she descended from him, and he too was of such shy, nervous temperament, brought her greater solace than imaginable.

Feeling that she would be safe there, she took to reading his words to the flowers, and for once her voice did not stutter or stumble at all. So easily did the words roll off her tongue, gentle and pleasing and lovely, just as the saint intended them to be read.

“That was amazing!”

A shrieking gasp escaped Bernadetta’s lips and she practically dropped her book. “Why’s your voice so deep?” She asked the flowers.

“Me? I’m no flower!”

She whipped around to see the hulking frame of Raphael Kirsten, his broad shoulders and full frame practically leaping out of his shirt. He stood in the doorway of the greenhouse and somehow was silent enough—or Bernadetta was once more lost in her own world—for her not to notice. It helped that her back was turned to the doors that he so silently crept through. With him, Raphael brought memories and disappointments of the first ball and all it’s mortifications she’d yet to live down. 

Bernadetta angrily blushed. “Mr Kirsten!” She admonished.

The gentleman towered over her, imposing at surely over six feet tall. He bared his teeth in a grin as she snatched up her fallen reticule.

“That was amazing, Miss Varley!” Raphael praised. 

Another great wave of embarrassment washed over Bernadetta. She sighed and hung her head. “Please tell me that you did not hear that…”

“The words you were speaking? I did! It was amazing, did you write those yourself?”

A whine escaped her lips as she buried her face in her hands. “Oh goddess… Pretend you didn’t hear anything of that! Pleeeeeease Mr Kirsten?”

“Why? You were so good!” Raphael asked boisterously. “I was walking past to get my sister and heard your voice. Then I came here to tell you how good you sounded!”

Her brow knit. She felt anger building in her throat. “Good?” She shook her head. “No… No I’m onto you. I’ve already made a fool of myself once before you, and now you’re trying to make it happen again! Next thing I know, you’ll encourage me to sit at a literary salon and laugh as I stumble over the words!”

His brow furrowed. “Uh… No? I’m afraid you’re mistaken Miss Varley.” His voice grew lighter, gentler. “But you’re right! When you’re focused, your voice is really nice! Everyone should hear your poems and writing!”

“No!” Bernadetta shouted in the most unbecoming way. All the stress from her parents, from the ton, from this silly exercise in matchmaking had welled up inside her and now burst forth without censure or control. Raphael’s eyes grew as wide as saucers. “I knew it! You’re here to humiliate me! Again!”

Before he could defend himself or correct her mistake, Bernadetta jumped up and cried out angrily. “Monster! Animal! Beast!”

She ran out of the greenhouse, ignoring that the ground below her feet was soft with spring and it’s muck leapt up to stain her gown. Bernadetta glanced over her shoulder to check if Raphael emerged after her from the greenhouse.

And of course, in not looking ahead, she ran straight ahead into Ferdinand, who was walking towards the greenhouse. She stumbled back, almost losing her balance.

“Miss Varley!” He cried. 

She blinked once, twice, then met Ferdinand’s eyes. Her face was already warm from being interrupted by Raphael and then running, but it began to burn as Ferdinand regarded her. She curtseyed as best she could without losing balance, and swallowed hard.

“M-M Aegir. M-My apologies. I w-was not looking where I was going.”

“Oh, please, it was my fault. I was certain that you heard me call. I should have been louder.”

She could barely raise her gaze to meet his. “While returning from collecting some refreshments for one of the ladies in my party, I passed yours. They had told me you were searching for your croquet ball down here.”

Bernadetta nodded. “Y-Yes. That’s right.”

“Allow me to help you search?” He asked. “It would not do to have you parted from them for much longer. I am certain they are missing your company.”

She straightened up immediately and shook her head quickly. “N-No, that’s quite alright Mr Aegir!” She said quickly. “I-In fact, I was going to see if the carriage c-could escort me home.”

“Oh, are you not having a pleasant time?”

“N-No, I am.” Bernadetta insisted. “It’s just… I-I’m sure you’ve realized I’m of a n-nervous temperament? S-Spasms and f-f-flutterings and so.” She said. “I… I j-just wanted to go home and rest.”

“Indeed.” Ferdinand blushed and insisted, “I-I mean, it is a blessing to be so sensitive! You see the world in such a way that others do not!”

She held his gaze for a moment before the gentleman cleared his throat. “I-In any case, if you are truly wishing to return to Varley Manor, I would be happy to escort you home. Your parents and siblings seem to be having such a delightful time, I would hate to deprive them of their carriage and horses or force them to leave prematurely.”

“I-I am fine to walk.” She insisted, fearing the closeness in the carriage.

“Nonsense, I insist. Your father will surely approve.”

She swallowed hard. If she refused, Grégoire would surely find out within moments of her answer. The ton was quite vocal, and her father was a gossip hound with his floppy ears to the wind. If he caught the slightest whiff of dissenting wishes—or worse, refusal—being berated for breathing would be the least of her worries.

So she steeled her nerves and nodded. “Yo-You make a fair case, Mr Aegir.” Bernadetta reluctantly acquiesced. “A-Allow me to tell my mother of the plan.”

“Of course. I shall accompany you.”

Ferdinand offered his arm. Bernadetta hesitated, then swallowed her doubts and took his arm for support, following him up the hill and back to her ever-delighted mother. Unbeknownst to her, Raphael emerged from the greenhouse, carrying her book of poetry, just in time to see them walk away, arm-in-arm.

The carriage ride home was thankfully quiet. Ferdinand did not offer conversation, nor did Bernadetta wish for any. Instead, they sat in their seats and gazed as the blurry landscapes of the Aegir estate and Enbarr as they rode past. 

Back home, as he handed her out of the carriage, a horse tore up the driveway. Bernadetta’s eyes grew wide in fear as she recognized it was her father. He dismounted his horse just as Bernadetta’s feet met the ground and hurried over to them.

“Mr Aegir, my lord, you are too kind!” Grégoire cooed placatingly, disheveled from his ride. “Bernadetta could have waited.”

“No, never.” Ferdinand disagreed. “I insisted. I would brook no refusal. Ladies of her disposition must be cared for with the deepest consideration.”

As he said this, Ferdinand gave her a warm smile. Bernadetta found that she was able—but barely—to meet his gaze. She coloured and glanced away shyly a moment later. 

Her father greeted her with cold, false delight and took her upon his arm with fake civility. “Well, regardless, thank you deeply, sir. We are ever in your debts.”

“Think nothing of it!” Ferdinand chimed. “If you’ll excuse me, I should return before my own father wonders where I am.”

Grégoire hurried to invite Ferdinand to stay for tea, for a moment of ease, but the young heir politely declined, reminded of the party at his estate. Bernadetta and Grégoire politely waved farewell as the carriage began it’s return to the estate.

Grégoire glared at Bernadetta after a short moment of silence following the carriage’s departure. His false smile faded and he turned back to the manor. “For once your terrible nerves have done some good.” He rumbled with discontent.

Bernadetta bowed her head quietly, removed her bonnet before walking in her father’s shadow.

Chapter Text

Some days later, by the way of a servant, Edelgard sent an invitation for a private tea date to Bernadetta. As soon as Grégoire recognized the messenger’s robes and banners, he gleefully consented his approval to the messenger with his compliments.

Just as quickly as he consented, he turned to his daughter and brought about rigorous instruction of how she must look and behave.

Mr Aegir won’t even be there. She thought bitterly. This would all be easier if it were just for some stupid man.

The servants were given explicit instructions on how to make Miss Varley presentable. Her hair was combed—an agonizing process that brought tears to Bernadetta’s eyes—and pulled into a tight topknot and set with tight curls once more. It was a look meant for a ball, not for tea and crumpets.

But, as her father insisted, this was a chance to look good before the royals. He touted his usual spiel about ‘image being everything and morphing it as needed’. Bernadetta silently acquiesced and obeyed, allowed her face to be powdered and primmed and plucked until it was snow white and rose red.

Bernadetta was packed up with her reticule—although there was no money inside it excepting a few coins to make her sound wealthy and her smelling salts should she faint—into a carriage. It was extremely unnecessary for the short distance between the Varleys’ Enbarr estate and Hresvelg Hall, where the emperor’s family resided.

As she and her father waited for the coach to come, he gave a lacklustre reason: “The carriage may not seem necessary on a day as fine as this but I assure you it is.” 

Bernadetta did not look up. She swallowed hard and grasped her reticule tighter.

“Better to be safe than have you caught up with that rabble out there.” His voice dropped in volume. “Enbarr is crawling verminous deadbeats and poverty-stricken cads who would take advantage of a prettily-dressed girl’s stupid kindness. The emperor best do something about that. Relocation or poor houses…”

Bernadetta pretended to not hear him as the sound of hoofbeats became louder. The carriage rounded the corner from the estate and the horses bayed with protestations as the driver slowed them. Dust flew up and Grégoire yelled angrily at the driver and footmen to take care.

The door opened to the carriage and the footman helped Bernadetta inside. Grégoire advised her as she slid in, “Now, remember that you are the face of our family.” He said. “You are to be silent, well-behaved and pleasing. A true lady.”

Bernadetta kept her gaze low.

“Look at me, Bernadetta.”

She reluctantly raised her eyes to meet his as he asked, “What are you to be?” 

“The perfect daughter.” Replied Bernadetta quietly.

Grégoire stared at her for a moment. He then stepped back and walked up to the mansion and the carriage door shut on Bernadetta’s face.

The perfect daughter. The jewel of Varley. The most accomplished woman in Adrestia. She thought bitterly and then sighed, tears beginning to flood her eyes. What if I don’t want any of that?

Her carriage passed large, gorgeous estates, peppered with guards and servicemen out front. As they progressed deeper into the city, the beggars and poor that her father had so cruelly regarded became more apparent. She caught hollow-eyed glimpses of hungry and poor beggars and street urchins, keenly aware that her social presence hung on these delicate occasions and outings. 

But if I don’t perform my part… I’ll… I’ll be like them.

The reality of being disowned and left to ruin hit her like a brick wall. 

She had practical talents, like sewing and embroidery, and her education in manners and refinement could make her a very good governess, but her position as the eldest daughter of Count Varley would stop any of those possibilities immediately. 

After all, the thought of noble and illustrious Bernadetta von Varley kneeling before a common woman to take in the hem of her gown was laughable… Just as ludicrous as the same lady educating a knight’s children in dance and music and poetry. 

But I’ve never cared about being noble. Not in the way others do. She thought.

True… Back home in Burgundy, she avoided balls and assemblies and cotillions like the plague, always complaining of headaches or a queasy stomach or nervous complaints. Going to church was always an ordeal and made worse that her father was the minister of religion; the eyes, the attention, the loudness of it all required her to spend the rest of the day resting in solitude in her room.

Leonie entered her mind again. They stood at the opposite ends of each other: Leonie’s to be a great lady for no one but herself, and Bernadetta’s to be free from the all-seeing eyes of society. But her hands were soft and gentle and meant for mending pens and writing not for hauling scrubbing dishes; Leonie’s were calloused and dry and used to hard work and labour and wouldn’t fit into evening gloves well.

What if I went to Leicester? Nobody would know me there… probably. I could cut my hair and change my name, abandon my life here entirely. Bernadetta thought dreamily. She thought about how she’d always adored the name Faye, how she’d probably be a seamstress or the like, and fantasized about the tiny house she’d keep. Such a scheme was delightful to lose herself in for a few short moments.

The carriage jolted to a halt before the imposing shadows of Hresvelg Hall. It was an ancestral castle and home of the emperor and his family when they were in Enbarr, built some thousand years ago. It was large and looming, with dark stones comprising the exterior and positioned at the edge of the city, glaring onto Enbarr. The back, with it’s expansive garden, faced the sea and a beautiful stretch of private beach below for sea-bathing. 

Bernadetta poked her head out of the carriage. Her bonnet caught on the window’s edge and pulled her back slightly. She squinted up in the bright daylight at the castle, at the crimson and ebony banners that proudly displayed the Crest of Seiros and the double-headed eagle on the flag of Adrestia.

She pulled herself back into the carriage scarcely a moment later. Her gaze fixed inside the small carriage.

What if I mess up? She worried. I have to present a good image to the emperor’s daughter and whoever else she brought along… Oh goddess, don’t think about that Bernie, don’t think don’t think don’t think…

Ten minutes of anxiety lapsed both quickly and slowly. The driver climbed down from his post and spoke to her.

“Miss Varley?” He addressed her cautiously. “We’ve arrived.”

Bernadetta tore her gaze from the leather seats and looked to the driver, then past him to the looming mansion. The multiple balconies, the spiralling tower that climbed up and scraped the sky and the statue of Saint Seiros herself before the doors of the manor all stared down on her with condescension. 

Her mirror image came from the mansion. Edelgard, with a purposeful, confident stride came towards the carriage without even a shawl or gloves.  Her hair was down from it’s topknot and curls and she looked positively easy, unlike Bernadetta who had spent most of the morning plucked and primmed. Bernadetta clambered back in the carriage and all breath escaped her body.

Edelgard approached the carriage with a look of concern, rested her hand on the door and spoke to Bernadetta gently. “Bernadetta, won’t you come in?”

Her voice was so gentle but firm, truly the voice of a future emperor. But, beneath the kindness, there was a tone, a current, that Bernadetta knew was not to be toyed with nor refused.

Edelgard held out her hand for Bernadetta to take. She hesitated, then slid forwards and stepped out, with the help of Edelgard’s hand, from the carriage and stared up at the mansion.

“I-I’m sorry.” Bernadetta stuttered. “Y-You h-have my deepest apologies, truly I can’t express my r-remorse…”

“No need for apologies. The point is you came.”

Bernadetta blushed and lunged for another topic. “You live here?”

Stupid Bernie! Of course she does! Bernadetta thought.

“Only in the social season.” Edelgard explained as she took Bernadetta’s arm. Bernadetta flinched, but Edelgard gently soothed her with a pat, placed Bernadetta’s arm over hers for support and guided Bernadetta up to the mansion. “Like other noble families, we have a main home in our territory. It is much larger than this.”

Bernadetta thought of the centuries-old castle back home in Varley County, where she had her own room of wonders and comfort, a sanctum of peace to escape to.

As they left the carriage behind and approached the mansion, Bernadetta realized that there was another woman at the front door of the mansion. Her figure and face become more identifiable—that dark hair and those jade eyes—and Bernadetta realized that it was Dorothea. Unlike Edelgard, she wore an shawl, gloves and bonnet on her head, obviously dressed for an outing more formal than tea.

“There you are!” Dorothea chimed happily. She hurried down the steps to meet Bernadetta in a warm embrace that made her blush.

“I-Is her highness not attending?” Bernadetta asked. “Princess P-Petra I mean.”

“Oh I suppose her highness didn’t tell you. She’s engaged with a gentleman caller for the afternoon.” Dorothea shook her head. “And I won’t be either, I’ve…” her eyes moved up past Bernadetta. “An appointment myself.” 

Dorothea curtseyed and excused herself. Bernadetta’s gaze followed Dorothea as she walked past the ladies and down the drive. A teal gig had stopped behind Bernadetta’s carriage. The driver stood up, the reins in his hand and smiled jovially, waving to Dorothea. Bernadetta noted his ginger hair and freckles, his fine suit and handsome features. He leaned down to help Dorothea up and into the wagon. Just as quickly as it appeared, the gig disappeared from the property.

“I thought she was your companion this season.” Bernadetta noted.

“She is also a woman of marrying age.” Edelgard said, her tone somewhat disappointed. “This way.”

Bernadetta followed Edelgard past marble busts of former Adrestian emperors, their likeness forever captured in stone. She felt their blank eyes on her, a nervous sweat dripped down her back in the unexpectedly warm Harpstring day.

Edelgard guided her to a beautiful drawing room. The windows were wide, exposing the beauty of the gardens and their breadth; but the real beauty was in the bluffs that led down to the beach. It was a rocky climb down to the private section of the seaside, but certainly gorgeous and dramatic. From the windows, Bernadetta could see the sea hypnotically wade and pull outside, even from such a distance.

“You enjoy Albinean fruits, yes?”

Bernadetta sat down in a tall chair, assisted by a silent servant. She nodded. “Y-Yes.”

“Good.” Edelgard nodded to the servant and waited until the room cleared. “How are you faring this season, Bernadetta?”

Bernadetta remained unused to her first name being spoken aloud. Usually she was Miss Varley, and her sisters referred Miss Colette and Heloïse; it had been years since she was spoken to so informally.

It’s… nice to hear it again. It is… She shuddered a little to think so kindly of her parents, namely her father who had named her after his own father. A nice name.

“A-As well as I can.” Bernadetta said. “A trip down the stairs at a debut ball and then being walked in on…”

“Walked in on?”

Her face erupted in a fiery blush. She lurched over the table that separated the two, as if to snatch back the words from the air. “N-Nothing scandalous!” She insisted. “I was just collecting myself.”

“Ah, yes.” Edelgard mused and after a momentary pause, said: “During the croquet game.”

Bernadetta frowned a little as a servant came with a hot pot of water and prepared the tea. A tiered tray of Martritz biscuits, Noa fruit tarts, sweet buns and Morfis plum cookies was set within an arm’s reach. Bernadetta longed to grab one, or several, but held herself back. The ladies remained silent for the few seconds before Edelgard dismissed the servant. 

Once the door closed, Edelgard turned her searing violet gaze to Bernadetta. “I heard Mr Aegir escorted you home.”

She nodded. “H-He did.” Then quickly added, “N-Not that I have any attachment or plans!”

“No, I trust you. Ferdinand is not… your type.”

Not my type? She thought sadly. She felt a pang at such a proclamation, but Edelgard was right: Ferdinand was kind and sweet, but she felt nothing for him aside from the general good opinion he garnered amongst the ton. 

Bernadetta quickly changed the topic as easily as she could. “Yes. D-Doroth—Miss Arnault looked excited. W-Where was she off to?”

Edelgard poured their tea as Bernadetta finally indulged herself with a single plum cookie. Her father insisted that she not eat, lest she ruin her gloves or show gluttony. The irony was not lost on her.

Edelgard sighed. “Ah, she has many suitors.”

“Oh. That’s good for her.” 

Edelgard remained silent. 

Bernadetta paused and lowered her teacup. “I-Is it not?”

“The man she is seeing has a reputation for being a rake.” 

Bernadetta’s eyes grew wide and she coloured.

“However, I’ve seen them interact. They have a certain type of camaraderie, a closeness that gives me a glimmer of hope.”

“Hope… Isn’t Miss Arnault well-connected?”

“She is. But not wealthy.”

She set her teacup down. “O-Oh.”

“I have known Dorothea for sometime. I invited her to quit the opera for the year, in order to debut in the social season in hopes that she could marry and settle down. With my supporting her, I hoped this would attract suitors.” Edelgard mused, then with a tone of discontent, she said, “Instead it attracted him.”

“Him?”

“Margrave Sylvain Gautier, from the north of Faerghus. He’s shown a candid interest in Dorothea, one that I don’t approve of.” Edelgard admitted, taking a long sip of her tea. “I fear that if he finds out Dorothea is an orphan with nothing to her name, that he’ll desert her.”

Bernadetta swallowed hard. “M-Miss Arnault is an orphan?”

Edelgard raised her gaze to Bernadetta’s. “Were you not aware? It was a story all over the society papers and in the ton when she made her flashy debut into the opera.”

She shook her head. 

“I sincerely hope that Margrave Gautier is not a rake like his reputation suggests.” Quieter, she added, “And that Dorothea is careful.”

Bernadetta swallowed hard. “Do you know a lot about the ton?” 

Oh what a stupid question. She’ll think I’m simple for sure. Bernadetta cringed as soon as it left her mouth.

Instead Edelgard politely nodded. “Indeed.” A small smile crossed her lovely lips. “Do you wish to know about someone?”

She leaned forwards and set her teacup and saucer on the table. Bernadetta’s hands balled up in her lap, making her dress wrinkle. “Y-Yes.” She garnered her courage. “T-The man who caught me? Back at the ball.”

“Ah. Mr Kirsten.” She said. “I believe his first name is Raphael.”

Her face grew hot. “Yes. Him.”

Edelgard eased back into her chair and turned her gaze to the window. “I am trying to recall him… I do believe he hails from Leicester, and if I am not mistaken, his parents were well-known merchants. Count Gloucester dealt with them, sung their praises on appraisals and deliveries.”

Bernadetta watched how the sunlight made Edelgard’s skin glow and turned her hair bright white. She paused for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts. “If I’m not mistaken, I recall that the business failed, and now there’s rumours that Mr Kirsten is attempting to marry well.” She mused. “He has a younger sister, but she’s far too young to be married, let alone out in society, so it falls to him.”

“To marry for money?” Bernadetta asked. Seems we’re more alike than different. She thought as she felt a pit form in her stomach. Same problem, different circumstances. He has no name or rank.

“Yes. He’s an odd man. I caught him dining most crudely with…” Edelgard paused to recall her name. “Miss Galatea, yes her. She looked frustrated with him.”

“W-What about his ch-character?”

“I have only heard good things about him. Amiable, kind, eager to assist. I’ve only spoken to him a few times, but he seems quite affable.” She paused and then said, “He is sweet.”

The tone in which she spoke the compliment was slightly dismissive, as if being sweet were nothing particularly important. He is sweet, isn’t being sweet good? I would want someone who is sweet to me. Bernadetta thought. She had half a mind to ask Edelgard what she meant by just sweet. Is it bad to be sweet? Should I be ruder? Coarser?

Her eyes pulled down to the ground and she drew into a deep well of thought. He’s kind and amiable. Oh, of course he is! Stupid Bernie, he was just trying to be nice! You—as always—took it the wrong way! Stupid Bernie-Bear…

Edelgard read her silence. “Why?” She smirked. “Should I expect a wedding invitation?”

“N-No!” Bernadetta said too loudly. She bowed her head. “No… I beg your pardon your majesty… It’s just… He…”

“Have you seen him since the ball?”

Bernadetta met her gaze. She swallowed and her mouth went dry. She felt an overwhelming anxiety that threatened to bubble over. She leaned towards Edelgard and whispered, “If I… Tell you?”

Edelgard reached out and touched her hand gingerly. “It will remain with me. And my servants do not talk, as a rule upon employment.” She promised Bernadetta.

Bernadetta’s shoulders sagged. “H-He found me when I was taking a moment or repose at the Aegir’s picnic. I… I yelled at him and called him a m-monster… I thought he was following me. I’ve been… I’m pretty sure it was uncalled for.”

Deafening silence filled the room. Bernadetta stared into her lap for a long while and then finally looked up at her hostess. Edelgard wore a smirk and dragged her eyes to the tea things as lifted her cup and took a dainty sip.

“Well, I did not think you had the gall for such a reaction.” She said after an agonizing moment. “Good show, Bernadetta.”

Bernadetta whimpered and buried her face in her hands, smudging her rouge. “S-Surely he thinks I’m a fool!” She cried out. “Oh, stupid Bernie, stupid Bernie!”

Edelgard leaned across the table and patted her hand. “I would not worry so. Raphael is not the type to hold grudges like that.”

Tea passed in pensive silence, every moment ticking past with anxiety and turbulent emotions. By the time Lady Edelgard imparted the additional knowledge of Petra’s male suitor—a very pleasant young fellow from Gaspard territory—and future events that would take place and who to remained tight-lipped in the ton, Bernadetta was worn out. She was loaded into her carriage within the hour, escorted home and trudged up the steps to the manor.

At the top waited Grégoire with an impatient look on his face. Without greeting, he launched into his demands. “Tell me all.” He ordered. “Every detail, none is too small. Tell me about Edelgard.”

“I am quite ti-tired father.” She confessed.

He took her wrist speedily and Bernadetta leapt back, pulling her wrist the wrong way. She cried out as Grégoire demanded her to be silent. White-hot pain rushed through her wrist, certainly bruised at the least.

He shepherded her inside, calling for the stablemaster, George, who was versed in white magic, a long-forgotten art. He wrapped her wrist in a bandage while Bernadetta tearfully avoided her father’s gaze and told him all about the teatime, omitting details about Raphael.

When George left and Bernadetta and her father were alone, a thick silence laced the room. Her father, stewing over the information of future engagements and attachments, remained quiet for a long while. Once his rumination was over, Bernadetta’s eyes were full of tears and she was openly weeping, he turned on his heel.

“Your brother Louis is here with his wife.” He said thinly. “Go upstairs, change into something else and then come back down. You will act the proper part of a sister and debutante.”

The door shut quietly as Grégoire left. Bernadetta wiped at her eyes, allowing herself to cry as loud as she needed until her lady’s maid came in. She was led upstairs, where she was dressed in a long-sleeved gown; too hot for the Harpstring Moon, but the perfect length to cover the bandage for her sprained wrist.

Dinner was a frightful affair. Bernadetta had never had a good relationship with her siblings. She sat gracelessly in the order of children as third and the eldest daughter in Grégoire and Elodie von Varley’s brood of children.

First born was Louis, the eldest with three heirs of his own. He often wrote Grégoire, telling of his exploits as a gentleman in the city of Enbarr. He married quite a beautiful woman, daughter of a minor lord of wealth and little rank, providing him with a heady income but not enough to be rich. Bernadetta had not seen him since he married, approximately seven years ago. Despite often being in the same area for the social season for several months, Louis rarely called for social visits, and instead devoted himself to his new family and civil duties as a member of high society.

It’s weird to see him here. Thought Bernadetta as they sat at dinner and pretended all was fine.

After Louis was Emmanuel, the clergyman. Much to the ire of their father, the church called to Emmanuel. Perhaps it was their saintly ancestor’s blood which made him interested in Seiros and her teachings; regardless, he never cared much for the ton or for the social season. He left, settling in a parish someways away from Varley and did not marry above his rank. Emmanuel would make his returns, not often, but more than Louis. He usually called when the family was back in Burgundy, the largest city of Varley, which they called home.

Then there was Bernadetta, shy and nervous and the eldest daughter. Groomed from childhood to be a suitable wife, then thoroughly trained by her parents and a rotating cast of governesses and tutors to be a proper bride with the specific goal of catching a wealthy fiancé.

Marriage bait. That is what she described herself in a diary entry from years before. The title still stood at that moment; her goal was to marry well, not to marry for love.

Louis keenly reminded her of the goal at supper. As they sipped their first course of fiddlehead and saffron soup—an expensive dish for the spices had to be couriered from Brigid and the fiddleheads carried the dangers of sickness—Louis spoke about his wife, but not to her.

“Mrs Varley is decorating our second home in the Faerghan fashion.” He said.

He doesn’t refer to his wife by her first name? Thought Bernadetta woefully. Or even a sweet-nothing?

“A little unpatriotic, do you not think so my darling?” Cooed her mother.

Bernadetta snuck a glimpse at Louis’s wife, Evelyn. She took the self-same posture as Bernadetta: erect, eyes down low, silent and seen but never speaking.

The discourse that surrounded their table shifted and swirled, but often circled back to the social season and the ton. In a similar fashion, Louis spoke about Bernadetta but not to her. And in the self-same way, Grégoire answered. 

If there had ever been a flicker of hope that Bernadetta could to marry for love, it was crushed that evening by Evelyn’s quiet voice and subdued countenance. Her own marriage would not be happy or joyous: it would be a serious affair, marked by the passing of social seasons, dinners, balls and babies.

After supper, the adults retired to the drawing room for coffee. Heloïse and Colette, begin to slip away to the garden to walk in the fading daylight while Francois had been excused to study something or other. Bernadetta turned towards the staircase to creep upstairs.

Her mother’s voice rang clear after her. “Where are you going, dearest?” 

Bernadetta flinched. “I… T-To rest? I had an a-awfully full day, Mother…”

“Nonsense.” Elodie said, grabbing Bernadetta’s sprained wrist. She cried out and attempted to bite it down before her mother could notice. Elodie glanced at her in concern. “Does something ail you my dear?”

“N-Nothing!” Bernadetta cried. “It-It’s nothing!” Quickly, she made her voice as easy as she could. “W-What would you have me do? Oh I know! Mrs Varley doesn’t know the pianoforte, I’ll play.”

She speedily entered the drawing room after her mother, listening to Louis rather loudly ask if Bernadetta had any suitors and her father’s silent disapproval. Bernadetta took her seat before the pianoforte, her fingers trembling as she began to play. Her wrist ached as the music took ahold of her, drowning out the light, insufferable chatter about the Duke of Whatsville who was impoverished and the Lady of Wherevershire set to inherit a ludicrous sum of money exchanged over the music she mastered years ago.

Bernadetta looked up from her sheet music to see Evelyn perched perfectly on the edge of the sofa, looking the part of a dutiful wife and devoted mother. Her hands folded in her lap, her eyes cast down, her mouth pulled into a small line and her voice silenced.

Their eyes met briefly. Bernadetta coloured and quickly looked back to her music and keys, but it was too late. In a smooth, swift moment like liquid silk, Evelyn stood up and crossed the room. Bernadetta saw her fingers first, lithe and long and meant for addressing invitations and playing instruments and making useless linens.

“You play wonderfully, Miss Varley.”

Bernadetta lowered her eyes. Though she never had anything against Evelyn, she still felt anxious around her; those nervous spasms and flutterings that made Bernadetta long for her bedroom.  

“Th-Thank you, Mrs Varley.” Bernadetta said quietly.

Evelyn moved closer to Bernadetta’s side, her frame obscured the light from her sheets. Bernadetta knew it all by heart, thankfully, but still asked, her tone quivering, for her step back so she may see the pages. This discouraged Evelyn, and Bernadetta felt the obligation to continue the conversation.

“How are your children?” Bernadetta enquired.

Evelyn seemed to brighten at such a question. “They are all well. You are a very kind sister for asking.”

Evelyn then went onto tell Bernadetta about how the youngest had colic and was being nursed at home by the nurserymaid, and the other two were too loud and annoying for her to keep quiet in the carriage so they were left at home. Evelyn, who did not know when to stop talking—or perhaps did not care for the Varleys rigid manners—proceeded to disclose how bored she was of married life.

“Mr Varley buries himself in his work.” Confessed Evelyn. “He is obsessed with it. All the obligations of noble, genteel conduct. He hardly has time to sup with me.”

Bernadetta remained silent, only stealing a glance to her brother, who sat with him back turned to her. Her wrist ached from playing but she did not stop for fear of being spoken to by her father. 

Evelyn sighed. “He is no longer warm towards me too.”

Was he ever warm towards his siblings? Bernadetta wondered. One more glance at Louis’s proud face affirmed her. Probably not.

Evelyn painted a convincing portrait of her father wearing her brother’s face and eyes. Cold, distant, cruel. Not on the level of Grégoire, but definitely not warm to his children. 

Life there must be as insufferable as it is here. Bernadetta thought as she began another jaunt, this one slower, quiet after a small, pitiful bout of applause.

Not long after the discourse went quiet, for Bernadetta was not chatty and Evelyn had shared all she could tell, Elodie coaxed Evelyn away. 

“Evelyn dear, come here, do tell me about your boys. I so miss them.” Her mother called. Evelyn looked up hopefully, gave a gentle incline of her head to Bernadetta and quickly left her.

Being alone at last was a relief to Bernadetta. She sighed softly, the painted smile fell from her face as she devoted herself fully to the music until coffee was served and she slipped away up to her bedroom.

It was not a surprise to Bernadetta—after she regretfully was forced to observe her eldest brother and his wife—that married life was dull. Truly, as she watched Evelyn ever-eager for a change in topics and Louis roll his eyes in response, that they were not a well-placed match. He was too self-centred and cruel, and she lacked propriety that came with a good education.

Bernadetta could not even remember their engagement. She had still been considered too young, at ten and three years, to appropriately understand the sanctimony of marriage and yet, her father never neglected a day of her wifely training.

She realized that Evelyn’s fate was exactly what awaited her if her father fulfilled his wish of marrying her off. A boring marriage, complete with her nervous fits and spasms worse than what she bore then and with an inattentive husband who saw her as nothing more than set dressing to the theatre of his life. 

But, as she took up her needlepoint preparations for a cushion—a proper task for a proper young lady—and mused on her fate as nothing more than the cushion she was designing, Bernadetta supposed there was some good in her husband being inattentive. 

A negligent husband would not mind if she spent her afternoons in solitude, writing to her heart’s content or painting or playing music or even not taking any employment. Or, as she dreamily thought, out in the garden or greenhouse caring for her oddity plants and herbs, nothing like the roses and peonies that her fellow ladies doted upon. On the contrary, her husband would have probably blindly waved her off, “go dear and enjoy your little pursuits”, he would have said and then insisted to his partners and allies that there was no more accomplished woman than his little wife.

Perhaps Bernadetta could have been pleased with that... At least, the inattentive husband bit. It would give her that modicum of freedom. Yes, she could be happy with that. She smiled to herself as she checked her sketch on a very-folded piece of paper and compared it to her current work.

But I’d still have to have babies and hold parties… And oh the social seasons… She reminded herself and pricked her finger. She winced and her sisters looked up from their own employments in drawing and sitting for said drawing. She blushed and brought her finger to her lips, sucking away the blood. I’d rather hide my head in the sand than be social…

She set down her needlepoint and dispelled the burgeoning tears from her eyes. The constraints of marriage still loomed over her head despite no serious suitors, no proper proposals, not even a bothersome beau.

I could join the church like Emmanuel. Thought Bernadetta as she took repose. She hastily blinked away the tears from her eyes. The seclusion like so many great saints enjoyed would have been bliss for her. And since she was not rich, as her supposed inheritance was inflated to make the Varleys appear wealthier and the estate settled on her brother Louis, she was not allowed to remain unmarried. Yes. The church could do.

But her father would have sooner died than let another child join the Church of Seiros. He’d already lost Emmanuel and was quite vocal regarding his displeasure in that regard. Bernadetta clearly recalled the rousing Sunday service that delivered Emmanuel from a fate as a lawman to a vicar.

And of course, if she forsook marriage and became spinster she would have been disowned. Bernadetta, without fortune and of very slight fame, would have been left to ruin and probably been eaten by wild dogs rather than accepted by her cruel father, for he already saw his troublesome daughter as a heavy burden. 

As she took up her cushion designs once more, her mother entered the siting room dressed in a fine shawl and walking hat. 

“My dears,” she called. “I will have you all on a walk about the town. Mr Varley quite insists upon it. Your brother and sister shall come. Francois too. It is to be a family affair.”

Bernadetta kept her eyes downcast, wishing to be unseen and have a moment’s peace to herself.

Heloïse and Colette abandoned their ladylike pursuits and were followed by maids to help them dress. Elodie stopped before her eldest daughter. “Did you not hear me, dearest?” Cooed her mother with forced warmth. “We are to go on a walk. As a family.” She repeated, firmer.

“I’ve a headache.” Bernadetta insisted in a high-pitched tone.

“It would do your nerves good.” she insisted to Bernadetta. “The fresh air and the sights. It will refresh you and your soul.”

“M-My soul d-doesn’t need that.” Bernadetta mumbled. “A moment’s peace is what it needs…”

Lowly, her mother pleaded to her. “Your father depends upon your attendance, Bernadetta. Now, upstairs and dress, please my dearest.”

Within a quarter of an hour, Bernadetta was dressed in a smart overcoat, a fine bonnet trimmed with some yellow forsythia from the garden and delicate gloves. The Varley family, minus a son, was seen walking through the town and remarked by passersby to be the most handsome, picturesque family in all of Enbarr. 

Bernadetta walked in behind her sister-in-law without a partner beside her and ruminated in her thoughts upon marriage and life after.

“Miss Varley!”

Two gentleman—one quicker than the other—crossed the street following a carriage. Bernadetta tore her eyes from the ground beneath her feet and instantly recognized Raphael Kirsten’s sunny disposition and broad stature. Behind him, held up by another passing carriage, was a man Bernadetta did not immediately recognize.

Raphael’s appearance made Bernadetta’s blood run hot first and then ice cold. She heard her father utter beneath his breath, “What in Indech’s name…”

Father… she immediately thought of his response. She knew not of Raphael’s fortune—if he even had one left behind by the failed business—and any semblance of friendship between the two would be truncated, and their acquaintance would be incredibly short-lived. 

Raphael smiled, he bowed or greeted her whole family at once and then turned his sunny smile upon Bernadetta. “I’m so glad I saw you!” He exclaimed with uninhibited joy.

Words evaded her. Her face bright red, Bernadetta was struck still, by his words, her fears, his eagerness to see her again, her terror at losing him despite being completely dumb to the early planted seeds of interest and burgeoning affection in her own heart.

The other gentleman joined them a moment later. He was of fine face and firm manners, dressed in a dark purple tailcoat and with a posh way of speaking. “Kirsten, have some propriety.” He hissed and then nudged Raphael to bow politely. “Excuse us, Count Varley.”

Grégoire looked equal parts perturbed and intrigued by the entrance of this new gentleman. “And to who do I owe the pleasure?” 

“I am Lorenz Gloucester and this is my dear friend, Raphael Kirsten.” The gentleman informed him and gestured to Raphael who stared, without manners, at the eldest Miss Varley. “We hail from the Alliance and are in town for the social season.”

“Ah, you must be Count Gloucester’s son!” Cried Grégoire, suddenly turning warm. He forced a thin smile. “A pleasure.”

“Nay, it is all mine.” Said Lorenz. 

“You know my Bernadetta? She is making her debut this season!” Grégoire insisted, looking to her. 

Bernadetta blushed hard and curtseyed as steadily as she could, but her nerves made her uneasy and awkward. She threatened to tip over.

“Ah, this is the fabled Miss Varley?” Lorenz stole a single glance at Bernadetta and nodded genially. “It is a privilege to meet the illustrious gentlewoman who has the ton buzzing.”

Bernadetta blushed harder and insisted in a quiet voice, “I’m nothing that spectacular.”

Lorenz gave her another cursory glance. “I do believe your brother, Sir Francois von Varley has completed business in my father’s county. Perhaps we could discuss that: I have noticed that the Edgaria militia is in need of stronger weaponry.” 

Grégoire’s eyes lit up at the prospect. “Indeed, Mr Gloucester.“ He turned to the family. “We shall make for the manor. May I beseech you to join us for tea, sir?”

“Indeed, I will.” He glanced to Raphael. “Though I believe my friend has an urgent commission to attend to.”

“Nonsense!” Raphael boomed. “Maya can wait a little while. I’ll walk with you to your destination.”

Bernadetta felt an unexplained pang in her chest at the name of another woman. Was she a friend, ally, a lover? Bernadetta’s mind ran wild with possibilities. 

Raphael fell into step beside Bernadetta. His voice, not quiet and not mannerly, spoke only to her. “How have you been?” He asked, then promptly corrected himself, “I mean, how do you do Miss Varley?”

Bernadetta, terrible in the arts of conversation and idle chatter, fumbled. “W-Well.” She replied speedily.

“Good! I was worried you’d be upset after the ball and then in… Um… the greenhouse.”

She cringed and rapidly shook her head. 

He attempted to make conversation occur again and again, bringing up topics such as the weather and the foods in season in Enbarr. He discussed that for sometime, remarking that he’d never enjoyed such a variety of dishes and marvelled at the excess and intricacy of Adrestian cuisine. 

He has a lovely speaking voice. Bernadetta thought and then quickly crushed the thought. She had the nagging, but completely unreliable, feeling that Raphael had gone to lengths to make a fool of her, first at the ball and then in the greenhouse. She felt that he was obviously hiding something in his face, his manner of being. 

There must be something hiding there. Certainly, there must be. Thought Bernadetta forcefully.

The family arrived at the manor within a quarter of the hour. The exercise brought colour to Bernadetta’s cheeks and made her seem brighter despite her nerves. Grégoire happily led his newfound friend, Mr Gloucester, to his gilded home and showed off the marble columns and silk draperies and fine furniture.

Bernadetta, as always, followed after her family. As she moved away, Raphael reached out and took her hand. She flinched, bit down a wince and looked back at him with wide, frightened eyes.

Raphael instantly softened. “I’m sorry Miss Varley, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He insisted.

Bernadetta shook her head. “N-No… It’s um… It’s okay.” She insisted. “I-If you’ll excuse me.”

“Wait.” He called a little louder. She was now the only one of the family left outside and was acutely aware of the impropriety of such an action by remaining with Raphael alone. “I didn’t just cross the street to see you.” 

She watched as he drew a little leather bound book from his own pocket and held it out to her. “You dropped this.” He explained softly. “I wanted to give it back earlier, I searched for you, but you were gone.”

Bernadetta felt a pang of guilt in her heart. In his hands was her worn book of Indech’s poetry. Her breath escaped her lips as she hesitated to take it. It looked so small in his massive hands, which Bernadetta noted looked rough and work-hardened… And that he did not bother with gloves even while walking which made her blush. 

The poems were was a cherished item; one that her uncle, Sir Francois, had given her for her birthday years ago when she was under his care and one of the few gifts that she truly loved. After all, a young lady can only be given so many perfumes and muslins before the all begin to smell and feel the same. She inspected it, flipping through the pages quickly and was satisfied to see that nothing had been damaged: no bent pages other than the ones she’d marked as her favourites, no ink blots aside from her own and no additional rubbing to the leather, forgiving the ones she’d made on sleepless nights and moments of anxiety when smelling salts or tea could not soothe her.

The tiniest, most sincere ‘thank you’ escaped her lips. She swallowed hard. Raphael cautiously took her hand, quite gentle and caring and closed the small book in her delicate palm.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t return it sooner.” Raphael said quickly. “And sorry for before. I just really wanted to hear you talk. You’ve got a very nice voice.”

I have a nice voice? Bernadetta thought in disbelief. 

She met Raphael’s gaze and blushed hard. Clutching the book tight to her chest, she curtseyed and squeaked, “Thankyousir!”

“It was nothing! I couldn’t keep a poet from her words.” 

Bernadetta coloured and cleared her throat. She turned her eyes back to the ground. “Though, I gotta admit, I’d really love to hear you read them.” He even admitted to reading some Indech’s poems but was unable to “get” them, as others of superior knowledge and taste would.

Bernadetta, aghast, blushed. “Y-You want me to r-read?” She asked. “T-To you?”

“I can’t think of anyone better!” He boomed, then added, “Only if you want to, of course!”

She paused and pondered. “I… I don’t know.”

“That’s fine. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Raphael glanced up and past her. “Oh… It looks like there’s someone waiting for you.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t want to keep them in earnest.”

Bernadetta glanced over her shoulder and, seeing her father in the doorframe, felt her good mood leave her in a nervous rush. She and Raphael regarded each other and made their adieus before turning in their opposite directions. 

She walked back up to the manor with a nervous gait. Climbing the steps up to the house, she felt her father’s gaze heavy upon her. And as she curtseyed, he caught her arm. 

“I trust,” Grégoire said and she flinched, fearing another wounded wrist or something worse. “That you set that boy right.”

Bernadetta trembled and lied. “Y-Yes, father.”

“Good. I have my spies and know if something comes of this.” Lower he added, “Do not think me a fool.”

She felt her blood run cold and trembled. Her eyes flooded with tears as Grégoire’s voice rose. “Now come. Mr Gloucester says he adores music. You will play for him.” Lower again, he added, “He is quite rich, despite being a Leicester noble, and his property is expansive. He would do well.”

Bernadetta removed her walking clothes and entered the drawing room. She took her seat at the pianoforte and played for her family and Mr Gloucester, facing her fate as a nobleman’s wife: seen but not heard. All the while, the little book of poems pressed into her hip and filled her with a thrill of delight and numbing anxiety. 

Chapter Text

The Garland Moon’s excitement of white roses and brides, and Grégoire’s anger, made for a troublesome month. Bernadetta received no gentleman callers, not a soul despite the Varleys many dinner parties where eligible bachelors were many and Bernadetta’s harp and pianoforte were perfectly tuned, her books pressed and prepared for reading, her designs for cushions and handkerchiefs on display. 

The dinner party—a perfectly acted facade of the Varleys’ wealth and manners and family harmony—was an arduous affair. The only good thing Bernadetta could draw from it was that she was left unbothered for most of the night, employed in playing her instruments or embroidering cushions or reading quietly by herself. The gentlemen invited were more interested in the Varley heirlooms and Grégoire’s stance on religious and political matters over his doll-like daughter.

Of the few ladies invited to that certain dinner party, Bernadetta recognized only one: the foreign princess, Petra. She had greeted Bernadetta with kind compliments and improper conduct—namely that well-meaning bow that was too masculine for a well-bred gentlewoman to attempt. Bernadetta sheepishly curtseyed and asked after her health and happiness.

Within a few moments, a young gentleman arrived at her side and began waiting on her, leaving Bernadetta poised between—as she would soon realize—two young lovers, most aptly matched.

Bernadetta had blushed bright red and wondered about the length of their engagement, the circumstances on either side and if their future happiness would be certain as she managed her tattered nerves as best she could. 

Such peace was only given for a short time, for soon Bernadetta was prevailed upon to play the pianoforte. Normally, she would happily give herself over to the music, but during her playing, she was called upon to speak and to answer questions, which only grew when the noble Mr Ferdinand von Aegir arrived.

For the remainder of the night, her face remained red and her tongue tied inside her mouth, limiting her to only wobbly agreements and nervous declines, which discouraged her suitor. Her father spurred on their intercourse, insisted that the gentleman who was supposed to sit beside her could move for Mr Aegir and monitored their every move, every word, every look.

At the end of the night, Ferdinand thanked her kindly for the music and kind conversation and Bernadetta could only curtsey and stumble over her words and feet.

Tumbling forwards, Ferdinand caught her. Her breath escaped her chest in a single heave as her eyes met his. 

“Are you quite alright, Miss Varley?” He asked with genuine concern.

“P-Perfectly!” Exclaimed Bernadetta, adding a comment on the length of her skirt and the shortness of her slippers.

“That gladdens me. It wouldn’t do for you to take ill. I do not know what would become of my…” He paused and coloured. “My mind runs away from me, apologies.”

Bernadetta, for the first time that night, did not turn red. Instead she paled as she bade Ferdinand goodnight and returned inside, once more prevailed upon to perform. As she did, her mind ran away from her, thoughts of Ferdinand marking each one.

Did he mean to tell me something more? She worried. She would not dare to voice words to that loomed inside her head: the concerns of his heart, the demands of her hand, the duties of matrimony.

She glanced at her hand when the night was over: the same one that Ferdinand had held so reverently. She did not blush at the memory, nor did she sigh softly at such a sight: instead, Bernadetta found herself replaying the moments over again and comparing them with another gentleman who had caught her: Raphael Kirsten.

He had not been invited, nor had Mr Gloucester: Bernadetta did not dare ask her parents if they were already engaged, for fear of notice and suspicions. And aware of her father’s complex web of spies and sycophants, did not raise the question to any guests, not even Petra.

At the thought of Raphael, Bernadetta’s face took to a warm blush like a natural answer to a simple question. She paused, winced and threw her head into her pillow, willing herself not to think of men and matches. Thankfully, no one caught this odd outburst of Miss Varley, and she quickly resumed her erect posture and absent gaze as she worked on the little pillow.

Bernadetta passed most of night and following day placating her poor nerves and anxieties as best she could. Her brother and sister-in-law, having completed their duties of mooching off their father, left for their home and boys.

Most of the house was in a state, which demanded most of Elodie’s time. Grégoire had been called to the emperor’s home on business regarding the upcoming rite of rebirth. Thus, Bernadetta was allotted a day of quiet, a day of solitary reflection that tortured her poor nerves. Normally, she would bask in the blessing of being unbothered, but her mind ran wild with worries about men and matches, as she was a weak-minded young lady.

Her heart stammered in her chest and her palms grew slick at the latter. Bernadetta, burdened with anxiety could not open the letter for nearly a quarter of an hour. Then, summoning all her courage, wildly ripped it open and scanned the page before erupting in delight.

Longbourn Street, Enbarr
18th of the Garland Moon, Imperial Year 1182

Dear Bernie-Bear,

I write to you from Longbourn Street, Enbarr. You will be surprised, perhaps shocked, to read that I am in Enbarr for the social season but do not waste a minute rereading that. Instead, gather the best tales you have of your time in the ton and meet me at the little teashop tomorrow on the corner where Pemberly Street and Kellynch Avenue meet. I’ll be waiting for you.

Your stingy hornet,
Leonie

Bernadetta quickly penned a response and called for a servant to deliver the letter. Then, hastening to her mother’s side, who was obviously distracted, she fumbled through a lie about being invited to Duke Gerth’s home, who housed Petra, for tea on the morrow.

Elodie waved her off. “Go Bernadetta, go.” She said tersely, clearly annoyed by her servants’ inability to keep up with her demands and her own indecision.

The date had been set, and quickly, most of Bernadetta’s anxieties melted away like sugar in her tea. She used the knowledge of Leonie’s arrival to ward off any intrusive thoughts of Ferdinand or Raphael—though, she secretly allowed herself to think a bit here and there of the latter.

Bernadetta had met Leonie years before, when she was five and Leonie was seven. Bernadetta had been causing behavioural issues at home, following the birth of Colette and demanded more attention and discipline. Grégoire placed her in the care of his brother, Sir Francois von Varley, a nobleman who conducted business on behalf of Grégoire.

Francois, not keeping a permanent residence and lacking a governess to watch Bernadetta, brought the young girl along. After a few short moments of nervousness—which gave way to keen interest and soon, sisterly affection—Bernadetta and Leonie became friends and remained such throughout the winter. Bending to his niece’s whims, Francois took up residence in a town close to the Pinellis’ home of Sauin Village.

Leonie entranced Bernadetta with her stories of Sauin, their lore and ways of life: Bernadetta charmed Leonie with her delicate features and princess-like manners and unending accomplishment. Like oil and water, they complimented each other. That winter was the happiest of Bernadetta’s existence.

After Bernadetta returned to Burgundy, they kept contact during the following years and reunited when Bernadetta was sent to a Leicester finishing school. But it had been three long years since the girls had reunited. Such a reunion was a delight that held Bernadetta in raptures and kept her awake for most of the night.

“What are you doing here?” Bernadetta asked as they found a table in a crowded teashop. The heat and close-quarters set off Bernadetta’s nerves—her skin prickled with sweat and her heart thundered—but all symptoms felt like nothing with Leonie by her side.

She allowed only a moment for the server to their back before she launched into their reunion. Bernadetta stared at Leonie with hopeful eyes, praying to whatever god or saint would answer her that Leonie would stay for longer than a two-week.

Leonie momentarily stiffened, then summoned a cool, collected exterior. She rolled her eyes for good measure and said: “Well, I was accompanying Ignatz. He accepted a commission to paint a woman’s portrait… The former viscountess of Nuvelle? Heard of her?”

Bernadetta had. Varley had sent out weapons to them and their militia. Something terrible had happened, rendering the ruling house—the Nuvelles—ruined. Bernadetta did not know exactly what befell them, whether it was financial ruin or an illegitimate heir or a feud between family factions. She simply nodded and fixed her eyes on her dear friend.

Leonie took this as a cue to continue.  “I came along on his insistence.” Leonie said as Bernadetta sipped her tea. The country girl cleared her throat and added, “And I was excited to see you, it’s been too long since we last spent time together, Bernie.” 

Bernadetta saw a frown cross Leonie’s full lips and her fill brows knit together. Softly, she murmured, “But…”

“But?”

Leonie huffed. “There’s this terrible man in the county who I became acquainted with, and he’s here for the Adrestian social season. He’s paying for this whole diversion, and every time I turn around, he’s there. He had organized the portrait painting for the viscountess, in an attempt to get her back on her feet.”

“Ah.” Bernadetta murmured as Leonie’s gaze fixed on a plate of Noa fruit tarts that Bernadetta insisted on purchasing, despite the thinning coins in her reticule. He obviously likes Leonie. She thought. No one would go that far for someone they half-like, let alone despise.

Acutely aware—and loving her friend for her fierce and unyielding disposition—Bernadetta treaded carefully adding, “You’ve had to deal with him a lot?”

“He came back to Gloucester after an extended absence for education, and now he’s carrying out some of his father’s business. He’s just like the count, vain and cruel and only interested in taxing us to the gills.” Leonie grumbled in one breath. She reached out—and Bernadetta softly smiled when she saw that Leonie had neglected to wear gloves, as it was so like her—and took a painted cookie in the shape of a flower. She threw it into her mouth without the slightest hesitation, then another and a third. 

Bernadetta watched as she ate half the plate, then, fortified, reached for her second as Leonie erupted angrily: “Incorrigible, selfish bastard!”

Bernadetta flinched and paled at such harsh language. “I’m sorry you have to see him often. Maybe it’s only a temporary thing.” She said softly, breaking off a small portion of her cookie.

Leonie swallowed and then sighed. “He’s apparently here for the entire season. Ignatz and I will be headed home in a short time, after the portrait is complete.” 

“Oh.” Bernadetta’s face fell.

Leonie must have noticed how she wounded Bernadetta, as she quickly added: “But don’t worry! I’ll be here for a while! And maybe I can steal you away from that terrible house a few times without your father noticing.”

Such placating was of little comfort to Bernadetta. She let out a shaky sigh and said, “I don’t think so…” her hands encircled her teacup. “My father is set on getting me engaged this season.”

Leonie stared in disbelief at Bernadetta. She tensed beneath her dear friend’s gaze and felt herself begin to go numb. “Why?” Leonie asked dumbly. “You’re barely twenty years. You’ll be twenty this Ethereal moon, right?”

Bernadetta nodded. “He just…” she paused, her tone unconvincing and she wrestled with her head and her heart. “He wants to see me settled. I still have two younger sisters and my brother. It wouldn’t be right if they married before me.”

Leonie shook her head callously. “Not a day goes past where I’m glad I’m an only child.”

“You are quite lucky. And your family doesn’t really care if you marry, right?” 

Leonie nodded. “My father would rather me be happy than hitched… And my Grandmother wants me distinguished… But I think they’d rather see me as both.” She said. “Because, of course, work for our sex is so little, and I don’t look good in a nun’s habit.”

Bernadetta snorted, quite loud and hard, which made Leonie laugh along with her for a moment. 

“So…” Bernadetta said, her face flush with embarrassment and joy. “What’s the name of this terrible man?” She asked. Sensing Leonie’s suspicion and displeasure, she quickly added. “S-So I can throw the most hateful glares that I can manage while out in the ton?”

Leonie’s face twisted into a frown; most would call her plain, but Bernadetta loved Leonie’s thick brows, her odd-coloured eyes, the splash of freckles across the bridge of her nose and the fullness of her figure. She was a country beauty, and Bernadetta wondered who could ever think her plain, or even frightful. From Leonie’s full lips, Bernadetta felt herself be blown away:

“Lorenz Gloucester, son of the count.” She spat out, her voice dripping with venomous disdain. “Apparently he’s been seen often with another man of Leicester… Mr Raphael Kirsten?”

Bernadetta’s heart thundered in her chest. Her cheeks coloured deeply as she held her teacup, grounding her to the teashop. She stared into the dark puddle of tea inside her cup and spoke his name in her mind.

In a moment of blind courage and foolishness, Bernadetta quietly asked: “H-Have you met Mr Kirsten?”

Leonie nodded. “Once or twice.” She murmured and paused momentarily. “His family was better off. Wealthy for a while, but no title. I think his father was a merchant?”

Bernadetta paused. This time, Leonie noticed how red her face got and couldn’t resist a little jest. She smirked and leaned closer, over her tea, and asked: “Why? Do I have to worry about you being swept off your feet and carried away from me?”

“N-No!” She squeaked loudly, attracting the attention of other diners. Leonie laughed as Bernadetta blushed deep red. The two enjoyed the rest of their tea and then said their farewells, and went their separate ways. As Bernadetta walked home to the manor, her cheeks glowed with renewed friendship and new information about the man who caused her so much anxiety and curiosity. 

A day later, a letter arrived, penned by a man that her parents did not know. He had heard of Bernadetta and wished to entertain her for the afternoon alongside many other acquaintances at a picnic. A quickly glance into his registry, Grégoire found that the name of the gentleman—one Mr Ignatz Victor—was the son of a baronet and trader in Leicester.

The drought of Bernadetta’s suitors and dawdling of Mr Aegir made any man—even the lowly son of an unknown baronet—palatable to Grégoire and Elodie. Grégoire gave his hardy consent to the servant and set their own upon Bernadetta to make her presentable.

Bernadetta was off on the appointed day in a bonnet and with a tray of hastily-purchased pastel sweet buns. The invitation had said the Wilhelm Memorial Park, one that Bernadetta had walked multiple times as a young girl. In the distance, Bernadetta caught sight of Leonie who was approaching her. Her step quickened, as did her heart, and the Bernadetta met Leonie halfway with a smile.

Upon seeing her, Leonie hurried to her and threw her arms around Bernadetta’s shoulders, practically knocking her over. “Bernie! You made it! I knew paying the serving boy would be the best option.” In a playful voice she added, “The disguise was good too, huh? I borrowed one of Ignatz’s cravats for a complete look.”

“You scheming little minx.” Teased Bernadetta nervously. “You shouldn’t have.”

Just past Leonie, she saw their guests. Bernadetta had assumed it would only be Ignatz Victor, as Leonie had spoken highly of him at their teatime. But Miss Varley was wrong, for beside the man who she assumed was Mr Victor was, of course, Raphael Kirsten.

Bernadetta coloured bright red and grabbed Leonie’s hand tightly. “L-Leonie, I w-will certainly f-faint! H-H-He’s here!” She whispered loudly.

Leonie simply smiled and leaned close as she moved Bernadetta’s hand to her arm. “That’s why I invited you and it’s why you said yes. Come along.”

Bernadetta’s stomach swelled with anxiety as she reluctantly followed her friend. As the two approached, Bernadetta felt her heart beat twice as fast and her mind run wild with many thoughts. Leonie coaxed her with the promise of tarts, of sweets, of goodies that she knew Bernadetta normally wouldn’t be able to resist.

Normally. For now Bernadetta was a bundle of nerves in a fine summer dress and clutching onto her dear friend, who finally brought her to the party. The gentlemen quickly rose and Bernadetta, quickly reminded of how tall and broad Mr Kirsten was, trembled against Bernadetta.

“Ignatz, Mr Kirsten, this is Bernadetta von Varley.” Leonie beamed. “She’s been my dear friend since we were little, we attended finishing school together.”

Ignatz—Mr Victor—was the first to jump to his feet and greeted her with an awkward but sincere bow. “Miss Varley! It’s a pl-pleasure to meet you.” He exclaimed. “Leonie has told me so much about you. Kirsten too.”

Her face burned. “I-It’s lovely to me-meet you.” Bernadetta murmured, keeping her eyes to the ground.

“Miss Varley!” Raphael greeted with surprise and concern. “Hello.”

Bernadetta could scarcely let a breath out. He probably hates me. She thought quickly. As hard as she  tried, Bernadetta could not glance at Mr Kirsten; she could scarcely raise her gaze up to glimpse his large, worn boots.

“Ignatz, I wanted to talk to you about the house. I think I noticed something amiss in my room earlier and wanted your opinion on it.” 

Leonie’s arm left Bernadetta’s grasp and she groped after it. Her face wore a mask of concern and mild terror as Leonie stepped away from her and settled on the picnic blanket by Ignatz, thus leaving Miss Varley and Mr Kirsten together.

I should have never asked about him! Bernadetta thought angrily. Stupid Bernie, stupid Bernie!

She gave a desperate look to Leonie, then to Ignatz, who remained ignorant in the depths of their tête-à-tête. 

Raphael spoke quietly to her. “How do you do, Miss Varley?”

Bernadetta trembled again. “I-I am well. Th-Thank you.”

“That’s great to hear!” He boomed. Quickly he gave a look of surprise and memory and paused. “I mean, I am glad to hear it.”

Another silence fell between the two as Raphael cleared his throat. “I brought the food today.”He chimed.

Is it poisoned? Bernadetta thought wildly.

“My good friend Lorenz—” He caught himself and quickly amended: “I mean, Mr Gloucester, had the menu prepared. Leonie helped draft it up.”

Leonie wouldn’t cross me like that. Inviting him and I to a picnic is bad enough but tailoring the menu and abandoning me— She thought, then recalled that Leonie had probably been the one to push for a picnic and use Ignatz as a cover to invite her, amended her thoughts. Oh, I’m an idiot.

Bernadetta forced a twisted a smile as Raphael beckoned her to sit. They sat further from Ignatz and Leonie, the prior of whom had taken out a sketchbook and pencil. Bernadetta’s eyes remained turned to it, watching every stroke of his hand.

“Do you like art?” Asked Raphael.

Bernadetta turned back, and for the first time, was able to meet his gaze. She nodded. “I paint. But with watercolours. Aquarelles, I mean.”

“That’s interesting!”

Bernadetta, heartened by such a response, blushed. “I… Um… A-Also sew.” She said, producing her handkerchief. Most were white, but Bernadetta’s was dyed a soft purple, edged with lace and carefully embroidered with her initials. She held it out to Raphael who stared it in interest.

“You did that?”

She nodded.

“That’s really amazing.” He said. “Maya can barely do patch jobs.”

Maya. Bernadetta thought nervously, wondering once more who she was to Raphael. At her silence, Raphael perked up. “She’s my sister. A couple years younger than me.”

Relief and confusion washed over Bernadetta. She paused, stared at her feet and acted as normally as she could.

“Is it true that you play the pianoforte too?”

Bernadetta startled and then nodded. “Y-Yes.” Lower she asked, “Did you hear that from the ton?”

“Gloucester mentioned it.”

Ah. Bernadetta folded her hands neatly in her lap.

“So it’s true, you really are that accomplished.” Raphael marvelled. “That’s amazing. Most girls from my hometown, Verona, are prepared to work. It’s a lot different here in Enbarr; I don’t think I’ve seen any girl come out without a servant.”

“W-What is Verona like?” Asked Bernadetta. Quickly she added, “M-My uncle does business in the Kingdom and the Alliance… W-Which is where you’re from, ri-right?”

Raphael brightened. “Yeah, it is.” He smiled and stared up at the clear blue sky. “It’s a really calm and peaceful place. Nothing like Enbarr, it’s very busy here. Verona is tranquil, and there’s kind people and good food.”

Such a place sounded like heaven. Bernadetta slightly longed for it for a moment before remembering herself. 

He’s probably hiding something. She thought. Everyone in the ton is.

Silently, she wondered if she could trust him. Bernadetta remained at war with her anxiety and her heart: she was intrigued by him, yet her mind kept whispering terrible circumstances and possibilities to her. 

Bernadetta’s hands trembled as Raphael smiled at her. Heinous schemes and insidious smiles danced wildly in her mind. Is he plotting something? She wondered. A trick to make fun of her before the entire park, where rich families and important nobles with their unseen eyes could catch her foolish mistake and spread it upon the ton? 

Maybe he’d try to seduce her? Edelgard had alluded to his needing to marry well and quickly. Heavens, if her Mother saw her here alone with a man, she’d faint. If her father did too… well…

“I made sure to take good care of the poetry book.” Raphael said, and Bernadetta flinched a little at his voice. “I hope it’s in the condition you had it last.”

She felt for the book in her pocket, where it always was. She soothed a little as her fingers ran over the buttery leather and pulled it out for him to see. There was a new dent in the upper corner, from where it fell out of her hand and against the greenhouse floor.

“I-It still reads the same.” Bernadetta told him.

“I’m glad. Would…”

Bernadetta glanced up from the book and met his eyes for the first time that day. They were such a lovely shade of gold, and the bright clear day made him squint, as if constantly about to boom out laughter. 

“What’s your favourite poem in the book?” Raphael asked quietly.

She blinked once, twice. Trembling, Bernadetta flipped open the book to the single dog-eared page. There was a single paint stain along the side, the colour gold from when she tried to capture Indech’s words in art. A few wet marks, from when she read it in an attempt to soothe the sadness that consumed her so deeply.

The poem spoke to forbidden love: one brought together gently and then torn apart with vicious strength. His words had always taken Bernadetta, even when she read as a young girl. The pain, the joy, the layers of emotion within his lines. It fascinated her how it could be read multiple ways: hatred, adoration, woe, joy, pitiful, worshipping.

“Would you read it to me?” Raphael asked.

Her face coloured as she fumbled with the book. “I-I c-couldn’t!” She stammered, glancing to Leonie and Ignatz who remained blissfully ignorant and in their own world. “It would be ha-hardly appropriate being seen reading poetry with some man who I do not…”

“I’m sorry.” He said quickly, but not lacking in sincerity. “Miss Varley, I’m sorry. I’m still getting used to all these noble things. Manners. Noble manners.”

Bernadetta’s brow knit. “I’ve… I-I’ve heard that this is your first social season in Adrestia.”

He nodded. “My sister and I come from Leicester… As you suspected before.” He said. “Gloucester insisted we come and stay here for the season.”

“W-What for?”

She realized that it was the wrong question to ask as his smile dipped a little. Without pause or sigh, he told her: “There’s little to my name. It would be beneficial to Maya or I if I married someone of good name and rank. She’s too young so…”

No man would confess such a thing, let alone a nobleman. 

Bernadetta stared at Raphael and felt, for the first time, a sense of solidarity within him.

“I understand the position you find yourself in.” She murmured as guilt began to eat away at her. She judged him too quickly.

“Thank you.” He said. “Gloucester has been really good to both my sister and I, giving us the guest house to live in, inviting us to events. We’ve made great connections.”

Bernadetta glanced over her should and to Leonie. “He… He’s been that good to you?”

Raphael nodded. “He’s ensured that we’ve never been in bad shape. Bringing us here is just another kindness.”

Leonie’s description of Mr Gloucester did not match Raphael’s. Privately, she thought about calling upon him and inviting him to tea, drawing her own deductions; but quickly remembering herself, Bernadetta could never do such a thing. That required tact and courage, both of which she lacked. She resolved to deduce from afar, certain that such a man of rank and wealth would attend all that the social season has to offer. 

“Even if I don’t marry this season, he’s arranged for us to be taken care of… Maya especially. His youngest sister, Miss Priscilla is a little older than Maya and can guide her. She’ll get an education better than what I can give.”

“Th-That’s very kind of him.”

“He can be a bit… Crunchy on the outside, but deep down he’s all soft.” Raphael assured her. “Promise.”

A silence fell between the two of them. In it, Bernadetta found treacherous guilt, eating away at her. She had been too quick to judge, poisoned by her father’s obsession with her marrying well and so certain of a deceit within Raphael that never existed. He seemed far kinder than any other man Bernadetta had met during the season, and earnestly kind to her despite her reservations and contempt and awful treatment.

These traits of patience and kindness—which Bernadetta would value in the years to come and slowly grow to love about him—made Raphael Kirsten seem the kindest and best of men. All others, as the season would progress, would pale in comparison to the warmth and generosity of the gentleman. In fact, upon reflection in the autumn months, Bernadetta would realize she had already been deeply affected and endeared by him.

“M-Mr Kir-Kirsten.” Bernadetta’s voice wobbled as he turned his attention back to her.

“Yes?”

“IfearImayhavejudgedyoutooquickly.”

Raphael’s brow furrowed. Her eyes blurred with tears, a most inopportune thing. She sniffled and reached for her handkerchief, while fighting every desire to run away. Her words slurred together. “Iwaswrongtojudgeyoubeforeknowingyou.”

“Miss Varley, you’re speaking pretty fast…”

“I want to apologize.” She said firmly and quiet. She swallowed hard, steeled her nerves and met his concerned gaze. “You caught me when I fell at the ball and I never thanked you. Then in the greenhouse, you were only trying to be polite, and I was terrible to you and you went to the trouble of returning my book. And on the street, I was—I was so rude to you… You’ve been nothing but kind and sweet and I’ve been… Oh, I’ve been… I’m sorry, Mr Kirsten.”

Raphael’s expression did not change. “It’s okay.”

“O-Okay?” She asked incredulously. “I-I’ve been awful to you! You should be furious with me!”

“Come on now,” he said gently. “It’s fine. I wasn’t bothered by it, I promise.”

Thus began a long a back and forth of blame-taking and apologizing, garnering the attention of their party. Raphael heaved a sigh after the five-minute mark and took her hand briefly, causing Miss Varley to blush bright red.

“Okay, let’s just say it was both our faults and move on?”

“C-Clean slate?”

“Clean slate.”

Bernadetta breathed a sigh of relief, her hand against her chest. “I-I’d like that.” 

“Seems we’re both outcasts in the… er, what’s it called again?”

“Ton.”

“Yeah. Town.” She bit back a giggle at his innocent auditory mistake. “Maybe we can rely on each other a bit. You know a lot about being noble, right?”

She half-shrugged, unsure of her own place as a lady, where she fit in society. “A bit… Yeah…”

“And you have a bit of trouble talking to people, yeah?” Raphael asked as she nodded, “What if you helped me with getting used to society, and I can help you with talking to people?” 

“Y-You? That… That could be tough.”

“You were doing pretty well before.”

“T-That was before I knew who—” She caught herself. “M-My nerves… M-Maybe if you faced the other way.”

“Sure.” Raphael turned his back to her, now facing the lovely trees and shrubberies all around the park. “How’s this?”

Bernadetta stared at his back, her nerves still fluttering wildly. “It’s still… er…. a lot.”

“That’s okay. Small steps make strides eventually.”

Her nerves lightened at such a notion. She swallowed hard. “Okay… I’ll give it a try.”

For nearly a half hour, they discussed noble conversation, proper topics and things to do. Bernadetta, so consumed with keeping her nerves at bay and correcting Raphael’s conduct and manners, did not notice that Leonie told her party that she was going to take a turn about the park. Nor did Bernadetta see Leonie and Lorenz walk in the distance, something that would have scandalized her and sent her to Leonie’s side in equal parts curiosity and concern.

The afternoon passed in happy interlude, and Bernadetta, finally easy to Raphael, departed with a smile on her face and a spring not found before in her step. 

Chapter Text

As the minister of religion, Grégoire’s whole month was consumed by preparing for the goddess’s rite of rebirth. His position as the head of the Adrestian minister of religion—and residing in the heart of Adrestia—assured Bernadetta that he would be rather busy during the month, quite torn away from his home and family, especially from his eldest daughter.

Back in Burgundy, Grégoire would easily avoid his duties as minister of religion and ruler of the territory, instead entertaining travelling dignitaries and the friends who graciously kept him in their pocketbooks. But in Enbarr, beneath both the prime minister and emperor’s eyes and before the entire ton and public, it became harder to avoid work and evade his duties. 

Besides, being the minister of religion during one of the most important religious events in the calendar year put Grégoire once more in the spotlight, and as a result, his family too, namely, Bernadetta.

At least before the Blue Sea Star disappeared into the sky and the rituals became idle teatime talk in the vein of remarking on fashions and gossip. The space of time between these events allowed Bernadetta to be unfettered and unwatched. Her mother was just as engaged as her father, helping arrange dinner parties, teatimes and other social events in between running the house as usual. These blessed distractions provided her with ample time to be called upon by a servant—dispatched by Lorenz Gloucester of all people—to leave the manor for activities outside her home.

Most were walks in the privacy of the Gloucester Enbarr Great House grounds, amongst manicured fields with the private pond and lush rose garden. But on occasion their party—Leonie, Bernadetta, Raphael and sometimes Lorenz too—enjoyed croquet, lawn bowling, backgammon (which Bernadetta was prevailed upon to teach to Raphael during a rainy, humid afternoon) and of course, teatime. 

At first, Bernadetta could understand why Leonie did not like Lorenz at all. He was pompous, self-centred and a tad rude. But where Leonie was brash, Bernadetta was constant: she observed him from behind a gloved hand of cards where he commended for her play in whist; then again from below the shade of a tree he insisted they take their ease beneath before continuing their walk; and from the chair next to him where they sat at teatime and when he spoke kindly to his servants.

Bernadetta took note of all these small shards of good manners, of kind actions, of genteel moments and observed them with care and criticism. They showed, most obviously, whenever Leonie was around. They practically shone then: the polite greetings, the respectful waiting upon her, the kindness that exuded from his entire spirit, and everlasting patience despite the heavy weight of nobility upon his shoulders.

Bernadetta saw all these things with eyes as clear as a blue sky: she knew he deeply liked Leonie… Who, of course, scarcely had a nice word to say about him.

“W-Why do you hate him so?” Bernadetta asked as they took a turn about the drawing room. Leonie had taken Bernadetta’s arm and practically pulled her up from her seat at backgammon.

Leonie coloured for a split second and then looked as if she’d bitten into a lemon. “My entire village is indebted to him, remember?” She said indignantly. “Do I need more to hate him for?”

“T-That’s his father.” Bernadetta said quietly, thinking of her own home in Burgundy and the similar issues there. “‘One shan’t hold the sins of the father against the son.’ Saint Cichol said that.”

“Don’t get religious on me.” Leonie grumbled. Then, remembering who she was and who she was speaking to, levelled her tone and annoyance. “I… I just don’t like him. I think he’s stuck-up and rude and I doubt he even has a heart…”

Bernadetta rested her hand over Leonie’s. “You don’t need to explain it to me.” She assured Leonie. “I apologize for asking.”

“Oh don’t worry Bernie. I just… I think he’s a thingumbob.”

Bernadetta snorted once at this, garnering a similar reaction from Leonie. She quickly hid her face in Leonie’s shoulder. Leonie cleared her throat and began talking about the weather and the state of the roads as Bernadetta collected herself.

Their party was often meeting and passing time at the Gloucesters’ estate, given Raphael’s position as Lorenz’s guest. Most days, Bernadetta was hidden from the ton and society, in the comfortable company of Raphael, Leonie, Lorenz and a few times, Ignatz Victor, who Bernadetta easily bonded with over painting. They duelled once or twice on painting techniques to the confused delight of their friends. 

After many afternoons with Raphael, Bernadetta’s own fears of speaking had been assuaged to a slight degree. It had progressed so far that Bernadetta was finally able to face him while speaking—but still unable to stare him in the eyes when they conversed.

The Kirsten siblings were put up at the Gloucester family’s guesthouse, only a short walk across the property from the main house. It was no larger than a small parsonage, with a tiny garden off the edge of the property; given the seasonal use of the manor, it was rarely occupied. Raphael had explained to Bernadetta—with his back to her most rudely and comfortably—that Lorenz insisted he and Maya have somewhere to take guests and offer dinner parties and other affairs. Such an offer, without request for financial compensation or allusion to a favour, was quite generous. 

Before censuring herself, Bernadetta asked him at tea one afternoon. Leonie had been out on the property, exploring the beautiful grounds and Ignatz had been engaged with the Viscountess Nuvelle.

“Oh.” Raphael shifted in his chair. It was too small for him, as was everything in the house, even his clothes at times. That day, he wore a most inappropriate shirt, rolled up to his elbows and stretched thin across his broad chest. He wore only a vest, which emphasized the strain by the pull on the poor buttons. Bernadetta, conversely, had been dressed in one of her nicer gowns by the servants upon seeing the violets and reds of the Gloucester carriage. Her hair had been brushed and set in curls that framed her face and secured in a topknot. Accessorized in a gold and silk, she had walked across the property, almost sweating off the carefully-applied powder and rouge, the latter was unneeded as soon as Raphael welcomed her into the house.

“I guess you’d call it guilt.” Raphael said at last.

“G-Guilt?” Bernadetta asked, surprised. 

Raphael nodded, uttered a soft, “yeah,” and then took a sip of his tea. 

Bernadetta stared at him with wide-eyes, waiting for more. “Y-You can’t just claim his guilt and not add to it!” Bernadetta admonished and quickly reproached herself after a momentary pause. “M-Mr Kirsten… What do you mean guilt? Did Mr Gloucester do something to you?”

He half-shrugged and gave her an easy smile. “It’s in the past, Miss Varley.”

Bernadetta glanced down into her teacup. “I-If you’d rather not t-talk about it to a stranger, I understand…”

“But you’re not a stranger, you’re a friend.”

Colour returned to Miss Varley’s pale complexion. She sat in silence for a long while, both revelling and mourning in the knowledge of being considered his friend. After a moment of reflection, she spoke:

“He provides you with a home, meals, connections…” she murmured. “It’s a lot… A guilty conscience or desire to assist the less-fortunate would make sense…”

“Gloucester—and Victor I guess—they both think that they influenced my parents’ death.”

Bernadetta’s eyes widened. “Wh-What?” 

“Ignatz’s parents were supposed to appraise some weapons out in Derdriu, the capital of Leicester. At the last moment, they weren’t able to, so my parents went instead.” Raphael explained in a quiet, perfected rehearsal. “There was a wolf attack, one that was provoked. Rumours say it was brought on by Count Gloucester, Lorenz’s father. The way Lorenz acts towards me makes me think it was true—”

He paused pensively, a shadow of gloom overtook his countenance. Quickly it disappeared, and he said quietly: “But like I said, it doesn’t really matter. What’s important now is finding a way to provide for Maya and I.”

“W-What about your parents’ business?” Bernadetta asked, then quickly bit down on her tongue. Oh, that was impertinent. 

“I had to sell it. The manor, the business, the furniture, everything. It paid off outstanding debts left by my parents, paid the staff at our home and then bought a cottage where Maya and I could live comfortably.” He explained. “But to be honest, Miss Varley, there’s not a whole ton left, definitely not enough to give Maya a dowry or anything of that nature.”

A pit, large and looming, developed in the bottom of Bernadetta’s stomach. The little cakes that she had brought and that had taunted her on the carriage ride over ceased to tempt her. She stared into her teacup.

“I think Gloucester wants to make amends, but really, there’s nothing to make.”

“B-But your parents…”

She felt Raphael’s eyes on her and her panic and guilt grew twofold. “Was it his doing?” She asked to her teacup.

“No. Couldn’t have been.” He said. “Besides, Gloucester isn’t like that, not at all.”

“How old was he?”

“Same as me at the time. Five and ten years. We were at school together, it’s how we met.”

The pit grew bigger. At 15, she was training to become a wife, tied to chairs, forced to remain still, insults hurled at her; forced to grow into a woman. At 15, he was planning funerals, selling a business, leaving a childhood home; forced to grow into a man.

Silence took over for a long while. The tick of the Napoleon hat clock was their only company as Bernadetta and Raphael stared at the cups filled with spiced ginger tea and honey and the fluffy custard cakes that tempted them both once long ago. The quiet, unlike others that Bernadetta had sat in, was warm and welcomed, allowing her a moment of quiet mediation.

In that silence, she came to two conclusions.

The first, that Lorenz Gloucester, contrary to Leonie’s belief, did possess a heart. A very kind one, perhaps buried beneath layers of armour and gold to protect it.

The second, that Raphael was deserving of her friendship. Far too deserving, in many ways; he was kind-hearted and generous with his time and patience. Few other people would give her such support.

I should tell him that. Thought Bernadetta with a nervous twinge of guilt. 

“Mr Kirsten,” Bernadetta breathed softly.

Raphael looked up, and for the first time, Bernadetta attempted to meet and hold his gaze. Her eyes dragged up the fabric of his vest, stuck at his throat.

“La! Raph, I’m home!”

Bernadetta tore her gaze from Raphael and belatedly realized that empathetic tears were rolling down her face. In the breakfast room hall stood Miss Maya Kirsten in a butter-yellow frock with a beige shawl and her thick hair plaited down her back. It took Bernadetta a moment to realize exactly who she was, as every other time Bernadetta has been at the guesthouse Maya had been absent. She had begun to think she was a figment of her imagination, or a joke between Lorenz and Raphael.

Raphael’s chair whined loudly against the hardwood and the floorboards wheezed as he got to his feet. “My,” Raphael said. “I thought you were going to be longer.”

Realizing that the girl before her was indeed Raphael’s sister, Bernadetta quickly rose and flushed with colour. 

Raphael was calm and cordial as he spoke: “Maya, manners—I mean, I’d like to introduce—”

Maya came barreling forth, short of stature but apparently a force to be reckoned with. She pushed past Raphael as if he were nothing but a pile of dried leaves. Her voice, both gentle and excited, erupted in a delighted giggle. “Miss Varley, it is a pleasure and an honour!” She exclaimed and politely curtseyed. 

Bernadetta coloured further and fell to her own awkward curtsey. Her lips fastened shut and her eyes focused on the floor.

“I’ve heard so much about you from our friends Gloucester and Victor, and of course, Raph. You’re talked about a lot in the ton a lot too!” Maya praised. “You’re much prettier than they say.”

Bernadetta managed to find her voice. “Th-Thank you.”

“They always say you’re the most accomplished debutante on the marriage market, well-sought after, but they forgot to mention your beauty. You are blooming! Absolutely fetching!” 

Bernadetta murmured another ‘thank you’ through her teeth. She stole glances at the Kirsten siblings as Raphael took Maya’s shawl and bonnet, insisting for her to take her ease as he took them to the closet in the hall. Maya sat across from Bernadetta, a sly smile upon her lips. “I hadn’t realized you and my brother were so well-acquainted.”

“My,” Raphael said in a warning tone. “Don’t pry.”

“I-It’s by a connection.” Bernadetta insisted. “M-Miss Pinelli is a dear friend of mine and also a guest of Mr Gloucester’s I believe?”

“Oh you mean Miss Leonie!” Exclaimed Maya in realization. “She is quite the character. I saw her appraising some… er… hunted fowl in town the other day and she was telling me the best way to shoot squirrels. Did you know that the cleanest shot is in the—”

“Okay, Maya!” Raphael mercifully interrupted. “Did you want to join us for tea? Miss Varley brought custard cakes!”

“Y-Yes,” said Bernadetta in a quaking tone. “M-My chef made them earlier today.“

Maya passed a cursory glance between the two and grinned. “I should love to.” She said. “You could tell me all about your accomplishments… See if you live up to this grand idea that the ton has of you.”

To live up to the ton’s grand idea of her? Could she do that? She was just a twenty year-old girl who wanted to sew and play her instruments and write her stories in peace. Her heart beat in double time at the thought of defending herself against these foolish grand ideas that other people concocted of her.

The pressure to live up to that image became too much and quickly Bernadetta rose from her seat. “A-Actually, I should b-be going.” She murmured quickly between apologies. “I-I promised Miss Pinelli I’d see her for cribbage this afternoon. Sh-She’s very competitive about betting games and cards. We have a very intense streak going.”

Maya quickly changed her tune. “In that case, Miss Varley, let me guide you out to the stables? Gloucester gets rather pouty if we don’t properly wait on our guests. It makes a bad impression on him.”

Bernadetta had no choice but to accept Maya entreaty despite wanting to be far from her. Bernadetta wordlessly nodded and the two ladies donned their bonnets. Bernadetta bade Raphael goodbye—insisting he keep the custard cakes and relishing in how delighted his voice became when he thanked her for them.

Waving goodbye to her host, Bernadetta followed Maya along the perfectly gravelled pathway from the guesthouse towards the manor. A few steps along, Maya linked her arm through Bernadetta’s. Bernadetta startled, blushed and flinched from Maya’s touch.

“Oh, I’d thought we’d walk close.” Maya said quietly, with earnest confusion and slight disappointment.

“I-I’m just of nervous disposition.” Bernadetta said. “I like my sp-space.”

“Oh.” Maya murmured and withdrew her hand. “Forgive me, Miss Varley.”

Not wanting to let conversation slip and become a dull partner, Bernadetta fumbled for a topic. “I-I understand you’re being educated with the Miss Gloucesters.”

“Yes.” Maya said cheerfully. “Gloucester arranged it. The governess and girls tolerate my being around, but I know it’s easier if it were just the three of them. But Mr Gloucester insists. Says it’s only right.”

“A-Are the girls kind?”

“Oh yes. They have the best manners.” She explained. “They’re so gentle and kind. Miss Marguerite has the finest taste and Miss Priscilla is so lively and high-spirited. She asks the best questions!”

“That’s g-good.”

“Yes.” Maya said, then added. “It helps my marriage prospects.” Quickly, she heaped on: “But you know better than me on the topic on men and matches. Regardless, anything helps. Everything helps.”

Without censuring herself, Bernadetta quietly asked: “Yo-You can’t be more than six and ten years.” She insisted.

“True. I am only five and ten winters old.” Maya confirmed.

“I-I know the feeling.”

“Of what, Miss Varley?”

Not realizing she’d spoken, Bernadetta cursed herself for her lack of propriety. They walked up the gravel path, away from the splendid rose garden that was in full bloom. The Gloucester Enbarr Great House was quite beautiful, though Bernadetta could not compare it to their home in Leicester, for she had never been; still, she could not imagine it being more handsomely furnished and kept than this one.

“O-Of being pressured to marry so young.” Bernadetta confessed. “Do keep it… q-quiet.”

“Of course, you have my word.” Maya promised solemnly. After a moment of silence, she added, “I suppose all ladies are in the same boat, so to speak.”

Bernadetta supplied: “Marry or become a spinster.”

“I’m surprised, though, that the Varley line doesn’t entail inheritance to you. Has your father amended it? Given your wealth and accomplishments…”

Once more forgetting to censure herself, Bernadetta murmured: “My father would rather not give me anything.” She squeaked and swallowed hard. “P-Pretend you didn’t hear that…”

“Perhaps a change of topic then!” Maya insisted before smiling at Bernadetta with equal parts joy and deviousness. “I’ve not seen my brother this happy in a long time. He hides it well, but I know he has much to worry about.”

“I-Indeed.”

“You bring a lot of joy into his life, Miss Varley. I’m quite glad you’re in it.”

Bernadetta blushed bright red and all words left her in an instant. Maya glanced up at Bernadetta with a look of intrigue. “Should I expect… Further attachment between you two?”

“Mi-Miss Kirsten, such an expectation would be unfounded and mistaken!” Bernadetta said quickly. One of the servants noticed them enclosing on the house and turned to order one of the carriages to take her home to Varley Manor. “Your brother and I are friends.” She fought off the urge to think back to Raphael’s assertion of so. “That’s it. Even friends is a strained title.”

Maya’s expression became surprised and almost shocked. “I see.” Maya said slowly after a moment. “Though…”

“Though?”

“My brother speaks highly of you.” Maya said in the utmost confidence. “He claims that you are one of the finest ladies in the ton. He’s often surprised that you haven’t received any offers of marriage. I read him the society papers everyday.”

Bernadetta swallowed hard. “I-It shouldn’t be surprising to him.” She said. “Or you. I-I’m sure you’ve heard of the f-fall I took at the Emperor’s ball?”

Maya nodded. “My brother spoke of it once or twice.” Maya said as Bernadetta cringed. “But he speaks of you, just you, most kindly.”

“Y-Your brother is the k-kindest and best of me-men.” Bernadetta said softly. “The ton cannot appreciate his goodness.”

Nor I. Bernadetta thought quietly to herself.

A fountain sat at the centre of the driveway, a marble statue carved in the supposed likeness of the Gloucesters’ ancestor of the same name. He stood regally, surrounded by cherubs and splendour, holding what looked like a wand. Such grandeur and excess would gain the approval of her father.

“Regardless,” Maya called her attention as they exited the gates and walked along the gravel path to the front drive. “I’m glad he has you to call a friend.” Maya said. “You bring such joy and light into his life.”

Bernadetta glowed bright red and confessed, “H-He does the same to mine.”

The carriage came around the corner, the horses hooves beating rhythmically. The footman helped Bernadetta up inside the box. Maya stood on her tip-toes, exposing her stockings in a most unladylike way. “I hope you’ll call upon us again soon, Miss Varley. I would love to have you for a meal, or an afternoon or tea.”

“I h-hope to be able to call upon you soon.” 

Maya waved farewell, running along the carriage down the long drive and to the gates. Bernadetta turned, looking outside the glass window at the waving young girl, her features blurring as the distance parted the two. 

Once alone with her thoughts, Bernadetta found them consumed completely with Mr Kirsten.

From the window in her bedroom, Bernadetta could see the return of the Blue Sea star at night. She marked it day by day until it stood at it’s peak, the highest point before it would disappear for another calendar year. 

Bathed in a glow of azure, cerulean and midnight blues, Enbarr became a city of piety, of worship, of godly idolatry. The same people she heard jest goddess and Saint Seiros’s teachings at dinner parties and activities, took to dietary restrictions, solemn prayer and attending church. Such were masks, interchangeable to the ton: the pious family was also the family who secretly ate those forbidden foods with the blinds drawn and shutters closed. The man who greeted everyone with “good morning, goddess bless you” was the same who took her name in vain for life’s tiniest squabbles. And the woman who spent her days in thoughtful prayer and projected an image of saintly reverence let her mind wander freely whilst her body went through the motions of prayer.

Grégoire, however, put them all to shame: he was the greatest false preachers of them all, pasting on stretched smiles and uttering blessings to all his wealthy allies. During that month, the Varley brood was seen at every church function, from early morning services to late evening masses.

His entire family was a fixed feature beneath the grey bricks upon the uncomfortable hardwood pews in the church. The entire family—including Bernadetta’s elder brothers with their wives and children—returned, filling the house to the rafters. Soon, the rite of rebirth was upon the city.

The ceremony—a long, arduous affair to those who were disinterested in the church or religion—engaged most of the ton in the finest church in Enbarr. Ceremonial wine was drunk and mournful prayers of forgiveness and penance and suffering were exchanged. Even the emperor, and his outwardly cynical and impious heir, attended, causing a frenzy for dithering, gossipy ladies.

The Varleys, like other families, took this opportunity to dress finely and show off their false assets of silk and gold, of fine carriages and good shoes. The boys, Louis and Francois, both donned inappropriate waist coats with gilded threads. The ladies, Heloïse, Colette and Bernadetta herself, were all dressed in fine bonnets and well-to-do gowns of rich colour to catch eyes. Cast off were the traditional drab browns and greys so used to being seen in church; only Emmanuel and his wife, a clergyman himself and rather devoted to the church, donned these colours and observed the ceremony as it ought to have been.

The Varleys’ association with the ministry of religion granted the family a seat closest the front, nearest to the emperor and his heir; and Bernadetta herself was situated with her siblings in order of birth. She was squashed between her brother Emmanuel’s wife Rosaline and her little brother, Francois.

With her eyes to her feet, Bernadetta listened to the story of the goddess Sothis and Saint Seiros: her birth, Saint Seiros’s arrival, her being called to action by Sothis, trials and tribulations of the saint, the war and eventually, the origins of the Church of Seiros.

Bernadetta listened rather intently to the service, once again enraptured by the story. It had always interested her, such bravery and courage, to the point that Miss Varley had gone out of her way to reread the book in the family’s library, despite most of her family loathing the day for it’s length and pandering.

The bishop called for a moment of silent reflection, of prayer. Many in the congregation lowered their heads, but Bernadetta raised hers up and scanned the crowds. She observed and recognized the bonnets and hats of many members of the ton, of ministers and their families. Turning her head, she recognized the pious bowled head of Ignatz Victor, and, beside him, Raphael and Maya; and further ahead sat Lorenz in reverent prayer.

Bernadetta had assumed Raphael would not be a pious man, given his immense losses. She assumed, or at least knew in his situation, that she would not forgive so easily, nor turn to the goddess. But across the aisle, she observed him.

Have they been to a Blue Sea star service before? Bernadetta wondered. What’s the service like in Leicester? Are they more pious there? Or is it all a warn-out illusion like it is here…

A cacophony of shifting cloaks, of groaning benches and screamed murmurs of ‘what a lovely service’ erupted as the liturgy ended. Raphael, across the aisle, rose his head, and for a split second, met Bernadetta’s gaze.

She felt colour rush to her cheeks. He smiled at her, greeted her with the fondest nod of his head and a lifted hand in a gentle wave and Bernadetta, struck by his notice of her, panicked. She turned her gaze back to the floor, fighting the urge to crawl beneath the pew and quiver like a scared child. 

Contrary to what Bernadetta believed, Grégoire was no fool, nor was he blind.

He knew that Lorenz Gloucester’s interest in her was not serious. The Gloucesters were extravagant in everything they did: if he was truly courting Bernadetta, there would have been heralds and servants delivering their famous roses to the estate at all hours, there would have been poetry and sonnets delivered, offerings of Gloucester goods like food and fashions and tea, and he would have called. And furthermore, Grégoire had never seen the boy around his estate; in fact the only semblances he’d seen of Lorenz was his stationery, not even his own handwriting.

His spies, while unable to penetrate the Gloucesters’ serving staff, were blanketed far and wide and had been able captured some information. The first, while Grégoire worked away, arranging the ridiculous rite of rebirth, his foolish daughter had been continually invited to the Gloucester Enbarr Great House. Second, that most times she was invited, his spies had seen Lorenz engaged with another woman who held his attention much better than Bernadetta’s: a vulgar hussy with short hair and abominable conduct and manners. Third, that each time his daughter returned, she was positively red in the face and hurrying to her room to cover it up in vain with powder.

Grégoire was well-aware that Bernadetta was being courted by another man, he had just been unable to figure out who. At first, he hoped that it would be Ferdinand von Aegir, as he had shown particular interest in her at the beginning of the season. Given Ferdinand friendly manners to Lorenz as the old noble houses stood on cordial terms, it seemed likely, but it was not to be: none of his spies spotted Ferdinand anywhere near the Great House, barring one occasion. In truth, Ferdinand’s imminent proposal was an occasion that Grégoire was banking on to save the Varleys’ ravished war chest and worn pocketbook.

A marriage between the minister of religion’s daughter and the prime minister’s son would propel the church’s importance, once more marrying the state and religion in both a figurative and literal sense. In addition, the Aegirs’ vast wealth would help chip away at the surmounting debts Grégoire was accumulating with his parties and dinners. Realizing this golden opportunity, he started to try and keep the Varleys—and, of course, Bernadetta—at the top of mind socially and aesthetically. 

But upon his spy’s most recent report his hopes were dashed: the street urchin had confessed to Grégoire that he had saw a blonde young lady walk with Bernadetta within the Gloucester estate and bade her farewell. The Aegirs were all ginger-haired and tall, willowy and lean; this young girl was stout and blonde.

As the moment of silent prayers and reflection fell over the congregation, Grégoire cracked open an eye and caught his daughter looking up from her reverence. Bernadetta had never been quite so religious—in fact, no one in the Varley family was, save for his foolish son, Emmanuel—but an illusion was crucial to affirming that she was a pious, submissive, sweet-tempered young lady who would be the perfect wife. Men, as Grégoire misunderstood, wanted obedient, subservient wives; what better way to prove obedience than prayer?

He was seconds away from reaching across his useless sons and smacking her leg, hissing at her to bow her head and pray. Grégoire’s eyes followed her gaze on a crooked axis, and saw what—namely, who—she was staring at.

Her eyes were fixed on massive boulder of a man in ill-fitting clothes. The same man who rudely stopped Grégoire and his family in the street to return a stupid book of all things. She stared at him unabashedly, in church, during perhaps the most important service on one of the most sacred days of the year.

Such a moment rose every alarm in Grégoire’s mind and remained active as the service concluded. While his family commented on the holy words under false pretences of piety and waited for the carriage, Grégoire took the future into his hands.

Bernadetta was his key to financial security. His eldest son was almost as destitute as he, his second son scarcely spoke to him and made pennies as a vicar, all his allies would refuse him if he requested a loan, and raising the taxes in Varley was not an option if he wanted to keep his head and avoid a bloody rebellion. Bernadetta would have to marry well and soon to save the family from failure, certain ruin and social death. 

I was a fool to think she’d submit willingly. Grégoire reproached himself as he observed Bernadetta sinking back from her sisters and mother.

Quickly, he caught sight of Ludwig von Aegir, the prime minister and his very pretty, very foolish wife. Their children clustered around them in a sea of ginger heads, silk dresses and cotton coats. Grégoire left his family, and as practiced as he could, gracefully caught into step with Ludwig. In his most pleasing tone, he begged: “Ludwig, your attention, for just a moment?”

Ludwig heaved a sigh, tired from the service and already exhausted by the crooked minister of religion, Count Grégoire von Varley.

“Grégoire.” He greeted with an annoyed sigh. To him, Grégoire had never been anything but a grasping sycophantic lech, who desired more than his eyes could behold. Even as young men in the ton—many years ago that had been—Ludwig had no time nor patience for such a man, and the sentiment still stood. He resented every moment he had to spend with him and each time they so much as glanced at each other.

Yet all the same, he slowed to a stop and allowed Grégoire to stand before him and bow. With false-kind disposition, Grégoire offered his blessings: “I hope the Blue Sea Star holiday blesses your family, as it does mine.”

“Indeed.” Ludwig stole a glance back to Grégoire’s rather large family. “It does bless yours.”

Grégoire’s silence signalled much more to discuss, and without so much as a sideways glance, Ludwig left his wife and heirs behind, and the two slipped into the shadows of the dark arches of the church.

“Might I speak frankly, your grace?” Asked Grégoire quietly.

Ludwig inclined his head, slightly intrigued to hear if the rumours were true regarding the Varleys’ disappearing inheritance. Talk of a lack of ministers and clergymen in the seminary, a disinterest in a goddess who scorned the arid land of Varley with infertility and drought amongst other problems had pushed suitors away from the ever-accomplished Miss Varley from the start.

Any inclinations in attaching House Aegir to House Varley that Ludwig had were tossed away with nary a glance at the Varley family’s fine outfits and powdered smiles. They were all finely-dressed, all except Grégoire’s second child, a clergyman himself and his wife, who were dressed in plainer, more appropriate clothes for church. An illusion, of course, to dispel that talk.

“Of course, Varley.” Ludwig said, hiding his interest. His eyes caught and settled on his debutante daughter, dressed in rich purples and sparkling golds.

Grégoire—at every opportunity, mentioned his daughter—from social events to teatime. This moment was no different. “I am certain you are aware of my daughter’s eligibility upon the marriage market?”

How he hounded her like a dog with false love, insisting she stood up ‘straighter darling’, ‘smile my dear’, ‘greet Mister Whatshisface of Whositville.’ Supposedly, his boys married decently, at least the eldest did, but the younger children were to marry better to maintain the Varley name and prestige. 

“Is she?” Asked Ludwig callously. “I did not recall.”

If Ludwig remembered correctly, Bernadetta was the same age as his boy, Ferdinand. Upon his viewing her from afar, she was of dour complexion and a nervous disposition, her grey eyes always downcast, her brow knit in an anxious expression, as if waiting for some terrible news or awful truth to drop upon her. She would have make a terrible mother and an even worse wife, not at all living up to the acclaimed title as Duchess Aegir, who had always been a social and lively woman.

Still, Ludwig pitied the poor creature for having to live with Grégoire as a father. Then again, many would pity Ferdinand and his young siblings for having such a cruel bastard of a father.

A strained smile stretched across Grégoire’s lips. “Your eldest, Ferdinand, has shown some interest in my Bernadetta.”

“Has he now?” 

Ludwig remembered Ferdinand dancing with her once or twice at the Emperor’s ball. The poor thing’s dance card was empty, and Grégoire had insisted that she take more partners and dances, while gloating that she was as light on her feet as a starling upon the air. Ferdinand, just and kind, must have danced a few more times with her while Ludwig was at the punch bowl.

“Indeed, he has! He’s called a few times and looks upon her with genuine fondness.” Grégoire prompted. At Ludwig’s silence, he pressed further: “What would you say, dear friend, to perhaps, pushing them along?”

Ludwig raised a brow. “What does Aegir territory gain from it?”

“Varley territory.” Grégoire added hastily. “I will alter my father’s will and line of inheritance to bequeath all assets of Varley—the Enbarr estate, the house in Burgundy, the riches, the connections—to Bernadetta upon my death. In her marriage to Ferdinand, your son shall receive them.”

The gall of changing entailment for a marriage match shocked Ludwig. He turned back to Grégoire and met his gaze, seeing the fires of resolve and desire in his eyes. “You’d disinherit your eldest so easily?”

“Indeed. Louis is a proud boy who knows nothing of hard work. Bernadetta has trained all her life to be a fine wife, she’d lead Varley, and Aegir, well.”

Ludwig pondered it for a moment. He glanced up at his own son, who had broken away from his family to speak with other dignitaries. Ferdinand was speaking, somewhat loudly, to Count Hevring’s odd boy who looked exhausted and half asleep.

“Varley County is but a land of arid straits and infertile land.” Ludwig observed in a low voice. “I mean no offence by it Grégoire, but—”

“It leads to Garreg Mach, where the monastery is.” Grégoire hastily reminded him. “The pathway is clear. You could take control of the roads. Charge a toll for every pious carriage leading up to the monastery, there and then back again.”

Ludwig’s brow raised. “That is rather advantageous.”

“And Varley’s borders are guarded well by archers. Our military, and the weapons we produce, are a hot bed for funds. All we need is a little…push to get back to work, so to speak.” 

Grégoire shared a knowing look with Ludwig.

Predators. Conflicts. Wars. Ludwig and Grégoire would be positively rich with the funds.

“And with Hevring so close, and two noble houses’s assets combined, one might be able to push their mining trade away and tap into it oneself. It’s been decades since Varley’s mountains were mined. Who knows what lay in Oghma?”

Such an invitation could not be refused by such a greedy man. Ludwig donned his gloves once more and pulled his hat on. Leaning close to Grégoire, he spoke: “Do come over this evening. And we shall… discuss the idea of a contact between my Ferdinand and your Bernadetta.”

Grégoire smiled with all the slime of a slug. “I look ever-forward to it, your grace.”

Chapter Text

Before long, Ignatz’s—and as a result, Leonie’s—purpose had been fulfilled and their stay in Enbarr had come to it’s natural conclusion. Bernadetta learned of the portrait for one Viscountess Nuvelle and even saw it’s beautiful subject and completion.

She had called at Leonie and Ignatz’s rented home to gaze at it and marvelled at Ignatz’s use of acrylics. Aquarelles were Bernadetta’s favoured paints, given their double-edged lightness in opacity and need for focus and control. 

“It’s beautiful, Mr Victor.” Gasped Bernadetta as she took in the colours, the sharpness of the paints and the delicacy of his subject. He used an impasto technique, leaving parts of the portrait raised like tiny mountains across the flat canvas. The recipient would certainly be delighted. “Your c-commissioner must be over the m-moon.”

Leonie had gone to help their housekeeper with the tea things, leaving the two alone. Ignatz was of a similar disposition to Bernadetta: shy, lacking in confidence and extremely modest. He blushed when Bernadetta showered him in praise and even grew excited when she noticed the little details that both made the work stand out and go unnoticed by his usual  viewers.

“Leonie tells me that you’re quite the artist too.” Ignatz noted. “I think she thinks you’re the finer artist of us.”

She coloured and shook her head. “S-She’s too generous in her c-compliments.” Lowly, she added, “I might be better if I could have more time to practice. I’m usually at my instruments or reading.”

“I’d love to see your work someday, but that day might not come for a while.” He admitted.

Bernadetta quickly looked at him. “What do you mean?” 

“I-I thought you knew.” Ignatz said nervously. “We’re due home within the week. I’ve been requested to return by my patroness, Countess Gloucester, and Leonie’s grandmother misses her.”

Part of Bernadetta’s heart broke. She had only just reunited with Leonie and they were already being torn apart again. Leonie, the strong one of them, her rock, her stingy hornet who protected her… She would be on her own once more.

Leonie returned just as Ignatz confessed this to Bernadetta. Leonie wore a smile that immediately faded and lowered the tea tray. “Oh goddess, what happened?”

“You’re headed home?” Bernadetta asked in a broken little voice.

Leonie held her gaze and set down the tray on the nearest table. “Unfortunately yes. We can’t trespass on Mr Gloucester’s goodwill any longer.” She insisted. “Besides, we’re both needed back home.”

Bernadetta stared at Leonie then rushed her in an ill-advised embrace. The country girl was knocked back a little and quickly regained her footing. Her arms came around Bernadetta as she sniffled and tried her best not to cry.

“I’m going to miss you, Leo.” She murmured into her chest.

Leonie gently patted her friend’s shoulder and took her by the hand to sit on the couch. In Leonie’s arms, Bernadetta felt stronger, safer. She eased a little, but held tighter to Leonie’s hand which the lady took into her lap and gave a gentle, reassuring pat to.

A servant entered a moment later, curtseying, she addressed Ignatz: “L.H. Gloucester, Mr and Miss Kirsten for you sir.”

Bernadetta sat up and felt Leonie’s grip tighten on her hand. Ignatz gave the two a cursory glance as Leonie drew a handkerchief from her fichu of all places and wiped away the tears on Bernadetta’s face.

A rush of anxiety replaced her melancholy and Bernadetta stood as soon as the gentlemen and young lady entered. The usual greetings were exchanged and Leonie half-begrudgingly called for another pot of tea to be brewed for their now sizeable party. All the while, Bernadetta fixed her gaze on the fireplace with the aim of being as still and as silent as possible and felt her face burn.

He can totally tell you’re all snotty-faced! Just like a child! Thought Bernadetta. Oh Bernie, you fool… He’ll just pity you.

Bernadetta half-paid attention to the discourse, mostly absorbed by her thoughts. Then, leaning close—the whine of his chair gave him away—Raphael broke his conversation with Maya and called upon her: “Are you alright, Miss Varley?”

“Yes, are you?” Chimed Maya.

Bernadetta’s gaze snapped to his and she coloured a deep red. She nodded, sniffled and wiped her face with the back of her hand. The handkerchief was already snotty and she’d have to have it laundered before returning it to Leonie. 

His hand extended to her. In between his thick fingers was a simple white handkerchief. Bernadetta quickly took it and wiped at her eyes. 

At this point, Leonie had turned her attention away from Ignatz and Lorenz’s conversation about repairs and improvements to the parish. Her eyes slid back to Bernadetta and her companions with a sly smirk on her lips; Bernadetta coloured under all the attention.

“Le… Leonie’s just leaving and I’m going to miss her a lot.” She admitted. “W-We’re very close.”

“Really?” Asked Raphael. Maya lifted her eyes from her teacup.

Leonie, at hearing this, crossed the room and joined them. She once more patted her hand gently to soothe her and said: “We met when we were little girls. We don’t get to visit often due to the distance between our homes.” Adding quicker, “If she were closer, I would pester her all the time.”

“Y-You’d never be a bother!” Argued Bernadetta hastily.

“That’s gotta be hard.” He tilted his head over to Ignatz. “Victor has been my best friend since we were little. Maya’s too. Being away from him is always hard. But I try to focus on the reunions.”

Bernadetta pondered on this for a while. With this farewell, a reunion would certainly come soon. It would have to. If she married well, maybe her husband would allow her to have Leonie as her guest for sometime… Perhaps a whole season?

That would be delightful. Thought Bernadetta.

“I-I guess you’re right.” Bernadetta admitted at last. 

Raphael smiled. “There now.” He said. “Maya’s the same way with Victor, but it’s worse. She gets so mad when he leaves; he’s like another brother to her. Once, when she was little, she cried for a whole afternoon.”

Maya squabbled annoyedly, insisting that she did not sob—momentarily turning to excuse herself and insist that she meant to offence to Bernadetta—when they parted from Ignatz. Bernadetta couldn’t help but laugh, thinking about the young Miss Kirsten becoming just as distraught as she; Maya always seemed equal parts coy and genuinely happy.

“Pray, what are you all discussing?” Called Lorenz from across the room. “I do so abhor to be left out.”

Bernadetta could hear Leonie mutter, “If only you’d stay out,” and laughed a little.

Raphael responded. “We’re just trying to think of ways to brighten Miss Varley’s spirits. She’s sad that Ig—Victor and Miss Pinelli are leaving.”

“Perhaps you could play for us.” Suggested Lorenz. “I could call for the harpsichord or lute to be brought from the estate and it would be here within the hour. I remember that Miss Pinelli plays the prior, and Miss Varley, I’m sure you could master any instrument with a few short moments—”

“N-No!” Cried Bernadetta. Catching herself she corrected, “I don’t think I could stand all those eyes on me.”

Maya offered, “I could play a duet with you, Miss Varley. Add Miss Pinelli and we’d be a trio!” 

“Actually,” Leonie said, garnering all their attentions. “Ignatz, you were talking about wanting to see Bernadetta’s art. Maybe there’s enough time for that before she has to leave?”

Miss Varley was prevailed upon to draw, and it was decided that one of ladies of their party would be the subject. Leonie quickly insisted that all her clothes were drab, boring and not fetching enough for a drawing; at this Lorenz looked ready to send a servant to purchase a fine new muslin gown for Miss Pinelli, or find a delicate feather or flower to accentuate her hair.

Maya had confessed her likeness had never been taken. Raphael confirmed this, citing their lack of funds, then leapt forth to secure the opportunity now.

“I’d pay you for it.” Raphael offered. 

“I-I could never take anything!” Realizing the wound she might have inflicted upon Raphael in refusing his money, corrected herself. “I-I meant… M-My craft is n-not yet worthy of compensation…”

“You are both wrong.” Proclaimed Lorenz, once more establishing himself as the highest born in the room, befitted with the supposed best conduct and manners. “Mr Kirsten should realize it is insulting to offer to pay a lady for her accomplishments and Miss Varley should take more pride in such achievements.”

Bernadetta stole a glance at Leonie, who looked as if she were about to slug or swear him into a stupor. Bernadetta’s mind ran wild with many thoughts and concerns on the possibility of drawing Maya Kirsten, with Raphael looming over her shoulder ready to offer compliment or critique. However, one more glance at her dearest friend, and her obvious annoyance at the gentleman in the room, settled her mind irrevocably. 

“I-If it is not too m-much trouble to bring down the easel and supplies, I’d be happy to draw.”

It was all settled. Tea was refreshed and little cakes were brought in by the servant. Raphael was prevailed upon to bring out the easel, as the groundskeeper had been sent out to tend the horses for the long ride and was not to be bothered. 

“I did not realize you were an artist, Miss Varley!” Exclaimed Maya.

“I-I me-merely dabble.” Bernadetta protested softly. She removed her delicate gloves and rolled up the sleeves of her gown, preparing to work.

“That’s a lie.” Leonie proclaimed, suddenly at her shoulder. “Bernadetta is the best artist I’ve ever met.” Throwing an apologetic glance over her shoulder at Ignatz, she said: “Sorry, Ignatz.”

Bernadetta blushed deep red at such a compliment. She wished, with all her heart, that the carpeted floor would open up and swallow her up whole.

“I wish I were able to draw more often.” Said Maya. “We don’t have the supplies a lot of the time. Nor do I have the time with my studies.” She laughed. “I haven’t ever had my likeness taken, even.”

“That’s right!” Raphael piped up. Ignatz was nervously instructing him to set down the easel carefully. “Though, I think it was on Lorenz’s agenda a while back.”

“Indeed. I have not been able to commission an artist yet, and Mr Victor is due to return to Gloucester and cannot be prevailed upon to stay any longer.” Lorenz advised as approached Bernadetta. “I think every lovely young woman ought to have a likeness taken of herself in the prime of her bloom. Surely you have multiples, Miss Varley?”

“I h-have a few, yes.” Bernadetta replied.

“Then you must take Miss Kirsten’s likeness at my noble insistence.”

Bernadetta’s mouth fell agape. To take the likeness of a girl she scarcely knew made her increasingly agitated. Drawing before others was barely tolerable, but a better substitute than playing music before everyone who were lower than her—barring Lorenz. Performing at her father’s dinner parties was barely tolerable, as everyone was of high standing and wealth and knew how to distinguish a good performance form a very poor one; but to four Alliance commoners, they might think her better than her masters, not just well-practiced.

Maya recaptured Bernadetta’s attention as she cried, “I am not wearing my finest! I wouldn’t want to be captured in pencils forever in some dirty frock. Sorry, Gloucester, but I simply must refuse.”

Relief flooded Bernadetta. Speedily, she turned to Leonie and whispered to her desperately, “Be my subject.”

“Bern—”

Clutching her dearest friend’s hand, Bernadetta whispered gravely, “Please.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Leonie acquiesced and proclaimed to them all: “I will be Miss Varley’s subject today.”

There were no objections, and in truth, it was easier for her and Leonie. Leonie would not be subjected to Lorenz’s noble talk any longer, and Bernadetta would be spared Raphael’s loom over her shoulder as she sketched his sister. 

Leonie was perhaps dressed shabbier than Maya, in an old orange dress that had faded with use. Her hair was still quite short, cut before the nape of her neck. Her bloom was evident; bright eyes and a good complexion but there was no colour in her cheeks. Leonie tolerated her little friend buzzing about her, removing her shawl, fanning out her hair and tucking it behind her ears, even pinching her cheeks.

“Is that really necessary?” Leonie hissed as she pinched her cheeks.

“S-Sorry! I’m just trying to get some colour here.” Bernadetta sighed. “You’ve got so many freckles… I think the blush makes them stand out more…”

“Is that a bad thing?”

Bernadetta squeaked. “N-No! I just… I don’t have any… ma-markings like that.” She murmured, “Father makes sure I always have a parasol so I don’t freckle.”

“Lucky you.” Leonie teased, and upon noticing her friend’s melancholy, reached forwards and pinched her cheek in response. “Chin up, Bernie-Bear. It’s better than having to play music.”

“Q-Quit moving!” Bernadetta admonished. Leonie submitted and took the still, stone-like posture of a subject. 

Sensing something lost, Bernadetta looked to the plume of ridiculous roses on the nearby table. They had been a gift from Lorenz as he arrived. Their body and size were perfect. She snatched them up, took Leonie’s arm—much to her annoyance—and rested a few in the crook of her elbow. Finally deeming Leonie’s likeness fit to be taken, she sat behind her easel, rolled up the sleeves of her gown and began to work.

Leonie remained still for the time it took and Bernadetta was largely unbothered. Lorenz and Ignatz spoke quietly of the society papers and shooting and all other proper things while sipping their tea. Maya cut in a few times to offer anecdotes about Lorenz’s sisters, their educations, how they fared, as she was quite close with them. A few times, Bernadetta felt Raphael’s intent gaze on her as she worked; during these strenuous moments, panic consumed her until he was called back to the conversation for his knowledge or opinions on topics they discussed.

While it was merely a sketch, it was quite handsome. Leonie’s features were captured well by the pencils that Ignatz had lent her. Given the short time they would have together, Bernadetta would not be able to capture Leonie’s likeness in paint, nonetheless it was still a wonderful attempt. After she had completed as much as she could—as time withered away and it soon came to the dinner hour—Bernadetta deemed it completed enough to be passable. 

She showed her piece to her subject and her spectators. Ignatz was the most giddy, completely absorbed with her gestures, the focus she’d placed on her face and details that drove Bernadetta to such a state of focus that her head began to ache. Still, she delighted in his analysis, his discussion and regretted not speaking to him sooner about art.

At last, Bernadetta showed Leonie. The country girl stared at it for a long moment, silent for once.“Wow, Bern, it’s… beautiful.” Leonie marvelled. 

“Very beautiful.” Agreed Lorenz in a quiet, almost reverent tone. “This portrait deserves the finest of frames, nothing less will do. Miss Varley, Miss Pinelli, permit me to take their portrait to the heart of the city to be framed?”

Bernadetta glanced to Leonie. “It is up to Leonie. I-I didn’t draw it for myself.”

“Do with it what you please, Mr Gloucester.” Said Leonie.

He reverently bowed. “I shall have it back to you as soon as the proper frame is selected.” He turned back to Bernadetta. “Miss Varley, your talent is… It is beyond words. You are truly accomplished. You must, when we reunite, draw Miss Kirsten too.”

Bernadetta tensed, and glancing at the siblings, hesitated.

“Come.” Lorenz said. “I cannot do without a promise.”

Maya interjected, arguing, “Oh come on, Gloucester, that’s a lot to ask of Miss Varley.”  

“Let her do what she likes.” Raphael piped up in Bernadetta’s defence. 

Something in her pushed forwards in this promise, and she said: “I promise to take your likeness someday, M-Miss Kirsten.” She told Maya. “You can h-hold me to it.”

“There now.” Said Lorenz. “I believe we are all happy and pleased.”

“Perfect. You’ll do me well, I’m sure!” Maya exclaimed, then turning to Ignatz, apologized.

He simply smiled and said, “None taken. Miss Varley’s skill at portraiture surpasses mine.” He said. “I’m a far better landscape painter.”

Following the presentation of the piece, a plan was devised: the house would be packed up and Ignatz and Leonie would take the night at the Gloucester Enbarr Great House, where they, the Kirsten siblings, Lorenz, and if willing, Bernadetta, would share a final meal together. 

Bernadetta, already realizing she had spent much time away from home, insisted she was not able to stay. No amount of prevailing could induce her, and the party was deprived of her company. Lorenz still insisted in conveying Bernadetta home to Varley’s estate in his carriage, which was already transporting everyone to the Great House.

This, of course, was fought against. Finally, they came to the compromise that the carriage would drop Bernadetta off in the square a short distance outside of the manor’s grounds. Bernadetta reluctantly agreed to this; thinking it better than being spied or questioned why she was exerted from the hike from Leonie and Ignatz’s home back to Varley Manor.

Raphael, the largest of them all, had sat outside with the driver. And when it came time to deposit Bernadetta home, he had leapt down and helped her out of the carriage. She tripped on the hem of her gown while getting out and Raphael, swift and strong-handed, caught her before she hit the ground. 

She gasped and holding tight to his muscular arm, was lost in his gaze for a moment. Her face coloured and immediately, she looked back down, away from him.

“Easy there, Miss Varley.” Raphael advised. Bernadetta blushed bright red and straightened up, easing her way onto her feet and curtseyed. 

“T-Thank you Mr Kirsten.”

“You should look up a little more.”

“I-I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve got very pretty eyes, Miss Varley, surely you know that.” He coloured and said, “I’m sure everyone tells you that. But what I mean, I guess, is that you can’t see all the good things around you if you’re staring at your shoes all the time.” 

Bernadetta blushed bright red and stared at him for a moment. Quickly, remembering herself, she curtseyed a second time. “Good afternoon, Mr Kirsten.” She managed before hurrying off, rapidly, to the manor, where she flung herself into her room and locked the door.

As if Sothis had smiled upon her, Bernadetta escaped Grégoire’s notice upon arriving home that evening. However, the following morning the goddess turned her back upon Bernadetta: if she had thought she would evade him the following morning, she was a fool.

She had been seated in the breakfast room with her siblings and parents, taking their meal and tea in cold silence when the post arrived. Bernadetta’s heart began to beat quicker upon hearing the bell, and when the servant came to her side with a letter for her on the signature purple papers of one L.H. Gloucester, her father intervened.

“What is that?” Asked Grégoire upon seeing the letter.

Bernadetta panicked and attempted to swipe it from the servant.

“Ferrars, read it. Now.” He ordered of the servant in a thin tone.

Thus, the letter—thankfully coded in speech to omit the guest list aside from Lorenz himself—was read aloud and Bernadetta squirmed in her seat. She remained, even after the letter had finished, ready to launch ahead into apologies, into her guilt, throwing herself upon her father’s mercy.

Grégoire’s face had gone still. His gaze flickered to Bernadetta’s briefly, and then halted with the coldest chill. 

“Two suitors?” Asked Grégoire in genuine shock and awe.

“T-Two?” She squeaked.

“Yes, indeed.” Said Grégoire with an air of pride and pleasure. “First Ferdinand von Aegir and now Lorenz Gloucester. Both are fine, noble, rich men.” He murmured beneath his breath, “Though the Aegirs are preferred, the Gloucesters have a vast array of farmlands and hunting grounds… And are very, very wealthy… Yes, this is good.”

The breakfast table was still. No one, not even little Heloïse, chewed her toast. Bernadetta’s heart stumbled and her mind ran wild with the thought. Two suitors, both interested in me?

She was assured that Lorenz saw her as nothing more than a foolish debutante whom he had to entertain for the sake of his own guests… Her feelings and thoughts, however, were more mixed for Ferdinand. He was a nice fellow, and in their supervised teas and quiet moments of privacy, he proved himself to be quite the gentleman: upstanding, kind, tender and of course conveniently rich. The perfect man to please her family, namely her father. 

“I expect your dance card to be completely full next assembly.” He advised sharply. 

Bernadetta mumbled an agreement while staring into her hardening eggs and cold toast. She would find out shortly, that while engaged that morning and permitted to go to the Enbarr Great House, that her father had arranged for her to go to the opera the following evening not only with Ferdinand, but Princess Edelgard and Marquis Vestra.

“Write me.” Leonie insisted at their farewell. Bernadetta had been called to the Gloucester estate once more, rode in the same carriage and went through the same practiced motions to quell her anxiety; though this time Bernadetta’s eyes were full of tears as she counted down the moments to her arrival at the estate’s door. She sat at the breakfast table, making kind conversations with Raphael, whose company eased her aching heart and even brought a smile to her lips. His being there reminded her of the first advice that he gave her: one cannot control a situation, but instead may control they react to it.

Raphael prefaced their chats as a sort of “training” to help her become more social and grow easier with speaking, but deep down, Bernadetta wished that it was on more personal grounds… Being that he liked her, more than in an amiable, friendly way.

Soon, breakfast was tidied away and the carriage was ordered, prepped and packed by the servants of the estate. 

She, along with their other friends, stood in the front hall of the Gloucester estate, saying their goodbyes to Ignatz and Leonie. 

The moment for farewells had arrived and Bernadetta found herself unprepared to say goodbye to her dearest friend. A long night passed of anxiety, in anticipation of this terrible farewell. Dark clouds followed Bernadetta from moment she woke at dawn and would become gloomier as their time together  drew to a close. The two ladies watched in silence  as the horses slowed to a halt, watched in silence as the trunks and Ignatz’s carefully wrapped supplies were loaded onto the back of the carriage and secured.

Leonie’s hands squeezing hers brought Bernadetta back from her painful thoughts. Leonie smiled down at her, her eyes holding traces of sadness behind the stoicism she’d always prided herself on.

“Write me.” Leonie demanded kindly, not accepting any answer other than yes. 

Bernadetta could not refuse her. “Of course.” She promised softly before pulling her into an embrace. “Y-You’ll come back soon, right?”

“Hopefully in the winter for Saint Cichol day. I’ll be needed in the village to tend to the hunt in the fall.” Leonie said.

Hope flourished in Bernadetta’s chest. Winter wasn’t that far away, only a few months. And by then, her father’s insistence on her marriage prospects would have cooled.

Or doubled. Thought Bernadetta anxiously, reminded of her two supposed suitors, Ferdinand and now Lorenz.

Leonie squeezed her hands once more and brought her back again. Bernadetta summoned her strongest smile, though it cracked at the edges. 

The party exited the manor and walked down the steps to the driveway. After all of them, Lorenz emerged with a mild frown upon his face as he observed his servants dutifully loading carriage. Bernadetta observed his apparent displeasure, and then flickering back to her friend, witnessed Leonie’s line of sight, which moved back to him to shoot glares.

Leonie walked down the steps, probably to check that their belongings were secure. Bernadetta privately watched as Lorenz’s gaze followed Leonie with partial interest. His gaze was steadily fixed upon Leonie, with earnest interest and intrigue, rarely glimpsing away. Then, as if feeling Bernadetta’s eyes upon him, Lorenz passingly glanced at her. Bernadetta blushed, squeaked to herself and turned away.

He’s not all bad… I guess beneath the selfishness and sharp manners and such. She must know that. Bernadetta thought.

Bernadetta hurried after Leonie, rejoining her friend once again. She set a quaking hand upon the lady’s shoulder and Leonie turned to her with a look of concern and sincerity. Bernadetta swallowed her fears like salt, bitter and sharp, and summoned all her strength.

“Hey,” Bernadetta stood a little taller and promised her, “I… I’ll make sure he doesn’t push anyone around.”

Leonie laughed heartily and gave her a disbelieving look, “I wouldn’t want to get you mad.” 

Farewells became too hard to share, and the ladies embraced once more. Leaning close, Bernadetta felt Leonie’s breath brush her ear and hear her whisper, “Take good care of his heart.”

Bernadetta went stiff in Leonie’s arms. Her cheeks turned bright red. Such a confirmation of her own hidden feelings—feelings that Bernadetta herself barely understood most of the time—rendered her frozen. Her heart beat faster, her palms moistened, and her eyes wandered ahead, where Raphael had lifted Ignatz off the ground in a large hug.

Bernadetta’s face and expression gave her away to Leonie, who only smiled knowingly and turned to Maya Kirsten, who had hurried over insisting on a hug too. 

Bernadetta glanced over her shoulder, her eyes focused on the gentle expression on Raphael’s face. He was facing her direction, giving his final farewells to Ignatz as he escorted him to the carriage. Catching her gaze, he sent her a gentle smile, and she witnessed, amidst the sunny disposition that he always wore, the traces of sadness due to a departing friend. 

The party communed around the carriage. Bernadetta was so consumed with her own feelings of mortification and the fiery blush that scorched her face that she did not take notice of Lorenz hastening to help Leonie into the carriage and the lack of gloves on either of them, nor did she see how their eyes lingered upon each other a moment too long. The slam of the carriage door brought Bernadetta back into reality. The coachman mounted the carriage and struck his whip as a cacophony of farewells sent off Leonie and Ignatz on their long journey home. 

Maya, barely five and ten years and still very much a young girl, ran after the carriage as it proceeded down the hill of the Enbarr great house. Her sweet voice carried on the air, “be well, be well”, chasing off the horses and her friends inside.

Raphael sighed genially. “I hope their journey is easy.” He murmured. “The roads into Edgaria can be rough.”

“Indeed. I meant to write to Father to have them tended to for my return.” Lorenz said, then sighed and added, “If I recall, they’ll break their journey along the coast of Rusalka, then continue on, breaking as needed. They should be fine, I have instructed Victor to write until they reach Gloucester County, and to charge any express messenger payments to me.”

That’s quite amiable. Thought Bernadetta. “T-That’s very generous of you, Mr Gloucester.”

He inclined his head. “The proper repayment for an express portrait of my dear ally, Viscountess Nuvelle.”

Maya returned to the party, flush from the run. Sweat beaded her round little face as she turned to Bernadetta. “Miss Varley, you’ll join us for tea, won’t you?”

The debutante hesitated. She should have returned to the manor promptly after Leonie’s departure and took up employment in sewing, music, drawing or reading. “I would, but I-I may have other engagements.”

“Oh that’s great! With who?” Raphael asked. 

Bernadetta blushed at his attentions upon her and stumbled to answer. “Er…”

Lorenz scoffed. “Nonsense.” He sharply admonished. “You shall us join for cards and refreshment. I’ll send you home in my barouche.”

Bernadetta relented at last, entreated to a game of whist which she won with ease and the finest tea she had ever been offered. The cakes were painted delicately and dressed with rose petals and powdered sugar, while the tea was served at the perfect temperature, the leaves fresh and not burnt or bitter.

Maya, at Lorenz’s request, took a seat before the pianoforte and began to play rather well considering her lack of fortune and prospects for learning. Once or twice, Bernadetta was asked to give a recommendation or tip, which she happily obliged Miss Kirsten with. The drawing room was filled with her eager, happy music, all Leicester tunes that Bernadetta had memorized once as a young lady. The room was as bright and gay as it could be, given the loss of two dear companions.

At the end of the hand, Raphael and Lorenz became entrenched in a conversation concerning business matters, Bernadetta found herself finally alone. She rose and pardoned herself from the gentlemen and took a seat on the chaise longue, a good distance away from them. The gravity of losing Leonie’s company had finally caught up with her, and a hole in her heart formed. She would deeply miss Leonie’s step in line with hers as they walked; she would miss her sharp tongue and harsh comments on the ton and the nobles; she would miss stealing away to see Leonie at tea houses and in parks in the manner of an illicit affair.

To distract her mind and nerves, she drew out her pocket sonnets to soothe her. She regularly did this to alleviate her tiredness from social interactions, and while her father disparaged it, Bernadetta could not resist the words of her saintly ancestor in such a moment of need.

She found Maya’s lively tunes to be the direct contrast of Saint Indech’s melancholy verses on religion and suffering and repentance. From her spot on the chaise longue, she can hear the distinct tones of Raphael and Lorenz and their discussion.

“—I heard from Mr Hevring that there’s a great place out in Derdriu. An old mansion-house, actually. I think it’s the perfect spot.”

“Hm.”

“Next time we’re out there, maybe we could stop and see it.” Raphael suggested heartily. “I think it has real potential.”

Lorenz laughed. “Yes, perhaps.” He mused, his tone much disinterested. He reached for the society papers left out by a maid and fanned out the newsprint noisily. “Next time, dear Kirsten.”

Bernadetta glanced up slightly from her pocket sonnets and stared at the distance between them. She was separated from the gentlemen by small table that held their cooling tea and half-eaten biscuits. Raphael had taken the pains to insist upon her to eat more than one of delicate cakes and delightful biscuits, and she did despite feeling immense guilt and hearing the voice of her father warning against it in her mind. A vase of plump roses graced the table, similar to the ones Bernadetta had seen before in Leonie’s home.

“How soon is next time?” Raphael asked innocently. “The property might sell soon or be taken off the market entirely.”

Lorenz sighed huffily. “I do declare that I will see to it when I shall, dear friend.” He said tiredly. “I should think you’d be a better knight than innkeeper. You’d make a better living that way, raise your rank too. If you were a knight, I’d give you employ immediately, leading the Gloucester knights.”

Bernadetta caught a glimpse of his smile from her periphery vision. “That’s true, but it doesn’t mean I’d be happy.” He argued. “I know I’d be happy taking care of other people, giving them a place to stay, a warm bed, a good meal…”

“And how would you manage your finances and keep a home?” Lorenz countered, lowering his papers. As he began to bring up more valid, yet slightly hurtful points remarking on Raphael’s shortsightedness, Lorenz took notice of Bernadetta’s staring and stopped himself. “In any case, this is not the time to discuss it, especially before Miss Varley and Miss Kirsten.”

At the mention of her name, Raphael turned his gaze to her. She flinched and looked back to her book, attempting to focus on the words she’d memorized years ago. It was too late, she had been spotted.

“Is that your poetry book?” Raphael asked.

Bernadetta nodded. “Y-Yes.”

“I’m glad to see that it’s still with you. It would be awful if you lost it again.”

She coloured in embarrassment, then deciding that it would not best her, sat a little straighter and asked, “If you came closer, I c-could show you my favourites.”

Raphael brightened at the offer and glancing to Lorenz, who had already dived into his society papers, drew closer and sat at the opposite end of the chaise longue.

“Were you just reading your favourite poem?”

She flustered and demanded, “H-How’d you know?”

“You had the cutest smile on your face.”

Bernadetta blushed hard and snapped her book closed. “I… I wasn’t aware I looked odd.”

“N-No!” Raphael insisted earnestly. “It was nice to see. You always look so sad or… I think the word Gloucester would use is despondent? A smile is the best look on you.”

Her cheeks coloured once more immediately. “Y-You asked me…” she paused, lowering her voice. “Awhile ago what my favourite poem was.”

Raphael only looks at her with great interest and sincerity. “And just now you said you would show it to me.”

She coloured further in embarrassment. She tore the book back open and quickly searched for the folded over page that she lavished with such ardent love. Her voice was thin, her reading not at all fine and it came out as a quick, run-on sentence, with no pregnant pauses or thoughtful breaths as the author had intended. 

“When I consider everything that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and check'd even by the selfsame sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.”

Her eyes shut tightly as she read and while she did so, she felt Raphael’s gaze upon her with such importance, she could barely stand it.

“I can see why you like it.” Raphael said at last. “It’s really pretty. Sorta sad too.”

She cracked open an eye and glanced at him. She swallowed hard and leaned a little closer, the distance disappearing between them. “Th-The author, my ancestor, wrote a lot of poems.” Then, in a moment of impropriety and ungovernable competence, she reached out and placed the book in Raphael’s large hands. “Here.”

He looked positively shocked. “But you love it.” He said. “And you already lost it once, I can’t be the one to take it from you again, Ber—”

Her heart leapt. He was about to address her by her first name. Raphael’s eyes had gone wide in surprise, and though neither observed it, both Lorenz and Maya had looked up from their occupations to glance at them. 

“Mr Kirsten, I want you to read it.” Bernadetta insisted gently. “Maybe you can find the same joy in it as I do.”

The gentleman gazed at her for a moment before nodding. “For you, I’ll do anything.”

Shortly after that tender moment, Bernadetta requested the barouche to return home. At her departure, Lorenz insisted that he walk her outside and bid farewell. The Kirstens, as she learned upon their farewell, were engaged to dine with the daughter of a Leicester duke, Lady Hilda Goneril, and had to take leave to prepare. Their farewell was kind and quick, and Bernadetta felt especially warm when Raphael had bowed and bade her adieu. 

As the Kirstens exited out the garden, Lorenz took Bernadetta upon his arm and led her from the drawing room to the front hall. The walls were dressed in rich violets and gold, with pops of red from landscapes and portraits of passed Gloucesters and their accomplishments—everything from a low-fat cheese that was now commonplace to a certain type of fire magic long since forgotten. The Great House was more lavishly furnished than the falsehoods of the manor in Enbarr and back at her home in Burgundy.

The barouche had been prepared and was waiting and the horses snorted in anxiety. Lorenz and Bernadetta descended the steps and walked out into the warm sun. They scarcely spoke, though, if they had, Bernadetta hadn’t the slightest clue what they would talk about.

Until Lorenz spoke in a cutting tone.

“I would advise you,” Lorenz warned as he escorted Bernadetta across the gravel driveway, the jagged rocks chipping beneath their feet. “to watch how deep your attachment grows to Mr Kirsten. Leading him on would be a shame and a cruelty.”

Bernadetta’s heart stuttered hard. She lurched and looked up at him. “L-Leading him on?” She gasped.

Lorenz did not grace her with a single look. Instead, he stared forwards, across the same driveway where they had seen Leonie and Ignatz off only an hour before. His tone was sharp and severe, and his words, nay, his warning, clear as the morning bell that woke her:

“Mr Kirsten is a man with a large heart and a deep well of forgiveness. But I am not as forgiving, and should you wound him, you would answer to me.”

He thinks I’ll hurt him. Bernadetta thought, then tripping over such ideas, thought again, He thinks I love Raphael. No, he thinks I’m playing with his heart.

“I… I-I don’t know what you speak of.”

“Do not lie to me, Miss Varley.” He advised sharply. “I know full well of the cruelty of your sex. And you, as a noble, should have better conduct and manners around those lesser than you.”

Bernadetta was completely affronted, and in a moment of unwise and headstrong confidence, she said: 

“I should say the same to you.” She thought of Leonie, of his attentions to her and Lorenz’s own conduct and manners. “Namely to Miss Pinelli.”

Lorenz stiffened. She pulled her hand from his arm. “I hold her just as dear, if not more to me. And if you hurt her you’ll a-answer to me.”

Good job Bernie! You only stammered once! She cheered for herself.

Lorenz’s eyes widened in astonishment, for a woman speaking so to him. Tension filled the air as the sound of hooves drew closer. The guard posted at the front gates yelled forth and broke their intense gaze. Bernadetta and Lorenz looked and saw a gentleman approach on horseback.

Recognizing his white stallion and the jovial tones that stretched forth, Bernadetta shrunk back. Lorenz looked intrigued as Ferdinand von Aegir approached. The stallion ground to a halt, Ferdinand took only a moment to soothe his steed and then leapt down as a servant immediately took the horses reins. 

“I shall only be a moment, my good man.” He told the servant genially, turned removed his gloves and hat.

“Greetings, Mr Gloucester!” Called Ferdinand. His expression shifted as he recognized Bernadetta in attendance. If she were not sure of it, she would have denied that his face changed colour. They regarded each other properly. “Miss Varley, what a surprise! I did not think you were well-acquainted with the Gloucesters.”

“Indeed, we are acquaintances through mutual friends.” Lorenz said quickly. 

“Yes.” Bernadetta winced. 

“Well, this is a perfect coincidence!” Ferdinand declared. “I came to call upon Gloucester for a visit, but I shall have the privilege of telling you the most delightful news. The princess, her majesty Lady Edelgard, has secured a box for the opera tomorrow night and has invited me. She extends the invitation to you as well. It is set to be the final performance of Miss Arnault before her marriage.”

“Marriage?” Bernadetta asked, astounded.

“Indeed. Margrave Gautier proposed to her and she accepted. Rumour has it he made over a dozen attempts at her hand, gawkers be damned.” His face flushed for certain this time. “Please pardon my language. Their engagement has begun and she wishes to make Faerghus her home before the first snow sets in.”

“I… I do not know…” Bernadetta murmured.

“Your father has already given his consent. I rode directly from Varley Manor, hoping to find you there…” His eyes trailed to Lorenz briefly. “I was advised you would be with the illustrious Gloucesters. My surprise is misplaced, I should have known!”

“I am n-not a fan of the o-opera.”

“Not a fan?!” Ferdinand and Lorenz gasped in unison. Lorenz shook his head dolefully while Ferdinand asked, “Well have you ever been, Miss Varley?”

“N-No… That is to say…” she paused. “V-Varley does not have many performers of that sort.”

Come to think of it, Father never liked the opera or dramas. He thought they were crude and vulgar and disgusting. She recalled. 

“Your father said differently.” Ferdinand mused thoughtfully. 

“In any case,” Lorenz said, “The opera is such a delight, Miss Varley. Besides, if her majesty requests your presence you must go.”

Anxiety rose within Bernadetta. She placed a hand on her heart as to steady it. “I-I do not… I ca-cannot…” She stumbled, then dropped to a curtsey. “I-I must go!” She barely gasped.

She launched herself towards the barouche and climbed in, most impertinently without the aid of either Lorenz or Ferdinand and yelled at the driver to go. She disappeared down the driveway, not bothering to turn around and glimpse at the gentlemen she’d left behind.

Her ride was spent in much agitation. First, of Leonie’s departure, then of Raphael’s tenderness and eagerness to take the poetry book from her, the invitation to the opera and Dorothea’s impending marriage, of Lorenz’s cruel assumptions that she was not in love with Raphael and merely playing with his heart—

She paused and realized, belatedly, that she might possibly love Raphael. He was always so kind, so gentle, so amiable around her. He was gentle, not forceful and he seemed to like her just as she was, with her faults and flaws.

Oh goddess in her heavens… Oh no… She thought anxiously, realizing that she was too, stricken with the weakness of mind that plagued her ancestor.

She longed to throw herself head first into her bed upon arriving home. But, as the barouche ground to a halt and the driver got down to help her out, her father stood at the front doors, blocking it.

Bernadetta’s nerves went wild. She was so close to frustrated tears that she almost burst into a fit of emotion there on the leather seat. Grégoire watched as the driver helped her down, waited silently as until he drove off, and then greeted her.

“How was Mr Gloucester?”

Suddenly, Lorenz did not seem so terrible. Had not the safety of her room been so close, she would have called back the barouche and gone back to the great house to hide and be harassed by cruel Lorenz Gloucester. 

“H-He was well.”

Say he sends his regards! Make it believable!

Bernadetta stared at her feet. “H-He sends…”

“Never mind him.” 

She looked up nervously. “Wh-What?”

“Tomorrow night,” he began without pause or reluctance, “you’ll attend the opera with the princess, who has requested your attendance. I will be indisposed for the evening, as will your mother. You will be unaccompanied and without a chaperone.” He let the gravity of the situation hang in the air for a moment. “I trust that you will be on your best behaviour.”

“B-But…”

“You are stupid to think that this is a choice, Bernadetta.” He hissed. “Mr Aegir is a good catch, a once-in-a-lifetime man. Do not ruin this.” He added, “He called here, and I made sure to send him to the Great House; hopefully it sparked some jealousy. Make you more attractive in that sense.”

He took one glimpse at her and scoffed. “And do take more care in your dress. Do not leave the grounds looking like a begging urchin.”

Bernadetta blinked back tears. “You may go.” He released her and Bernadetta hurried into the house, biting back her tears until she was in the safety of her room.

Chapter Text

Nothing could prepare Bernadetta for the opera. 

Not the three attempts at lacing her bodice, nor the hour applying her makeup or even the several hours spent attending to her toilette to ensure that she looked ready. The gravity of the process—for few words were exchanged—made her nerves were so bad, could not stomach much more than a bit of gruel and tea.

The hour with her elocutionist did her no good, nor did the walk around the garden with her sisters, for they drilled her with their freshly-educated manners on how to address the princess and how to attend to the marquis and the million things that would ruin the Varley family forever.

And, if her nerves were not already cut to ribbons, there was the matter of the weather. Just as the carriage arrived and the steward announced her imperial majesty, Edelgard von Hresvelg, his lordship the Marquis of Vestra and the esteemed and noble Ferdinand von Aegir, the Enbarr skies opened up and began to pour down rain. Bernadetta could not but sympathize with the clouds, for it was the exact same thing she wished to do.

The carriage ride was barely tolerable. All the small talk about who would be there and nattering on about politics made Bernadetta deeply uncomfortable. Worse, she was seated beside Ferdinand and his boots, muddy from the rain, stained the hem of her dress; that, and his constant glances to her person and questions of, “well, what say you Miss Varley?” to every discussion tortured her poor nerves.

It finally occurred to her, in the loud carriage with the wind and rain whipping against the glass, that she was being seriously courted. Her father’s delusions of her having two suitors was false, but his assumption that Ferdinand liked her was true. And that made Bernadetta nervous.

She fully expected not to catch the eye of a single suitor all season, to sit out at balls and maintain an empty dance card and have a useless packed trousseau that was dutifully dusted every fortnight. 

But Ferdinand maintained an earnest interest in Bernadetta from the first engagement where they met. And he had been a recurring guest at tea, called often and always smiled and paid her particular attentions when he was in her presence. 

Yet Bernadetta could find nothing more to say about him than that he was nice. An impassive, gentle, unassuming nice. Not dashing, nor charming; there was no gravity in his words and the attentions he lavished upon her did not carry the weight of a lover, or even a man with a fancy.

Nay, she thought of one thing as he stepped out of the carriage and turned to help her down. His hand held hers tightly, reverently, for a moment and he gave her a gentle smile before turning to the princess.

He has a tight grip. Thought Bernadetta, hurrying beneath the canopy spread out before the stone walls of the opera house. Both she and Edelgard inspected each other to ensure that their delicate makeup had not run and their carefully wound hair remained in place. 

Edelgard smirked as she examined Bernadetta’s face and deemed it fair. “We wouldn’t want to shame our families, now would we?”

Bernadetta flinched, thinking of her father and was reminded again of her duty to her family. While Ferdinand might be pleasant, he was also pleasantly rich, much so that he could help diminish the debts and restore the Varley name. 

That is, if he would marry her. She was getting much too ahead of herself, thinking of marriage and suitors and love when she was not even sure of the nature of his attachment. Perhaps he thought her a good walking partner. Yes, that was it. They went on many walks about the garden and the parks—after the initial period of resignation inside the house—and Ferdinand talked on and on and Bernadetta did very little but listen and apply performative hums and hahs at appropriate times. 

Bernadetta found her coat removed from her shoulders. “Allow me, Miss Varley. It shall be very hot in the box.” Upon noticing her surprised expression, he faltered. “U-Unless you’d rather keep your cloak should you need it? You are very… um… willowy in stature, not plump at all—”

Bernadetta coloured.

“N-Not to insist that you are too thin! I just, er, meant that you might find it cold in the box.” He paused and set the coat back on her shoulders. “Never you mind; I’ll just stop talking at this rate.”

“I-I appreciate the con-concern Mr Aegir.” She forced ease and handed her cloak to him.

He gave her a grateful, private smile. Edelgard turned to Bernadetta. 

“Come Bernadetta. Miss Arnault’s dressing room is just down to the stage. I wish to give my congratulations in private.” She added louder, “I regret that it is not the place for gentlemen, Mr Aegir, Marquis Vestra.”

The two ladies passed through the brightly lit halls of the opera. It was full and hot and everyone was packed in so closely. The exertion of getting ready had already ruined Bernadetta’s nerves, being around so many people only served to make her more on edge and exhausted. And her mind went wild with thoughts of worry: can they see the mud on my hem, they probably think I’m so plain looking, oh goddess I hope I’m called home immediately.

She was stopped by two things: the first, a reminder in her head from Raphael. Thinking about what has yet to come would only drive her mad, and how she could control the situation. Her mind was better spent in the present. Secondly, Edelgard cleared her throat, summoning her attention and a blunt cue to make conversation.

“W-When is the wedding to take place?” Bernadetta asked.

“The autumn. Margrave Gautier has already inherited his father’s estate and settled in the north. He and Miss Arnault will finish the season and then return home.” Edelgard said. “It is a prosperous, good match.”

“I d-didn’t think you liked her lover.”

“I don’t.” Edelgard said. “At first, at least, I didn’t. He’s proved himself to have a serious interest in her, not just some flirtation.”

“What about Miss Arnault?”

Edelgard glanced about to her. “What about her?”

“Do you not question her attachment?” Bernadetta asked nervously. She leaned closer, drawing up her decorative fan to hide her mouth. Her father insisted she bring this, that it would be “alluring”. Bernadetta thought it a good self-defence weapon if necessary. “I-Is she marrying out of need, rather than love?”

“Bernadetta,” Edelgard said softly. They ceased walking despite being near backstage. “few have the luxury to marry for love. And those who do are as fated to the heart’s fickle whims as anyone else.”

Bernadetta distinctly recalled her parents’ match: arranged, swift and loveless. Scarcely ever had Bernadetta seen the glimmer of love in either’s eye, and often she wondered if it could exist in such a marriage. Somedays she wondered if they could even tolerate each other in a private room.

“I-I know that.” Bernadetta protested uselessly.

“If you know that, then why are you asking?” Edelgard asked. She promptly turned on her heel and began to walk again. Bernadetta snapped her fan closed and hurried after the princess. “You should ask her yourself.”

Bernadetta ruminated on the question all the way down to Dorothea’s dressing room. They passed greasy stagehand and half-nude chorus girl alike, both which made Bernadetta blush bright red. The stage manager arrived at Edelgard’s side after a moment, guided her to the dressing room with sycophantic compliments about the ebony feathers in her white hair, the crimson satin of her gown, the pallid hue of her face. None were given to Bernadetta, and she was appreciative of it.

They arrived at Dorothea’s dressing room just as she finished dressing in the gown for the first act. She greeted them with a powdered smile and faint hugs, all the while dodging her determined stylist who was attempting to paint the most perfect beauty mark upon her cheek. 

There was the stretch of a few moments quiet girl-talk where their congratulations and gratitude was exchanged. They were short-lived however, for Dorothea’s fiancé, Sylvain Gautier, arrived with nothing but a bottle of wine. Bernadetta once again second-guessed the engagement, if there could be any love in marriage. 

He greeted them all, poured heady cups of wine and began speaking to Edelgard in quiet, interested tones. Bernadetta, grateful for the moment of solitude, took repose as best she could. Then, glancing to her shoulder, saw Dorothea—and as a result her bee-like stylist—approach.

Dorothea shooed off the stylist for a moment with Bernadetta. “There you are. I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages, Miss Varley.”

Bernadetta regarded her. “I-I’ve been busy.”

“Entertaining many gentleman callers?”

She blushed and shook her head. “T-Though, I guess you did.” She shut her mouth a moment too late, blushing bright red. 

Dorothea only laughed it off good-naturedly. “Indeed, I did!”

“I-I’m sorry Miss Arnault! That was rather impertinent…”

“Oh hush,” she cooed. “I rather liked it. It’s good to see a little spunk in your veins, my darling Miss Varley.”

Bernadetta blushed and turned her eyes down into her wine cup.

“You’ll come to my wedding right?”

“A-About that…”

“What?”

“How… How did you know?”

Dorothea glanced over her shoulder at Sylvain. He graciously spoke to Edelgard, his posture erect, his eyes focused and his tone genteel and obliging. 

“I had a feeling when he kept coming around with proposals.” Dorothea said softly, her voice almost pensive. “He didn’t treat me like the other suitors, comparing me to a goddess or something beyond who or what I am. I liked that. And the wealthy background doesn’t hurt, either.”

“Was that it? That’s how you knew?”

Dorothea shook her head and her graceful updo shifted and the paste jewels on her costume tinkled softly. “No. Actually, It was what I didn’t know.” She said softly. “I knew that I liked him, I knew that I could see a future with him—one where we grew old together—but I didn’t know how it would play out... I want to see it.”

“So, you didn’t know?”

“Exactly.” Dorothea confirmed. “After all, isn’t that what a relationship is for? Learning about someone else?”

“But marriage…” Bernadetta winced at the word and her voice wobbled. “That’s a big step.”

“It’s just an engagement.” The singer said. “It could be easily broken off if I find that he’s not suitable, which, I doubt will happen.”

Shortly, it became time to leave Miss Arnault’s dressing room. Sylvain showed them out, and with a lady on either arm, escorted them back to their box, insisting he already knew the opera house like the back of his hand. 

Bernadetta was consumed with the prospect of marriage. She was certain that love could not exist within marriage. Marriage, to her, had always been a glass cage she would be shoved into before the bloom of her life. 

Before she realized it, Bernadetta was deposited back in the box, seated between Edelgard and Ferdinand and the performance began. She found it hard to pay attention to the splendour of the opera, despite enjoying the music and the performances. She would have enjoyed it more if she had been able to keep up with the story, but it was sung in another language which she did not comprehend. 

Partway through the first and second acts, she realized that Ferdinand was stealing glances at her in the dim candlelight of the private box. It became hard to focus on Dorothea’s soaring arias, the intricacies of the costumes, the plot with the gentleman’s gaze flickering back to her so often. And he was not even shy or trying to hide it; he glanced at her openly even when it was obvious that Bernadetta was pretending to not see him.

All the while her mind was muddled with the troublesome thought of marriage. It swirled around in her head like a hurricane, building up speed and strength before plunging her into a headache.

The Verdant Rain moon—the final month of the Adrestian social season—had dawned upon Enbarr and Bernadetta was still without a single proposal, but apparently maintained two suitors, one who had been a false cover, the other who was genuine. She could tell by her parents’ reactions upon the entrance of Lorenz Gloucester that they were pleased but not delighted, for he never called nor did he pay his respects aside from the sole time. 

Her goal had been clear, especially stated to her before they left Burgundy: she was to be sought-after, she was to be proposed to, she was to have eyes upon her. And when she did, it was in the darkness of an opera box and she wished to run and hide from them. 

It was not that she resented the idea of marriage. She loved romance, she loved the idea of being so openly loved. But the society she lived in was not formed for a heart as hers. A love match was out of the question for Miss Varley; she was to marry for wealth, for honour, for rank. That much was crystal clear. 

Had it been her choice, Bernadetta would have married for love… But again, she wondered if love could exist in a marriage.

The intermission began on the heels of a thrilling high-note and conversation ignited like a spark. Edelgard was so taken with the vivacity of Dorothea’s performance and the heart of the story; Ferdinand adored the choreography for the sword fights and battles; the marquis mentioned he enjoyed it in passing; Bernadetta was silent. She could hardly recall the events that took place in the opera, let alone register what her companions asked of her as she drifted back into reality. 

She looked up and they all surrounded her in pitch-ebonies, rose-coloured crimson, blue-morning navies, all ribboned and shaven and plucked and pretty. Their wineglasses were all emptied, their expressions ranging from distraught to bored to concerned. 

Ferdinand held out his hand. “Shall we, Miss Varley?”

“Er…” She murmured, belatedly realizing that, at least Ferdinand meant, to take a short walk to stretch her legs before the next act. A second glance at Edelgard proved necessary; the princess was turned away from her and openly dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, embroidered with the initials H.V.

“Go on,” She encouraged. “I need a moment to compose myself.”

Bernadetta hesitantly took Ferdinand’s arm and the two left their box. A few moments of silence fell between the two of them before Ferdinand attempted a conversation. 

“It is a much sadder show than I thought.” Ferdinand mused, glancing to Bernadetta. “Do you not agree?” He went on without her answer. “The singer is dying of consumption, and yet clings onto the feeble hope that she can live with her lover, despite his father’s reservations.” He explained. “And her suitors still clamber for her hand, despite the singer’s love for her paramour.”

Bernadetta agreed, “That is really sad.” 

“Is it so foolish to wish for a happy ending?” 

He looked earnestly to Bernadetta for an answer. She swallowed hard and hesitated, unsure of what to say to placate him. “I-I wouldn’t write it so sadly.”

“Well, how would you write it?”

Bernadetta blanched. “I-I’m not sure! B-But not that way.” She insisted. 

A shadow of concern crossed Ferdinand’s face, and he asked: “You look pale, Miss Varley. Shall I get you a drink?”

“Y-Yes. Yes, please, I’ll wait here.” She braced herself against the velvet walls, removing her fan from her reticule to cool herself. 

Ferdinand obliged her and swiftly left her only a short distance from their box. Bernadetta closed her fan and focused on something stable to ease her nerves and head. Her eyes naturally found the tips of her slippers, barely visible from beneath her large, muddy evening gown. 

“Miss Varley?”

She glanced, slowly, behind herself to see Raphael by himself. She noticed that his clothes still stretched to accommodate him: it was nice to see someone as imperfect as her in the heart of a society event. He had taken pains to make himself more put-together—or perhaps Lorenz had—for his hair was combed back away from his eyes and there was a small purple flower—a violet or a periwinkle—tucked into the lapel of his coat.  

He looks very nice. Bernadetta thought.

A smile naturally came to her face as he approached. She glowed with warmth and joy. “Mr Kirsten. Good evening.”

They regarded each other politely as Raphael eased against the wall with her. “I didn’t think I’d see you here!” He boomed, embarrassedly adding, “It didn’t seem like the type of thing you’d like.”

“I-It isn’t.” She murmured. “Too loud, too many people. I feel like I h-have no privacy.” Then, summoning the remnants of her tattered courage, she added, “But I thought about your advice… you know, what you told me to do when it gets t-tough… Just to focus on myself and be in the moment?”

Raphael beamed and she felt a sense of ease. “That’s great Miss Varley!” He exclaimed. “I’m so proud of you!”

She smiled briefly. “T-Thank you, sir…” Then she added, “But I’m so… drained. My spirits are worn from all the people.”

Raphael moved from his spot beside her and stood in front of Bernadetta, thus blocking her from the bustling crowds and loudness. Her entire view became Raphael. “That better?” He asked. “Not much, I know but it’s something?”

Bernadetta looked up at Raphael who stood quite close now. A scarlet blush turned her pale face red. She swallowed hard and nodded, quickly looking away. “Y-Y-Yes this will d-do.”

“Are you here with friends or your family?” He asked.

“Friends.”

“Oh, me too!” He beamed. “Loren—Mr Gloucester invited me.”

“Miss Kirsten didn’t want to join?”

“Oh no, she did! She’s here! Lorenz is friends with the head diva, so he took Maya down to meet her.” Raphael glanced down the hall. “Hm. Actually, that was a while ago, they should be back now.”

Bernadetta smiled. “Is Miss Kirsten liking it?”

“She loves it! It’s very nice to see, there hasn’t been a lot for her in Enbarr. We’re seated in the wings, Maya actually pointed you out to me in your box.” He leaned closer, making Bernadetta blush and said, “Truth be told, I wasn’t so surprised to see you just now. I was sorta glancing at you most of the show… It’s more fun to people-watch.”

Bernadetta’s heart stuttered in her chest. He’s been watching me instead of the show?! She thought nervously, and thought she wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, delighted in the far-off thought of being the chief occupant of his thoughts. 

“I’m afraid I’d be with you.” Bernadetta confessed. “I have trouble focusing on what’s going on… It’s more fun to people watch than try to translate the lyrics in my head.”

Raphael’s eyes widened briefly. He leaned closer, most certainly improper and said, “Okay, don’t tell Lorenz but… he was really upset and moved by the performance, but the entire time, I was sitting there wondering what I missed!”

“Me too!” Bernadetta gasped. “Her Majesty, Marquis Vestra and Mr Aegir were all talking about the sad events, and I had nothing to add!”

He laughed heartily. “I thought it was just me who didn’t get it! It’s nice not to be alone.” Then, he paused and smiled. He reached into the pocket of his coat and produced her beloved little book of poetry. “But I did get these. Sort of.”

Bernadetta was delighted. Her worn spirits were reinvigorated and she felt a dizzying sense of joy and excitement. “You read them all?!”

“Maya read a few aloud to me, don’t tell her but she didn’t have your… oh, what’s it called…”

“Elocution?”

“Yes! That!” He exclaimed. “But I really liked sonnet 116. I think it’s a favourite of yours too, judging by how the paper is worn.”

“It is.” Bernadetta held his gaze. “I’m so glad you liked them so much… I was worried they would be too boring. Not many people like poetry as much as me.”

She felt refreshed for the first time that evening, and thus, an effortless smile crossed her lips and stayed there for the remainder of their conversation. The laughter faded briefly as Bernadetta inquired about Maya, her health and happiness, and then Raphael’s own. He smiled warmly and told her that he fared wonderfully well. His own delight with her candour and confidence was subdued, for fear of frightening her.

“Gloucester has been really accommodating.” He said, glancing over his shoulder for the gentleman in question. “He’s been a great host.”

“I’ve been told he’s not that nice.” Bernadetta blanched as soon as she said the words. She backpedaled and shamefully shut her mouth.

But Raphael, innocent and kind and never thinking a bad thing, asked, “Who told you that?”

Bernadetta cringed. “M-My own o-observations…” She said, remembering how tersely he’d warned her. But she couldn’t help but quietly murmuring her dearest friend’s name, “Miss Pinelli.”

“Oh,” he paused. “well I heard they’d gotten off on the wrong foot. Lorenz can be a little too proud sometimes, but deep down he’s a good guy.”

“Really?”

“Promise. He just needs some time to warm. And to adjust to his manners, I guess. He can be rigid about those things. Old-blooded nobles like him are like that.”

Bernadetta paused then sighed. “W-Well he must be a decent man. He brought you here after all.”

Raphael coloured softly and smiled, as if glowing with all the warmth of the sun. “Yeah… I got to see you, which is the best part of the night.”

Both parties blushed and stood in awed silence. Bernadetta’s heart thudded hard inside her chest and she felt as if the floor were about to give out beneath her feet. Raphael paused, held her gaze for just a second, and then gave her a nervous little smile. 

Beneath his breath he murmured shyly, “Secret’s out I guess.”

“S-Secret?” Bernadetta asked. “W-What secret? I don’t know any secrets, I assure you—”

“I like you a lot, Bernadetta.”

Her heart pounded in double time. Her mouth opened, then shut, then opened once more. Bernadetta, still bright red, could barely comprehend what she was thinking before it escaped her lips.

“I like you too, R-Raphael.” She said without stutter, without falter. 

There was a soft chime, the warning bell for the end of intermission. He reached for her hand, and Bernadetta let him take it. He squeezed it gently twice, then quickly let go. They said their adieus with breathless intrigue and Raphael quickly disappeared, presumably back to Lorenz’s side.

Bernadetta was still too blindsided by such a sacred truth to notice the disapproving gaze from Mr Gloucester. All she could think of, with the giddy confidence of a first love, was Raphael. 

He likes me. She smiled to herself, looking like a madwoman. Oh goddess I like him.

Her face was glowing bright red like a hearth by the time Ferdinand came back with a glass of brandy for her. 

“Miss Varley, you’re quite red. Do you need air?” He asked, aware of her delicate disposition and nerves. “I have no qualms missing part of the next act, I assure you. Come, let us go outside and take the air—”

She shook off such concern by taking the glass from Ferdinand and threw it back. She babbled on, the most she’d talked to him that evening, blaming the redness in her face on the low lighting, the late summer heat, the brandy, anything but the fact that she admitted buried feelings for Raphael Kirsten.

The final acts of the opera passed quickly. Bernadetta ignored the feeling of Ferdinand uncouthly resting his hand over hers in the darkness of their box and then again when he restored her coat to her shoulders and ensured she was comfortable in the carriage.

Bernadetta found that she could not think of him, of the opera, of the eyes on her, but only of Raphael and their interaction in the halls of the opera house.

If she were like the heroine in the opera or in all her novels, she would fight for her love. She would not give up, she would be tireless in her struggle to succeed. She wouldn’t falter, she wouldn’t hesitate. But Bernadetta was Bernadetta. At this point in her life, she’d yet to become steadfast in her convictions; she was not the unmovable and her feet would sooner carry off when they should have been still.

The gates to Varley Manor were locked. Bernadetta was unsurprised at this. The finances had become so thin that they could not afford to employ a gatekeeper; the gate-watching duty fell to the gardener who left when the sun faded. When he left, he would simply lock the gates and not allow for any carriages to come in, unless otherwise scheduled and approved previously by Grégoire. There was, however a hidden gate, at the side of the grounds which was obscured between shrubberies from the road.

Grégoire had been the one to organize the outing and Bernadetta knew when the carriage halted that this was all his doing. After a small ruckus, Bernadetta shared knowledge that there was a hidden gate for evening access and Ferdinand asked her: “May we escort you inside, Miss Varley?”

Bernadetta, still struck by the events at the opera, could barely nod. She had been in a daze since they took their seats; swallowing the brandy in almost a single mouthful was not a wise move. 

“You’d better do it, Aegir. Her excellency can scarcely walk.” The marquis hissed.

“Too much brandy…” Edelgard sighed. “Next time do not give her so much even if it does calm her nerves.”

Their farewells and goodnights to Bernadetta were muted by her screaming thoughts. Did I really tell him I liked him? Did I use his first name? Does he think I actually like him? Does he really like me back? Oh goddess what if someone saw?

Ferdinand helped Bernadetta out of the carriage, offered her his arm and took up a leisurely pace as they came to the gate that was tangled with ivy. The rain had stopped and the air had turned humid and thick. Being so close to the sea was both a blessing and a curse. 

“Miss Varley?” Ferdinand asked quietly, his voice uncertain for the first time.

“Yes?” She barely whispered.

They stopped before the steps of the manor. Bernadetta leaned into him for support—the brandy was truly a terrible idea—and clung to his arm like a young debutante. 

Ferdinand gazed upon her sweetly and spoke genially: “May I… May I call upon you tomorrow morning?”

She drew a deep breath then nodded with mild hesitance. “Y-Yes.” She whispered.

A smile spread across his lips. He raised her gloved hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of it. His eyes locked upon hers as he did this, and then, slowly, straightened to his full height and regarded her. “Until tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

When Raphael Kirsten made his mind up, he made it for good.

He had decided, after squeezing Bernadetta’s gloved hand and returning with Lorenz to their seats, that he didn’t just like her; he loved her. He did not absorb the rest of the performance, instead he was focused completely on the lovely Miss Varley and the fact that she liked him back. 

He had ridden home in the carriage with Lorenz, chatting on and on about Bernadetta, his heart soaring higher than the aria that the singer had belted out in the eleven o’clock showstopper. 

“She’s really amazing.” Said Raphael.

Lorenz only responded with a quiet, “Mhm.”

“And smart.”

“Yes.”

“And beautiful.”

“Of course.”

Lorenz was placating him, Raphael knew that. Lorenz did this often to Raphael—not to keep him happy but to assure him that he was heard. Raphael knew that sometimes he said stupid things but Lorenz would never admonish him for them. No, he was much too kind a friend for that!

Suddenly, all of Raphael’s ideas and plans of opening an inn, of hospitality and meal planning and tired travellers had vanished. All he could think of now was that Miss Bernadetta von Varley liked him back.

She had even used his first name! That was a sign of love! Raphael remembered his parents gently sharing their names in public—a feat like that was rarely performed by the high nobles like her. He imagined in his parents’ final moments, before they set out on that ride that they uttered their names, not ‘my lord’, ‘my lady’ or Sir Mayer and Lady Ruth. They were dearly devoted to each other until the last. But those thoughts were passing, and he did not care to dwell on them for long.

The carriage ground to a halt before the Gloucester estate. It was likely that Maya would still be out at the Nuvelle estate; going home to an empty house would not be pleasant.

“Come in for a night cap.” Lorenz said just as these thoughts passed through Raphael’s head.

“I will, thanks!” Raphael chirped, then leaning closer so the driver could not hear them, while still using his normal, loud tone of voice added: “I need to talk to you about something, Lorenz.”

They ascended the stairs up to the mansion and entered, greeted by the still-awake staff. Lorenz swiftly tore off his gloves and hat, dumping it into the hands of his waiting housemaids and servants. Raphael handed over his massive coat and apologized when it drowned a poor little maid, who simply smiled at him and hurried off.

The men retired upstairs to the billiard room and made themselves comfortable. They did not indulge in a game of pool, for the last time they did Raphael almost put a hole in the wall with his cue. Instead they used the billiard room as a secluded place for rest and conversation. 

Lorenz selected a bottle of wine, mentioned the year and tasting notes that benefitted no one but himself. Raphael was prevailed upon to open it which he did quickly and handed back to his friend who poured two heady glasses as a pre-bedtime easer. Before Lorenz had drank back his large sip of wine, Raphael asked:

“What do you think of me asking Bernadetta von Varley for her hand?”

Lorenz almost spat the expensive wine across the equally expensive carpet and quickly set his glass on the table that divided them. He swallowed, coughed and in between hacks, demanded: “I beg your pardon?!”

“Oh you heard me, Lorenz!” Raphael exclaimed happily, almost lurching out of his too-small seat. “She told me she likes me. She likes me! Why wait? We’d have our whole lives together!” He began talking on about finding a living to sustain them both and abandoning the scheme of owning an inn all together: Bernadetta had become his chief focus. He finally became amenable to becoming a knight under Lorenz, a living that would be comfortable and provide for her and Maya. 

When Raphael finished and looked expectantly at Lorenz for his approbation, the gentleman simply stared. Lorenz clasped his hands together as if to pray and pleadingly said: “Please… Please tell me Raphael, that you are not serious.”

He strode towards Raphael who was seated in the largest armchair; it was still dwarfed by his size and broadness and scarcely held him comfortably. The common man looked innocently up at Lorenz who towered over him with rumpled, but nevertheless noble grace.

“Why wouldn’t I be serious? I really like Bernadetta. I think she likes me too, no I know so: she told me.”

“She told you?!”

“Yes, just tonight at the opera when you were in search of a glass of wine.”

Lorenz stared dumbly at him, then shook his head. “You are certain she did not mean that tolerated you?” He asked.

“Yep.”

“Not indulged?”

“Nope. It was like.”

“You are absolutely, positively, one-hundred percent certain?”

“I’m sure.”

Lorenz was silenced by this admission. He almost stumbled back into his chair and collapsed in it, but stood firm. He gave a moment’s pause before staggering back to his seat and lowering himself into it as gracefully as he could.

“She said it back.” Raphael told Lorenz warmly. “I kept thinking about it in the carriage back home. Bernadetta is so wonderful and smart and kind and talented. I really like her Lorenz, and I hope… I really hope that I could make her happy.” Ever eager, Raphael asked, “So, what do you think?” 

Lorenz studied his friend for a long while. He then stood up, paced the room deep in thought and turned back to Raphael and placed his hand on his heart and said:

“Raphael Kirsten, as your dear friend, ally and benefactor, I cannot condone such a scheme.”

All the joy vanished from Raphael’s expression. He stared up at Lorenz with an expression of betrayal and surprise. His voice, for once, was not bright and jovial, but low and torn. “What?”

“You asked for my opinion and I gave it to you frankly, Raphael.”

“But I thought you would support me.”

Lorenz grimaced. “Raphael, this is not the same as buying a gig or setting up a trousseau for Miss Kirsten!” He calmly explained. “This is a binding, legal contract regarding funds and land. Things like this are not as simple as liking a person.”

“That’s how it was for my parents.” 

Another noble scoff fell from Lorenz’s lips as if to say, ‘you don’t understand as usual—poor stupid, Raphael’. He sighed. “Your parents were a rare case.” As Raphael went to explain, Lorenz spoke over him. “Yes, yes, Sir Mayer inherited a baronetcy and married your mother simply because he liked her. That is not how things work in our time, Raphael.”

Raphael remained quiet and stared at Lorenz as he turned towards the hearth and regarded the flickering flames. “Not all of us are lucky to marry for love.” He said lowly. “Even the rich are to marry strategically, for wealth or rank or power.”

“Like you?”

“Yes.” Lorenz sighed. “Even I.”

“Then I guess Miss Pinelli won’t be yours after all?”

Lorenz looked up in horror, his face colouring. “Who is spreading such salacious gossip—”

“I noticed how you paid attention to her.” Raphael observed, getting up. He wrapped his arm around Lorenz comfortingly. “She’s very pretty… and very poor, isn’t she?”

Lorenz’s expression became pensive. Quickly, he spoke, “We are not talking about me, Raphael.”

“No, we aren’t.” Raphael said softly. “We’re talking about me and Bernadetta. I really like her and I think she deserves to know that I’m serious… Well, as serious as I can be.”

Lorenz remained quiet. 

“Do I have your approval?”

“Certainly not.”

“What about your support.”

“I cannot give you that either.”

Raphael’s arm slid from around Lorenz’s shoulders. “Don’t you want to see me happy?”

“Indeed, I do.” Lorenz said. “Which is why I cannot condone or support such a match, Raphael. It will not end well.”

Raphael stared at Lorenz for a long moment and then, in a defeated tone said, “I thought we understood each other, Lorenz. I thought we only ever wanted to see each other happy.”

Lorenz remained quiet for a moment before finally suggesting he return home. “The steward informed me that Miss Kirsten arrived home earlier and is upstairs in Marguerite’s room. You are welcome to sleep here tonight, Kirsten.”

“Yes, thank you, Gloucester.” Raphael responded quietly. “But I think I’ll return home for the night. If it’s alright, I won’t bother Maya, she is probably comfortable already… I’ll join you for breakfast in the morning if you’ll have me”

“Always.” Lorenz assured him in a distracted tone.

Raphael left the manor behind and began the walk across the property to the dim little guesthouse. They had no servants, as Raphael insisted they did not need any. Lorenz was still kind enough to send over a maid to help with preparing all the meals that they did not take at the main house, the regular cleaning and any laundry they made. Lorenz was good and kind like that. But as he stepped into the dark little guesthouse, Raphael found himself unable to think kindly of Lorenz at the moment.

It was, perhaps, a momentary lapse into hurt feelings: undue and unjust, which would make him feel badly later… But how could Lorenz shut him down so quickly? He didn’t even make a comment on Raphael’s lack of fortune, his non-existent rank, the rumours surrounding the Varley fortune’s existence, any of that. Instead, he had presented him with a flat-out no, a lack of support, and no hope of changing his mind.

But his feelings could not, would not, subside. Bernadetta consumed his thoughts completely from the first. He liked her when he met her at the emperor’s ball, when he saved her from that ruinous fall. She had a lovely speaking voice when she wasn’t afraid and was gentle and had the finest taste from her dresses to the embroidery of carnivorous plants and stingy hornets… Which were far and away different than the delicate flowers and wispy designs that Lorenz’s sisters had stitched or Maya’s attempts in filigree work.

He loved Bernadetta. He knew it already, but did not want to frighten her. Like was easier than love, Miss Varley was easier than just Bernadetta, ‘your excellency’ was easier than ‘my friend’.

These feelings plagued him until the late hours of the night—at which he took no notice of Lorenz leaving the Great House—and Raphael had no release to them… 

Save paper.

He turned to the writing desk where laid a letter from his grandfather that he received earlier. Raphael was a great letter writer. From ages 13 to 15, he was placed in a grand school for education where he was educated with Lorenz; he only left it because of his parents’ death in the accident. Such became an unnecessary cost that they could not justify. 

During that time, Maya, only eight winters old, demanded to be written to and told of all the exciting styles and life in Derdriu. His talent in letter writing only improved when his parents passed, where there were many affairs to deal with and much to settle. 

Bernadetta loves reading… Maybe…

Maybe she could handle hearing his true intentions and deep feelings in a letter?

Raphael began the arduous process of writing such a letter. But soon, it was drawn up and he crossed the path to the Great House, pleading with the livery man, who always arrived early to tend to the horses before his liege’s morning ride, to deliver the letter to a Miss B.V.

Grégoire von Varley was enjoying a quiet evening in his study, drinking a particularly old bottle of wine by himself, enjoying the finest cheeses and charcuterie that Enbarr could offer him while perusing the social registrar which listed all the names in town that season. His eyes roved over the column of counts before him and stopped, focusing on the last one which displayed his proud name, placating his vanity and fragile ego.

He smiled to himself, relishing that soon their rank would elevate. He would be the father of the future duchess of Aegir and grandfather to multiple heirs, namely the future prime minister. The marriage of Bernadetta to Ferdinand would answer all his financial woes, would quell the tensions back in Burgundy with the Aegir military and heighten the family’s rank even further, just with a simple ‘I do.’

All Bernadetta had to do was obey. Her job was simply to play the part that Grégoire had spent the last twenty years painstakingly instructing her to act. It was all in hand.

That is, until he was announced to have a visitor by his butler. Grégoire’s brow furrowed and momentarily, he panicked, thinking it were a creditor whom he owed money to. 

“W-What name did he give you?” Grégoire demanded as he slammed the registrar shut.

“L.H. Gloucester, your excellency.”

Grégoire’s panic surged again, but this time it was marked by agitation. He rose from behind his desk and demanded for Mr Gloucester to be shown in.

Lorenz had visited Grégoire on false terms. Though neither had spoken the acknowledgement aloud, both knew that the other understood that the previous call was nothing more than a show. Grégoire did not mind. While Leicester was certainly lower than the empire in rank and status, the Gloucesters were fantastically rich with three estates: one in Enbarr and two in Leicester.

In truth, had Lorenz made Bernadetta an offer of marriage, Grégoire might have approved it. The Gloucesters were the most fashion-forward family of the Alliance, they were rich and held lots of land and even had the well-to-do to come to Enbarr almost yearly. Lorenz’s wealth would be just as good as the Aegirs. However, Grégoire’s choice was Ferdinand, and Ferdinand he would have.

Lorenz entered the room, dressed in a dark jacket and heavy riding boots. Grégoire could see that beneath his overcoat he was dressed very finely in an extravagant velvet waist coat, white pants and a gold pocket watch. He was not a bad looking man, but his looks—namely that awful hair—left something to be desired in his care and grooming. 

Perhaps this is the style in Leicester. Thought Grégoire. His sisters must be a fright; I’d so hate to see Bernadetta dolled up like so.

Lorenz’s eyes flickered around the almost-empty study. The books had all been ransacked by Grégoire earlier, and all the ones worth money or notice had been sold off to a young, rich scholar who was also quite stupid. The shelves were empty, save for a few choice knick-knacks that held little value aside from being… well, cute. Lorenz absorbed the emptiness of the room, and understanding Grégoire perfectly clear, bowed and made his addresses.

“Good evening, Count Varley.” Lorenz greeted.

“Mr Gloucester, what brings you here at such an hour?”

Lorenz wasted no time. “I come with a message of wandering regarding your daughter, Bernadetta.”

Grégoire paled. “What information do you have?”

“It is a very depraved act your daughter has committed.” Said the gentleman gravely. “She has threatened the happiness of one of my dearest friends, and I fear her reputation, and your family’s, is at stake, sir.”

Grégoire called to the butler to bring another glass for the wine. He poured his newfound friend a glass and handed it to Lorenz, clapping a hand on his much taller shoulder. He led Lorenz to his desk. “Do sit down, Mr Gloucester, and tell me all.”

An hour later, Lorenz walked down the gravel path of the Varley estate, both pleased and disgusted with himself. He had saved a friend, but he had also the sneaking suspicion that he had condemned a stranger to terrible unhappiness.

Grégoire, meanwhile, stood in the early morning silence of his study, the wine long gone and registrar cast off, and watched Lorenz disappear into the evening fog. He did not collapse into his chair, nor did he recoil in despair. His rage was silent, only marked by a small, ludicrous smile that he wore as he picked up the registrar and looked for the name of Kirsten.

Gloucester Enbarr Guesthouse, Enbarr
7th of the Verdant Rain Moon, Imperial Year 1182

Dear Miss Varley,

I write to you today to make my true feelings known. The night before, I said that I liked you a lot, but that’s not exactly true. I’ve understated myself deeply, because I am almost certain that I am in love with you.

I knew this from the third time we met at the picnic. Your poems enchanted me. Every time I lay my head on my pillow, I think of you, and worse, when I sleep, I hear your voice in my dreams. Everything about your mesmerizes me, and I can’t stop thinking about you, Bernadetta. You pierce my soul: I’m hopeful and heartbroken at the same time.

There is little to my name, but I am confident that soon I will have lots. Enough for you and I, and when that time comes, I want to marry you. I know long engagements are dangerous, but I know that my heart will not change, for I am not a fickle man. If you would be willing, I would like to make my addresses known to your father and ask properly for your hand. But a look alone—or at your comfort, a letter—will tell me what may not be spoken.

Always yours,
R. Kirsten

Bernadetta’s eyes stumbled over the letter over and over. Her heart leapt in her throat and nearly jumped out into the shrubbery, where she was hiding.

She was initially sent out to the garden collect a nosegay for the drawing room to entice Mr Aegir and show her proper education and superior feminine taste. Partway through, Bernadetta had been approached by the gardener, a gawky, tall man, with the little letter in his hand. He had left it on the perfectly-trimmed hedge, with eyes of glowing entreaty fixed on her. Bernadetta that it was for her eyes alone and the gardener swiftly turned away before she even realized that she was walking towards the hedge and held it in her hands.

She read it several times over, grappling with it’s contents. She blinked hard, rubbed her eyes and read it, albeit in a soft little voice, aloud, before realizing with the greatest felicity, that Raphael Kirsten was in love with and intended to marry her.

Her heart soared and she felt like laughing and crying, of collapsing into a heap and dancing back up to the manor. A tidal wave of emotions crashed down upon her all at once. Miserable and magical: her newfound love was returned.

“Bernadetta! The carriage!”

She hastily folded up the letter and tucked it into her pocket beside the poems that had been recently restored to her. She walked back to the manor and was immediately bombarded by her mother and father who began to pinch her cheeks and judge her dressing for the day.

It was scarcely nine o’clock and already one of her father’s spies had seen Ferdinand’s horse. They reported that it was about ten minutes away with any hope of traffic.

The house was in a state of chaos. Grégoire had quickly caught wind of the invitation by means of the society papers, which reported a Miss B.V. very intimately associated with Mr F.A. at the final performance of La Dame Aux Camellias, at which Dorothea Arnault had given her final performance to a standing ovation. 

Bernadetta, truthfully, was not surprised that he learned so soon. Any hope of keeping Ferdinand’s call a secret was squashed quickly: nothing remained private when her father was near. 

As such, Grégoire ordered for all the servants were made to be available at Ferdinand’s disposal. Board his horses, take his coat and hat, serve him tea, wipe his boots… No expense or action was too great or small, given the importance of this visit.

Bernadetta was deposited by her mother and styled, in a similar fashion of a doll, in a chair. Had she not been dazed by Raphael’s letter or his admission of feelings and proposal of marriage, she would have been kicking and screaming; but the letter sedated her to the point where she almost calmly watched the white horse and it’s rider round the corner and pass through the gates into the estate. Everyone in the drawing room—her little sisters Colette and Heloïse sewing and playing the pianoforte, her younger brother Francois reading, her mother fluttering about—heard it after she did.

“Come children,” said her mother. Her siblings were gathered up for what Bernadetta knew was vital to everyone in the manor and family.

The previous night was spent in sleepless anguish. Each time she put her head to the pillow, she found herself more awake than before. It only grew worse with each passing ticking of the clock in her room. At half past midnight, she roused from her bed and began attempting to put quill to paper, writing a letter to Leonie of the new developments with Raphael. But after a half hour, many ruined sheets of letter parchment and her hands covered in ink, she gave up and dumped them into the unused hearth at the other end of the room, and used a hidden box of matches to set fire to them.

Her mind ran as wild as the wind, swirling between memories of the night prior. Of Raphael speaking that tiny, precious little truth, of speaking her name so kindly. She long forgot that her name could be so beautiful after hearing it scolded, shrieked and snarked for some twenty years. And of her, of speaking the same truth, speaking his name, of touching his hand.

Such impropriety would ruin her character and name. But after his letter, Bernadetta found it hard to care about anything else other than that her love was returned, perhaps twofold. 

She remained awake until her lady’s maid came in and roused her properly, chiding that she looked as sleepless as she felt. 

Naturally, the condescension was worse from her father, remarking that she looked as if she’d aged a decade. Much had to be done about her face and dress. When that did not help, her father permitted her to walk the gardens and collect flowers in a last-ditch attempt to bring colour to her cheeks and spark a bloom that was quickly fading at twenty years old.

She drew thin breaths, sitting with her hands drawn in her lap, silent and still as best she could have been in that moment. The desire to run was deep in her bones, driving down to her core. It would be quite simple, and after years of practice, she was a fast runner. Only her slippers—silky and made without any inclination for the athletics—would have hindered her. And if she went then she could have possibly made it to the Hresvelg Hall with much haste.

But what would she have done? What could she have done? Edelgard was merely a princess, not yet the emperor. And changing laws to pertain to all of Adrestia, that would take some time, a lot of time; time which Bernadetta did not have.

“Mr Aegir to see you ma’am.” 

Bernadetta glanced up just as the young gentleman appeared in the hallway, his face flushed with travel and his hat removed from his head leaving his hands as he passed it to a servant. They regarded each other for a moment. She unsteadily got to her feet, curtseying politely as he bowed to her.

There was a moment of silence, of flickering gazes before Bernadetta inclined her head, hiding such a guilty expression. 

“D-Do sit down.” She said, forcing a smile. “Do you wish for refreshment, or…”

“Miss Varley.” Ferdinand’s voice was clear and gentle. “I must speak with you.”

She paused and reluctantly met his eyes. He looked as nervous as she felt. Such a mutual feeling did nothing to ease her own woes. A quiet “yes” barely escaped her lips as they took their seats. They settled in, awkwardly staring at their feet for a long moment before Ferdinand turned to her.

“We, as nobles, are bound to properly ascend our fathers someday.” He said softly. “And in their places, we take upon their woes, their trials, their problems. To face them alone is a burden that no one should bear.”

Bernadetta’s heart stuttered in her chest.

 “I come today, not as a noble, but as a man asking for your hand in marriage, and offering my own in return. You shall have all my love and devotion until the day I die.”

He dared to reach out and take her gloved hand. He sunk to the ground in a slow movement and her eyes tracked him as he did so. Bernadetta’s heart dropped into her stomach and tears pricked her eyes.

“It would give me the greatest felicity if you would take me as your husband, Miss Varley.”

She immediately thought of Raphael. Of his proposal, his feelings, his future. 

Tears pricked her eyes and Ferdinand shied, searching for a handkerchief on his person to extend to her. “Oh, Miss Varley…” He cooed gently. “I hope I have not upset your delicate feelings.”

Bernadetta struggled for a breath, a thought, an idea and clambered for words. She knew the answer before she was to speak it.

No. I am sorry, Mr Aegir, I cannot accept you.

Her father’s plan was coming to pass. She finally had a proposal from a suitable man, of good rank, fortune, name and character: perhaps the perfect gentleman for her. He was deeply respected in society and the ton, obviously had the approval of her father and mother… and he was to be the next prime minister, making her the duchess of Aegir and a social trendsetter in and outside the ton.

“I… I appreciate your offer, Mr Aegir… But… But…”

“Miss Varley, please do not stress yourself.” Ferdinand insisted vehemently. “If you need time, I shall wait as long as you need. I am happy to wait for you.”

“Y-You are?”

“Most happy.” He insisted.

Bernadetta’s anxiety eased, but only briefly. As quickly as it eased, it resurged harder; “H-Have you asked my father?”

“Of course I have. Though, it was a matter of politeness.” He said. “Our combined inheritances will be plenty for both of us, even without their approval.”

“Inheritances?” Bernadetta asked. “You mean my 30,000 gold?”

Ferdinand shook his head. “I meant your title as Countess Varley.”

Bernadetta stared at him. “Co-Countess Varley?”

“You are the heir, are you not?”

“No.” Bernadetta said with increasing anxiety. “My brother Louis is. Mr Varley, who has a house on Norland Street?” She scrambled. “H-He looks like me, he’s seven years my senior? H-He has a w-wife and b-boys…” Her breath came quicker and she demanded, “W-What do you mean Countess Varley?”

Ferdinand looked perplexed. “I was under the assumption that Count Varley had changed his inheritance.” He mused. “Yes, I remember it now: he called last night while we were at the opera and all the little details of the marriage contract were settled. You shall be Countess Varley, the new leader of the county, and I shall be Duke Aegir—upon the completion of our marriage contract, the territories shall unite to form the region of Aegir-Varley…”

Ferdinand finally took note of her pale expression and wide eyes. “Were you not aware of the plan?”

She shook her head, her breath stilled.

“How odd. The marriage contract was drawn up by our parents as soon as the agreement was reached. It was all settled on their end. What made them forget you, the bride, the most important of the arrangement?”

Bernadetta was dangerously still. Her heart hammered in her chest. “Marriage contract?”

“Yes. It was written a fortnight ago, and I was made aware of it three days before today.” He smiled breezily. “I was quite pleased when my father told me of it’s existence. Such a union between our houses will be prosperous, and I, for one, will be happiest to call you my wife.” He paused. “If you accept me, of course.”

Bernadetta felt like the floor was about to give way if she moved wrong. She stared at the ground, tried to soothe her heart and ease her nerves, but it wasn’t working. Her hand rested over her chest, but she felt out of control, as if she was far away and her body were stuck in one place.

How do I control how I react to this? She thought furiously. “I… Idon’thaveachoice.”

“Pardon?” Asked Ferdinand.

Bernadetta bolted from her seat, pulling her hand from his. “I don’t have a choice! It’s an arranged marriage. I… I don’t… I don’t…” Her breaths came fast and heavy now and the room began to spin. “C-Countess… C-C-Countess…”

“Bernadetta, calm yourself.”

“Don’t call me that!” She practically screamed at him. “And don’t tell me what to do!”

Ferdinand was taken aback by her behaviour. His expression paled and he drew back from his pacing fiancée as she babbled on and on about her new expectations: social function, the role of Duchess Aegir, of fine china and balls, babies and groundskeeping until her breathing grew so severe and so intense that she swayed and collapsed in front of the hearth. 

Bernadetta dreamed a funny dream: she was to marry Ferdinand.

In her dream she was not unhappy. He was a good husband to her: kind and generous and sensitive to her delicate disposition. But he left her often to work in Enbarr as the prime minister and entrusted the management of the territory to her, which against all odds, she did well. Many commended her for her good work.

They had many children together and Bernadetta was known for being at home often, save for the social season where she and children travelled to the Imperial Capital, despite her dislike of leaving the grounds of Aegir Hall. She held garden parties and balls and soon became the one of organize the Aegir picnic at the beginning of each social season.

She liked Ferdinand and he liked her; they got along well and made a fine match socially and intellectually and in many other ways… 

But Bernadetta was not happy. Not in the slightest. 

She loved her children, chubby-cheeked and cherubic and perfect, but they were not enough somedays. And often, she thought of the man she did love while whiling away a bottle of Gaspard ice wine in the quiet of her personal parlour. Her cage had merely changed from plated silver to gold, and still she was forced to sing.

Once it was determined that Bernadetta was not ill, but merely distressed, she was permitted the privilege of solitude. Locking herself in her room was no longer an option, as Grégoire had taken the door off it’s hinges, citing her “illness”. 

Bernadetta had opted to go down to the gardens and walk off the excess of her nerves.  The pacing did little to remove the weight of not only being the heir and future Countess Varley, but of the marriage contract’s existence. Majority of the stress had passed and she found herself uncomfortably numb. 

The choice of marriage had been stripped from her since the beginning: she had maintained, while feeble and foolish, a tiny hope that she would choose her suitor… But even that had been taken from her.

Ferdinand was to be her husband, and her engagement was practically set. His matter of asking was simply a courtesy, and was telling of his character—had he been less of a gentleman, perhaps he might not have even asked her. Perhaps she would have woken up one day, dressed and gone down to the breakfast table and found his seat beside hers and been told by her father, in passing, “ah yes daughter, here is your husband-to-be… Now will you take tea?”

How could love exist in an arranged marriage? Surely it couldn’t. In all the unions she witnessed, all the arranged ones, none were happy. All were resentful at worse, cold and coarse and cruel, and in the best, indifferent and uninterested and numbing.

Only the deepest love would ever sway Bernadetta into matrimony. A lifetime of epic romances and lovelorn poetry had built that sense within her, and Bernadetta couldn’t yield.

But father… She thought anxiously. He was not aware that Bernadetta would refuse Ferdinand. Ferdinand was either too blind or too good to give that little truth away; she chose to believe that he was much too good. And she found, in her pacing in circles and anxiously murmuring to herself that she could not hate Ferdinand, as much as she wanted to in that moment. 

Her father would never take no for an answer, not when the Aegirs were so rich, so well-connected, so high-ranking… all those years of horrible training, of being served barely anything at meals to keep a svelte frame, of being tied to a chair with binding so tight, of being told that her worth was only in her hand and ability to have children… It would all be for nothing.

She broke out into tears again. Hacking sobs that almost make her collapse in on herself. Her worth was nothing more than a breeding mare. 

Bernadetta reached out to a nearby tree to support herself and shakily sat down on a marble bench that lied beneath it. Her voice rose in heaving sobs as she reached out for her soaked handkerchief.

She was so consumed with her tears that she did not hear the hidden gate to the garden go, nor did she hear the sound of heavy footsteps draw near.

“Bernadetta?”

She barely had control of herself, her vision still blurry with tears and her throat clogged with the salt of her woes. She looked up and felt her heart lighten. Before her stood Raphael, wearing a look of honest concern and genuine worry.

“Raphael?” She whispered, not believing her eyes. She blinked rapidly to dispel the tears.

“Why are you crying? What happened?” He asked, taking a seat beside her.

Bernadetta’s joy was short-lived at his arrival. I could never take his hand.

“I’m fine, I promise, Raphael.” She said, rubbing at her eyes. “Don’t… Don’t worry about me I am fine, I pr-promise.”

“No,” he insisted. “if something’s bothering you, maybe I can help? I helped before, I can do it again.”

“You can’t help me, Raphael… Mr Kirsten, I’m sorry.”

He dimmed and a frown crossed his face. “Did… Did you get my letter?”

Her hand instinctively went to her pocket. Quaking, she withdrew the letter and showed it to him. “I… I did.” She whispered.

Bernadetta could tell that he was withholding some excitement. “What… did you think of it?” He asked nervously. “Do you… Maybe?”

Another wave of tears crashed over Bernadetta. The letter crumpled in her hands and she sobbed openly, loudly and without reserve.

“Oh Bernadetta, I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to upset you.” Raphael said.

“No! No no, it isn’t you. It’s me.” She insisted, taking his hands. Raphael focused on her as she spoke. She summoned the remnants of her destroyed pride, her ransacked nerves, her anxiety, and said: “I… I think…. I love you, Raphael.”

His eyes widened. “You do?”

She nodded and watched as he bit down on his lip and then paused, briefly before he met her gaze.

“I love you too, Bernadetta.” Raphael said softly.

Her heart briefly soared at her affections being returned. The tears ceased.

“So, would you?” He glanced at the letter in her hands. Her eyes flew to it too, and she felt his gentle touch on her cheek. He ran the pad of his thumb under her eye, wiping away the tracks of her tears, and then retrieved his own handkerchief to help with the matter.

Her mind ran wild with all the possibilities. His lack of fortune and rank, the dependence on Lorenz and his abominable pride and character… All these things swirled around Bernadetta.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly, “Y-Yes Raphael, I want to marry you.”

Raphael exploded into a booming laugh and took her in his arms. His embrace was tight and firm and soothing. For a split second, Bernadetta forgot her woes and felt lighter, as if a heavy weight was lifted off her shoulders, her heart.

The moment was short lived. Her eyes snapped open and she realized what she had done. Worse, she spotted a servant gawking at her. They turned to run back into the house, presumably to her father. She gasped, broke their embrace and got up.

“W-We need to leave the grounds.” She hissed.

“Leave?” Raphael asked, confused. 

“Yes!” She squeaked, gathering up her skirts so she could run, slippers be damned. “No-Now. Can we get a carriage from Mr Gloucester?”

“Maybe, yeah… Bernadetta, why are you so jumpy?”

She snatched his hand and pulled him, to both their great surprises towards the hidden gate. As they moved, the servants of the house began to mobilize.

“We need to go!” She insisted.

“But shouldn’t I ask your parents for their consent?”

“No!” She shakily exclaimed. 

Bernadetta made it to the gate and using all her strength flung it open. The hops growing up it snapped and the iron groaned loudly. “Go, go, go!” She ordered Raphael, who was already through it. They had a hope of getting to the Gloucester Enbarr Great House, of getting away until she heard the sound of the front door of the manor slam and a call of her name.

“Bernadetta.”

All her hope left her in a great flood. She stopped in the doorway of the gate—still holding Raphael’s hand—to see her father approaching the garden, his eyes blazing with rage.

She dropped Raphael’s hand and shrunk back.

Grégoire spoke again, his tone even and unimpressed. “And you must be Mr Kirsten.”

“I am.” Raphael said genially, beginning to step back through the gate. “Hello, Count Varley. How do you do?”

Grégoire did not deign Raphael with an answer; instead he looked at his daughter. Panic attacked Bernadetta and she thought she was going to faint again.

“Pray, tell, where are you going, daughter?” He asked. “Especially with such haste and out of the side door? With no walking shoes or parasol… Your complexion will be burnt by the sun.”

Bernadetta opened her mouth but the words did not come.

Raphael began to speak. “We were just going to—”

Grégoire’s gaze tore from Bernadetta’s for a second and he said sharply, “I asked my daughter, Mr Kirsten, not you.” 

Bernadetta glanced between the house and the hidden door. Her vision narrowed. The words evaded her for a split second before Grégoire sighed and smiled. “Speechless again. New brides are often like this.” He said with mock apologies to Raphael.

Bernadetta’s heart dropped to her stomach. Raphael’s brow knit. “I… I didn’t…” He paused. “Bride?”

“Oh yes,” Grégoire said to Raphael. “She’s to be married to Mr Ferdinand von Aegir before the end of the year. Did she not tell you?”

Betrayal struck Raphael’s face. He looked at Bernadetta earnestly. “You’re engaged?” He whispered. “And not to me?”

“I never said yes!” Bernadetta yelled in protest. “To him! Not to you—” She quickly bit down her tongue and stopped speaking. 

Grégoire shook his head. “Yet.” He reminded her tersely.

Raphael stared at Bernadetta for a long time and she felt all the misery of not telling him about Ferdinand and the regrets of not taking his hand sooner and fleeing to the Gloucesters.

Grégoire smiled again. “May I offer a horse to you, Mr Kirsten?” He asked. “Or will you stay for tea?”

“No thank you, sir.” Raphael said woundedly. “I’ll be leaving.”

Bernadetta clambered after him, now tripping over words, over promises. Raphael simply looked at her, gave her a small, sad smile and walked out of the garden gate. The iron bars slammed behind him.

She stood in the garden, her eyes wide, words gone. 

“Rabble.” Grégoire muttered under his breath. He stood beside his daughter and seized her arm. Despite the pain, she did not yelp; tears already streamed down her face as she stared at the place where Raphael had stood a moment ago. 

Grégoire pulled her arm back to the house and Bernadetta would not yield. “Come.” He ordered.

She did not answer.

“Bernadetta, I am talking to you.”

She remained silent.

“Bernadetta, if you do not come right now, I shall drag you in.”

Do it. She thought. I care not.

Grégoire huffed, then drew a thin breath in and dragged her back into the manor, while she sobbed.

Chapter Text

“You are to dismiss the boy.”

Bernadetta could barely raise her eyes from her feet. She’d spent the afternoon sobbing in her room and a miserable headache had developed from her woes. Her hands clenched the sides of her dress tightly, as if it the only thing holding her to the earth. Through the thin muslin, she felt her fingernails prick the inside of her palms, threatening to draw blood from the little half moons they left.

“He is common. Trash. Garbage. No good for a future countess like you.” 

Grégoire’s voice was firm and clear, and his tone was not to be refused. Bernadetta had barely gotten ahold of herself before he summoned her to his study. It was late, much past the dinner hour, he did not allow her any supper, not even a cup of tea. The hall that housed her room had been cleared of staff and her family, and he had given explicit instructions not to go near, nay, even approach the floor.

Bernadetta felt numb. Painfully numb. All emotion had been cried out of her that painful afternoon. A chance at happiness, no matter how slight, had been within her hands for a fleeting moment. If she had have been quicker, or if she had met Raphael in the street and accepted him there, then maybe she would have been able to make it out from beneath her father’s grasp.

“Did you hear me, Bernadetta?” 

Her fingers curled into her gown, the stitching began to rip with her grip. 

“He is a bumbling fool. A disgrace to you and our lineage.” Grégoire’s tone was dangerous and after twenty years, knew it well. She flinched and shut her eyes tightly. “And you may close your eyes and pretend that I do not see, but I am not blind. I know why that common swine was here and what occurred between the two of you. I cannot believe you would entertain such a foolish notion like love or even marrying him.”

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat but found it dry. Water had also been kept from her; Grégoire’s cruelty knew no bounds.

Suddenly, his hand gripped her chin tightly. Her breath hitched and met her father’s eyes briefly before shutting them tightly once more. Her face, caught in her father’s icy hand, kept her from moving at all. 

“He is in love with you. And we cannot have that.” He said. “There is a very handsome marriage contract and an advantageous marriage lined up for you.”

The words were like driving a rusty knife into her chest. Her eyes pricked with tears. Grégoire pulling his hand away and Bernadetta hung her head. “Love is not on the table for a noble of your title and land and wealth.”

Once, she might have blushed that such an accusation of love. Now her face could not even colour slightly, for she knew it was true: she loved Raphael, deeply. 

But she cared for his safety more.

“You will marry Mr Aegir as intended.” Grégoire ordered.

Her mouth opened to talk back and he grimaced. “Shut your mouth, Bernadetta. All those years of training and you still have no manners.”

“I cannot accept him.” She said, though it came out in a single breath.

“You can and you will.” Grégoire threatened, “I do not have the patience nor time for your silly games, Bernadetta. Either you accept Mr Aegir’s proposal and fulfill the marriage contract, or I will disinherit you. I altered the estate once, I shall do it again.”

“There’s nothing left in the estate.” She said quietly, rising from her chair. “The Varleys have nothing. Are nothing.”

Grégoire’s eyes flashed with rage. “What?”

“There’s nothing left.” She said louder. “You told me so! I’m to save the family from destitution!” She backed away from him as he drew closer. “I won’t do it! You can’t make me!”

“I can have that boy of yours taken care of.” He said. 

“Not everything will bend to your w-will!” She screamed at him.

“What does not bend will break!”

Bernadetta clambered back. Grégoire closed the distance between the two of them and warned, “If you do not cast that plebeian off, I will. Do not test me.”

She turned to the door, tears pricking her eyes as she turned the knob.

“If you leave now, you will have nothing.” He hissed at Bernadetta. “No family, no roof over your head, not even your name.”

Bernadetta finally met his eyes and whispered, in a low, dangerous tone: “I never had a family anyways.”

“You can wait here, ma’am.”

Bernadetta thanked the servant, shadowing her face from their view as best as she could. She forced herself to breathe as slowly and as soothingly as she could, but the distresses of the day made it incredibly hard.

She used Raphael’s handkerchief, as he had left it with her, to hide most of her face. Such was a little comfort to her, for all the feelings of the day returned to her.

The servant returned. “He will see you. Follow me, Miss Varley.”

Bernadetta followed the servant through the halls that might have been hers someday. But she knew now that they were not and never would be. The future Duchess Aegir would make these halls beautiful, she would brighten them better than she ever would, and she would make Ferdinand the happiest he could be.

Bernadetta was not that woman, nor could she make herself be that woman.

The servant led her to a lavishly furnished sitting room, with books and documents and a backgammon board. Seated in a comfortable chair by the fire was Ferdinand. 

Upon seeing her, he rose and inclined his head. Bernadetta curtseyed as best as she could. The hopeful expression melted off his face as soon as he saw her state.

“Miss Varley!” He exclaimed. “What has happened? Who has hurt you? Name them and I shall see them brought to justice.”

Bernadetta summoned all her confidence. While her heart was broken and her anxiety destroyed by what she’d always expected coming to pass, it was surprisingly easy to project an image of confidence. She had left Varley Manor after the interview with her father and would not return. She was certain that he had set to work once more changing the estate and shifting the pennies they had to move her inheritance to her siblings and he was thinking of all the ways he’d spend that unused gold. Bernadetta had nothing more to lose.  

“You can’t help me, Mr Aegir.” She insisted.

He went to argue with her, but Bernadetta seized his hands and held his gaze with pleading eyes. “But you can help someone else. A Raphael Kirsten and his sister, Maya.”

“What has happened?” He led Bernadetta to the nearby chaise longue and they sat together. 

She poured out the entire story—censoring her momentary engagement to Raphael—and Ferdinand listened dutifully with concern. After she had finished, he got up, paced the room and began asking questions about Raphael’s situation, who was conveying him, where he was. After along time, a plan was finally hatched. 

“I shall speak with Mr Gloucester and ensure a guard is around Mr Kirsten and his sister. They are staying at his guesthouse, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. I’ll also have a guard detail follow them to Leicester and see that they are unharmed. I doubt that the count would go that far, but it does not hurt to be cautious.” Ferdinand insisted. “Count Varley would be subject to Leicester’s laws, but I do not think they will go lightly on criminal intent to hurt or injure.” He mused, then turning to the hearth which burned brightly. “And his sister… I can have her placed in a convent if Mr Kirsten accepts. I will offer all my services to him.”

“You’re… You are the kindest soul, Ferdinand.” Bernadetta breathed. 

“Nonsense.” He vehemently insisted, “I am simply doing as a noble ought.” He said, before turning to her. “Now, for you.”

“Me?” She asked.

“Yes. In refusing me, you must have upset your father. Are you safe? Will you be safe?”

Bernadetta did not fully believe herself, but she said: “He would not hurt me. I am still his best asset.”

“Are you certain? I could have you hide in Aegir Cottage in my home territory.” He offered. “It is small, cozy actually, and the forest surrounding it will provide you good cover… I could employ a knight to protect you—”

“No, Ferdinand, it is okay.” She murmured. “I will be okay.”

She realized that Ferdinand understood the gravity of what was happening: she was refusing his proposal. She felt a little guilt, a little shame for neglecting him so, for being unable to return his feelings and the sentiments that were so sweet.

Then, she slowly raised her gaze. “But there is one thing you could do for me.”

“Anything.” He promised her reverently. “Name it and it shall be yours, Miss Varley.”

“Th-The marriage contract you spoke about.”She said quietly. “I need you to burn it.”

He stared at her for a long moment, as if weighing the consequences of this action. Bernadetta knew that it would not only hurt her, but him too. She would not being ruining just herself this time.

I can control this. Bernadetta thought. In burning this, we’ll be both be free. Ferdinand can find someone who loves him as he should be loved. I can do this for him. It is the kindest thing I can do.

Ferdinand took her hand and placed a final, reverent kiss to the back of her palm. “As you wish.” He whispered.

“I… I am so sorry Ferdinand. I am not the woman… the bride you deserve.” She said. “You deserve someone so much… more.”

Ever the gentleman, Ferdinand inclined his head. “Nonsense, Miss Varley.” He said. “I am not the man who could endeavour to deserve your tender heart.” He gave a little sigh and said, “Though, in another life, I am sure I would have come to love you, Bernadetta.”

Bernadetta lurched forwards and hugged him. He held her tight before breaking their embrace. Then, he quickly got up and retrieved the contract from a nearby chamber.

Bernadetta did not know what she expected the contract to look like. At first thought, she pictured a thick document detailed what parties brought the linens and which one came with the horses, with every other belonging following in pursuit. Another brought the image of scroll writing down all their intentions, hopes and dreams for the union.

Instead it was a single piece of parchment with a date and four signatures upon it—Ludwig von Aegir and Grégoire von Varley—and donned the names of the bachelor and the bride.

This contract hereby legally binds Mr F. von Aegir to Miss B. von Varley, until death do they part.

“Here.” Ferdinand held out the other end of the paper together. “Together in flames?” He proposed.

“Together in flames.” She agreed.

They dropped the paper into the hearth. It floated down, landed upon the coals and melted into a pile of soot and ash. All of the plans their fathers had set up, every tiny hope had perished.

Bernadetta watched as the flames lapped the paper away, and finally let out a gentle sigh. “Thank you, Ferdinand.”

“Do not thank me. It is the duty of a noble to help.” He inclined his head. “May I be of service anyway else, Bernadetta?”

“No.” Bernadetta said, steeling herself. “The next thing only I can do.”

“Then I give you all the luck of Saint Cethleann, and I wish you most happy.”

Bernadetta stared up at Ferdinand for a moment, then stood to the tips of her toes and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. The words formed inside her head, clear as crystal:

“In another life, you might have made me happy.”

Yet she could only say, “Thank you, Mr Aegir.”

Her feet were blistered and sore and the blue hours of the morning stretched across Enbarr but Bernadetta could not return home. 

Ferdinand had insisted she take her ease, at least rest in one of the guest rooms but Bernadetta refused. “I have to go.” She said. “I need to set things right.”

He did not argue, nor did he try to stop her. Instead, he saw her off and bid her a final adieu in the silence of the early morning hours. 

She most certainly looked a mess, with her hair loosened from its topknot and the flowers placed in it wilting. Her dress was dusty and muddy from walking across Enbarr and her face was red from the exercise. 

She walked up the path to the Gloucester Enbarr Great House, and, yelling at their night guard that she was the famed Miss Varley, demanded to be let in. Halfway to the guesthouse, earnestly practicing her speech, the words she’d say to try and bring Raphael back to her, she was stopped.

“Miss Varley?”

Lorenz Gloucester, rumpled and sleepless, was walking towards her. He wore a coat over his bedclothes which were tucked into his breeches. His hair was dishevelled and his eyes sleepless, his expression worn.

She stopped and regarded him. “Mr Gloucester.” She noticed his distress, “You are well, I hope?”

“An express from Edgaria regarding my father, nothing more.” He said. “What brings you here?”

Bernadetta swallowed and said, “The Kirstens. I wished to speak to Raphael.”

She looked to the guesthouse. The lights were all out, not a single candle in the windows and no smoke escaped the chimney, despite the nippy morning air. “Are they in the main house?”

Lorenz remained silent. The silence was foreboding, and should have told Bernadetta all she needed to know. But she was a fickle, stubborn creature. Lorenz came closer and stood before her.

“The Kirsten siblings left yesterday afternoon.” 

Bernadetta stared at him. “W… What?”

“Mr Kirsten wanted to view a property in Derdriu and insisted it could not wait. Miss Kirsten wanted to see her grandfather.”

“They left?”

Lorenz nodded. “They wished you the best health and unending happiness, but could not deliver their wishes themselves. They apologize for it.”

Bernadetta felt the urge to cry, but found she could not summon the tears. She stared at the empty guesthouse. 

“I don’t understand.” 

“It was a very sudden affair, Miss Varley, I assure you.”

“Raphael isn’t here?”

Lorenz had closed the distance between them and touched her shoulder. Bernadetta glanced up at him. He’s not here? She thought. He should be here. He should have known that Father was just—

No. There was no way that he could have known. No way at all.

“He is not.” Lorenz assured her gently. “You seem confused, Miss Varley. Will you allow me to take you inside for some rest?”

“He’s supposed to be here.” She murmured softly over and over. “I thought he would… wait for me.”

Lorenz gently took her arm and she flinched. He eased back as Bernadetta turned back to him, demanding: “Was it you?” 

She asked with creeping suspicion. He had warned her before, there was nothing stopping him from doing anything else.

Lorenz laid his hand on his heart. “Miss Varley, I do not know what you speak of.” He said solemnly. “I think you are overtired from a long day… And perhaps a longer night. Please, come inside. I shall have something prepared for you.”

This, his earnestness, his solemnity, his insistence, tore away all the fight left in Bernadetta. 

She stared blankly forwards at the empty guesthouse, let Lorenz take her arm and guide her into the house. She let him sit her before the fire, let his maids take off her slippers and gasp at her bloodied stockings, let them all feed her thin soup and warm water which burned her dry throat and soured in her stomach. They pulled her hair down from the knot, brushed out the curls and removed the powder and rouge that had been half-cried off. She let them free her from the constricting corset that left marks on her body from being cinched too tight and the dress with the sleeves the bore her snot and tears from the day. They undressed and redressed her in one of Marguerite’s nightgowns and put her to bed like the fragile porcelain doll she always had been.

Chapter Text

The Rose and Thorn Inn, Borders of Edgaria, County  of Gloucester
21st of the Horsebow Moon, Imperial Year 1182

My dear Bernie-Bear,

You haven’t answered of any my letters and I’m beginning to worry more than I should. You know me too well: I don’t suffer fools. If it is your nerves just say so, otherwise, I’ll be inclined to think that you don’t like me anymore.

I’ve stopped in Edgaria while en route to Victor Parsonage. No sign of your Mr Kirsten... I don’t think he’s been put up at Gloucester Manor, not with the count’s recent passing. Although, there’s been rumours that Lorenz, his prideful, arrogant, son-of-cow offspring is using his income to assist Mr Kirsten in keeping a respectable house and business. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about, that right? Last time I saw you, Mr Kirsten had been giving you very special attention...

Which leads me to believe that something occurred between the two of you and that it wasn’t good. I’ll only ask once, as you know I’ve got little patience: what happened?

I hope that your next letter arrives quickly and with the answers I hope for.

Your zipping hornet,
Leonie

House Hresvelg, Enbarr, Hresvelg Domain
14th of the Verdant Rain Moon, Imperial Year 1182

Miss Varley,

I hope that this letter finds you well. As I write it from Hresvelg Manor in the Enbarr estate, the sight outside is quite grey and devoid of colour, I’m afraid that it will only become more dreary with your leaving.

It saddens me to hear that you are too ill to attend the traditional end of season ball held by House Vestra. I had much hoped to see you before the marriage of our friend, D.A. Your father has stated that you are much too sickly to leave your room, that the Enbarr air does not agree with you. I somehow have doubts of that, but it truly must be the air, for my friend, F.A. is also feeling sickly.

His countenance has become quite pale, his eyes less bright and more hollow. Yet he insists he is fine, merely tired from the strenuous season. Chipper as ever, it irks my aide and I—we are used to his unyielding optimism and hate to see him so grey.

Yes, it seems everyone in our coterie is leaving earlier than the season usually allows. Her Majesty has is engaged and will be returning home with her betrothed, the adopted son of Lord Gaspard. D.A. has agreed to marry S.G.—against my advice—and even esteemed and lively L.G. is closing up the Great House in favour of Leicester, citing the long journey and declining health of his father. I fear there will be no one to attend this upcoming ball. I wonder whose conversation I shall have to delight in aside from H.V.’s and F.A.’s. I doubt I will have much…

I do hope you begin to feel well soon. If you ever have need of anything—apothecary, physician, surgeon or mage—send your letter to me by the fastest messenger and you will have it. 

With great fondness,

Her Majesty, 
Edelgard von Hresvelg

Gloucester Enbarr Great House, Enbarr, Hresvelg Domain
10th of the Verdant Rain Moon, Imperial Year 1182

Dear Miss Varley,

I write, belatedly, to congratulate and mourn with you upon your engagement to Mr F. Aegir. May you live many happy and prosperous years together.

Yours &c., 
L. H. Gloucester

PS

I had warned you. And such reproach—even from a place of genuine remorse—is lost upon me. You’ve curdled the happiness of a most dear ally, and dare I say a friend, and have lost my good opinion forevermore.

Miss B. Varley 

is prevailed upon by the wishes of 

Miss D. Arnault 

to appear at her union to 

Margrave S. Gautier

On the Sixteenth of the Red Wolf Moon, 1182

At Garreg Mach Monastery, the United Territory of Fódlan

RSVP

Miss F’s Society Papers, volume 113

30th of the Verdant Rain Moon, Imperial Year 1182

A marked absence was found last week at Marquis Vestra’s end-of-season ball. The usual splendour was dulled by the lack of dance partners and rather empty cards. It seems all the young beautiful people of Fódlan have skidded off without a farewell. How rude!

Yours truly was in attendance to the event and noticed how dreary it was. Many nobles of the Adrestian Empire were missing, or shacked up with lovers, ignorant to proper society and good manners. This social season has been a much turbulent one. The most spoken of, however is none other than one a one B.V. who caused a conundrum at the opening events, falling into the arms of a kind gentleman, R.K. The self-same woman was also regarded as the most accomplished and eligible lady upon the marriage market has disappeared without a trace.

This author has heard of many justifications, from illness to scandal, but cannot return with any concrete evidence or proof. Instead, I shall regale you with the unions, which there are many of…

Chapter Text

Bernadetta von Varley, aged four and twenty years, was once the most eligible bachelorette in all of Adrestia, but titles trade with the years and bloom fades to plainness. Her eyes, which had once been remarked as storm-cloud grey and beheld as beautiful were now dull and lifeless. Her skin, once milk-white and glowing had been the envy of many young ladies, now lacked the brightness afforded by youth and bloom. And her dowry, her inheritance and her pre-measured wedding clothes that had been talked of often in the ton and at court, had all been snatched away from her with haste.

After the life-upending events of the Adrestian social season of 1182, Bernadetta von Varley had been sent home to Varley Maison in Varley’s capital city of Burgundy, and spent the remainder of the season in seclusion. Her mother, Elodie, had rescued her from the Gloucester Enbarr Great House the night she had learned that the Kirsten siblings had left Enbarr, and was conveyed her home in post, without so much as a servant or guardian to watch over her. Her arrival in Burgundy was quiet, unassuming and overall lacklustre for a lady of her esteem, wealth and standing.

But Bernadetta, numb to any such provocations, paid no heed to these transgressions against her. Instead, her mind and soul was consumed fully by a burgeoning depression and regrets brought on by the events of the social season.

The quiet was welcome after all the tears, the anger, the disappointments she’d endured. However, such quiet allotted her much time with her thoughts and growing guilt, which became her dear friends and constant companions to her.

She attempted, many times, to write a letter to Raphael Kirsten, explaining the suddenness of the marriage contract, the estate of Varley Maison and title of countess being foisted upon her amid countless lines of apologies. Yet each time she sat to draft a letter and tried to put her quill to the page, the words fled from her. How could she convey the depths of her remorse, the depression she faced and the regrets that would follow her for the rest of her life within words?

It was not to be borne by Bernadetta. All her feeble attempts were sent to the wastebasket beside her writing desk, and the balled-up letters were sent to the fire. 

The Horsebow Moon came, marking the end of another social season. Soon, Bernadetta’s family returned to Varley Maison, regarding her with the same coldness that her father gave her during their last meeting. The fall and winter passed with seething silence in which father scarcely uttered a word to her, his rage unhidden, his upset well-known. None of her family—save her mother in moments of desperation—dared to speak to her, not in front of their father at least. Louis, who had his own home in Enbarr, was especially upset with her once he’d found out that the estate had been given—albeit briefly and without desire—to her. The line of inheritance was quickly amended and Bernadetta’s own supposed inheritance of 10,000 gold marks was divided between her two sisters.

Grégoire turned all his efforts of marriage and betterment towards his younger children. He began setting up engagements and betrothals to other noble families, namely the Bergliez brood who had many younger children and good lands and passable inheritances. While less than desirable, a military connection would be favourable over a lowly barrister’s family or a humble baronet’s. To Bernadetta, Grégoire gave her nothing but cold silence.

In the spring, Bernadetta’s mother, Elodie, had informed her that she would have another chance to debut, properly this time, in a social season. 

“And,” she had added with false hope as she played with the curls of Bernadetta’s topknot, “perhaps we could snare a proper husband this time.”

Bernadetta did not wish for a husband, especially not one snatched like a floppy fish from the sea. It seemed that their high society were not quick to forget last season and the troubles that followed her, and in truth, Bernadetta was not surprised. Her fall before the entire court at the emperor’s ball, her eccentric nature, the now open truth of the marriage contract to Ferdinand that she had broken, the hidden engagement with Raphael…. No gentleman would come near her, and no rake worth any money would either. 

When the spring’s buds burst into summer blooms and faded to fall leaves and she still had no proposals—let alone suitors—Bernadetta was disinherited for real and for true. Grégoire turned Bernadetta out of the family and Varley Maison without so much as a warning. He had called her into his study, and not looking up from his overdrawn cheques, notes from the church and plans for improvements to his already grandiose mansion told plainly that she was no longer his daughter.

“I hope to never see your face again.” He’d said, shifting through this papers. “After all, you said not long ago that you never had a family.”

Bernadetta, who had lived under his abusive thumb for twenty-one years, could barely believe her ears. She almost laughed in his face, but settled for the false, well-practiced tears that he had taught her to shed so well.

Her mother, nor siblings, bade her farewell. Two trunks of clothes and her books and oddity crafts had been packed for her by the servants under Grégoire’s watchful eyes. The world outside terrified her, but it was miles better than being a cold, vile, blue-blooded Varley for a moment longer.

She fully expected to be left destitute, to be ridiculed or worse by the townspeople of Burgundy, but as she picked up her trunk and prepared to walk into the unknown, she was greeted by her uncle who waited in the hallway of the manor. The same man who had been her guardian in her youth for a few short, blissful years, Sir Francois von Varley, the younger brother of Grégoire.

It seemed that being the poor little brother pardoned Francois from inheriting the gluttonous attitude and megalomaniac state of self-importance belonging to the Varleys. He was barely a baronet, if only by Grégoire’s desire to put himself forth by proxy, and lived on a meagre income. He had never married nor had he ever intended to, and often lived on the road for many months at a time, calling hotels and inns his home as he travelled. When he had Bernadetta that winter many years ago, he rented a home in the large town nearest Sauin.

To supplement his small inheritance, Francois advertised himself as a gentleman merchant, peddling weapons and goods from his brother’s territory. This occupation was the exact reason that brought him to Sauin, and in turn, tied Bernadetta and Leonie’s lives together in an unending bow. 

Francois, standing in the front hall, greeted his niece with a gentle incline of his head. Bernadetta, overcome with joy in the face of such woes, barely stopped herself from flying into his arms with a hug. She curtseyed as best as she could and bit back the smile that grew at seeing her uncle for the first time in so long.

The staff took her two trunks and loaded them with haste onto his small curricle. The two spoke not a word until they quitted the house and were securely inside the cab and halfway down the expansive driveway of Varley Maison.

“Niece,” said Francois over the clap of the horses’ hooves. “I am dearly sorry to hear what has transpired.”

Bernadetta inclined her head. “T-Thank you.”

“Upon learning of your father’s intention to disown you—he has a large mouth, you know—I came as fast as I could. You and I have always gotten along well, and while your reputation may be… er…” He paused and cleared his throat. “I could not leave you to your own devices, dear Bernadetta.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Th-That is very kind, Uncle.”

“I will be renting a small home in southern Faerghus. I’m afraid, even though south, it will be bitterly cold for an Adrestian bloom like you… but it will carry us far enough from the ton and Adrestia for the time being.” He explained. “The staff will be minimal, as to not upset your delicate disposition and to adhere to my income. In the spring, we will move once more, perhaps somewhere closer to Fhirdiad, weather permitting.”

Francois mused on and on, about how well they got on, how this could be a fortuitous alliance, that his business could connect her with new allies and friends, perhaps making her governess like she daydreamed about so long ago. All the while, Bernadetta gave him a thin smile and nodded, just as she was trained to do. Though now, she felt a certain freedom, a weight slip off her shoulders as she indulged in this new fantastical life.

The first house in Faerghus—in Gaspard, specifically—served as a reminder to Bernadetta. Varley Maison in Burgundy and the manor in Enbarr were both large, grandiose buildings to emphasize the importance of the esteemed Varley line. The excess of children in her family had necessitated good relations with the other noble houses for future matchmaking: now, Bernadetta’s social life had little to no relevance. True, she still sat with the wives of knights and hunters alike and engaged—sometimes well, but most often poorly—with them in topics of weather, state of the roads and idle chit-chat pertaining to accomplishments and gossip.

During her time with her blood family, Bernadetta had rarely a need to work or anything to do. At Varley Maison and the Enbarr estate, she had been waited on with staff, as her father always insisted for the estate to be crawling with servants to show off the Varleys’ wealth… Or at least, to falsify such a wealth, for most employed in the house constantly were behind on their pay.

The first home in Gaspard was not small by any means. Bernadetta often thought in the comparative smallness of the home that Leonie lived in, and how, if Leonie could visit her in Faerghus, would have exclaimed in amazement over the size of the rented house, with it’s wide breakfast room, study, guest rooms and even a private parlour for Bernadetta. But compared to the homes she’d lived in before, the rented house was not as grand or big.

Francois, trusting his niece, allowed her the much-needed privacy to recuperate after long periods of social interaction. Upon his return, his business associates and friends wanted to reunite and were all eager to meet the illustrious and ever-accomplished Miss Varley. Many were disappointed when they found out that her voice wavered when she spoke and she could not hold eye contact for very long. Though, many commented, her lack of conversation was forgiven for her proficiency on the pianoforte and harp, as Francois rented for her from a local music shop. Bernadetta had also easily learnt the lyre within a few months of being in Faerghus, as it had been a gift from one of Francois’s partners in business.

He did not consent, however, to her going into the town of Gaspard on her own. Not for fear of ruin, but for safety. He had said, one day amidst the freezing winds and billowing snow, “I’m afraid I’ll lose you in a snowbank, Niece!” and laughed most cordially.

He insisted that the stablehand or a maid go with her as company, though Miss Varley had little need to go into the town. Most days, she relegated herself to her room, or realizing the heavy burden upon their lone housekeeper, Emma, came to her aid despite vehement insistence that her assistance was unneeded. Such refusals, became playful jests that made Bernadetta colour at first, but soon became welcomed within a fortnight.

The work was a blessing. It kept Bernadetta occupied, her mind full and her hands busy. While feminine accomplishments kept her from idleness and pasted a smile pasted to her face, cleaning and cooking kept Bernadetta’s mind sharp and well-honed and far from thoughts of Raphael Kirsten.

Though she found herself still thinking of him, for how could she so easily be expected to forget him? Dark periods followed his memory: what if I stayed? What if I had been stronger? She would think before succumbing to the numbness and silent tears that would slip down her cheeks.

Even Francois, who Bernadetta admired—and began to view as more a father than her own—could not ward off such paralysis regardless of how warmly he treated and he doted upon her. 

After ages of attempting to write Raphael, Bernadetta could not withstand anymore torture on such a front. She had lost him irrevocably and would not regain him, no matter how hard she wished it. Her mind began to wander about what would happen if she in fact had a second chance and one evening, found herself writing a fable within her own life; a story that she would turn to and resonate with most closely than the poems she’d loved so… A story of persuasion.

The spring of Imperial Year 1184 brought another change. After the lord of the house alerted Francois and Bernadetta that he had let his residence to his brother who had a large family, and the Varleys began searching for another home. With the coming spring and promise of newfound prosperity, the two moved towards the west, near the state of Duscur. As trade for Francois boomed—with demands for swords and hammers and everything becoming record-high—his finances became a mess.

“You could try keeping a daily log.” Suggested Bernadetta upon hearing his woes of inventory and sales. “Con…” She paused and collected her thoughts. “Consult it and see which items you must keep in stock at certain times… What sells well and what does not, all-arounders to have have constantly, products to order only for specific regions or times, like trowels and hoes in the spring and bows in the late fall.”

Francois, a better salesman than bookkeeper, was taken with such a good idea. More problems bubbled up, and in turn, more solutions came from his niece. One evening, when they dined following Francois’s return from a trip he said: 

“I realized, while far from you and quite out of my element, that you are indispensable to me as a business ally, Bernadetta. I am well aware that you were born and bred to be a noblewoman, and not a lady of labours, however, your talents in mathematics and problem-solving is unparalleled.” He proclaimed. “I think, dear niece, that you should join me in my business.”

Bernadetta dropped her spoon, splattering white soup everywhere. The maid came to help her and in a tizzy, Bernadetta stumbled, “R-Really? N-No, you have to be jesting.” She murmured. “Oh Uncle, don’t play with my emotions, you know my disposition!”

Francois smiled and assured her, “I do not cajole you, dear Niece. I am sure you can do this, as sure the sun will rise.”

“Y-You’re not… lying are you?”

“I could never lie to you, Bernadetta.” Francois happily nodded and patted her hand. “I am certain you will thrive, my dear. But I shall not pressure you: the choice is yours.”

Anxiously, Bernadetta consented, though she extracted a promise from him that she needn’t converse with his business associates unless she felt it necessary. Happily, Francois promised her that she would not be called to business trips unless she desired to follow.

At first, Bernadetta did not wish to travel with him, but soon she found it necessary to implement new ideas, and assist with problems and keep up with his sales. It also allowed her to see more of the world, which—despite great anxiety and constant reassurance from her dear uncle—interested her.

Bernadetta’s social status prevented her from conversing with many of her old society friends. The newly-married ascended Emperor Edelgard and new-mother Margravine Gautier had been explicitly labeled as off-limits by her father following the social season of 1182, for fear of besmirching the Varley name further or hurting their own fragile reputations. Princess Petra, obviously, was difficult to converse with. And once out of her father’s home, Bernadetta struggled to reconnect with them, all at once facing a barrage of anxieties, wondering if they’d remember her, if they’d hate her for being silence all those years, if they would ever forgive her… If they would let her back into their lives. 

Bernadetta thankfully still had the privilege conversation with her dear Leonie, whose letters would always brighten her day with tales of horseback riding and hunting and other unladylike sports that would make her mother clutch her pearls. They brought Bernadetta the brightest sparks of joy and made her smile amidst her solemnity and sadness. Leonie’s bright demeanour and wit always inspired Bernadetta, and soon, she found herself attempting to live in Leonie’s image: carefree and as happy as she could be, though, it was constantly short-lived and almost always for naught. 

With ease and steadiness thanks to the constant travel, Bernadetta’s nervous disposition was quelled by the shifting homes and constant stays at hotels. Though her anxiety was not vanquished, whenever Bernadetta felt overly worried, she remembered Raphael’s advice: one may not control the situation, but is able to control how they react to it.

Francois soon grew tired of the Kingdom and soon decided that they would work in Leicester for a time. They were entreated—at the behest of one of Francois’s old friends—to settle in the city of Illyria, within the borders of the margraviate of Edmund. He insisted that the fishing trade would provide Francois with good business and the ports would give him access to other continents and countries… And of course, it was brought to Bernadetta’s attention that the margrave had a relative around Bernadetta’s age. 

This relative was the lovely Marianne von Edmund. She was an eligible bachelorette in Edmund territory and set to inherit the estate and living, as there was no one left in the family to be entailed. 

Upon their first visit to Illyria, Sir Francois and Bernadetta were invited to stay at Edgeriver Hall, the ancestral estate of the Edmund family. Bernadetta specifically had been invited to sit with Miss Edmund in the drawing room of the estate, which overlooked the pretty ports and ocean that Edmund was so well-known for. The house was situated in the heart of the city, only a short walk from all the amenities of Illyria. It was breezily decorated in the latest styles and came with a private garden for the ladies to take the air in. Springtime in Edmund was cool, the air was thin and salty but good for Bernadetta’s health; she had never once felt so well as she did in the margraviate. 

“What if she doesn’t like me?” Asked Bernadetta as they took the curricle to the estate. Normally Francois would walk to his destinations as he was very fond of the exercise and insisted that it contributed to his good health and looks; but in this circumstance, he not want to ruin Bernadetta’s dress or exert her too heavily.

“Nonsense. She shall love you, Niece.” Francois said with confidence. “Besides, Miss Edmund is a kind and gentle young lady. I do not know of a single person she does not like and who does not like her.”

Marianne was a withdrawn young lady, not unlike Bernadetta herself. Their respective guardians had introduced the young ladies in the hall of the estate—Margrave Edmund and Sir Francois had done business for many years—suggested they enjoy tea while the men caught up on their own affairs. 

Marianne showed Bernadetta to the drawing room which was airy and full of light; it was open and finely furnished and decorated elegantly with portrait of landscapes and a few equine friends. She sat, requested quietly for Bernadetta to join her and called for tea. Her voice was soft and light, almost like she was constantly out of breath. After tea was called for, the two ladies sat in silence.

For a while, Bernadetta studied the room, focusing on the full bookshelves, the fine furniture, the Almyran carpets and the silk curtains  imported from Albinea. It was quite an expensive room by all accounts, and Bernadetta found herself surprised by it. From her brief knowledge in Alliance politics, the margrave had only recently been inducted to the roundtable of Leicester lords, but the margraviate was important  due to its ports and sizeable standing amongst the smaller houses.

Upon her first examination of the room, Bernadetta glanced it twice, almost three times over, to fill the time. Soon, anxiety began to cloud Bernadetta like a shadow. Her mind echoed for her to say something, to speak, to ask a question, to do something entertaining and engaging. 

Tea came, and Marianne quietly asked what she preferred. A gracious hostess, she prepared Albinean berry blend, one of Bernadetta’s favourites, and then handed her a cup and invited her to the petits-fours and biscuits. With trembling hands, Bernadetta took the cup.

Silence returned to the ladies as they sipped their tea and nibbled at the biscuits. Nervousness became Bernadetta as she sensed Marianne becoming bored with her.

What would Leonie do? She thought. Stupid Bernie! She’d talk to Marianne! Duh!

So, akin to what Leonie Pinelli had done to Bernadetta years ago, she took the first, anxiety-ridden step.  

“D-Do you like to read, Miss Edmund?” Bernadetta managed.

Marianne blinked twice, seemingly surprised that she was being engaged in conversation, and then nodded. “I do.”

Bernadetta brightened. “I do too! I love mysteries and fiction and… O-Oh listen to me t-talk too much… Stupid Bernie… What do you like to read?”

“No, no. It is refreshing to hear you speak about what you like to read.” Marianne insisted softly. “I don’t read a lot outside scriptures and religious texts. Though, I do enjoy the odd romance.”

Bernadetta deflated and gave a dim smile. “That’s the one genre I can’t get behind.”

Marianne returned the smile, then looked down at her tea. Silence returned and she cleared her throat. “I… I suppose it’s my turn?”

Bernadetta gave her another encouraging, but nervous, smile. Marianne paused for a moment. “I saw you ride up to the house in the carriage.” She said. “The horses… Er, they seemed to get excited when you stepped out.”

“Oh, yes.” Bernadetta mused nervously.

“I could sense that they liked you.”

“W-Well I’ve known them sometime…” Bernadetta murmured. “Two years now.”

“B-But… Oh you’ll think me impertinent.”

“No I won’t!” Bernadetta eagerly insisted. “I promise! Please speak, Miss Edmund.”

Marianne collected herself momentarily, and then drawing a breath, leaned closer to her and spoke quietly. “I went down when the margrave was greeted you and sensed that the horses loved you dearly.”

Bernadetta coloured. “R-Really?”

“Yes, indeed. I think it is a good judge of character when someone… when an animal thinks so well of someone. They are dear creatures.”

“Oh, do you have any animals?”

Marianne nodded. “There’s a family of bluebirds outside the window of my apartment who live in the birch tree. I fill their feeder every morning and ensure their bath is clean, and they sing to me… Such darling creatures. And I have my own horse, Dorte, for riding and the margrave’s hunting hound, Bruno.”

“So y-you’re an animal lover?”

She nodded happily. “Animals give a certain affection that humans cannot.” She insisted.

Bernadetta paused. “I guess you’re right.” She found a laugh escaping her lips.

“Did I say something funny?” Marianne asked fretfully.

Bernadetta quickly shook her head. “N-No! No.” She set down her teacup and pasted on the strongest smile she could. “You didn’t. I am just… I’m in my head again.”

Marianne must have noticed how her hands trembled. “Oh Miss Varley, are you cold? I-I’ll call for a coat, or blanket, or shawl…”

“N-No, Miss Edmund,” said Bernadetta quietly. She drew forth all the confidence she could. “I… I was actually really afraid of meeting you.”

Marianne looked shocked. “What?”

Bernadetta nodded. “It’s hard for me… To open myself up and talk. I-I’ve never been too good with it.”

“Oh, Miss Varley, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…” Marianne murmured. 

“No, it’s okay, I promise!” Insisted Bernadetta. She let out a sigh and met Marianne’s gaze. “I think admitting it makes it easier for me. A-At least I hope.”

“I must make a confession.” Marianne said and took a deep breath before she continued. “I was terrified of meeting you too.”

“You were?” Bernadetta asked, aghast. “But I’m nothing! N-Nothing at all.”

“You’re the most accomplished lady in Adrestia. You knit and sew and sing. You play the pianoforte and harp too, and you’re so smart and beautiful… You’re a legend in all the courts!” Said Marianne. “How can one not be afraid of you?”

Bernadetta thought on this for a long moment. Marianne moved closer to Bernadetta, gingerly took her hand and gave her a gentle smile. “How amusing this is.” She declared. “To know that we were both so frightened of each other.”

Bernadetta giggled softly. “It is pretty funny.”

The ladies sipped their tea and quietly conversed until the gentlemen returned to their little party. “Our business requires another day and the margrave has offered to house us for the evening.” Sir Francois informed Bernadetta. “Is that amenable to you, Niece?”

Bernadetta nodded eagerly, smiling at her new friend. After supper and before coffee was served, Marianne, with her lovely, skilled voice, sang for the gentleman while Bernadetta played the Edmunds’ harp. Both ladies were applauded and declared to be most accomplished.

Such happy connections were not to be neglected, and quickly, Bernadetta and Francois found a house for sale just outside the heart of Illyria. It was situated in a small vale, which provided a pastoral landscape where agriculture could flourish if they decided it so and the hunting would be prime. It was a good investment, especially if they could charge a local farmer to grow his crops, or welcome some hunters to shoot during the winter months for a small fee. 

They viewed it, decided that it would be just enough for the two of them and made the purchase. The previous owners needed time to move out before the Varleys would take possession. This suited both parties well—the small lapse of time would allow Francois and Bernadetta to conduct deals to accrue the finances needed to close the deal and later have their possessions moved in and furnished, with the assistance of Margrave Edmund and Miss Marianne.

They viewed the mansion house one last time before departing. They stood in the hallway where Francois’s portraits and Bernadetta’s tapestries would be displayed and took in the delightful felicity that this place was to be their own.

“It needs a name.” Francois mused.

“A name?”

“Indeed, all great manors have names. Varley Maison, Edgeriver Hall, the ancestral home of the Gloucesters: Rosedale… We need a name for our own great manor, Bernadetta.” He rested a hand on her shoulder, “And you shall be the one to give it.”

Bernadetta thought for a long moment, and then remembering the pastoral beauty of the land that she was to be mistress of, christened the manor with a beautiful name.

“Hazelvale.” Declared Bernadetta with confidence. “Hazelvale Chateau: the home of Sir Francois and his niece, Miss Bernadetta.”

For the next few years, Bernadetta accompanied Francois as his business partner and bookkeeper. Though she did not receive letters from her siblings—as her father had forbidden contact with his disowned daughter—Francois informed her of her family’s goings-on in the letters he received.

In her absence, Bernadetta had become an aunt twice over, and even managed to write a secret letter of congratulations hidden amongst her uncle’s lines, to her favourite brother and new-father Emmanuel. As she learnt through rumours and society papers, her father had begun to suffer a nervous condition in connection to his role as the Count of Varley; there were also reports of unrest in the territory, specially in the family’s home of Burgundy where an uprising was feared to take place. 

Upon telling his niece this, Francois expected anxious Bernadetta to delight in such a reaction, but found her glumly staring into her lap and mourning her father’s condition. She would not wish her nervous disposition upon anyone.

“But,” Francois insisted, “it seems my brother Grégoire is no longer in financial deficits, for my niece of Heloïse has married at eighteen.” 

Bernadetta paled. “Really?” 

“A third son of Count So-And-So who will inherit a stupid sum of money.” He explained. “She will be quite comfortable, I’m sure.”

“Helly had to…” Murmured Bernadetta, thinking of how her youngest sister must have had to take her spot in saving the family, for her brother, Francois the younger, would have been exempt to select a career and build his connections. “O-Oh goddess no…”

“Ah, do not think so quickly, Bernadetta.” Insisted Francois. “I’ve many accounts that she was very eager and happy to agree to the match. She apparently pushed for it. She was sought after, not coerced, from my understanding.”

“But U-Uncle we can’t be sure. She…”

“—Might have been pressured. Yes.” Her uncle supplied.

Bernadetta looked down.

“However, we must trust that she chose this for her own reasons.” Francois smiled, and momentarily Bernadetta felt guilt and pain, thinking, albeit briefly, that she had not loved her family as much as Heloïse did. “Not all people of the ton are romantics like you and I.”

Bernadetta blinked twice and almost dropped her embroidery hoop. Her hands trembled as she set it in her lap. “W-Wh-What do you mean by that U-Uncle?” 

Fear spread throughout Bernadetta’s body. She could not handle if it he mentioned her affairs with Ferdinand, or worse, Raphael. No, she should fall over, or faint, or be sick on the spot, and then he would realize what a burden he had taken on, how useless a woman she was—

“I meant that I share the romantic sensibilities you are privy to, Niece.” He explained. “I loved a young lady once, much below my station.”

Bernadetta stared at her uncle as he explained himself: 

“She was the daughter of a milliner in Burgundy many years ago… She made the hats that my family and I wore. I often made excuses to go see her and have my hats re-trimmed or mended, though your aunt—my sister, Amelie—could have easily done it. We had an attachment, however, I knew that the depths of my feelings, my station as the second son, and other factors would never permit us to marry.” His tone was quiet and held the air of melancholy. “So instead of asking for her hand, I set her up with one of the knights that my brother had recently hired. He was a good man, handsome and kind; I knew he would treat her well and care for her.”

She met his eyes and felt her heart drop into her stomach. There was a knowing look in Francois’s eyes, as if saying, ‘I know the pain you feel, but I will not give voice to it and wound you.’ 

For this reason alone, Bernadetta would be eternally indebted to her uncle for his sensibility and kindness.

“You and I,” explained Francois. “would never marry anyone unless it was for true love. Unfortunately, the ton does not work like that.”

“So we will remain alone forever.” Bernadetta said.

“But not alone.” Smiled Francois sadly. He reached towards Bernadetta and gently patted her trembling hand. “As long as I have the ability and comforts to keep you happy, you are welcome with me, Niece.”

Returning the sad smile, Bernadetta spoke: “You’re too kind to me, Uncle.”

“Nonsense. The unkindness of… the people who raised you,” he remarked cautiously. “makes you astonished to find generosity elsewhere.”

Bernadetta sighed. “You are not mistaken, I suppose.”

“Regardless my dear niece, I see us as kindred spirits.” He eased back in his chair. “We are two crooked oddities in a world of straight-laced perfection.”

Bernadetta hummed and found herself smiling. “I guess we are, Uncle.” Then, amusedly, she remarked: “It’s… Funny to think of my little sister Heloïse chaperoning me on outings.” Lower, she added. “Taking the closest seat to Mother, walking into church before me… Giving way for little Helly…”

Francois chuckled softly. “Yes, quite amusing, is it not?” As he lit his pipe, he added, “What providence…”

Bernadetta received letters from her society friends. Dorothea Gautier had figured out where she was, though not understanding the fact that her guardianship had transferred from Count Varley to his younger brother—and had been effectively disowned instead of being “ill”—and sent letters often. Bernadetta learnt, in the time separated, that Dorothea had become a driving force in the talks between Faerghus and the bordering country of Sreng. 

Such letters, though happy, left Bernadetta with a bittersweet taste in her mouth. She thought, mediated, and came to the realization that if she had followed her father’s request, that she would have been married for almost half a decade, and perhaps, been a mother too. The thought, which occurred to her often, left her with the feeling of revulsion.

Leonie’s letters were long and cheery in that brash Leonie-way, with always something going on in her life or in sleepy old Sauin. Though, at one point, the letters ceased for almost a three-month, which concerned Bernadetta. Upon correspondence, she learnt that Leonie had taken ill.

And what’s worse is that rat Gloucester sent the doctor to tend me. How can I hate him now that he’s saved my life? Answer: easily. I like to hold grudges. 

And before you start coming to his defence Bernie, remember that he, and his fathers before him, taxed my family and my village to the gills for naught! A doctor is the least he could have sent.

Bernadetta had smiled woefully at that, guilty of also benefitting from high taxes and living off the backs of the common folk for most of her life. Though, Leonie had always managed to include some quip, some anecdote about the stables she now worked in, the hunts she helped her father with, or some minor—and stupid—gossip about the little village that Bernadetta had known in her childhood. Often, Leonie had included dried flowers into the folds of her letters, remarking that while they were not the carnivorous plants that Bernie loved they were from the meadow they had delighted in as girls. She kept a jar of these pressed periwinkles, violets, sunflower petals and buttercups on her desk, and added to them with every letter Leonie sent her.

Marianne’s letters, by contrast, were always polite and well-written. She wrote about the state of the ports, the grey seaside view that she loved so, the nearby wood with creatures so beloved, her afternoon walks with her maid through the town and her delightful little garden with the birds. A few times, Marianne had tucked in fallen bird feathers, writing almost a page’s worth, detailing the species and their habitat, likes, dislikes—and generally being a “bird nerd” as she woefully proclaimed herself to be.

The letters from Leonie, and now Marianne, had become a constant light in Bernadetta’s life. Though, each time she took up her quill to reply to them, she found herself once more thinking of the man whose heart she broke, and the letter she’d yet to send.

Chapter Text

As previously stated Bernadetta was unsurprisingly plagued by Raphael’s memory; with it came all the regrets and guilt that followed their separation.

Her idle mind wandered to him at almost every opportunity, thus making trying to forget him impossible… This feat was worsened by all the time she spent at her writing desk: calculating taxes owed, settling accounts, general management of the books, and of course, the novel she was attempting to write in her spare time.

She would insist—to the quiet of her own anxious mind alone—that Raphael had certainly forgotten about her. But her own guilty heart could not move on so easily: the thought of his face, the betrayed expression, the forlorn upset, the certain anger that he held for her of that last moment in the garden refused to desert her. Bernadetta was reminded of it, often and unconsciously, as she waited for her uncle to carry out sales and business.

Being hated forever can’t be too bad, right? She thought as she sat primly in a beautiful parlour without company. Her hands trembled and perspiration coated her back. In a way, I guess it’s like being loved? You’re never left alone, and I suppose people want to see you… Just maybe not for good reasons…

As she thought this, she recalled the sheer size of Raphael Kirsten and asked the passing maid for a cup of tea doused with whiskey. 

These thoughts occurred almost constantly to Bernadetta, and despite her nervous disposition, she could not help but often think of Raphael. Where was he now? Had Lorenz Gloucester—her jaw clicked and set tightly whenever she thought of the foul man who had (possibly) given her away to her father—supplemented Raphael’s income? Was Raphael living in the county of Gloucester with him? Was he just as influenced as she to give up their burgeoning attachment?

No, Leonie would surely mention him. Bernadetta thought. While occasionally sensitive to Bernadetta’s needs, Leonie was of a “speak first, regret later” disposition, which was evident in her letters. She read not a word or a suggestion of Raphael’s name for sometime, and she assumed that he had stayed behind in the Empire. Their places traded, and with good luck, were never to cross again.

Business with her uncle often kept Bernadetta busy, and thus, her accomplishments—particularly those needing constant practice—diminished. The importance of mastering instruments was replaced with knowing the tax codes and proper filing procedures in both the Kingdom and Alliance, and gracefully waltzing and keeping time was filled by keeping inventories and writing orders with haste to meet deadlines. She was still able to paint and draw and write, though the latter took precedence for ease and speed. 

This work was welcome to Bernadetta. And now resigned to the fact that she would become a spinster as her uncle became a confirmed bachelor, Bernadetta welcomed this new life of no status and more freedom happily.

Between writing her stories and managing the books for her uncle, Bernadetta’s hands were stained with ink. The sight would have made her parents aghast, both of whom barely approved of her writing her own letters. And as such, no soap or lotion could dispel the stains from her hands, resulting in her taking care to wear gloves in public: perhaps some leftover residue from polite manners that had been her constant companion for years. And everywhere she went, the wives and children of the business partners Francois dealt with remarked that she was a polite, beautiful woman, though withdrawn, with the bearing of a countess.

In Imperial Year 1184, the Varleys had begun to call Hazelvale Chateau their home on an almost-permanent basis. The calls and business were less long and infrequent, thanks to the unrest in Varley County and Francois’s increasing age.

 The Alliance served as a perfect spot to maintain close connections to good business prospects and Bernadetta’s few friends like Marianne and Leonie. However, over a delightful supper one night, Francois applied to Bernadetta.

“A steward has requested to us to visit.”

“Where?” 

“A large county in the south of the Alliance.” He remarked. “Gloucester.”

The mention of the Gloucesters filled Bernadetta with equal parts of anger and upset. She swallowed her spoonful of soup and frowned. “I-I see.”

“Gloucester is the home of Valentin Pinelli, correct?” Wondered Francois. “Yes, I do think it is.”

“Yes, and his daughter, Leonie. Or was.”

“Ah, has she married?”

Bernadetta snorted in a most unladylike fashion. She cleared her throat and shook her head. “No, s-sir.” 

“Then where is she?”

“M-My last letter from her says she was working somewhere near Sauin, but not in the village permanently.” She explained. “She did not give a name, though.”

“Secretive girl. I confess I know less and less what these young people are about, Niece.”

Bernadetta nodded and woefully added, “She can be like that sometimes, yeah.”

“So,” Francois eased into his chair and sipped his wine studiously. He lifted his eyes to her. “To Gloucester we go?”

Reluctantly, Bernadetta nodded. 

Gloucester in the winter was beautiful, all glittering snowbanks and clear skies that were almost-too bright. The ride from Illyria to Edgaria was long, and the two broke their journey at inns and hotels along the way, making minor deals here and there. All the while, Bernadetta worried about seeing Lorenz Gloucester again, after assured of his interference in her life some years before.

Rosedale was a beautiful, picturesque, snow-swept castle in the south of Gloucester. It’s climes were mild, closer to the winters Bernadetta had lived through in Enbarr and Burgundy, but experienced a delicate frost as opposed to howling winds and frigid air that she had endured in Adrestia.

Just as their carriage trudged up the long driveway of Rosedale, Bernadetta spotted the master of the house quit his estate and walk across the cold gravel walk in nothing more than his own waistcoat. 

A servant helped her from the carriage. As she stepped down, Lorenz regarded both her and Francois with a gentle bow and polite greeting. “Sir Varley. Miss Varley.”

Bernadetta was caught off guard by Lorenz’s genteel conduct. She coloured and curtseyed, keeping her eyes low to the ground.

“Count Gloucester, how nice it is to meet at last.” Said Francois.

“Indeed, the pleasure is all mine.” He said. “I believe you worked with my father before me: Erwin was his name.”

“I do recall him. My deepest condolences for your loss, your excellency.” He said. “I am certain you will lead with his spirit and refinement.”

“Indeed.” Lorenz said quietly. “I can only endeavour to make him proud and do honour to his memory.”

Bernadetta remained silent, with her eyes still trained to the ground. Lorenz regarded her. “It is good to see you again, Miss Varley. I trust you are well?”

Bernadetta, fighting her own hurt feelings, was caught off-guard. She nodded and pasted on a thin smile. “Yes, I am. Thank you, your excellency.”

“You’ve met?” Asked Francois with a note of incredulity.

“Indeed.” Lorenz said. “We have been introduced.”

“The Adrestian social season of 1182.” Bernadetta murmured bitterly.

“Ah.” Francois’s eyes slid between the two before he cleared his throat. “Well, shall we get to it then? It is most cold out here, but you young people are not as sensitive as an old man like me…”

The party hastened into the estate, where Bernadetta and Francois’s coats were taken and they were made comfortable and welcome. Lorenz was surprised when Bernadetta followed the two into the study, and was even more taken aback when she informed him, in a small voice, that she kept her uncle’s books and therefore was his partner in their business. His surprise turned into impression when she easily reported the calculations for Leicester taxes and cost projections for his rather large order.

He was so impressed that he invited the two to sit for dinner, which Francois happily consented to. After perhaps the best meal Bernadetta had had in ages, Lorenz invited the two to the lavishly-decorated sitting room to rest.

Bernadetta was greeted with glamourous portraits, a pianoforte and a flickering hearth that reminded her of Varley Maison. Coffee and biscuits were served, and a tired Francois swiftly fell asleep in his chair. Lorenz and Bernadetta, for the first time in years, found themselves alone.

The first few moments of quiet were uncomfortable, and soon Bernadetta found her eyes trained on a small painting, carefully furnished in a gold frame and mounted upon the wall closest to a small writing desk.

It was the same likeness Bernadetta had taken of Leonie years ago. She had not thought of it until seeing it again—and aside from cringing at how her artistic prowess had progressed—was surprised at how Lorenz was still in possession of it.

“I-Is that the drawing?” She lifted her hand to point behind him.

Lorenz glanced, coloured and forced a smile. “Indeed. The likeness you took that day of… Miss Pinelli.”

“Y-You haven’t seen her?” Bernadetta added, “To give it back, I mean?”

“If I recall correctly, Miss Pinelli expressed no interest in owning it.” Lower, he added, “And my duties as count and companion keep me from being as freely engaged as I used to be.”

Ah. Bernadetta thought. Right, yes.

He spoke quieter now, and shifted the conversation: “I must confess, Miss Varley, my opinion of you has changed drastically.”

Bernadetta remained silent and sipped her coffee.

“When I first met you, I thought you were indifferent to others.”

“I assure you, I am just shy.” She said.

“I recognize that now. And I realize, perhaps belatedly, that you are quite… Quite the leader.”

Bernadetta set her cup on the nearby table. “I-I might’ve been.”

“Might have?”

Realizing she spoke out of turn, Bernadetta blushed. “N-Never mind it, your excellency.”

“No, no. Please, tell me.” Lorenz’s tone became soft. “What did you mean by your comment, Miss Varley?”

Bernadetta glanced briefly at her sleeping uncle, then turned her gaze to the ornate rugs where Lorenz’s feet were planted. “I… I am no longer the daughter of… of Grégoire von Varley.” She said quietly, struggling to utter her father’s name.

The pain was still fresh. Grégoire had treated her unconditionally ill, was an abominable father and cold-blooded… However, he had been her father for twenty years, and though no hope of repairing their relationship was ever possible, it still wounded Bernadetta to be cut off from her mother and siblings, who, she foolishly thought could have loved her.

“You are not?” Lorenz asked quietly.

She blinked back tears. “I am not.” Quietly, she added, “I doubt I ever was.”

She lifted her eyes ever-so-slightly and noticed that Lorenz had extended a purple handkerchief to her. Bernadetta inclined her head in gratitude and thanked him. She dabbed at her eyes, folded the fabric and attempted to hand it back to him. Kindly, Lorenz shook his head, murmuring for her to keep it.

“I… I am sincerely sorry for your fate.” Said Lorenz. 

“Don’t.” She said firmly, not wanting pity from the man who caused Leonie such distress. “I don’t need…” 

The words died in her throat. He looked as if he wanted to say more, and fearing a reference to Raphael, Bernadetta gathered her fleeting courage and asked, “What is the order for? T-They’re mostly swords…”

He blinked twice then, almost blushing, explained, “There is a bandit problem in the county. Specifically in the valleys where the game is fair and shooting is good. I intend to hire mercenaries and to ensure they are well-outfitted, give them these tools. The excess,” he explained, “will go to the hunters and villagers so they may protect themselves in the future.”

Bernadetta raised a brow. “R-Really?”

He nodded. “Self-sufficiency is important, and having the support and tools is key to it.” He said. “It will lead, I hope, to building a stronger county.”

Quietly, and to herself, Bernadetta wondered if she misjudged Lorenz Gloucester, just as he been wrong about her.

Glancing to her uncle, Lorenz nodded. “It seems Sir Varley is quite… indisposed.”

“Y-Yes… He… He gets slightly anxious when he travels and then becomes fatigued, just like this.”

“Then you both must be my guests for the night.”

Bernadetta coloured. “O-Oh, I can’t…”

“I insist and will brook no refusal, Miss Varley.” Said Lorenz, he rose and began to show her to her room, along the west hall. The estate was all airy and furnished lightly, and Bernadetta could see dark spots where busts and portraits might have resided in the past. It was obvious, to her trained eye, that economies had been taken within Rosedale.

“Count Gloucester,” Bernadetta found courage returning to her.

He met her gaze. 

“You… You did something good for my friend, Miss Pinelli.” She said quietly. Shutting her eyes, she squeaked, “She is too proud to admit it, but I want to thank you for saving her life. She is my dearest friend. She is… She is everything to me.”

When she opened her eyes, Lorenz wore a slight smile. He inclined his head. “I know the deep and rich value of friends, Miss Varley,” said Lorenz quietly. “I know we would both go to great distances for our respective companions.”

Bernadetta blushed and Lorenz turned on his heel. “The staff shall bring you one of my sister’s nightgowns if needed. Goodnight, Miss Varley.”

“Goodnight, Count Gloucester.” Bernadetta murmured as he swiftly walked away.

Sir Francois and Bernadetta’s stay in Edgaria was not long. Bernadetta was unable to write to Leonie before they left, so a meeting between the ladies was not able to be arranged. Several letters awaited them upon returning to Hazelvale in Illyria. An invitation to Margrave Edmund’s house, Edgeriver Hall for a meal; a letter from Leonie; various unmarked postage; and a letter bearing the sigil of Indech, which Francois promptly took into his study.

Bernadetta happily read Leonie’s letter, which detailed all the excitements of a stablemaster’s occupation, and began to respond when her uncle returned to the drawing room with a grave countenance. Bernadetta felt herself grow nervous. Her hands trembled and jaw set as she rose and came to Francois’s side.

“Uncle?” She whispered nervously. 

He gingerly rested his hand on her arm. “It is your father, Bernadetta.”

He called for tea, took a long moment of reflection and then, as the two settled in their comfortable armchairs, relayed the unhappy news.

Over the course over the autumn season, Heloïse had run off and ruined her happy marriage by way of a scandalous affair with a younger, less wealthy man of the gentry. As a result, Grégoire exiled his daughter in hopes that the scandal would wash away with the snow’s melt.

However, the woes of Varley County did not stop there. Within the county’s borders, tensions grew to a boiling point, namely in the county’s capital of Burgundy, where workers who could not afford to feed their families and pay their rent amidst taxes. As a result, the family estate, Varley Maison, had been targeted and damaged in a riot. Thankfully, most of the remaining family had been away for a church service, but the grounds were unstable and the private guard had been called to end the rebellion. As a result, tensions in Varley had become high and unstable: the Saint Indech Seminary had closed, which had always been successful thanks to the patronage of the Church of Seiros and the imperial government.

Grégoire had already called upon his independent sons, Louis and Emmanuel, for financial help. As Heloïse’s husband had divorced her, and her new beau brought shame and disgrace to the Varley name, neither of them could be depended upon for assistance. 

“Wh-What does he want?” Asked Bernadetta shakily.

“Money, as always.” Francois sighed. “He knows I have little to give. My inheritance was meagre to begin with and we have little sales with the winter...”

“M-Maybe if he stopped dining with silver spoons and on golden geese he would have more…” Bernadetta murmured under her breath.

“Indeed.” He agreed and heaved a sigh. “But once more, we must help him.”

As much as Bernadetta resented helping her father, she thought of her siblings who would have been most deeply affected by the threat of financial ruin. Quickly, she consulted her little handbook of their money matters which she always kept close by. After a minute, she suggested, “We… We could cut down on our own expenses…”

Francois held her gaze. “Is that possible?”

Bernadetta nodded and flipped through the book. She attempted to make her voice sound as even as she could, despite her disdain. “There is a small amount of savings I have, from my cut of the business, that could… Could go to them.” She murmured. “My siblings,” She insisted. “Emmanuel and Heloïse.”

“In that order? Emmanuel first, then Heloïse?”

“Yes.” She confirmed, having always admired her second-oldest brother, and a newfound-remorse for her youngest sister. Quickly, she added, “And then we could sell the curricle and chay, use the profits to buy a small carriage that is good for all weather in Edmund. I think the liveryman had one that only needed minor improvements…” She murmured, “Cut out our table, fine dining too. Host fewer parties with the Edmunds… I can handle the housework so we could lighten the house staff…”

Bernadetta’s voice fell silent, then met her uncle’s gaze.

“What? Have you thought of something, Bernadetta?”

Bernadetta hesitated, cleared her throat and then smoothed her shaking hands along the cotton of her dress. “We could let Hazelvale.”

Francois raised a brow. 

“My father is to proud to rent out the homes he has in Burgundy and Enbarr.” She said quietly. “But, Uncle, we are not too proud to. A-At least I hope we are not.”

“No, dear niece. We both retain a certain amount of humility and modesty that most Varleys are born without.” He mused, then sighed. “But can you leave Hazelvale? I know you love it so, and it loves you as it’s mistress.”

Bernadetta thought long about this. If she had any other option, she would not be so eager to let the house she loved so. But her father would not retrench and she was now accustomed to living frugally. She had no fine dresses that she could sell, no jewels to hock or trade: she had nothing left to give, nothing but the home she was so attached to.

“I love our home, but I have a duty to my family… No matter if they have so easily forgotten me.”

Francois gazed at his niece with a look of remorse. Sighing, he said, “Very well. We let our mansion to aid them.”

Bernadetta found it within herself to smile sadly. Francois took leave to begin the preparations to rent the mansion, applying to Margrave Edmund his wisdom and assistance. Quietly, preyed upon by her own feelings, Bernadetta thought, wondered and feared who next would take their home.

Chapter Text

Upon learning about the situation that Sir Varley found himself in, Margrave Edmund extended the use of his guesthouse to the Varleys. It was but a short walk from his own manor and a fine residence with just two rooms and a tiny sitting room where the uncle and niece could conduct their penny-pinching business in. The ports of Edmund would provide ample business connections for period and cut down their travel expenses for the length of their stay; this would allow their income to be rerouted to Grégoire’s family.

The close proximity allowed Bernadetta to see Marianne more regularly, which brightened both the ladies’ faces. Often, Marianne prevailed upon the Varleys to stay for meals and take tea, which was always enjoyable for both parties. Francois often regarded Marianne as a fine young lady, and when Bernadetta was open to company, enjoyed hearing the margrave’s many stories of political affluence and noble daring-do.

The cold winter weather kept the ladies indoors most days, but Marianne often insisted they walk the garden. Offering the lady her arm, Bernadetta listened as Marianne identified cardinal from woodpecker and dark-eyed junco from chickadee. Seeing the delight on Marianne’s face was most joyful and in turn, made Bernadetta smile.

One early winter’ afternoon while watching the bluebirds head south for the season, Marianne enquired about Bernadetta’s future with her uncle.

“Where will you go?” Asked Marianne cautiously. The cool air had turned her cheeks pink, and made her already delicate features all the more lovely. 

“I’m not sure. My uncle is looking for business connections, but with the workers refusing to work back home, I doubt that there will be supplies and product to sell.”

“That is troublesome.”

“A-And I don’t…” Bernadetta caught herself.

“You don’t what?”

With her tongue-tied and cheeks faintly red, Bernadetta managed to say, “I do not have many marriage prospects.” 

“Oh. I know the feeling well.”

“But… You’re so pretty, Marianne.”

The lady blushed. “Margrave Edmund is my relative and benefactor.” She said. “He would… He wants me to marry. He sees the benefits and prospects in it for himself and at the Roundtable.”

Bernadetta coloured deeper. “So you’re like me?”

Marianne nodded. “Yes, or, very close to your situation.”

For a moment, Bernadetta mediated on the thought. “So… Will you marry?”

“Perhaps. Will you?”

Bernadetta flustered. “I-I doubt any man could find any m-marriageable traits in me…”

Marianne squeezed her hand. “I have to disagree, Bernadetta.”

Softly, Bernadetta said, “You know… Um… If you wanted… You could call me Bernie…”

Marianne’s expression brightened. “Re-Really?” 

Bernadetta nodded and gave a nervous smile. “M-My friends call me it.” Silently, she thought, If I still have some, aside from Leonie.

“Then you must call me Mari.”

The ladies walked the garden for a while longer. Bernadetta listened as Marianne wished for a bird feeder during the cold, winter months for her feathered friends. She managed to extract a promise from Bernadetta to paint it, should she ever get one, before the ladies reentered the house and called for tea.

The days turned to weeks and the season soon began to blur into a watercolour of greys and blues. The snow that frosted Edmund territory began to melt away, running off into the sea, and the dull skies began to turn brighter. 

Soon, Margrave Edmund arrived with the happy news that there was a tenant to take the mansion before the end of the year and the dawn of spring. He insisted—taking no refusals and citing Marianne’s delicate disposition and happiness—that the Varleys would remain in his guesthouse until their situation had improved to the point of comfortable self-sufficiency. Illyria was not far from Derdriu, where Francois and Bernadetta could find ample opportunities in work and connections.

The tenant, who the Margrave neglected to mention by name, would arrive within a week’s time. In the meantime, Bernadetta assisted her uncle with the final touches of packing up Hazelvale and attempted to make it look presentable. Most of their belongings had already been moved to the guesthouse.

Unsurprisingly, Bernadetta and Francois had eclectic tastes. Their furniture was older and aligned with the necessities of comfort over class. The staff they employed were given much time off, given how the two travelled for business. Many of the paintings and art pieces they’d collected over the years had been packed up, or moved into storage for safekeeping.

They cleaned up the furniture and rooms, and with the help of the staff, moved some bulkier pieces up into the attic for keeping during the lease. Francois, who had been a great traveller since his youth, had a penchant for collecting oddities, and thus the sitting room was adorned with watercolour art pieces from Conand Tower’s banks, pressed flowers from Gronder Field and interesting rock formations from Fódlan’s Throat.

Bernadetta found incredibly hard to pack up her own room, which had become adorned with her own belongings. Her cotton dolls she’d made for children she met in the houses of noble lords, her needlepoints of vicious Venus flytraps which she loved so, her lyre which she wrote an opera about two artists falling in love amidst a war with, would all be packed up and moved to storage. Transporting them from the mansion to Edgeriver would be too costly and weigh down their rather small carriage.

She allowed herself to leave out a few of her own paintings—her less-adventurous ones of landscapes and still-life images of flowers and fruit—or the future resident of her room, hoping that they would like them. The rest, she packed up, marked and asked to be put into storage by the staff.

She did carry along her writings, specifically the painful story which she spent many nights agonizing over. She carefully wrapped it’s pages in a sheet of muslin and knotted it with twine for safekeeping. A sense of mourning filled Bernadetta as she thought on about how in such a short span of time that she had found a home in Leicester, and how, regretfully, she had to leave it for her father’s negligence. 

Will I ever be free? She thought as she gazed at her empty room.

Perhaps she would never be, for her father’s grip on her was deep, and while disowned and disinherited, he still held a power over her as an indirect employee. 

Once in the quiet of her new room in the guesthouse, she turned to one of Leonie’s letters for comfort, but it only reminded Bernadetta of what she lacked: conviction, confidence and courage. In comparison to her dear friend, Bernadetta was a woman who could net a reticule, play music, balance numbers and nothing more. Far and away from the proud, intelligent, confident Leonie Pinelli.

Soon the day arrived for the new tenants to view Hazelvale Chateau properly. The margrave conveyed them all—Bernadetta, Francois, Marianne and himself—about fifteen minutes by carriage to Hazelvale and waited for the tenant to arrive. 

They took their ease in the newly-cleaned sitting room, and waited for the lodgers in practiced solemnity and hidden anxiousness. From her spot by the window, in her favourite chair, Bernadetta wondered if it were a respectable family with many children or a lone lord with a wife… 

Women without children are the best protectors of furniture, after all… she thought. 

Her hands quaked, but the steadied herself with the reminder that she could not control what was to come, but that she could control how she reacted. She reminded herself, as she looked outside at the melting garden, that the margrave was of high-standing in Leicesterian society and politics. There no way had he found a rake or anyone of ill-repute to lease his friend’s home; they must have contended with his austere demeanour and satisfied his high demands in a tenant for such a dear friend.

The doorbell caught the attention of the party. The gentlemen rose, took their leave and proceeded to the front hall. The ladies, seated apart from each other, briefly met each other’s gazes and then looked to the doorway where the tenant’s shadow was visible. Marianne rose from her spot on the chaise before the fireplace and moved closer to the window where Bernadetta was.

“No carriage?” Asked Bernadetta, who craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the possible tenant. 

“It does not seem so.” Marianne murmured. “I cannot see anything. He must have walked… But it is quite dirty outside, very muddy with the melt.”

Bernadetta’s mind was elsewhere on this matter. “He must not be as rich then…” She murmured. Her hope had been that the tenant would be quite wealthy, so that they may charge handsomely and help chip away at the debts Grégoire had incurred and return to Hazelvale that much sooner.

“Who do you suppose it is?” Asked Marianne nervously. Her cold little hand found Bernadetta’s and squeezed it.

“I-I do not know.” Bernadetta murmured. “My uncle wouldn’t say.”

“The margrave wouldn’t either.” Marianne mused quietly, then turning to her friend, promised her: “Do not worry, I am here for you, Bernie.”

A small flicker of relief alit in Bernadetta’s chest for a moment. She managed a nervous smile and squeezed her hand back. “Thanks, Mari.”

The sounds of several manly tones filled the mansion. First, the Margrave’s tenor, then Sir Francois’s gentle baritone, and finally the boom of a happy, kind voice. 

Bernadetta narrowed her eyes on the floor, tracing the newly-cleared hardwood which had once sported beautiful carpets from Almyra that she had selected. Her brow knit as she heard the voices approach and thought, I know such a voice.

Bernadetta did not dare to look up from the floor and instead turned her back towards the frozen garden as she listened with the utmost pain in her heart. 

The door opened. All was jovial and bright with this new beginning. Margrave Edmund proclaimed in a pleasing, bright voice:

“Ladies, may I introduce Mr Raphael Kirsten.”

The reunion of Miss Bernadetta von Varley and Mr Raphael Kirsten—quite unlike their initial meeting five years ago—was not as fantastical. There were no balls, no fine muslin gowns and tailcoats, no nerve-wracking conversations to remember forevermore, or a trip before the ton... But the awkwardness that occurred between them two returned, two-fold now with a broken engagement and wounded feelings standing between them. 

Bernadetta made herself as still as she could, feeling that if she moved the floor would give out beneath her feet and she would be sent crashing into the core of the earth. This employed her in gazing out the window and staring at the immaculately kept garden which was primed to bloom despite the downs of winter being barely shaken off.

Raphael Kirsten, in all his joviality and warmth, entered the drawing room and was immediately acquainted with the owners of his future home and the margrave. Bernadetta, glimpsing out the periphery of her vision, noticed that his sister, Maya, was absent and momentarily worried that she had been married off so soon and struggled—momentarily—to place her age and add five long years to it.

Margrave Edmund introduced the room, of course introducing himself first, then Marianne.

“It is a pleasure to meet you Margrave Edmund, Miss Edmund.” 

His manners have improved. Thought Bernadetta.

Margrave Edmund continued, “And the owners of Hazelvale, Sir Francois von Varley,” 

“Hello Sir Varley.”

“A pleasure, Mr Kirsten.” Said Francois.

“and his niece, Miss Bernadetta von Varley.”

Bernadetta willed herself to turn around and incline her head, but only managed to complete the prior. To her, Raphael only gave a nod of his head, which she observed from the corner of her eye and without moving an inch. His lips set in a thin, albeit sad, smile that quickly gained a larger employment as he began enquiring about the house. Bernadetta turned away again to ease her wounded heart.

"Ah yes, yes, Varley, shall we?"

Bernadetta could hear a cloud of haze cover her uncle's voice briefly in a dull, "Er, yes, of course."

Footsteps receded from the drawing room as the gentlemen left, and, after counting to twenty several times in her head, Bernadetta glanced over her shoulder and was greeted by a blank hallway with no uncle, no frightening margrave, and no ghost from her past.

She resisted the dramatic—and frankly due—urge to collapse into the nearby chair. Marianne had immersed herself in some trifling employment, which Bernadetta did not dare disturb her with. But the reunion with Raphael, the moment which brought back all the pain of five years, was so upsetting that she could not be recovered from so easily.

It was astonishing that Bernadetta was able to bear it all so silently. That she endured such an event was a blessing; that she was not immediately overcome with embarrassing emotions that unravelled her was a miracle.

Bitterly, she realized that her composure would be a triumph for her father. A complete and utter victory for Grégoire, for his abominable treatment of her disguised as an feminine education had succeeded: she was stoic and cold and quiet in the face of hatred—

No, Bernadetta thought bitterly. I did that. Raphael did that. He... He taught me to be stronger. I controlled the situation. I controlled myself and my emotions.

She found that her eyes were welling with tears, and quickly murmuring to a deeply employed Marianne that she needed some air, slipped outside with only the shawl on her arms.

Bernadetta hurried outside the Chateau and into the garden. She walked until she was far enough from the mansion and stood towards the edge of the garden, where the flowers turned into overgrown meadows and swept down into the pastoral vale below.

A wince cracked in her throat and she willed herself, weakly, remain calm. The pain pressed so deeply on her heart, like pins and needles, and she suddenly felt very terrible for her pincushion and remedied to treat it better in the future… 

To be so painfully close to the man she still deeply loved, and to not be at liberty to tell him such truths that she had carried for five years was a pain so sharp and deep that she could not hold it in. Tears welled in her eyes.

Still, Bernadetta laid a hand on her heart and steadied her breath. After a moment of composure, she opened her eyes and focused upon the vale down below, which had grown muddy with winter’s melt. The cold had drawn the colour back into her cheeks and she murmured only to herself and to the land she loved so, "It is done."

How strange it is to be so close to someone one moment, and the next to be nothing more than a passing stranger in the street? For nothing can be overturned from such a fact: it is a state of perpetual estrangement.

But it was not without a melancholy sense of growth, for they had both gained a sense of something from the other during their short attachment. Bernadetta learned that oh-so important sense of confidence, that at most times, was completely fleeting and sent her shaking or running. He had made her strong, made her gentler and tempered her into making connections, being able to hold a modicum of conversation. In turn, Raphael had begun to understand the genteel conduct of the nobility which aided him in his business ventures. Of course, his benefactor—Lorenz—had helped hone it, but Bernadetta had been the one to make him steady, to measure himself before jumping headlong into anything. She had been the one to make him want to make people at ease, at home: to be the comfort in one’s company.

It probably would be better to be eaten by wild dogs than to have him live in my home. Bernadetta thought painfully as she deemed herself wholly collected and began her trek back to Hazelvale. But silently, and only to herself and the diary she dutifully kept, she admitted that it was nice to think about him walking the halls she did, dining in the same rooms, enjoying the same garden and rolling hills. 

Upon her re-entering the Hazelvale, Bernadetta promptly sat down and took up employment in reading from her pocket sonnets which she still always carried. Before Marianne could ask what came over her, the gentlemen returned, deep in discussion in regards to the mansion.

"I must admit, Varley, it is a rather lovely estate… You have done much to improve it, but it cannot ever compare to Edgeriver." Margrave Edmund proclaimed.

"Indeed, I cannot deny you that, your grace." Said Francois. "Do you not agree, Mr Kirsten?"

"Oh Varley, come now, the lad's not seen Edgeriver!” The margrave exclaimed, then realizing the truth of such comments, hastily added, "That is true, you have not! You must come to my estate as soon as you and Mrs Kirsten are settled."

"There’s no missus," Raphael corrected, to which Bernadetta glanced up with haste. Briefly, their eyes met and just as quickly, Bernadetta flipped the page in her book despite not finishing her sonnet, and Raphael turned back to the conversation. "It's partly why I have settled in Edmund for the time being. My sister wishes for me to settle down.”

Bernadetta's heart sank through her body, right down to her toes. For a moment, she seemed poised to leap up and ask, For sure? For true? But instead, once more, she turned the page after barely glancing over her Saint Indech’s holy words.

"Is that so?" Asked Francois.

"Yes. My dear sister's decided it's time to for me to settle, and I wanted to give her a home. I thought Edmund was the best place!" He said, before jovially adding, "And my benefactor thought it was time to expand my business.”

"Which is?" The margrave enquired.

"Hospitality. I manage inns. I have two locations already, one in Derdriu, another in Edgaria in Gloucester County."

He's been busy and I've... Bernadetta thought. Been disowned.

"Well I'm certain you'll find many lovely admirers to jilt you here, Kirsten!" Exclaimed the margrave, half-serious, half-joking.

Tea was called for, and Bernadetta almost smiled when Raphael cleared the plate of biscuits much to the margrave's shock and Francois's amusement. His ravenous appetite had not changed.

"A fine appetite! Your future wife must be a chef or employ a decent one!" Joked Francois.

At this point, Marianne expressed a desire to go outside for a turn about the garden, and Raphael got to his feet. "I should be leaving. My sister will be waiting for me to write." He said. “She’s back in Derdriu right now.”

"Then Varley and I shall consult the lawyer to write up the contract." Said the margrave.

Business-like handshakes were shared and exchanged with smiles, and the entire party walked Raphael to the door to see him off. Bernadetta hid herself beside Marianne, the ladies supporting each other gracefully. But still, Raphael managed to find her gaze, and she noticed, though Bernadetta swore it was her eyes playing tricks upon her, that he smiled at her.

As soon as Raphael was down the driveway and out of the view of the mansion, Bernadetta let out an audible gasp and almost collapsed. Marianne, concerned for her wellbeing, asked what was wrong, but Bernadetta could not communicate the immense feeling of relief and pain that washed over her.

It was over, it was done. That terrible first meeting had passed and Raphael and Bernadetta now had the luxury of meeting as indifferent strangers.

The lapse of two weeks—and the gain of another year—had relieved Francois and Bernadetta of their home and moved them into the guesthouse of Edgeriver Hall. In that time, the Varleys had sent in a few servants to tidy the house and cover the furniture until the Kirsten siblings arrived.

On their move-in day, both Raphael and Maya arrived ready to work alongside their newly-hired staff who were taken aback at their lady and lord doing manual labour.

But Maya was quite particular on how she wanted the furniture arranged—and was excessively careful, abruptly ordering the staff to be cautious with moving—and dictated the whole ordeal.

Raphael mostly stayed out of the way, instead bringing up the luggage up the stairs to their apartments, happily carrying trunks of Maya's dresses that his dear friend the honourable Lady Hilda helped him select and trim, books that Komtesse Ordelia insisted she need to read as a proper lady, and the mass of interesting trinkets that Duke Riegan had brought over from Almyra and insisted Raphael take for Maya. Oh, and all the lovely goodies—ranging from hair clips to a pianoforte—that Lorenz doted upon Maya with every time he saw her.

Finally, the drawing room was suited to Maya's tastes. Raphael thought that it looked identical to how it was laid out before, but Maya stated that it was different, pointedly gesturing to a chair that had been moved away from the window.

"I see the difference." Joked Raphael.

Maya rolled her eyes. "At least one of us has taste." She said before dramatically collapsing in the chaise and draping an arm over her eyes. “Goddess, I am so exhausted!”

“Yes, you have been busy, My.”

Maya sighed, "I must admit, the mistress of Hazelvale had wonderful taste. Odd, with some of the paintings left out here and there, but my kind of odd."

Raphael thought hard for a long moment, grappling with the realization that he was about to open Pandora’s box if he responded to Maya.

But she'll find out soon enough. He thought. Maya won't just stay inside all day. She will see Bernie and then jump on me.

"Odd but wonderful is the right way to describe the former lady of the house." He approached the chaise, and resting a hand against the arm, gazed down at Maya.

"Did you meet this fair lady?"

"Yep."

A little smile formed on Maya’s lips. "I bet she's a fearsome creature." 

Raphael couldn't help but laugh thinking of tiny little Bernadetta as fearsome. But, the pain she’d inflicted returned to his heart and stopped him from laughing quite so jovially. "Not really."

Maya moved slightly, exposing one of her brown eyes and asked, "Do you know her?"

"Yeah. Miss Varley."

Maya violently pushed herself up from the couch. "What?" She asked, lurching forwards towards her brother. "We're staying in Miss Varley's mansion?" Under her breath, she wondered, 'how loaded are the Varleys?'

"We are." Raphael said quietly. He walked around the drawing room, and soon took up the same post in the same spot where he had first glimpsed Bernadetta scarcely two weeks ago. He stared out the window and replayed the moment of their reunion in his mind.

He recalled cold civility in her actions, in her voice, and if they truly reflected how she felt and who she was now. Surely they had been purposeful, then and now, but Raphael would not press her. If she no longer wanted the connection, then he would not force it.

But she looked so different, in her manners, in her conduct, in her style of dress. The Bernadetta in his memories, was always overdressed, adorned in fine coats, trimmed bonnets, opera gloves and silk gowns. And jewels, she always wore many jewels before. When he saw her again she was simply dressed in a dark purple house dress with only a fichu over her décolleté and a pin securing it. Her hair was now pin-straight and pulled back into a chignon, no longer curled or waved, and left in a top-knot. No jewels, no makeup, not even a pair of gloves; Raphael remembered seeing her fidget with her book, her fingertips distinctly blackened.

"Well!" Exclaimed Maya, who had forced herself up onto her tiptoes and was practically breathing down his neck. "Tell me! What's she like? Was she happy to see you? Is she... You know?"

Married.

"She's still Miss Varley." Said Raphael and listened as Maya breathed the same deep sigh of relief that he did after Margrave Edmund introduced her.

"Was she much altered?"

"Altered?"

"In manners, speech, complexion, air, conduct?"

Raphael paused and meditated on this for a long moment. "Yes." He agreed. "Yes she was much altered from the last time I saw her." 

This was true: she did not look like the shy little creature, scared to death in her family's garden. Instead she was the soul of discretion, a model of manners and good breeding, a lady through and through. She was everything and he, as he was before, was just Raphael.

"That's disappointing. I liked the old Miss Varley. She was different compared to all those pretty noble ladies who had their heads up their rears." Maya mused. "She's become like them, then?"

"Not exactly," Raphael corrected. "She's just… Less jumpy. More confident. Not as nervous."

"Well that’s good then!" Maya smiled. "Does she still have that sweet temper?"

"Yes." Raphael lied.

"Oh wonderful!"

"But if I didn't know it was her, I might not have recognized her." He added, "In truth, I might not have taken Hazelvale if I knew it was her home… It doesn’t feel right to take it from her."

But Maya did not focus upon the latter. Instead, she simply focused on his not recognizing Bernadetta. "Really? She's that different?"

"Yes."

Maya remained quiet for a moment. "That's really odd. Years ago," her voice dropped in volume and she leaned closer to her brother, whispering, "Well, I thought that years ago, given how close you seemed to her, I thought you two were attached."

This reminder from Maya made Raphael deeply uncomfortable and melancholic. He had grown used to ploughing his problems so he did not feel them so closely, shouldering burdens that no one else could carry and swallowing his pain like sugar. He grew so used to these hardships that they became apart of himself: when he struggled, he forced through; when others fumbled to carry something, he shouldered it silently; when the pain came salt-bitter and cutting, he devoured it with a smile.

It was how he managed to set up his business—the Kirsten Cottage Inn—so well. After that day in the garden, Raphael departed from Enbarr with Maya and left her to be of use to the Gloucesters, and once he was relieved of his duties, he left Maya in their care and headed north to inspect the property that he and Lorenz had briefly discussed. 

He took several loans from Lorenz, who in the short span of two months had gone from a gentleman dandy to the count of Gloucester territory at the death of his father; Lorenz, in turn, had supported his venture to start the business. Raphael had been there when Lorenz's father passed, clapped his shoulder and held him when he cried, mirroring the image of years before when his own father and mother, Sir Mayer and Lady Ruth, had passed. And, like a liege to his lord, Raphael promised to help Lorenz however he could.

There were several helping hands in his business from Lorenz, but Raphael pushed through. He had to, otherwise, he would have certainly been mired by the memory of Bernadetta.

He still was very much in love with her, but her coldness, her altered being assured him that no trace of the former Bernadetta von Varley existed and whatever remained was a memory from years passed.

"No." Raphael told Maya plainly with that familiar, brotherly smile of kindness. "No attachment. We were just acquainted. Friends through friends, really.”

Maya quickly began musing and plotting once more. "I thought she was poised to marry Mr Aegir. Why isn't she in the Empire?"

"I'm not sure." Said Raphael as he paced the room once more and then decided to sit in the moved chair. It now faced the west, towards the door; and sitting in it now, Raphael could not help but feel that it's previous position, facing the eastern window which overlooked the garden, was preferable.

"This is strange... Maybe she had a falling out with her family?” Maya thought aloud.

"I don't want to think that."

"But didn't you say her father was dreadful, and that they were often at odds?"

Raphael felt a pit form in his stomach as he reluctantly agreed. "Yes."

A silence clouded over the room for a brief moment before Maya sat up with a devilish smile pasted to her face. 

"Well, it's no matter." she said.

"What do you mean, My?"

"I can call upon her! She is my landlady, after all!" She laughed.

"C'mon Maya, no." He said. "She's had to let her home, it’s obviously not good. Just... Leave her be."

Maya studied her elder brother for a moment. She almost asked an impertinent question, which she knew that he would answer, regardless of how much it hurt him. But Maya could not inflict that pain upon her kind, loving brother and simply folded her hands in her lap as the servants entered with tea.

Raphael left the selection up to her—the Varleys had left a variety of teas behind for them to drink and enjoy as a welcoming gift—even some plain butter-sugar biscuits. "No, no, listen to her." He insisted as the steward asked what to serve. "Maya knows best!"

At this, Maya smiled and selected the ginger tea before asking for the little rusk cakes she loved. Jokingly, Raphael nudged the passing farmhand-turned-scullery-maid-for-the-day and said, "She must approve everything I do, even who I'll marry."

Maya laughed heartily. "And marry you shall! Edmund has so many pretty ladies! It’s a quickly becoming a fashionable society with the Margrave Edmund being a voice at the Roundtable now." She observed astutely. "Isn’t it high time you settled down, brother?"

Raphael sighed as she served the tea and recounted his work in the last five years: "The fortune is made, your occupation is known, our connections are fine, we have a home for now, all that's left is to find the lady who I shall call my sister!"

At this, Raphael laughed into his tea.

"For Seiros's sake you're almost twenty-four!"

"Men are older than me and not married!" He argued. “Besides, it’s not normal for a man of my age to settle so early.”

"But they don't have your money."

"Which is new. Not old inherited.”

"Money is money, nouveau-riche or not. Besides, if a lady who has fallen upon hard times accepts your proposal, it will be an equally-advantageous marriage. I learnt all about them from Marguerite." Argued Maya as she dipped her rusk. "Now, equal work to equal play! I want to organize dinners for pretty ladies whom I'll either refuse or demand for you to immediately marry!"

Raphael could not help but smile and submit to Maya's demands as he sipped his tea.

After a week of quiet, which allowed both families settling in and with the glitter of the new year fading, the appropriate time for calling came. Bernadetta wrestled hard with finding just the perfect time to leave the Edgeriver guesthouse for Hazelvale Chateau just in time to avoid the Kirstens. She thought, pondered and planned for Sunday, when surely they would be in church... Until Bernadetta realized that she would be there too.

Watching the house was not an option, for they lived a far walk away and there were no teahouses or public areas nearby where she might blend in and observe. Miserably, Bernadetta was left up to fate and to be fortune's fool.

She considered calling bright and early, but then realized that she would have to wake early herself… And then she worried about arriving at Hazelvale and being entreated to sit with them and possibly breakfast, rather than be turned away… They were so generous and giving people, they would certainly insist for her to stay. And calling late into the dinner hour would only option her to remain for a nightcap where she would certainly be prevailed upon to take a brandy and spill out all her woes to two people she wounded most deeply.

Finally, after leaving the deed to her discretion for too long, Francois made the move.

"What's this, Uncle?" Asked Bernadetta as he came in from the market. A large bouquet of wildflowers, picked by a farmhand or child, were rolled in yesterday’s papers. There was also a small basket of Morfis plums, fresh and succulent and just off the boat. Bernadetta touched the smooth skin of one of them and met his gaze. "I don’t remember adding this to the budget. Aren't we supposed to be saving? We're saving right?"

"Indeed we are, Niece." Said Francois as he pulled of his gloves off and the maid gave him a refreshing glass of water. He thanked her after a heady sip and turned to Bernadetta. "It is a welcome present to the Kirsten siblings. They have had a week, if not more, to settle in and I am to leave on business in Burgundy."

Both statements hit Bernadetta: the Kirstens had been there for so long, and Francois was leaving for Varley.

"You're going to Burgundy?" She asked dolefully.

"Grégoire insisted it was imperative. I imagine it’s to settle the strike: the workers do not like him, so I am sent to clean the mess up…" He mused, then in a brighter tone said, "I should be a three-week. Miss Edmund has extended an invitation to you to take to the main house should you get lonesome here."

"That is very kind of her..." Bernadetta mumbled.

"I dislike it as much as you do." Francois sighed. "But, what is to be done? He's my brother and without his connection to the labour and my selling skills, we both will perish."

"Haven't you thought about going off on your own?"

Francois seriously considered this, then sighed. "I have, trust me, I have. But he is my brother and I must stand him for now." Leaning closer, in a conspiratorial tone, Francois whispered, "Though I pity him more than I fear him. He's a loathsome man and looks terrible in those count's robes. Not flattering at all."

Bernadetta giggled a little, though it was mostly to fill the air.

"Now!" Said Francois, clapping his hands together. "How long shall you take to dress?"

Bernadetta balked. "You want me to come to see the Kirstens?"

"Indeed, you are their landlady, in a sense. And besides, while I am gone, who will they turn to for guidance?"

Hopefully anyone else. Bernadetta thought anxiously.

Within the half hour, Bernadetta was dressed in a smart lilac gown with a purple jacket. She was gloved, bonneted and entrusted with the flowers while Francois carried the plums. The walk was the most painful half hour Bernadetta had ever endured. She was certain she would have burst into tears or screamed or ran off had her uncle not been there. The maid had drawn up a card to leave with servants at door of Hazelvale if the Kirstens were not at home or accepting visitors. The more Bernadetta fingered it in the pocket of her gown, tucked into her pocket sonnets for safe-keeping, the less she felt they needed it. Her lips moved over and over with it’s contents: Sir F. Varley & Miss B. Varley at Edgeriver Guesthouse...

Part way through the walk, Bernadetta got the ingenious idea to run up to the house and see if she saw Mr or Miss Kirsten. She stole the basket of plums from her uncle and she hurried ahead before he could protest. She ran as quickly as her feet would carry her and soon found herself, ruefully, at the gate of her old home. She unlatched the garden gate, stepped through with her flowers and basket, knocked once and prepared to drop the gifts at the door.

The servants took their time to answer her call, which Bernadetta delighted at and dropped—literally—the basket of plums at the door and prepared to turn back to her uncle and declare that the Kirstens were not home.

But as the plums spilled across the front doorstep and Bernadetta stooped low to collect them from the gravel, dusting them off against her yellow leather gloves, her thoughtful plan fell to pieces.

"Miss Varley?"

She looked up and saw Raphael, standing in the doorway of her home. Their eyes locked for a moment. Instantly, her heart beat quicker and she abandoned her plan. She rose to her full height and bolted across the garden to the gate, and only stopped when Raphael called her name.

"Bernadetta!"

She stopped and slowly, like a child caught stealing cookies from the jar, turned around and stared at the ground between them. She studied his very fine boots for a long moment until he said her name again. 

"Miss Varley."

"I didn't realize you were home." She said to his boots.

"I was." Raphael said rather dumbly.

The two stood in mutual silent for a long moment. Bernadetta, who at last managed to raise her eyes to his, realized that this time apart had treated him quite well. She had the misapprehension—most likely attributed to Grégoire’s opinions and beliefs—that commoners would always look quite awful, as they had to work constantly. But occupation—no, employment—had brought the colour into Raphael's face and made him look much more handsome. A sparkle to the eye, a glow to the face, colour to the cheeks were some of the tiny miracles it brought. His thick hair had grown out and his sideburns had lengthened, and though it was not fashionable, he maintained a beard.

Bernadetta couldn't help but feel woefully underdressed, terribly awful and nothing in comparison. Employment had stained her hands with ink, sketched a perpetual knit into her brows and drawn a wrinkle on her forehead from juggling hard tax equations and stressing to double, often times, triple-checking her work. Her bloom had faded and never returned, and at her age and situation in life, was unlikely to have a second one. Spinsterhood was right around the corner for her, while marriage was certainly upon the horizon for a gentleman like him.

They both attempted to speak: Raphael explaining that he had been hanging some paintings in the hallway and heard her knock, Bernadetta that she and her uncle were simply passing by and thought to stop in. Their voices intertwined and mixed in a melody of apologies and excuses and reasons, and quickly embarrassed colour rose to their cheeks. They quickly both fell silent until Raphael implored her to speak.

"M-My uncle and I were... w-we were going to call upon you and your sister." She confessed rather lamely, resting her hand over the useless card in her pocket. "To welcome you properly to Hazelvale."

"That's very kind of you both." Said Raphael.

"Yes, that's just how he is." Bernadetta mumbled.

Noticing the Morfis plums still spilled across the doorstep, and some which rolled dangerously close to the edge of the property, the two began to pick them up. After all had been rescued, Bernadetta awkwardly jutted out the basket to him, explaining their taste profile and how Francois had gone to the market that morning and gotten them straight off the boat from Morfis for him and Maya. Partway through, she foolishly murmured, ‘Oh but you're from Leicester so you've had them all your life huh…’ and then thrust the banged-up flowers into his arms.

Raphael, ever kind, balanced both against his broad chest. "That's very kind of you, Miss Varley."

Bernadetta felt an ache in her heart. His forgiveness, his kindness, was ever-flowing, ever open. Perhaps his moment of coolness during their first reunion was out of surprise and shock? It was hard to think that Raphael could be without manners or kindness.

"Well now, am I interrupting?"

Bernadetta squeaked as her uncle appeared at the gate. Francois let himself in, closed the latch and jovially met Raphael with a handshake. "I see my niece has already given you our gift." Glancing at the basket of bruised fruit and cone of droopy flowers, added quietly, "Though in not the same condition that they left the house in…"

Bernadetta coloured and wished for the day to end right there.

"She did. She's so kind, as are you, sir!" Raphael chirped brightly. "I think I hear Maya finishing up her pianoforte lesson, shall we go in?"

Bernadetta heard the final bars of a song, and realized that she had almost completely ignored it all. Her world had all but been Raphael for the last hour.

The Varleys entered Hazelvale in a rush of awkward déjà vu. The hallway was the same but different, as was the dining room, parlour, drawing room and every other square foot of the mansion. Raphael had barely led them to the drawing room, which was almost set up the same save for the positioning of a single chair—Bernadetta’s favourite—when she heard the sound of quick footsteps.

"Miss Varley!" Cried Maya.

Bernadetta scarcely had time to prepare herself before Maya flew into her unopened arms and embraced her. Francois looked intrigued and Raphael chuckled as Bernadetta awkwardly closed her arms around the girl who was now taller than her and much stronger.

"It's been too long!" She cried out, breaking their embrace and taking her face into her palms as if Bernadetta were a child. To Bernadetta’s shock, Maya was now taller than her. "When my brother said you were the owner of Hazelvale, I almost screamed! I couldn't believe it! What are you doing in Leicester? Why here?"

"Y-You are mistaken, Miss Kirsten, that owner would be my uncle," Bernadetta said quickly as she stood straighter and gestured towards Francois, who looked all too much amused. "Sir Francois von Varley of the esteemed Varley line, descendants of Saint Indech… And my uncle."

Maya gasped and dropped to a proper curtsey. "Sir! Excuse my appalling manners!"

"On the contrary, I find them amusing and refreshing, Miss..."

Bernadetta cleared her throat, and just as she spoke, so did Raphael and both gave her name in unison. "Maya Kirsten." 

They glanced at each other briefly and coloured in different shades of red.

"Miss Kirsten," said Francois, drawing the young lady's attention away from his niece. "It is an absolute pleasure to make your fine acquaintance.”

Soon, Maya's attention turned to entertainment and tea and the Varleys found themselves being kept as company for an hour. To Bernadetta, this felt like a year.

At the end of such a reunion, Maya extracted a promise for Bernadetta to come around for tea on the morrow. As they left the manor and waved to the Kirstens, Francois leaned closer to his niece.

"So," he whispered, "when were you going to tell me you knew the Kirstens?"

Bernadetta winced and clung to her uncle’s arm as she hung her head. "Probably never." She confessed.

"They’re good people. Kind and honest. I rather like them."

“They’re very good." Said Bernadetta softly. "The best kind of people.”

Chapter Text

Francois’s appointed leave date arrived just as spring finally began her descent upon Leicester. His horse was prepared, his bags packed with precision and prudence, the matters of his business settled and suspended for a short time and his calls upon the neighbours to announce his departure were promptly made. 

The day was cool and slightly overcast, perfect riding weather. The staff, which amounted to the housekeeper and the farmhand that came over from Edgeriver to help with the upkeep, arrived to see their master off. 

Bernadetta found herself grieving the loss of her beloved uncle. She was touched deeply by the kindness he showed her in taking care of her both as a child and now as a woman; and to know that he was going to assist her father, who cared very little for anyone, made her deeply unhappy.

There was a moment of hesitance as Francois and Bernadetta prepared to make their adieus. They had not parted for sometime, and the sting of their mutual loneliness had begun to settle in. Francois’s attention was drawn to the dead garden. He leaned towards Bernadetta, and quietly said, for he was not one for goodbyes: “Perhaps a few flowers will brighten things up here.”

“Maybe.” Bernadetta agreed.

Francois mused, “Or perhaps some false creeper Virginia.”

“Or hops. They’d make the guesthouse look more… gothic.”

“Venus flytraps at the doors to ward off unwanted guests.”

Bernadetta smiled in spite of the mild teasing that her uncle was bestowing upon her. He smiled, then looked at the garden and replied seriously: “Possibly some periwinkle or violets, give the illusion that good country people live here.”

“I think I can arrange that.” Bernadetta said, then under her breath began wondering who she could source the flowers from at a low price.

The playfulness of the moment soon evaporated as Bernadetta began to say goodbye to Francois. Tears flooded her eyes and she embraced him tightly, which Francois both awkwardly and lovingly returned.

In a wobbly voice, Bernadetta pleaded with her uncle to write her as often as he could, and in an equally uneasy tone, Francois pledged to give her full accounts to the best of his ability. A repartee of ridiculous promises—to bring her all the sand in Adrestia and to make the guesthouse fit for a king like him—were exchanged until Francois’s exit could be delayed no longer.

He was assisted onto his horse, bade his niece and the staff farewell and then began down the short drive along Edgeriver Hall and then out into the heart of Illyria.

Bernadetta spent the remainder of the day in miserable spirits. She detailed her sadness in a letter to Leonie, whom she knew would only write back with ‘well, go have your own adventure then!’

The remainder of the week Bernadetta spent in the guesthouse. No partner meant no work, as Francois had more or less packed up his business and set it on vacation to ease Bernadetta’s anxieties and workload. If she wanted, she could ensure that the business was in the black and go over the pennies until her eyes went dry, but it was not an occupation she dreamed of.

Instead, she employed herself with her writing. The novel she was working on at the time was a labour of love—partly self-autobiographical—and allowed her all the misery of happiness, or happiness of such misery, afforded to a creative.

As previously mentioned in the first part of this novel—and in it’s sister work—the social seasons differed greatly throughout the continent of Fódlan. In Adrestia, a country steeped in ancient traditions and mores, the social season was the height of elegance. With balls and picnics and parties with the highest of highborn and noblest of connections, many people flocked to the imperial city to partake or merely observe.

The social season in Faerghus was an affair centred around their harsh winters. With their exceedingly long hibernation, most of their social events took place under the frosted moons. The warmer months were reserved for planting and hunting, or anything that could be used to sow their fields or grow their crops. Once, Bernadetta had observed during her time in Faerghus, the season’s opening ball, which took place at dusk of the longest night of the year in heart of Fhirdiad, aglow with warm lanterns and flush with people. She had not danced much, and instead remained by her uncle’s side until he suggested they leave in the middle of the night.

An air of salaciousness followed the Faerghan season, given the possibility of being snowed in. As a result, the manors and homes were much larger and able to accommodate more than one family. Being snowed in was seen as an opportunity to grow closer to a possible partner or strike a match in some scenarios. Once, Bernadetta and Francois had been stranded at Castle Gaspard for three days during the season.

Leicester’s aim towards the social season—and the marriage market as a whole—was less extravagant compared to both the Adrestian and Faerghan connections. As the youngest nation, they mostly rejected the stiff, holy observation that Faerghus lauded to it as and the Adrestian Empire’s noble, haughty traditions that followed it. There was a social season, yes, but it was often held in the fall and very short, only a few weeks at most, not too long at all, the perfect length of time to see the potential partners, reconnect with friends and allies, and then leave. 

The Leicester social season occurred before the ports calmed down and the ships docked for the winter, stopping upon that sweet spot when the colours of the trees were just about to change and before weather became too cold to enjoy time outside. Activities and themes of the season were all focused around the harvest.

There were dances focused around the changing of the leaves, the death of beloved summer, the arrival of old man winter, the bounty of the harvest. Gloucester was well known for these celebrations, given it’s position as the breadbasket of Leicester and one of the more fashionable societies of the Allaince. At most, there was a celebration recognizing the ascension of first duke of the Alliance, which was held in the capital, and then exclusive parties that required travel to certain territories. Unlike Adrestia or Faerghus, there was no grand party central in the heart of the country, nor hiding in snow-banked mansions. All together, it was wholly quiet and somewhat boring, which explained why many wealthy Alliance nobles maintained residences in Enbarr during the spring. 

So as the flowers began to push through the ground and the earth came alive once more, Bernadetta was—as she always was—reminded of the world she would have been entering again. When she walked in the streets of Illyria, she noticed the absence of richer families who fled to Enbarr to taste the delights of the season, or to have fun until their money ran out.

Bernadetta, regrettably, thought of her father on these occasions. He was probably bemoaning his inability to flee Varley’s capital, Burgundy, for Enbarr given the unrest and possible insurrection if he left. But if there was one thing to be gained from these thoughts, it was a certainty that Grégoire was suffering. 

Writing could only distract Bernadetta for so long. After a few days, she found herself leaving her room to go to the drawing room to, well, draw. When a week lapsed, Marianne finally convinced her to take all her dinners at Edgeriver Hall, and soon, Bernadetta found her days filled with walking from the main building and to the guesthouse.

The pathway that linked the properties together—which in actuality was a small shrubbery that lined a gravel walk—became her favourite haunt. Yet it was woefully underdressed and rather plain. After three days and six trips back-and-forth from her home, Bernadetta grew tired of staring at the ugly little shrubberies and took her uncle’s advice.

It was two weeks into her uncle’s departure and all around her spring had begun to bloom. The days grew brighter—or as bright as they could in a gloomy little port city—the air warmer, the sights happier, and Bernadetta found herself reminded of her uncle’s suggestion to garden.

She had not been allowed to garden back in her father’s house. It was seen as a dirty, grimy task unbefitting of her station as a lady. She’d always loved plants, and now that she was no longer a lady, kept a few small oddity plants and flowers in her room. And with a consistent home—for the time being—was given the liberty to keep her own garden.

She found herself practically buzzing with excitement for such an opportunity. She wrote to Leonie for recommendations on what flowers to keep and what plants might be useful to her, and had sent back a detailed list of her favourite flowers and plants.

Bernadetta wasted no time. She threw on her bonnet, filled her reticule with coins and set off for the flower shop for seeds and plants. The day was already warm and worsened with humidity from their closeness to the sea. Armed with Leonie’s letter, Bernadetta set to work giving the poor clerk a hefty order of aloe vera, sprouts of mint and thyme and parsley, and very many flower seeds.

“That’ll be twenty-five silver marks.” 

Bernadetta counted, then recounted the coins in her hand. She was certain that she had brought enough from the little pot back home. Before he left, Francois gave her some funds to live off of while he was absent. But in her excitement, had left herself short.

“O-Oh… Um…” She stared at her order. “I-I guess take off the herb sprouts…”

As she began to pay, she heard a familiar voice. “I think I’ve got enough to cover that, ma’am.”

Bernadetta spun around and was greeted by Raphael. He coloured, as if not realizing he’d offered to pay for her and Bernadetta felt a pang of hurt as his expression changed.

He probably thought I was someone else. She thought. 

Raphael smiled at her as Bernadetta stared at him for a moment too long.

The tired clerk prodded them. “Is this all?”

Bernadetta snapped to and whirled around, practically slamming her coins on the counter. Raphael added a few, satisfying the clerk. 

She attempted, foolishly, to gather the small pots of herbs and aloe and the seeds all into her arms, but found she could not. 

“Here, I’ll help you with that. Just give me a second.” Raphael said gently.

Bernadetta felt a jitter of anxiety. Walking back to the guesthouse with Raphael would be a long, arduous affair marked by talking over each other, bouts of silence and the desire to drop everything and run away. 

But she could not leave her purchases there, nor could she demand the clerk to close his store and help her home with them, and thus, was forced to accept Raphael’s help.

Raphael’s own order was a few seeds—rudbeckias and violets among other things—and a pot with a single budding rose which nestled in the crook of his elbow. She scooped up the large aloe pot and the little mint sprout and looked to her. 

“Can I walk you back to Edgeriver?” He asked. “Or would you prefer for me to send your purchases with one of the servants?”

Bernadetta blushed and nodded reluctantly, then quickly shook her head. “Er, y-yes, you may escort me back to Edgeriver.”

Raphael nodded. The two left the shop and proceeded up the hill towards Edgeriver Hall, passing flirting girls, nannies with children, sailors and seamen jesting jovially. This quiet continued for several long minutes until Raphael noted that she had selected an odd array of plants.

“M-My uncle suggested I plant a garden.”

“Isn’t that usually with flowers?”

“I-I wanted mine to have usable plants. P-Plants that had occupations.”

“Like jobs?” Raphael asked, and when Bernadetta nodded nervously, smiled. “That’s very interesting. A plant with a job.”

Bernadetta nodded her head in the direction of the aloe vera plant. “T-That’s good for burns and lesions.” She said, and then looked at the little mint plant. “And this one makes a lovely tea that reinvigorates one.”

Raphael listened with the utmost care. “You seem to like plants.”

“Y-Yes. Less frightening than people.” She said. “Very good companions.”

“I remember that about you…” He said quietly. Bernadetta coloured and nodded. “The greenhouse where we met… You were talking to the plants.”

Bernadetta straightened up and said, “I assure you, Mr Kirsten, I no longer do that. And I’m no expert in studying plants. I had to ask my friend Leonie for a list—”

Raphael’s eyes brightened at the mention of Leonie. “How is Miss Pinelli?” He asked. “I haven’t seen her in years.”

“She is very well.” Bernadetta quickly responded, and then, reminded of his own friend and despite being utterly angry at the man asked, “A-And your Mr, I mean… Count Gloucester?”

“He’s very well, thank you.” Raphael added, soon after, “He’s back in Edgaria, in Gloucester. I might visit him soon.”

The two quickly fell back into a mire of silence of which there was little cure. Soon they came up the drive towards Edgeriver Hall and passed through the gate. 

Bernadetta barely noticed Marianne emerge from the house, bonneted and ready to walk, before jumping so high that the dirt flew her herb pots and onto her dress. 

“Hello Miss Edmund!” Raphael called, his voice distinctly brighter.

Marianne glanced between the two. “H-Hello Mr Kirsten.” She said. “How funny it is you both are here, I was just sent out to invite you both to dinner.”

“Dinner?” Raphael asked hopefully.

“Dinner?” Bernadetta moaned in a subdued voice.

“The margrave realized that the Kirstens still haven’t called on us and have not seen Edgeriver.” Lower, she added, “He’s eager to show off the property.” Then, regarding Bernadetta she said, “And he wanted to ensure that you’re taken care of while Sir Francois is away.”

“That’s very kind,” Bernadetta mumbled.

“That’s so kind!” Raphael beamed. “The margrave is a generous man.” 

Marianne glanced between the two. “So, may I report to the margrave that you both shall come? On the day after next?”

Bernadetta could not refuse, such would be a trespass against the margrave and she had no wishes to make enemies… but spending an entire supper with Mr Kirsten and his sister would be almost unbearable. 

Almost.

“I’ll be there.” Bernadetta murmured.

“Maya and I will be too.” Raphael assented.

Marianne smiled and then removed her bonnet, citing that she no longer would need it, bade them adieu and returned inside the house. Bernadetta and Raphael continued along the shrubbery towards the guesthouse, despite Bernadetta insisting that they could be left at the door of Edgeriver and that she would retrieve them later.

“No, I insist,” Raphael assured her, then looked for her to lead the way.

To fill the air, she pointed out the spot where she would plant the seeds in her pockets, where the aloe would go and the perfect spot for the herb sprouts to flourish. He listened with the utmost attention and focused on her with an earnest gaze. After a moment, when Bernadetta had set down the flowers before the steps of the house, they stared at each other.

“Oh, um, let me,” Bernadetta mumbled awkwardly and quickly, lurching to take the pots from his hands. She realized, belatedly, that her hands were visible and stained with ink from her midnight fantasies of captains and ladies and blessed second chances. 

Their hands, in the briefest of moments, touched, and Bernadetta sunk back, taking the pot of aloe as she quickly thanked him in her small voice.

“Your hands…” Raphael noticed. Bernadetta attempted to hide her hands beneath the fronds of the vera leaves and failed. “Is that…”

“It’s ink!” Bernadetta nervously insisted. “From… From writing.”

“You write?”

She coloured a deep red and wished for the conversation to be over. “I-I’m trying to. Just to pass the time.” She murmured, lower, “But my characters are being finicky.”

There was a pause, a little hesitancy in Raphael’s manners before he asked:

“Do you need someone to talk about it with?” He asked. “I’m not a big reader, but I talk to a lot of people in my line of work. I know how they sound and act…”

He coloured after saying this and noticing her intent gaze on him, forced a smile and said: “Kind of like people watching. Sounds weird, I know but… If you wanted, maybe I could help?”

This gave Bernadetta pause. She’d never shared her writing with anyone. It was such a deeply personal task to her… And to show it to someone—specifically the one person she thought who she would never be close to again—was jarring and unnatural.

“N-No.” She said quickly, then correcting herself, forced a smile and said, “I don’t… Show my writing to people.”

“Ah.” Said Raphael, with a hint of disappointment. “I understand.”

The two stood in awkward silence for a moment before Raphael cleared his throat and forced yet another smile. “I should be off. Maya will start to wonder where I am with her flowers. She’s eager to get planting, she wants a big, lush garden. You’ll have to come see them! When they’re ready, I mean. Maya would love that.”

Bernadetta inclined her head and nodded. Quietly, she managed to thank him and curtseyed as he bowed, and the two went their separate ways.

The next day when she visited the general store and saw trowels and gloves, she grabbed another pair in the largest sizes and sent the farmhand around the mansion to drop them off, with her finest compliments and service. 

After the shrubbery was deemed decorated enough, Bernadetta was left with little to employ herself with. Sewing and filigree work would require a trip to the haberdashery for the supplies which she was out of and the guesthouse had little room for any musical instruments; in fact, she had left her pianoforte and harp back at Hazelvale. And though she was invited to Edgeriver to play, Bernadetta felt embarrassed, playing in the presence of Marianne, who was certainly a better musician than she. Thus, with all other feminine employments taken from her, Bernadetta became deeply invested in her writing.

The more she worked on her story, the more it followed her. She dreamt of gentlemen who made their own fortunes, ladies who quietly rebelled against their oppressors, of heroes in the forms of sea captains and villains hiding in the robes of fine silks and jewels, and often woke murmuring story ideas she’d lost in the haze of her sleep.

Each time she attempted to transfer these tangling plot lines and blurry thoughts to paper, they fled from her mind. And Bernadetta would then sit at her small writing desk, staring out the window for sometime. 

I don’t think I can weather this without, she gulped nervously, an editor.

But she pushed such a thought out of her head. Sharing her writing, with all it’s errors, gaping plot holes and spelling mistakes, would be beyond embarrassing. Admitting she wrote fiction alone was already uncomfortable enough.

Without any other means of employment, and her own abilities pushed to their limits, Bernadetta began to grow anxious in her free time.

“You keep pacing ma’am,” said the old housekeeper. “You’re making even me nervous!”

“S-Sorry…” Bernadetta apologized, and then, raising her eyes to meet the housekeeper’s, got an idea. “May I use the kitchen?”

“Why ever, ma’am? I can make you anything you’d like, or you can walk up to the Hall, and they’d have it for sure for you.”

“I… I want to make something for the dinner tonight. Myself, that is.” She said. “I think it’ll mean more if I do it… And it’ll keep me from running… m-mad…”

The housekeeper assented and cleaned the kitchen for Bernadetta. To busy her hands and distract her mind, Bernadetta set about making sweet buns for tea time, a recipe that she had picked up while in the town of Garreg Mach with Francois some years before.

The buns, as she suspected, would give her something to talk about with the Edmunds—and more importantly, the Kirsten siblings—and in addition, would make her look less like the poor fool who had broken a most advantageous engagement, and more the accomplished, well-to-do lady they knew five years before.

While smearing the buns with jam made from Morfis plums, Noa fruit and Albinean berries, Bernadetta found herself recalling the expressions Raphael had worn when they had reunited both at the mansion and then at the gardener’s.

Raphael, as Bernadetta realized upon reflection, wore not the pained expression of a jilted lover, nor of the nouveau-riche ex-beau who had turned up in her life again. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on her, his voice easy, his tone measured to hide any eagerness. He had been careful with his words, cautious to invisible boundaries that she might have put up. He was polite and cordial: a true gentleman.

But that’s not anything! Thought Bernadetta fretfully. The old housekeeper watched from the doorway as she moved erratically around the kitchen, muttering to herself, “I broke his heart and he hates me.” “Oh goddess, does Maya even know?” “Did he tell her at all?”

Soon the buns were ready and Bernadetta, still anxious, set to work making another cake if only to keep her hands busy, and which she ate for dinner.

In the five years since the Adrestian social season, Raphael Kirsten had founded a very prosperous inn. The first had been set up in the capital city of Derdriu, and maintained by his grandfather until he grew unable to. This inn, the first and most juvenile attempt, had impressed Raphael’s dear friend and benefactor, Count Lorenz Gloucester, who quickly sparked a connection between him and Countess Ordelia; which became most beneficial for the travellers crossing the bridge of Myrddin and the countess and businessman who discussed it… She also benefitted very well from the bakers that Raphael employed, and always made her every wish. 

Raphael—who the Adrestian ton thought a dullard—had the perception to note that most of the Great Lords maintained a second residence, or those who could, in Derdriu for the Roundtable meetings and social commitments. But, as he presented to Lorenz in a pitch, what would happen for passersby? Merchants, mercenary groups, performers, other visiting politicians who did not have room at their host’s lodging?

As a child of two merchants, Raphael knew the trouble of finding appropriate lodgings well. Beds and breakfasts were often small, but inns—or at least the ones Raphael planned—could be larger and accommodate for big swells of people. He explained to this his investor, Lorenz, the Great Bridge of Myrddin had many travellers crossing over from the Empire, and would obviously see weary merchants who would love a warm bath, hearty meal and a good sleep. And Goneril’s jewellers and treasure hunters on long expeditions, which showcased jewels to rich visitors, would benefit from a comfortable stay in an inn… As would the visitors coming from Daphnel who flocked to see the mountains in the winter and their red wolves, and so would the hunters moving into Gloucester’s fertile lands to take advantage of the hunting season… Thus he went on until Lorenz clapped his shoulder and praised his idea. 

Lorenz invested in the business, assisting Raphael in setting it up, and found himself benefitting quite quickly and handsomely. Be it in Derdriu or Edgaria, Lorenz treated like family and was delighted by the Kirsten Cottage Inn.

While he planned a sprawl far beyond Gloucester and Ordelia and even Derdriu, Raphael set his sights on the margraviate of Edmund as his next location, given the vast ports and closeness to the Alliance capital.

He explained to Sir Francois and Margrave Edmund that he had come to find a wife—and while that was not entirely false—he came to not only find beauty in the form of a partner, but also in the form of a new potential location. In between attempts to wrangle the books, Raphael had scouted out a prime location in the small port city of Illyria. His specifics were numerous: preferably an old farmhouse or mansion with many rooms to accommodate guests and upon a spacious parcel of land to build a large stable on and with enough green-space to house travellers’ steeds and to possibly grow their own vegetables for Edmund-specific dishes. 

So far, no properties had come in his way, but Raphael was wrapped up in spending time with his sister, Maya and indulging her every wish and had not yet explored the width and breadth of the land and seen it’s bounties. Rather than returning to Derdriu, Raphael decided to stay in Edmund and necessitated a lodging for him, and his little sister, Miss Maya.

And thus, brought him to the current position of reuniting with the woman who had jilted him.

Bernadetta, in a sleepy stupor attempted to wake herself up. She had woken early, busied herself to the point of exhaustion and fell asleep in the early afternoon. The housekeeper had been kind enough to wake her just in time to get ready.

Poised over her washbowl, she splashed her face over and over, murmuring to rouse herself from sleep. The entire engagement was hopeless, but she could not—would not—make this about her own failings, especially when Francois was away.

She noticed the telltale marks of ink stains on her hands as she dried her face. It was the result of busying herself with checking inventory the night before, until she fell asleep amidst tax documents and her old friend the inkwell. Bernadetta mourned the state of her hands. She knew they would never better if she never put down the pen, but her employment, her occupation as bookkeeper and assistant to her uncle, necessitated her penmanship, as did her writing; soon, she would begin to think of these as marks of honour and pride.

Once, her hands had been milk-white and well-kept, manicured and fine. She had been exempt from any work, aside from netting and embroidery and plucking flowers to make a nosegay amongst other feminine accomplishments. Now, her hands were used to sorting through papers and writing over and over and mild housework. They were coarse and dry and her nails discoloured from the ink, and a small pressure point had formed on her middle finger from writing so much and so often. 

“N-Nothing some gloves can’t fix.” Bernadetta told herself, before selecting a pair of black lace gloves, which, of course, did the trick.

She applied to the housekeeper to help set her hair in the old top-knot style she had once worn and searched through her sparse wardrobe for the finest dress she had. The few she maintained were all suited towards a good, respectable image and lacked fine embellishment like silk or lace or brocading. To a plain purple dress she added a gold ribbon around her waist that she’d procured from a seller in Dominic territory years before. In the place of jewelry and makeup, she pinched her cheeks to draw in the colour and selected her finest boots which she shined as best she could—and hoped that the creases maintained from walking long distances would be hidden beneath the shadow of her dress. 

Properly dressed and without any other excuses, Bernadetta nervously began the walk to Edgeriver Hall with the sweet buns in a basket. All the way, her mind wild with thoughts, she talked to herself beneath her breath.

“It’s okay Bernie,” she told herself gently. “all you gotta do is get through this one awkward talk and then you two can pretend you’ve been nothing to each other! See? E-Easy…”

Approximately five seconds away of the estate, she found herself slowing to a stop. 

“Oh who am I kidding, I cannot do this! He probably hates me! I’ve just been invited here squirm and look like a fool—”

“Miss Varley!”

Bernadetta glanced up and caught Raphael’s gaze. He stood, on the other side of the wooden gate, with Maya Kirsten who looked positively aghast at the sight of her. Bernadetta coloured and approached the gate, where the siblings now entered.

“Miss Varley, that is you!” Exclaimed Maya as she ran forth and grabbed her shoulders. Though they had met a while before, both ladies thought it had been a dream: Bernadetta could not believe how much Maya had grown and how beautiful she’d become, and Maya was surprised by Bernadetta’s presence in Leicester of all places.

The girl had not yet been six and ten when they met in Enbarr; now she had bloomed. There was colour in her cheeks, a glow that followed her like her own sun, and a warmth of character that intensified with the passing of years. Her golden hair had been cut short and curled, and her dress, a deep red shade, was quite fine. 

Quickly, she apologized, bent to a proper curtsey and smiled. “I’m so excited to see you again, Miss Varley!” She said, before looking to her brother and asking, “Have I changed so much? Should I reintroduce myself? That was last week we saw her, yes?” She turned back to Bernadetta and began, “It is I, Miss Maya Kirst—”

Bernadetta returned to herself and smiled, truly happy to see Maya again. “I-I remember you Miss Kirsten.” She said. “It’s… very nice to see you again. You’ve bloomed, you look b-beautiful.”

Maya blushed and smiled. “Thank you. Count Gloucester has been very liberal with the Edgarian trends.” She said and prodded, “My brother certainly looks handsome, does he not?” 

Bernadetta felt her heart leap into her throat and attempted to swallow it back down. Quickly, Raphael leapt forwards—just as Bernadetta admitted very quietly that “yes, he is looking quite handsome”—and asked, “Miss Varley what’s that in your basket? Did you bring dessert?”

She nodded, came back to herself and lifted the square of cotton that protected the buns. “Y-Yes, I did. Sweet bun trio, I learnt the recipe back in Garreg Mach.”

“You’ve been to Garreg Mach?” Asked Maya. “Did you see the monastery? What about the cathedral?”

Maya kept Bernadetta quite busy as the party made their way up to the estate and were finally admitted to the house. Marianne greeted them happily, took them into the drawing room, and kept them occupied until the margrave arrived. 

Once he joined them, he insisted on showing the Kirstens the estate. Marianne and Bernadetta settled in the back of their party as they began the tour.

“You arrived with the Kirstens, didn’t you?” Marianne asked in a pinched whisper to Bernadetta. She bit back a wince and nodded. Marianne asked no more questions during the tour, and instead listened quietly to the history of the noble Edgeriver Hall pour out to her as she slowly walked beside Marianne.

Soon, they were seated for dinner. Maya was absolutely delighted to be seated beside Marianne, who she pestered with questions. Bernadetta, however, struggled to eat a single thing with Raphael at her right elbow. 

They were mostly silent, though sneaking  glances at each other. When Bernadetta would look away, Raphael would steal a glance; when his head was turned, she would furtively look at him. It repeated on and on until Raphael noticed that her plate was still quite full.

“Are you alright, Miss Varley?” He asked.

At last Bernadetta glanced at him and nodded. “I’m fine, I thank you.”

“You haven’t touched your food.”

Bernadetta forced a smile. “I am saving room for dessert.” She lied.

Raphael nodded, then said, “The buns. I remember you brought them to a picnic years before.”

She coloured. “I d-did.” Then, quietly she added. “But I made these myself this time.”

“I’m sure they’ll be great.”

In a soft voice, Bernadetta thanked him and then refocused her attention on making herself as small as possible and wishing away the slab of cold pheasant on her plate.

Soon, conversation returned back to her and thus began the tedious affair that Bernadetta had spent a sleepless night fretting over. Maya, who had heard enough of Marianne’s education and prospects as the future margravine of Edmund, turned to Bernadetta. She asked about her residence in Leicester and Bernadetta lied, saying her uncle needed an assistant with his business. 

“Ah yes, Sir Francois would be nothing without her.” Said the margrave. “I remember when I met him twenty years back. Poor fellow struggled to keep his books. Every time he came here, it was to bemoan his finances and drink all my wine!”

“Did you help him?” Marianne asked.

“I did not, but I had a local scholar assist him.” He turned to Bernadetta. “But now with Miss Varley here, he has no need! He is full self-sufficient.”

“What does your uncle sell?”

“Weapons, mostly.” Bernadetta said. “And other goods from Varley. I…” she paused and bit back a smile, “We sell scriptures too. It’s always interesting when the priest asks for a sword and the mercenary places an order for a tome of Seiros’s teachings.” She laughed.

No one at the table found this funny, excepting Bernadetta who stopped her giggling. She noticed as she reached for her wine glass that Raphael had been laughing too. Seeing this as an opportunity to turn the attention away from her, she asked him: “W-What about you? M-Mr Kirsten, what do you… do nowadays?”

Raphael blinked twice and then informed her, to her utmost astonishment, that he had made a fortune in the hospitality business, and that he had settled in Edmund to find a new location and provide Maya with a secure home, at which she burst forth.

“And I am to marry soon.” Maya said before correcting herself. “Or go on the marriage market.”

“Only if you want,” Raphael insisted carefully. 

“La, la,” said Maya passively. “You are already aware that I will do what I want, brother!”

The margrave quickly assured them that he knew many eligible bachelors in the margraviate and could assist in introducing them to Miss Kirsten. With this offer, Bernadetta, Raphael and Maya abandoned the conversation. Soon, the margrave began to discuss the arts and culture in Edmund, citing a small theatre company and musicians that travelled from port to port.

Soon the party moved to the drawing room for after dinner refreshments in the form of coffee and tea. As Marianne was called to help prepare it, and the margrave was pulled to attend to a matter of the house, Maya pounced on Bernadetta, sitting beside her on the chaise. 

Maya wasted no time in striking. Coyly, as she raised her eyes from her tea and looked at Bernadetta, she asked, “Are you married Miss Varley?”

Bernadetta coloured and almost choked on the lone biscuit she’d picked to accompany her cup of coffee. The Kirsten siblings and Marianne looked at her with concern before she insisted she was well. Gasping, she choked out: “N-No, no, I’m not married.”

“Engaged then?”

“Afraid not.”

“Attached?”

“To my pen perhaps.” She said jokingly.

The jest flew over both the fair-haired Kirsten heads and Bernadetta’s faint smile left her face. She shook her head and replied, “Not to anyone at present, no.”

“Then you are in a situation that is identical to my brother.”

Her eyes flew to Raphael. She sat a little straighter and became completely entranced by the nosegay Marianne had picked and set in a fine vase on the coffee table.

“Despite some eligible ladies showing interest in him, he’s made no attachments whatsoever. Except Count Galatea’s daughter, you two got along quite well when Lorenz took us to Faerghus in 1183…” Maya laughed. 

Bernadetta coloured. The thought that Raphael had moved on frightened her. Of course, it had always been a thought of hers: Raphael was a kind, affable young man. He was much too good for her, and his talents in conversation and kind manners had always outshined his wealth, or lack thereof.

But now, rich, kind and even more handsome, Raphael became a triple hit. And Bernadetta’s only graces—her name as a Varley and illusion of wealth—had been stripped from her. The tables had turned. 

Maya joked, “I thought Miss Galatea would make you an offer, she was so steadfast and forwards. Faerghan women are like that and quite respectable in that way…” She smiled, “But I guess the closest attachment you have is to your big spoon, right Raph?”

“Yes, indeed. Though I think I left it at the Derdriu inn.” He joked, then said, “I haven’t attached myself to anyone because I’m focused on the inn business, My.” He said quickly, before smiling jovially and nudging her arm. “And I don’t think this is the right conversation to have right now.” 

The two shared a conscious look before Raphael asked, “Miss Varley, do you still play?”

“I haven’t in sometime.” She confessed. “I left my pianoforte and harp back at Hazelvale, as I’m sure you’ve both seen… There’s not much room here for such large instruments. You are welcome to it, Miss Kirsten, I imagine you’d be a fine musician.”

“Thank you, Miss Varley.” Said Maya.

Quickly, Bernadetta added, “And I’ve been busy with my uncle’s business. Keeping the books and the like.”

“That’s exactly the thing Raph struggles with!” Maya interrupted brightly. “Oh, Miss Varley, you simply must tell him your secrets of the trade.”

Bernadetta blushed and acquiesced amidst Raphael’s insistence that she did not need to. Tea passed with the similar awkward conversations. Bernadetta would speak, Raphael would reply and Maya would prod the two to interact. This was worsened by the fact that Margrave Edmund returned and watched in delight as they fumbled, while Marianne was too stunned to speak. The cycle repeated until the pots of coffee and tea had been drained and the cookies had all been eaten.

“Well, I think we should be going before the sun leaves us.” Said Raphael. “Hazelvale is a far walk away.”

Bernadetta breathed a short-lived sigh of relief.

“Yes, the Chateau is a long walk. I can offer the carriage,” the margrave offered.

“No, no we’ll walk. I’ve read that it helps with the digestion.” Raphael insisted. “Maya?”

“Oh yes, I should return to my paints.” Maya said before turning to Bernadetta. “Miss Varley, you must come see me paint, I’ve improved vastly. And remember, you promised to take my likeness!”

Bernadetta sweated a little before nodding. “Yes, of course, yes.” She said quickly. 

Then, Marianne suggested, in a hushed yell, “You should escort Miss Varley to the guesthouse! It’s only a short walk away.” 

“Oh yes!” Maya agreed. “I shall join—”

Marianne turned to Maya. “Actually, Miss Kirsten, I was hoping you would come to the kitchen and help me… um… Select some goods to go home with you and Mr Kirsten. Leftovers from supper, I mean.”

Maya hesitated. 

“I insist!” Marianne trilled.

Before anyone could object or add on, Bernadetta said her goodbyes and donned her bonnet. Raphael assisted her into her coat, their faces flush and both thinking the exact same worries as they walked outside into the dusk. The door shut behind them and soon the two found themselves in silence.

Bernadetta anxiously mourned the renewal of their acquaintance. Such was torture, and it was especially painful to know that he had been loved by others. Though, as they walked to the gate in silence, she realized that this acquaintance would be much different than before, for once burned, he would be twice shy. He would be unlikely to renew or feel the same attachments as before.

At least the hard part is done. She thought as she stepped down from the house and followed the stone pathway to the little blue gate that divided Edgeriver from it’s guesthouse. Now we have once met as indifferent acquaintances. We are no long former loves… Just… Acquaintances.

Soon the pale shutters and beautified shrubberies of the guesthouse came into view. A candle burned in the gauzy curtains of her room above, lit by the housekeeper. She turned around to bid him farewell and Raphael’s countenance was soft and gentle. For the hundredth time that day, Bernadetta felt her face heat and colour. He spoke in a gentle voice, with the marked gravity of a gentleman.

“The buns were very good.” He said.

She was taken aback.

“The sweet buns!” He insisted, “I noticed you used Morfis plums and other fruit in the middle.”

“J-Jam, yes. I made some from a bushel my uncle bought.”

“It was delicious.”

“I’ll bring you a jar.”

“And I noticed…” He said quietly, “That a pair of gloves and a trowel came from the guesthouse with your compliments.”

Bernadetta cringed and nodded.

“They fit me well… I actually… Um…” He looked bashful for a moment before producing a small tin from his pocket. “Some of the workers, back at the inn, have similar problems, like the stains, I mean… and find this soap helpful when removing dye and stains from them.”

He held out a small tin to her. “Maybe it will help your ink stains?” He said, before remarking, “But I think they give you character.”

She blushed hard and the words almost dried up in her throat. “Thank you, Mr Kirsten, that is very kind.”

The two stood in silence for a long moment. Bernadetta wondered if they would grace each other with adieus, and judging that they would not, began to turn away.

“Miss Varley, I…” His voice was soft. “Can we begin again?”

Bernadetta coloured, her heart thundered in her chest as she turned back around. “Y-You want to associate with me again? After I… Did that so easily?”

“I know it wasn’t easy for you.” He argued. “At least I hope it wasn’t.”

Bernadetta tensed and stared at the ground. 

“But I completely understand if you are—”

“No!” She said loudly and looked up. She coloured, cleared her throat and spoke calmly. “I meant, no, I want to… But can you ever forgive me?”

“If that’s what it take for us to be friends again, then yes. I’d forgive you hundred times if you asked.” 

He held his hand out and Bernadetta took it immediately. The tension left her shoulders and Bernadetta, now relieved of such anxieties, bade Raphael a warm farewell as he returned to Edgeriver. She stood in the doorway of the guesthouse, watching as his frame shrank away and turned her eyes to the little tin he’d given her.

That night, when she bent over her washbasin and scrubbed her face, she took a small chip of the soap in her hands and scrubbed. When she lifted her fingers from the water, the stains had lessened.

Maya Kirsten never went looking for trouble. Often it just so happened to find her. A fresh pie the housekeeper just made that looked too good to be left alone, a ribbon she saw in her brother’s room and knew was for her, saying the right words to push a conversation—or relationship—forwards… These all called to her and Maya did not have the strength to resist them.

She never went looking to cause problems, or more specifically to meddle, but she often found herself in the thick of it.

The young lady was passing by her brother’s room in search of a fresh quill to write to Ignatz Victor, her friend and quasi-mentor, to tell him of how she liked Illyria and her inkling that he would like it too, should he ever visit. 

Raphael always had good, sturdy pens ready for writing, as he sent lots of letters back to their grandfather in Verona, and even more to the managers of his inns in Ordelia, Gloucester and Derdriu.

She hopped over to his desk, checked the desk drawer and found a perfectly mended pen. Raphael wouldn’t mind if she stole one for a half-hour, especially if it was to write to Ignatz. He always encouraged that Ignatz was just as much her friend as his.

But as she picked up one of his pens at the front of the drawer, her eyes caught a letter—not yet folded and fresh by judgement of the ink—and Maya, though not looking for trouble, could not help but read it.

I miss you everyday, even though we’re barely friends anymore. It’s odd how you can be so close to someone one moment, and the next be nothing more to them than a stranger.

Her eyes devoured this short paragraph, and then, without knowing, went searching for more and more. Maya found three separate letters in that little drawer, addressed to no one in particular. The letters were written in a conversational tone, something that Raphael would use with an old friend, but the contents, which always carried a weight of melancholy, did not match this happy exterior. 

Maya quickly hurried to the window of his room, which overlooked the gardens. He was still deep in employment, helping the poor elderly gardener who was wrought with arthritis move some equipment and an errant stone that sat in Maya’s walking path.

Maya would forever deny that she went looking for the other letters. But of course, denying was a lie. She opened the wardrobe where Raphael kept his clothes and found a trunk, which held several packages of similar letters with no address. Maya plucked a random one, read it’s contents and found more and more recounts of his daily life, dating back to when he first opened the inns; but she found no clue as to who this mystery addressee was.

With a few past-dated letters in her hands detailing a concert that Lorenz had taken them to many years prior, Maya gave pause.

I probably should forget I saw this. She thought.

And Maya tried desperately to. But she loved her brother deeply and wished only for his happiness. Whenever she saw him she was reminded of the mystery addressee who, as she realized with the passing of time, had his heart.

Any little sister would tell you this, dear reader, but while mischievous—sometimes annoying and often troublesome—they love their older siblings most of all. Which, while not an excuse for what Miss Kirsten did, might be taken as a justification for her future actions.

Chapter Text

Following their first meal together, the margrave decided that the Kirstens, delightful in nature and with sparkling conversation, would be added to his social circle. This placed Bernadetta and Raphael in the closest proximity to each other, which required a vigorous preparation of Bernadetta’s nerves so that her anxiety and excitable disposition could be quelled. And over the lengthening course that Francois was scheduled to be away, Bernadetta found herself less alone than she initially thought.

She took most of her dinners with the margrave and Marianne. Many afternoons, Bernadetta was invited to join the Kirstens for tea. Maya often had a habit of finding her when not employed. Often, when both she and the siblings were at Edgeriver for dinner, Maya prevailed upon her to play the pianoforte for them all. Her ink-stained hands quickly took to the instrument again and reminded her, with a happy smile, the joy she derived from such music, such pleasure. And when Bernadetta’s eyes were cast down to focus upon her playing, she could feel Raphael’s eyes upon her.

Spring bloomed in full, bringing plenty of flowers and warm sun with it. The sea gained a bright lustre, the waves turned from dull grey to a gleaming sparkle. With this change of seasons, Bernadetta found that Leonie’s letters had grown sparser, and in her latest one, learned that she had been called home to Sauin to help with the great planting season, as she always did. 

Before the proposed end date of his travel, Francois wrote and alerted Bernadetta that he would not be returning so soon. Her uncle wrote brief, only momentary letters postmarked from cafes or hotels—never from Varley Maison—telling her how reparations in Burgundy progressed and the problems they had yet to face. Albeit brief, most told of the concerning situation in Varley where their business was at risk. Workers, who barely had enough to provide their families with, were in a strike amidst Grégoire’s rising taxes and growing profit margins. In mediation discussions, Francois was welcomed more than Grégoire, who had scarcely left his study citing an excess of paperwork for the forthcoming religious rituals. 

In truth, Niece, he has done what he always done: made a mess and called me to smooth things over. He is hiding right now as I write this. I had invited him for tea on the main floor of the manor, but he was too frightened by the possibility of a rock being thrown through the window upon being sighted by the angry mob outside the house.

Bernadetta knew this anecdote was written to make her smile, but she found herself unable to. She had been forsaken by her entire family, then expected to help her uncle clean up her father’s mess. She assumed, in being disowned, that she would not longer be included as a true Varley: it seemed that this only extended to the social circles and wealth of the family. She still bore the family’s name like an invisible chain.

It might be better to just cut my losses and leave. She thought. Surely she could make a good living as a seamstress on her own. Derdriu or stylish Gloucester’s Edgaria would be the perfect place to disappear in. 

But I can’t leave my uncle. Not when he has been so kind and warm to me. Bernadetta thought. And Francois, as dependant as Grégoire was upon him for solutions and mess-cleaning, was as dependant on Varley for products to sell and maintain his comfortable living.

“Is something bothering you?”

Bernadetta flinched as Raphael asked the question. She shook her head guiltily. “N-No, Mr Kirsten, no.” 

“You looked like you were thinking hard about something.”

“I-I was.”

The two were seated in the garden of Hazelvale. The sun broke through the foliage of the trees and beat down delightfully on their backs. The day was sunny yet cool, the sky bright and the wind blowing gently. Bernadetta had brought a shawl, bonnet and wore gloves, though beneath the warm rays of the sun, she scarcely needed the bonnet, if only for the remnants of propriety and class which she instinctively clung to. She had shed it awhile ago, feeling the warmth of the sun on her hair.

Maya had invited Bernadetta for tea while Raphael was out on business. Of course, she positioned this at the perfect time when Raphael would be returning home and when she could insist that they take the air in the garden, precipitating their running into each other.

“Did you want…” Raphael began quietly.

Bernadetta did not wish to speak of such matters. It would be insulting, it would drop her to a new low in his eyes. And while they had renewed their acquaintance with each other, Bernadetta worried that he wore the face of a false friend, and would laugh as soon as she disclosed the gravity of her situation. 

(Though, the sentimental and sweet part of her knew that Raphael would never stoop to such a level. He would never be capable of that.)

And before she had the better sense to stop herself of it, bits of the truth tumbled out from her lips. “I feel like I’ll never be free from my family.”

His eyes widened. Bernadetta’s posture stiffened.

“I see.”

“I-I shouldn’t be…” She trembled despite the warmth. “Your… Your parents.”

He gave her an easy, encouraging smile. “We’re talking about you. What’s the problem?”

“M-My… My uncle has gone away on business. There’s been a c-conflict in my ter…” She paused. “In Burgundy, the capital of Varley.”

“I guess that’s why you’re here, huh?”

She nodded. “I… My uncle has gone to assist my father and I just… I feel like I’ll never be free from them.”

“Like you’re passed between people?”

She nodded again. “Yes!”

“I worry that’s what I’m doing with Maya.” He confessed. “She can’t always come with me on my trips, so I have to leave her behind, sometimes with my good friend Ignatz… Mr Victor, I mean. Other times she’s left with the Gloucesters. I feel like she… She doesn’t get to live her life.”

Bernadetta watched him. “W-Which is why you aren’t insisting she marry?”

He coloured and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I guess in a way. Though a good match would always boost the business and some finances.” 

Her eyes lowered into her lap. The gentle breeze played with the stray hairs that flew out beneath her bonnet. “You said… She’s a talented artist, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you thought about sending her to a school or employing a master?”

“Yes.” He said. “I want her to go and explore that, but she’s committed to staying  with me.” He laughed gently. Bernadetta struggled to resist the urge to melt at such a delightful sound. “She’s so stubborn.”

Bernadetta nodded. “I know how little sisters are.”

Raphael’s eyes lit up. “You have them?”

She nodded and he brightened in surprise. “I thought you knew?” She said and fought to make her voice light. “I have two. Colette and Heloïse. I’m… I’m the eldest daughter.”

“You have the stature of one. Stoic, kind, cautious.” He paused and corrected himself. “I-In a good way, I promise!”

She found herself smiling. “Thank you Mr Kirsten.”

There was a pause. A lingering comma, if you will, in their conversation. Briefly, Raphael’s eyes met hers and Bernadetta held his gaze as he glanced over to the little shrubbery.

“You… You could call me Raphael, if you wanted.” He murmured.

Bernadetta coloured bright red. Her heart thundered in her chest as her head instinctively dipped down to avoid his gaze. “I-I apologize Mr Kirsten, but… I can’t. I am… so sorry.”

Raphael acquiesced gently, insisting, “Yeah. I… um… I understand.”

He walked her home from the manor, and the two discussed Maya, the state of the roads, and almost every topic but the lingering—and extremely evident—feelings that still lingered between the two of them.

He handed her off at the gate with a smile and returned her bonnet, which he insisted on carrying for her. Bernadetta remained at the gate, her hand poised in a small wave as his figure faded from view, and stayed there for a long while after, her face a very pretty red hue.

The weeks of Francois’s absence slowly turned to a month and then another. By now, spring and her blooms had come and taken over in full force. The river that gave Edgeriver Hall it’s name swelled with fish and life returned to the margraviate of Edmund. 

Bernadetta, with no work and fussy characters that she struggled to wrangle onto pages, found it increasingly hard to hide inside. Marianne had soon become her constant companion, and after convincing from both her and the margrave, moved her belongings into Edgeriver proper, rendering the guesthouse empty. Her new employment came in the form of being Miss Edmund’s companion and the two were constantly seen together.

Marianne’s friendship was much different than any that Bernadetta had known. Leonie loved her loudly and unabashedly, while her society friends like Dorothea and Edelgard—and perhaps even Petra for the short time she’d known her—had regarded her from a proper distance. Marianne’s companionship, tied with Leonie for the most important of her life, was a middle ground between these two poles.

Marianne loved her as deeply as Leonie did, but not with her same loudness or vigour. When Bernadetta excused herself for a moment of respite, Marianne never followed after her or insisted that she needed not to excuse herself: instead she simply gave Bernadetta the ease and comfort of time alone, which she often needed.

They were inseparable at times, not out of intense girlish desire for a friend to see and be seen with, but out of pure pleasure for each other’s company. Their friendship was not superficial, but deep on a level outside of spoken words. When Bernadetta moved, Marianne did so too; when Marianne bent, so did Bernadetta. Their friendship, initially based on the wish for muted conversations and comfort in silence, found closeness that neither woman would ever find in another.

They found a mutual enjoyment in reading, often exchanging books and discussing them. When the warm weather came and the roads dried out, a travelling library happened upon Illyria.

“We have to go.” Bernadetta insisted after seeing the sign posted in town. Over the winter, the library had grown and due to the slippery roads and excess of work, Bernadetta had not yet visited it.

“Oh I’m sure you’ll like it.” Marianne said. “It’s a very good library, well-stocked. And the owner is very kind. Perhaps he’ll let you use my subscription.” 

He would, ‘just this once’ he said with a twinkle in his eye, and the ladies decided to select books for each other. For Marianne, Bernadetta picked a book of short stories and poems by an unnamed female author; for Bernadetta, Marianne chose a fictionalized account of Saint Seiros, based on her trials.

The two ladies enjoyed reading outside in the gardens of the Edmund estate, on furniture that the staff removed from the solarium. Afterward, they discussed their stories with the most joy and interest. This activity—the trading of books back and forth and subsequent discussions—went on for nearly two weeks, at which Margrave Edmund finally took notice.

“The margrave is getting tired of seeing us reading out back.” Marianne confessed to Bernadetta one sun-soaked afternoon.

Bernadetta immediately shut her book, a long ballad about Saint Macuil. “Wh-Why? We’re not causing trouble out here.”

“We aren’t, but I think he wants us to partake in a variety of others things.” Marianne said. “Last night when you retired to respond to Sir Varley’s letter, he remarked that we should be at salons or parties or calling on the ladies of Illyria.”

“I suppose he doesn’t understand that’s not what we… like.”

Marianne nodded. “Seems so. But he is my guardian and I must at least humour him.” Excitedly, she leaned closer to Bernadetta as if to share a great secret, “Actually, he bestowed a gift upon me the other day after he returned from a call.”

Soon, Marianne had prevailed upon Bernadetta to abandon their catnap soak in the sun and visit her apartments. Bernadetta stood awkwardly nearest the dead fireplace as Marianne searched for the gift, humming to herself while she searched for it.

“Here they are!” She said with delight, hurrying over to Bernadetta. She handed her a pair of peculiar spectacles. 

Bernadetta turned them over a few times, the metal case heavy in her hands as she tried to figure out what she held. “And they are…?”

“They’re binoculars!” Marianne said with disappearing joy and a growing sense self-consciousness. “The margrave presented them to me to try and get outside.”

“Oh.” Bernadetta hummed, then forced interest. “For birdwatching?”

“Yes!” Marianne smiled. “Do you… Like to watch birds?”

“I can’t say I’ve ever watched them,” and beneath her breath murmured, “I don’t think I’d like to be watched from afar though…”

“Spring is a good time to start watching. Migratory birds are returning home to Edmund for the warmer months… Blue herons and swans too, they love the marshy areas.”

“Ah.” Bernadetta hummed as Marianne began listing off birds. “M-Maybe we could try to appease the margrave with a little watching someday?”

Marianne smiled brightly. “I would love that!” She chimed happily.

Bernadetta delighted in such joy from her dear friend, but couldn’t help feeling anxious in the activity of stalking animals. She enjoyed the company of their horses but not many other animals. 

But I should try, if not to ply Margrave Edmund, for Marianne. Bernadetta thought.

Marianne began to talk of all the birds and before she realized it, Bernadetta was being led outside. “Oh Bernie, there’s a beautiful little nuthatch family outside, you’ll love them. And woodpeckers! And cute little chickadees.

“Spring is the best time to go birding… Especially before all the leaves and greenery come in, when everything’s still very grey. It makes it so much easier to pluck out the wings and such. Now is—Oh! Yellow! I think that’s a Cedar Waxwing!”

Bernadetta stumbled through the brush of Edgeriver Hall’s estate after Marianne. Just beyond the manor was a large expanse of free-growing brush and forest. Through the property cut the river that the manor was named after; it led down the large hill, through the city and down to the ports and connected to the sea. 

The brush was untamed and Bernadetta began to regret wearing her good dress that day. Straggling branches reached out for her as she followed after Marianne, staring blindly skyward as she spoke on and on about the migration pattern of a certain bird.

Marianne’s hand jutted out and pulled Bernadetta close. She flinched momentarily before she settled and eased against Marianne’s arm. 

The lady pointed up and Bernadetta followed her hand. She squinted, peered and glared up the tree but saw nothing. Unfortunate, as her eyes were keen and well-fitted towards the detail work that came along with checking receipts and documents.

Two small wings stretched out and flapped off, leaving the tree branch quaking. Bernadetta barely caught sight of a mostly-brown bird, it’s wings dripping like overflowing wax from a candlestick. She managed a small ‘oh’ that hung beneath her breath.

Marianne continued on as she walked, as absentmindedly as Bernadetta had ever seen her be. Almost all the time she was proper and poised: her gait was delicate and her stride long enough to keep up with her many gentlemen suitors, and her posture erect as a rod. Even as close as they’d become, Marianne was always conscious and astute about herself and her surroundings. Bernadetta observed the mud on the hem of Marianne’s gown from trekking into the brush, the burrs that clung to the edge, and how her hair had fell from it’s careful braided style and began to look positively wild.

Come to think of it, everything about Mari is so… subdued. Thought Bernadetta, and as she did, she was reminded of how conscious of everything she had been in the Varley home.

Not to say that she was wild and free now. No, Bernadetta was still excitable, but only in the ways of anxiety and nerves that plagued her. She maintained the same manners and conduct of the nobility—and an eligible bachelorette—that were near-impossible to break or forget. She too walked straight and lightly, for the most part, and only slouched when at her work desk at an unspeakable hour.

But a critical difference laid between Bernadetta and Marianne. Marianne was being groomed to wed soon and inherit her peerage of Edmund territory; Bernadetta was not. 

Marriage was no sooner on her mind than was returning to Varley. Seiros-willing if she had it her way, neither would happen.

As Marianne talked on about cardinals and their amusing mating patterns—and she remarked with an adorable simper, ‘They’re quite obnoxious to other males of their species, but sweet to their female feathered friends! It’s funny to hear them chirp at each other!’—Bernadetta thought about Leonie. 

Sometime ago, Leonie had explained her need to marry. This was many, many years before, when they were both young girls. 

Financial ability both separated and united them: Bernadetta had been under the impression that she was to wed for status, for the proper excel of House Varley, and perhaps, if she were lucky, love. Meanwhile, Leonie had always been adamant that she was going to marry for wealth, and maintained in a teasing way, if she found a competent love who could sway her into matrimony.

As she walked beside Marianne, Bernadetta found herself thinking of the last time she asked Leonie such a question. They had been at the finishing school together, fretting over a filigree final that Leonie would barely pass. Bernadetta had been attempting to help her friend understand how to do a certain stitch and Leonie could barely understand it. 

“I’ll never get this.” Leonie had sighed in frustration. 

“Y-Yes you will!” Bernadetta insisted as she looked over her friend’s work. Several years of practice and an earnest love for sewing had fostered her talent; Leonie, however, said she could barely do basic mending and repairs and after an afternoon of practice, Bernadetta believed her.

“Wh-What about marrying? Fi-Filigree work is important for any gentleman’s wife!” 

Leonie laughed.

Bernadetta had panicked. “W-What? Did I say something funny?”

“Yeah, marrying.”

“How is that funny?”

“Like I’m going to get married.” Leonie said. “Bernie, my Papa and Grandmother want me to get hitched for the money and ‘happiness’.”

Bernadetta looked at her friend with a concerned gaze. “S-So you don’t want to? W-Why are you here then?”

“I’m here for myself.” Leonie insisted as she attempted again, at a stitch and made her work even uglier. “To prove to myself who I am and who I’m not. And if a rich, competent man falls in my way, perfect. If not, I’m not losing sleep over it.”

Bernadetta stared at her friend in concern. “You aren’t?”

“Hell no!” Jeered Leonie. Smilingly, she said,  “Only the deepest love will persuade me into matrimony. And perhaps the deepest pocketbook. But it is why I will end up an old maid. And all the better for it.”

Bernadetta now understood what she meant. Years ago, she had entertained the idea of marrying—but only if a respectable, kind suitor—came along. But that had been before Raphael and the deep affection she had felt for him; and now that he had crashed back into her life and open to being friends and certainly nothing more, Bernadetta could not think of matrimony.

In truth, Bernadetta had another proposal. The son of one of her uncle’s business partners, an affable, kind fellow who shared her interests in poetry and art. He had made her an offer, and Bernadetta, relegated to her room due to the memories and the nervous complaints, had asked her uncle to handle it. She would not, could not, marry without love.

Bernadetta realized as Marianne tugged the cuff of her dress that she had been daydreaming. Marianne was explaining something about waterfowl, and Bernadetta nodded along, her face red from such intense thoughts.

“They’re the easiest to find! There’s a pretty spot down by the docks, just away from the ports and boats. I’ve seen ducks and even a heron down there in the early morning.” Marianne led her out from the brush, back to the garden around the front of the house and to the path that divided Edgeriver from the guesthouse.

“You really like birding.” Bernadetta observed.

“It is one of life’s greatest felicities. Plus sometimes they talk.”

“They talk?” Bernadetta asked, aghast.

“Well… Er… You can understand what they mean by their language. They have mating dances, and different calls and songs.” Marianne looked at Bernadetta smilingly. “Did you know that the call of the bird varies on the place? If there were two birds—one from northern Leicester, and one from the south—they wouldn’t be able to understand each other?”

“Really? But isn’t it the same call?”

“Yes, but the sounds are different and the way it’s sung changes. It’s like how you pronounce tomato.”

“W-What’s wrong with the way I pronounce tomato?” Asked Bernadetta nervously—and for the record, pronounced it as toe-mat-toe.

“Nothing! You pronounce tomato lovely!” Marianne insisted—and once more for the record, pronounced it as toe-may-toe. “You just have an Adrestian accent to words.” 

Bernadetta shook off such notice. “What made you like birding so much?”

Marianne’s countenance turned soft and bittersweet. Her hands tightened around her binoculars. “When I was a child, my father made me a birdhouse. We used to sit and watch the birds together.” Soberly she added, “He… He and my mother were lost to me sometime later.”

“So birding reminds you of them?”

“Yes.” She added in a brighter tone, “But I also just enjoy the outdoors and being with the birds. It is, after all, a respectable hobby for a lady.”

Bernadetta glanced down at her hem, which was almost half an inch deep in muck. They called for tea, and that evening informed the margrave with delight that they’d been birdwatching that day. In turn, he delightfully advised them to find new gowns and practice their dance moves, as he had arranged a ball.

“A b-ball?” Bernadetta stammered.

“Yes, a small private one. Do not you worry, Miss Varley. Only the neighbours. An eight-couple and nothing larger.” He assured her. “I will have you both prepared for the social season, you’ll both be the finest dancers in the margraviate.”

Marianne hid a smile. “The Harpstring moon has barely passed.” She said. “The Alliance’s social season doesn’t start until the harvest comes with the Horsebow Moon.”

There was no convincing Margrave Edmund otherwise. Soon all of Edgeriver was deeply engaged in preparing for the ball. Food and drink were ordered from both the town and the ports below, the ballroom was cleaned top to bottom and the invitations were sent out.

The ball, proposed for a short week away,  approached quickly and Bernadetta, with all her noble tastes, was employed in decorating the ballroom and ensuring that all the finest sheet music was selected. Gratefully, she learnt in a letter that her uncle would be returning before the end of the spring.

I just have to make it through the ball, thought Bernadetta anxiously. One ball, then Uncle is home and I can go back to the guesthouse and we’ll be happily employed again selling swords and scriptures and knickknacks.

Soon the night of the ball dawned upon them. Bernadetta picked her finest gown—a white muslin dress which was appropriate for such dances as these. Marianne had insisted that a servant set Bernadetta hair in curls and even lent Bernadetta one of her necklaces, a saltwater pearl that she’d had always liked.

A few uses of the soap that Raphael had given her lifted the stains from Bernadetta’s hands. Only a few marks remained in areas and spots, but otherwise, all of them had faded with the soap’s lather. 

No need for gloves anymore, Bernie. She thought, then dimmed when she realized that she would wear evening gloves for the ball. With this realization came another: she’d have to dress up and hide, something she’d gotten good at some years before, but now struggled to do, especially in a town as small as Illyria.

Her plot was simple. She would sit at the pianoforte for most of the night and play. She had not danced in many years after all, as a dance instructor was not always available on the road, nor could they finance such a luxury. It made no difference to Bernadetta.

As the guests began to arrive, Bernadetta made sure she was planted before the pianoforte and did not move, no matter how much another young lady wanted to play. Her fingers moved across the keys effortlessly, her eyes taking in the different notes of multiple pieces of music that Marianne had given her. Couples twirled before her in a watercolour glaze, dancing and smiling and flirting. The music, it’s employment, took up all of her energy, all of her poise and she was wrapped up in the pure ecstasy of the performance.

Across the room, Raphael observed her. Maya had been asked to dance by a very handsome young gentleman and he was alone for the moment. He watched as Bernadetta played without falter, without tire, barely stumbling and rarely failing. He tried to recall if he had ever heard her play before, and realized that he hadn’t, not even at the ball where they’d met nearly five years ago.

Five years ago, she barely spoke to anyone, let along played in front of anyone, and now she was doing the thing she so vehemently avoided. It was an odd change, one he could scarcely believe.

Soon, Raphael was prevailed upon by Margrave Edmund to dance with Marianne, and unable to refuse him, Raphael agreed. They took to the floor during a quiet waltz, in which Raphael asked about Bernadetta.

“Does she dance?” Raphael asked.

Marianne shook her head. “Miss Varley says she doesn’t have the coordination for dancing. She doesn’t like cards or backgammon either, though I’ve seen her play cribbage with Sir Francois.” She murmured, then glanced at him. “You seem shocked by this, Mr Kirsten.”

“It’s just… Before she did.”

“Before?” Raphael realized that he exposed to Marianne that they knew each other before their Edgeriver reunion. He blushed and Marianne asked, “You knew her before you came to Edmund, didn’t you?”

He confessed that he did, and noticing how Marianne looked upset, wished that he hadn’t. “She wouldn’t have…” Raphael murmured. “I don’t think she would have played before anyone before.”

“She said she doesn’t know how to dance.” Marianne said. “Is that true?

“Yes.” Raphael lied, if only for Bernadetta’s dignity.

Marianne believed this, then acquiesced. “I suppose she takes no enjoyment in balls, though I can’t blame her. I am not much enjoying myself.”

“But you’re a wonderful dancer.” Raphael complimented. “Very light on your feet. And you’re great company.”

Marianne smiled and Raphael asked her for the following dance, to which they danced and did not speak of Bernadetta at all.

Across the ballroom, Bernadetta caught a glimpse of the two dancing not only once, but twice. Her anxious mind, which she struggled to ignore while she played, began to spin scenarios of Raphael and Marianne’s attachment. Before her spread visions of courtship, of Bernadetta watching on as they fell in love and married and she was left to watch on in upset as regained friend to one and dearest companion to the other.

But I deserve that. Bernadetta thought mournfully as her hands wavered over the pianoforte’s keys.

Soon the ball became too much for her. Too many voices, too many conversations, too many people and thoughts and opinions and judgment on her dour dances and the keys that she missed. As soon as she finished out the final song, she rose promptly from the pianoforte and deftly weaved her way out of the ballroom.

The halls of Edgeriver spread out before her as she escaped out the front door and into the garden; she fled the people, but she could not flee her thoughts so easily.

Long ago, she had dreamed of becoming a spinster, of being on her own—but now that she was without her uncle and guardian, she felt terribly lonely. Her only chance of true happiness had been taken from her and she was too much a coward to reach out for it.

She now faced a woman’s poverty, which is all the more terrifying than a man’s. She worked, yes, but on her own she would not survive, not without a handsome inheritance from Francois, of which there was little to be had. Men and owners scarcely took her seriously when she sat in their parlours and completed math equations quicker than them and with better accuracy than her uncle; without him even sitting there as a prop she would have no hope of being a woman of her own making.

She thought, briefly, of Leonie and how she managed to become a stablemaster. But she was not Leonie: she lacked her courage and grit and determination. Bernadetta would never amount to much without Francois, and his absence had proved it. The only comfort—true comfort and luxury—for her would come in marriage, which she had decided to forsake after hurting Raphael.

“This is what it’s going to be like.” Bernadetta told herself quietly. “This is what you’ve got Bernie-Bear…”

“Bernadetta! Bernadetta where did you go?” Marianne’s voice carried through the night. “Bernadetta?”

She looked up and fled from her hiding spot amongst the flowers. She appeared in the glow of the front door, watching as Marianne’s face brightened. “There you are! I looked at the pianoforte and you were gone!” Noticing her pale complexion, she quickly asked, “What’s wrong?”

Bernadetta had half a mind to tearfully ask if Marianne liked Raphael, but she quickly caught herself. She had not revealed the events of five years ago to anyone excepting Leonie; to thrust Marianne headfirst into such drama would not only be inconsiderate but highly embarrassing. 

She swallowed her pain and as she was about to lie through her melancholy, heard the sound of hooves. “I just needed some air,” she mumbled, as both she and Marianne took hesitant steps away from the glow of the manor.

A carriage approached down the driveway, the horses fuming and obviously tired from a long ride. Bernadetta quickly recognized the carriage’s structure and the driver as belonging to her uncle. He had returned at last! Her heart leapt as she looked to Marianne.

“Is that a late guest?” Marianne wondered aloud.

“No, it’s Francois!” She cried out happily. “My uncle!”

Marianne scarcely registered the fact before the carriage halted before the gates of the manor and Bernadetta hurried away from her and towards it. 

She ran as fast as she could in unsuitable shoes and met the servants by the halting carriage. They had been posted to wait out front to assist the margrave’s guests to and from their carriages, belatedly noticed the arrival of the merchant and stumbled to.

An eager smile came to Bernadetta’s face, and soon Marianne hurried behind her, equally disheveled, and flustered.

The driver climbed down from his post to stretch his legs and light his pipe while the servants prepared to open the carriage. Bernadetta waited with the faltering patience and watched as a servant pulled down the foot pedestal and opened the door. She took a step further from Marianne in eager anticipation to see her dear uncle’s face.

Francois emerged, a little thinner and tired from travel, and Bernadetta made a mental note to send the housekeeper to the market for a pheasant and other hearty fowl and fish to make him good meals with. A smile took to Francois’s face as soon as he saw her and Bernadetta’s heart swelled. The two collided in a long embrace, Francois took her hands and gazed at her in amazement. 

“Bernadetta, you look wonderful! My goddess, you’re blooming!” He observed happily. “I’ve never seen you so well!”

“I haven’t felt that way…. But the Edmunds took the best care of me.” Bernadetta felt happy tears come to her eyes. “I’ve missed you so much, Uncle.” She hugged him again. 

The margrave had finally noticed the lone, tardy carriage and left his party to greet his guest. A happy reunion occurred as the much-missed Francois regarded everyone with compliments and well-wishes.

Francois took a step away from the carriage as Bernadetta stuttered through questions about his health, the state of the roads, the situation in Varley and her siblings.

“I will tell you all in time, Niece.” He promised. “I bring much news from Varley.” He paused, blanched and cursed under his breath. “I seem to have forgot my guest in the carriage!”

A guest? Bernadetta thought nervously. Suddenly her stomach curdled with anxiety. Perhaps the speech about being kindred spirits who could not marry where they chose had been a ploy—

No. Her uncle would never do such a thing. She summoned her courage and straightened up as they turned back to the carriage. “And who are they?” Bernadetta asked nervously in a quiet voice.

Bernadetta and Francois peered back in the carriage to look at the sleeping form of a gentleman. His head was bobbed forwards as if he had fallen asleep during the ride, and his long green hair had flopped forwards.

“Oh dear.” Murmured Francois. “Mr Hevring, you’ve er… We’ve reached our destination! And you’re still asleep, yes of course.” To Bernadetta he murmured, “He was not great company on the ride, but his sleep allowed me to figure out very important points of business.”

At this, Mr Hevring straightened up, making Bernadetta gasp and quiver behind her uncle—who like her, was also quite concerned. Mr Hevring let out a large yawn, gave a catlike stretch and then began his speedy exit from the carriage, causing the Varleys to stumble back.

The gentleman was actually quite tall, towering over little Bernadetta. Her heart stuttered and she leaned protectively into her uncle.

“He is Linhardt von Hevring.” The gentleman greeted with a tired bow and a rub at his eyes. “The betrothed of Miss Edmund.”

Chapter Text

The night passed in a blur for Bernadetta. Francois was prevailed upon to take his ease inside Edgeriver and enjoy the remainder of the ball which he did without hesitation or reserve. Bernadetta followed him in a haze, her mind buzzing around ballgowns and betrotheds. Her eyes kept wandering towards Marianne and her new beau, Linhardt, who stood in the doorway of the sitting room, in deep conversation.

Wasn’t she interested in Raphael? Bernadetta wondered anxiously. They danced two dances together, and then all of the sudden this man comes out of nowhere… 

This gave Bernadetta both comfort and concern, realizing Raphael might not be pursued by Marianne, but that he might still seek her affections. His heart would be broken again, and Bernadetta mourned such a thought despite her involvement in hurting him first.

Soon, a feeling of mislaid betrayal lingered over Bernadetta. Marianne had never said anything about a betrothed before in their interludes of quiet or the tête-à-tête they often shared.

She sat between the margrave and her uncle, half-listening, half-lost in her thoughts regarding the events of the night. They discussed the state of business in Varley, Francois’s plans for extending the Kirstens’ lease on his property should they wish it and reopening sales and communicating with contacts that he had returned to Illyria. 

Bernadetta, with heart fluttering in her chest and her face bright red, wished that he was too tired for tea and conversation. She was almost inclined to fake a headache, or stomachache, or any other sort of ache that would excuse her, but the fear of bloodletting stopped her from doing that.

So she sat stiff as a board and with her heart thundering her in her chest, between the margrave and cringed when Marianne and her new beau joined the party. She pulled her gaze away from Marianne and stared at the walls, as the pianoforte that was now played by Maya Kirsten, and at even her shoes and tried her hardest not to listen. 

Her palms moistened with sweat and she felt the sleepy gaze of Linhardt on her and the jumpy eyes of Marianne flicker to her too. She flushed, quivered and willed herself to be stiff and strong, but all the while she went mad with questions.

Namely, when the hell did this happen?!

She learnt through silent observations that Linhardt was a lethargic and selfish fellow. He gave monosyllabic answers, did not engage in conversation unless coaxed by the margrave or Francois and helped himself to half the tray of biscuits brought for Francois by a servant. Through tiny bits of conversation, she learnt that Linhardt had been the heir to Hevring, but ceded that right to a cousin, citing an indifference to politics. This knowledge was not a great surprise, as she vaguely recalled him at events during her one and only social season and heard within the ton that he was an odd fellow.

However, a marriage contract between Houses Hevring and Edmund remained, drafted between the bride and groom’s late mothers. Margrave Edmund and Count Hevring had seen it through… Or were about to.

All the joy and excitement that had consumed Marianne before was gone and she had faded into a subdued, quiet young woman with erect posture and sealed lips. A model bride-to-be. 

The two women exchanged little words, and even fewer glances. Bernadetta found she could not even meet Marianne’s gaze, and each time she caught Marianne looking her way,  both of them would speedily glance away at the same time. Mutual feelings of embarrassment and shame and frustration consumed them, but found no vent to their feelings. 

As soon as Francois set down his teacup and began to say, ‘I have had a long journey’, Bernadetta was up and ready to leave. Marianne’s eyes tracked Bernadetta as she began towards the door, asking the servant for her cloak and beginning to leave. 

Farewells and adieus were exchanged, and Miss Varley and Miss Edmund merely curtseyed before parting. Bernadetta found she could not leave the house quick enough. 

The moment Francois and Bernadetta stepped outside into the night, she pounced on her poor uncle: “Did you know?”

Francois sighed through his nose and placed his niece’s hand on his arm to support her. He had noticed her stiff posture, her anxious nature, how she seemed so strained that she were moments away from snapping in twain. 

He gently pat her hand twice and said: “No. I met the young man on my way out of Varley. He was going to pass through Faerghus. Can you believe that, Bernadetta? He wanted to cross through the country renowned for it’s inhospitable climate, even with the approach of summer.” Francois seemed amused by that. “He is quite the brilliant scholar apparently, but after this, I have my reservations…” 

Bernadetta shook her head anxiously. “I don’t care about that.” She said. “Did you know?”

“I did not. He had come up from the south, Enbarr I presume… He learnt that I had connections with the margrave, I wrote to him, and was told to bring him along.”

Bernadetta frowned.

“I take it,” he said, pulling his gaze from the brilliant early summer sky and looked at his niece, “that Miss Edmund did not tell you about her betrothal?”

“No.” She admitted in a defeated sigh, “She didn’t.”

“Perhaps she did not wish to speak about it. It could have been a sore subject for her—she is of a delicate disposition after all.” Gently, Francois reminded her, “Not unlike yourself.”

“Maybe.” Said Bernadetta. “But… I… I thought we were better friends than that.” 

Guilt attacked her for such a statement. I didn’t tell her about Raphael at all. Goddess, I’m such a hypocrite.

Her eyes focused on the ground beneath her feet. A gentle sigh escaped her lips. Together they walked down the gentle incline towards the guesthouse. Francois openly admired the blooming flowers that Bernadetta had planted. “I see you’ve been busy, Niece. You’ve made our house a lovely home.”

Bernadetta mustered a weak smile and thanked her uncle. Soon they came upon the guesthouse and entered. The housekeeper welcomed back Francois with many questions in happy tones, and Bernadetta took the opportunity to sneak back to her room.

She felt the weight of the day leave her as she escaped into her private palace and shut the door behind her. Her shoulders slumped, the forced smile left her lips. She loosened the ties that held her hair in place and it fell down her neck in a great wave. Another shaky sigh escaped her lips as a profound sadness filled her with an ache and a melancholic numbness forced her to take her ease on her bed.

Bernadetta did not call upon Edgeriver the next day, nor the one after that or even for the rest of the week. Instead, she remained inside the guesthouse, hiding herself from Marianne in hopes that Linhardt would go away and they could return to normal.

As selfish as she knew it was to wish him away, Bernadetta could not help but do so. He was a strange man, betrothed at birth to one of her closest friends and hidden from her knowledge.

Over all these concerns was a feeling of deep betrayal. Bernadetta had thought Marianne shared her perspective on marriage, that it was reserved only for true love not a man she’d just met. 

But where one problem grew, another disappeared. Bernadetta thought to call upon to Kirstens at their home after Francois prodded her about going outside. When she arrived at Hazelvale, Maya informed her that Raphael had left. 

“My brother isn’t here.” Maya explained. “I thought you knew.”

Bernadetta attempted to hide the surprise on her face but failed miserably. “Oh.” She murmured, twisting the handle of the basket in her hands. She suddenly felt quite stupid and self-conscious. 

Maya knelt in the garden, tending to her flowers despite the old gardener being at her beck and call.

“I guess he didn’t have much time to talk before he left.” Maya mused in thought. “It was pretty urgent.”

“M-May I ask what happened?”

“Oh, one of the managers needed him in Derdriu.” Maya explained. “There was an issue with something, so he went running. He always does that.”

Bernadetta brow knit as Maya smiled at her little garden of violets and rudbeckias. “He’s very proud of his business, and he’s always ready to go help.” She said. “He hates leaving me behind, because it’s not for short periods. He’s often gone a week or longer.”

“I see.” 

“Were you looking to see him?” 

Bernadetta startled and coloured deeply. She swallowed, summoned her courage and nodded. “Y-Yes, I suppose that’s why I’m here.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him that in my next letter.” 

There was a momentary pause between the ladies. Bernadetta then felt a pull towards Maya—perhaps it was to avoid a small lecture about going out more from her uncle, or maybe it was genuine desire to talk to the young lady—and knelt to her level.

“Do you… um… like gardening?”

Maya blinked twice. She’d only considered Bernadetta a friend of her brother’s and, given how quickly she disappeared years ago, while happy to see her again, handled Bernadetta with reluctance.

Maya gave her a smirk. “If I answer that, will you answer me a question?”

This gave Bernadetta pause, and she reluctantly nodded after a long moment of thought. “Y-Yes.”

“I like gardening.” Maya answered. She rose to her full height and brushed the dirt from her hands onto an apron and held Bernadetta’s gaze. “It reminds me of my childhood. My grandmother kept a garden of vegetables and some fruits. It reminds me of her.”

Bernadetta glanced from Maya to the patch of flowers. “Ah. That’s… nice that you have good memories.”

The happy thought was quickly swept away. Maya wasted no time in asking her own question:

“Why aren’t you in Enbarr?”

Bernadetta panicked and demanded, “W-What has Raphael told you?” 

She did not mean to sound so surprised or suspicious, nor did she mean to refer to Mr Kirsten by his first name. Her cheeks turned red and she adjusted her grip on the basket. It held biscuits that she had taken from the scullery that morning, under the guise of sharing something with the Kirstens and busying herself with social events. 

Maya softened. She had not meant to cause Bernadetta distress. Maya reached out, and when Bernadetta shied away, felt a pang of upset and disappointment in herself for hurting Bernadetta.

But in truth, Maya had been deeply hurt when Bernadetta left so suddenly all those years ago. Maya was only 15, a tender age that still believed in true love. While her brother tried to hide it, Maya could see how upset he truly was when she left: little sisters know these things well. 

The death of Erwin Gloucester, at which both the Kirsten siblings were present at Rosedale to support Lorenz and his family, had been perfect fodder for Raphael to deflect his own emotions, and he threw himself wholeheartedly into giving Lorenz and his sisters his companionship, his love and his support. After came the inns and his flourishing business, which kept him busy.

“He hasn’t revealed anything to me.” Maya confessed in a quiet voice. “I… I think I deserve an answer, at least, I hope I do.” 

Embarrassed tears flooded Bernadetta’s eyes, and a wave of guilt washed over her. Maya rested her hand on Bernadetta’s shoulder. “Would you feel better telling me in the house?”

Bernadetta sheepishly nodded and the two went inside to the drawing room where Maya shut the door. In a quiet, measured voice, Bernadetta gave Maya part of the truth: that she was engaged to be married, found she could not go through with it and thrown out of the family. All of Maya’s upset had turned to sympathy.

“I was wrong to have my reservations.” Maya murmured guiltily.

“No, no you weren’t.” Bernadetta tearfully insisted. “I hurt your brother, but… I also hurt you. I’m sorry Maya.”

Maya could not be angry with her. Instead, embraced Bernadetta, who jolted in surprise at such warmth and melted into her embrace.

Kirsten Cottage Inn, Derdriu, Duchy of Riegan
29th of the Garland Moon, Imperial Year 1187

Dear Miss Varley,

I hope this letter finds you in the best of health and spirits. I have a great favour to ask of you. You might be aware that I have been called away on business in Derdriu and have no inclination of when I’m to return. One of the inns is struggling and I’m needed to help out as best as I can.

I leave my sister, Maya, alone while I’m gone. While she insists she’s fine on her own, I know her true feelings and worry about her. In the following month, my dear friend Ignatz Victor will be taking a leave from his parish and duties there to wait on her. I don’t want to move her since she’s settled into Hazelvale so happily. I don’t wish to put you out, but there is only you—and Maya loves you so, I have heard it from her, she asks about you all the time—

If it at all possible, would you—only if you’re willing—perhaps check in on her? Call a few times? Not everyday, I won’t take up that much of your time, but your company is sure to lift her spirits until Ignatz arrives.

If you’re not able to do it, I understand. I would never want to make you uncomfortable. We don’t need to speak of it if it distresses you so.

Please give my best compliments and service to Sir Varley, Margrave Edmund, Mr Hevring, and of course, Miss Edmund. 

With fondest regards,
R. Kirsten

Edgeriver Hall Guesthouse, Illyria, Margraviate of Edmund
31st of the Garland Moon, Imperial Year 1187

Mr Kirsten,

I thank you for your letter. It would be no trouble at all to call upon Miss Kirsten until Mr Victor arrives. I will happily write you when he arrives, and I promise you, it is no trouble to myself. Miss Kirsten’s regard is turned, twofold. She is a very lovely girl. You must be proud of her, as she must be of you.

I have passed along your wishes for health and happiness to our party here in Illyria. I wish you the best health and most luck with your business.

Sincerely,Yours,
B. Varley

“I must admit, I would prefer you calling during the day.” Maya yawned tiredly.

Lorenz stood in the hallway of Hazelvale Chateau and glanced around the estate. He had to admire Raphael’s choice: it was a fine home, well-outfitted, good-looking and, most shocking to Lorenz, well within their income.

Maya, however, was not as pleasing to the eye. She was obviously pulled out of bed; her hair was set in curls and her nightgown crinkled from sleep, with a shawl over top. She looked positively tired.

“The duties of a leader and friend are never finished, even outside his county.” Lorenz murmured. “I came to collect the rest of the letters for further research, as you requested.”

“Well I’d expected you to call during the day.” Maya said pointedly. While she deeply respected and appreciated his support and patronage, Lorenz was never exempt from her criticism. Though it irked him to no end—initially—he came to love it, given his partially-strained relationship with his sisters. Somedays, he thought Maya was closer to him than his own blood.

“Not everyone goes to bed at half-past nine. The sun’s barely gone down.” Lorenz said. “And I am a firm believer in beauty sleep.”

“So you say, but half the time I come to Gloucester, you’re up until the goddess’s hour reading documents and legalese and rulebooks. I don’t know how you look so good.” Maya yawned. “Besides, I had no engagements tonight except with my latest book.”

Lorenz forced a frown, “The letters?” He prompted. 

“Yes, yes.” Maya hummed, then bade him to wait while she fetched them.

A few weeks ago, Lorenz had received a letter from Maya pleading for him to try and figure out the person that Raphael supposedly had feelings for. She’d supposedly stumbled across about five years’ worth of letters, ranging in dates from daily to weekly, with occasional periods of quiet. 

There was only so much Lorenz could draw from Raphael, who had always been dodgy when talking about his feelings—at least with Lorenz—and processing emotions. It was unlikely that Lorenz would get a clear confession who this person who he was writing to was; though, Lorenz had an inkling and sincerely hoped he was wrong.

Maya appeared with a large stack letters. “We can sit in the drawing room. Should I call for tea?”

“Yes.” Lorenz said. 

“Of course,” Maya insisted. “It’ll be nice to entertain someone for a while.”

“I will not be staying longer than a night.” He said. “Just to read and draw conclusions.”

“Do you know who it is?” Maya prodded.

“I cannot be sure.”

“Oh come on, Gloucester.” She pressed. “You have to at least know a little about them. Raphael would tell more to his friends than his little sister.”

Lorenz ignored Maya’s comment and settled on the couch with the stack. “I went through most of them when Raphael left. These provide more about the person. I gather he’s writing to a woman… One he seems to regret a lot. Like she betrayed him or something.”

Lorenz sifted over a few letters, catching sentences that emphasized this feeling. He frowned and glanced at Maya. “Perhaps a plate of biscuits too. Sustenance to, er, lift the spirits.” He murmured. “Would you?”

Maya nodded, smiled and rose from the sofa, leaving Lorenz alone with the letters. He would not need the night, nor would he need to pour over them to discover the identity of Raphael’s paramour—he was already convinced that he had been writing Bernadetta these five years. But, as he eased back in his chair and loosened his cravat tiredly, he could not be certain if she did not harbour the same feelings still.

A month passed and soon the summer arrived with a thick blanket of heat and a cloud of humidity which hung over the ports of Edmund. Business had resumed and picked up once more, with a demand for sickles for the impending harvest and harpoons for the good fishing weather. As she had promised Raphael, Bernadetta called upon Maya often, almost daily for varying lengths of time. Somedays it was a quick hello as she and her uncle were passing into the heart of Illyria, other days it was for several hours.

While in her company, Maya had begun painting. Bernadetta delighted in the activity, having been unable to do so for many years while travelling with Francois.

One morning, she arrived with a basket of new aquarelles she’d had imported from Adrestia and knocked on the door. She was admitted by the housekeeper and heard two voice’s—one Maya’s, the other a man’s—laughing in discussion.

She passed into the drawing room—her old drawing room—where she witnessed a gentleman sitting opposite Maya. 

She noticed Bernadetta instantly, smiled and hopped up form her seat. “Of course you have come to visit! Oh Miss Varley, come look who has finally come to me! It’s quite a relief actually, I was beginning to miss my brother, and here comes one of his best friends! Mine too, if I’m honest.”

“You must be delighted.” Said Bernadetta.

The gentleman on the couch craned his neck to glimpse her. He rose in a swift movement, stared at her and blinked twice. He was indeed the long-awaited Ignatz Victor. The years had been kind to him, making him more handsome and easier on the eyes.

“Bernadetta von Varley?” He gave pause, excused himself for such rudeness and bowed. “That is you, isn’t it? Goddess above, it has been five years!”

“Near to it.” Bernadetta admitted as they regarded each other. “Welcome to Illyria, Mr Victor.”

“I came to give Maya some company. I’ll be here for a month or so.” He said. “The Gloucesters aren’t much in the moods for sermons after the dowager’s passing.”

Maya turned mournful and silent, and the atmosphere of the room became dimmed. Ignatz belatedly caught this, excused himself and then turned to Bernadetta. “Miss Kirsten has told me that you’re in business with your uncle now. How is that faring for you?”

“Well.” Bernadetta said. “I manage his books.”

“I see.” Ignatz said. 

“Actually…” Bernadetta glimpsed in her basket and saw the aquarelles. “I brought one of our recent, um, imports. For Miss Kirsten, though, Mr Victor if you’re interested in them too I can certainly get you some… Y-You still draw? Yes?”

“I do.” Ignatz smiled. “When I have the time to.”

She picked up the pad of the paints and held them out to Maya who brightened. “Watercolours!”

“A-Aquarelles, actually.” Bernadetta murmured.

“I’ve so wanted to master these.” Maya glanced between the two of them, “And I say I shall, with two masters nearby!”

Both Bernadetta and Ignatz protested against her compliments, but Maya was insistent. Soon enough, Bernadetta and Ignatz had been pulled into advising her on every minute detail of her work. 

The two were well-matched, both alike in tempers and countenances, and found comfort in each other. Ignatz carried information of Leonie, limited, but information nonetheless, and Bernadetta delighted in that. He enjoyed her opinions on aquarelles being the finest form of painting and she delighted in his insistence that no, actually acrylics and impasto were the best ways to paint. 

Needless to say, Maya was in the safest, and happiest, of hands.

Bernadetta read, belatedly, in the society column of the papers that had been left out, meant for kindling in the hearth—as always—by her uncle that Marianne had been married.

Her heart crashed into her stomach as she read Miss Marianne von Edmund has wed Mr Linhardt von Hevring of Hevring Territory in Garreg Mach this July 17th. The paper was out of date by weeks. By now Marianne would be married and Bernadetta, in all her pigheaded selfishness, would not have known.

She felt awful for such a sensation, the realization that she had neglected her friend; but what was there to do? Marianne did not attempt to explain the betrothal, nor did she reach out. If there was no give on either side, how could either woman be expected to take?

(The answer, dear reader, is that friendship, true friendship, is not always easy.)

Upset, she advised her uncle that she was to go on a walk down to the ports. 

“Before you do, Niece, I beg your time.” Francois asked. “Just for a moment.”

Bernadetta was already distressed, but did not refuse her uncle. She stopped in her tracks as he rose from his seat at the writing desk in their small sitting room. In his hands, he held a letter and Bernadetta nervously wondered if it were her father, demanding more funds or assistance in cleaning up his never-ending mess.

“I have a specific commission from one Duke Riegan, do you know him?”

“N-No, I don’t.”

“He is of Riegan territory, the duke actually.  Er, as one would assume as the Duke of Riegan. He’s made a very specific order for a coronation. Not for himself, for a friend of his. The queen of… oh where is it…” He started rolling sounds around in his mouth. “Bree…. Buh…”

“Brigid?” Asked Bernadetta suddenly.

“Yes! Brigid! That’s the place.” He exclaimed. “He requested about twenty sabres, if memory recalls, with a very specific blade and inscription, for her coronation. Not her, to say so, but her husband if memory serves? He is to be knighted. Or maybe it’s for another person...” Francois thought long and hard for a moment and then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter all that much, but the commission requires me to go to Derdriu with one of the swords.”

Bernadetta remained quiet. 

“I know you have become quite close with Miss Kirsten and her houseguest for the last month or so, and I would hate to tear you away from such a friend, but you are my partner. Can you bear to be parted from her?”

Bernadetta paused, then weighing the needs and positives in her head, emerged with a proper resolution that edged on that of a child running away from her problems.

“Of course I can. Miss Kirsten won’t mind. She has Mr Victor now.”

With this decided, Francois set immediately to responding to Duke Riegan and making travel arrangements for their trip. Bernadetta, realizing that it had been raining while in conversation with her uncle, retrieved a bonnet for herself and found a shawl before setting out on her way.

Before she realized it, Bernadetta was halfway down the way to the docks, lost in the bog of her heavy thoughts. Her feet carried her there, as if knowing the way since she was a child.

That was the chief thought: her childhood, which by now had ended. Bernadetta felt trapped in stasis—true, she was a mature, older woman, tasked with many things that others could not do, but she felt as if she had not aged these five years. The circles beneath her eyes and loss of bloom said otherwise, but in her deepest heart, she felt like the same girl who stood crying in her garden years before.

But her acquaintances had moved on. Marianne had settled for an arranged marriage. Leonie was off living as a stablemaster. She had not seen Edelgard or Dorothea for many years, but had papers and society columns stashed away telling of their new lives as her authorities. Petra too had found a husband and, by Bernadetta’s knowledge of the sabres, was doing great things for her country.

All she had been in these past five years was disowned and heartbroken.

She felt so small, so stupid, so useless. Her friends broke horses or were proficient leaders like Marianne, all she could do was manage tax columns and add numbers together with great rapidity.

Bitter tears burned her eyes and she immediately yearned for home. But the guesthouse was not her home, nor was the manor. 

Where is home? She wondered. Certainly not the manor in Enbarr or Varley Maison in Burgundy. She had never felt at home there, always a stranger amongst her own family. Not even Hazelvale was truly her home, though she loved it dearly.

Perhaps she was a woman no home? A tragic heroine in the manor of Catherine Earnshaw or Juliet?

If she was, goddess help her.

The roadways changed from fine, wet dirt to cobblestones and narrowed so that not more than one cart or carriage could pass through. From this point on, the ports and piers took over and claimed the remaining miles down to the sea.

The sky was a pale cloudy grey and the smell of rain permeated the air which grew thick like soup with humidity. Bernadetta had little need for her shawl but kept it wrapped around her arms and clung to it tightly like an anchor throughout her wander. She caught her reflection in the glass windows of the shops she passed on her way to the sea, the face of a blooming young woman.

“Ignatz, let us join her!” 

Bernadetta barely caught these words before Maya was upon her. She dashed across the street, between a fishmonger carrying a delivery who yelled at her and a nanny with her young charges. Maya clung to Bernadetta’s arm, a smile upon her face. “Miss Bernadetta!” She exclaimed happily. “Where are you walking to?”

Bernadetta hoped the upset was not visible on her face. She blinked quickly, forced a smile and greeted Maya. “J-Just down to the ports to take the air.”

Ignatz, more cautious, paused, waited for the path to clear and followed after her. He arrived just as Bernadetta stated her destination and the two regarded her.

Maya, in recent weeks, had become more lively and spirited despite the loss of her brother. Perhaps it was an act, to insist that she was happy and not as hurt as he had believed. Falsehood or fact, Bernadetta could not tell, but Maya’s bright mood was infectious.

“Maybe Miss Varley doesn’t want the company…” Ignatz began to say.

“Nonsense!” Maya said. “It’s so grey out and—Miss Varley, please forgive me—but the sky has a rival in her for she looks so gloomy! Miss Varley, you must let us accompany you.”

Bernadetta held no disapprobation and soon the lone walk became a group party. Maya insisted that they would be happier if they went down to the beach to view the seawall. Neither Bernadetta nor Ignatz disapproved, and allowed Maya the felicity of seeing the sea.

On their way down to the beach, Ignatz engaged Maya in discussion of her latest novel, which Maya would turn to Bernadetta and tell her anecdotes and small quips in between breaths. This was a good pause to Bernadetta’s mind and gave her a sense of tranquility, even if it was threadbare and fragile.

They took a momentary pause to appreciate the sea below, the crashing waves, the salt and the sea. Blessed was the connection of art between the three, for they all had many thoughts about the applications of such beauty and shared them for a long, decadent moment before Ignatz descended the stairs to help the ladies down.

He aided Bernadetta first, who thanked him quietly and drew her shawl tighter around herself. She quickly grew thankful for the extra warmth and remedied to order tea once home.

Maya, with a playful spirit in her body, took Ignatz’s hand and bade him to let her jump down. “Catch me! Just like when I was little, Ignatz!” She exclaimed with zeal before leaping off the top step of the little stairs.

Ignatz was able to do this once, but Miss Kirsten was well-built and strong, and Ignatz was a simple parson who’s heaviest lifting was that of an old scripture. His arms wavered before Maya hit the ground and Bernadetta lurched in concern. Maya let out a happy laugh, smiled up at him and then fled his grip before Ignatz had realized. Bernadetta watched, anxiously, as Maya hurried back up the steps, and took the same perch at the top step.

“Maya, not again!” Ignatz pleaded.

“You’ll catch me!” Cried Maya happily.

“Maya, no, don’t—”

But Maya did not listen. The cobblestones were quite slick with the recent rain and Maya was wearing a pair of new shoes that Ignatz had recently gifted her from Edgaria. The soles on these shoes were shiny and smooth and lacked the traction that a good walking shoe had, yet she insisted on wearing them during their walk.

And Ignatz himself had not been ready to catch her by the waist as he did before; as soon as Maya’s feet left the top step, she was doomed.

She hit the hard ground of the stone staircase with so harsh a thud that Bernadetta nearly had an attack of anxiety. But there was no time for nerves, no time for fainting spells: only time for action. Something burst forth in Bernadetta, flying its way forth like some wild bird long locked up in a cage for too long and tasting fresh air for the first time in years.

“Maya? Maya!” Bernadetta called her name loudly, hurriedly. She snapped her fingers as if to wake her or call her attention.

Maya did not respond. Her eyes remained shut, her complexion turning pale. 

Instantly, Bernadetta was on the ground, kneeling beside her. Maya’s bonnet had nearly choked her, leaving red marks against her neck. Bernadetta’s fingers immediately undid the ribbon beneath her chin and pulled it free, tearing the delicate satin with her nails. The back of her skull, the point that had hit the ground, was bloodied and her straw-coloured hair was matted, the curls falling out. Bernadetta let out a cry. Ignatz was struck still, taking in the sight of one of his oldest friends at death’s door. Bernadetta’s gasping cry, her erratic movements to remove her shawl and cushion her head, to blot the blood, brought Ignatz back.

“She… She was just…”

“Ignatz!” Bernadetta said sharply. “My reticule! There’s smelling salts in there.”

Ignatz fell to his knees and groped for Bernadetta’s purse which had flown off her arm when Maya fell. Out flew the book of Indech’s poetry, a paltry coin purse, calling cards, spare hairpins, a patch kit, and finally the vial of salts. With trembling hands, he held it up to Maya’s nose. This too, failed to rise her.

“She’s… Oh goddess above she’s dead—”

Bernadetta bent her head down to Maya’s mouth. She heard the soft whistle of her breathing and felt her pulse. “No…” She said quickly. “No, she’s alive!”

Ignatz looked at her disbelievingly. Bernadetta then shouted. “We must move her. She needs medical attention…” Then, in a most ladylike way and using her lungs for good, screamed for help.

Two sailors, dressed in the uniforms of Edmund’s public military heard Bernadetta’s screams and were at her disposal.

“Hazelvale will be too far.” Ignatz said as the two sailors carefully lifted Maya up. 

“You’re right…” Bernadetta said. “She must go to Edgeriver, it’s the closest.” 

She gave these instructions to the sailors, and begged them to be gentle with Maya, urging them to jostle her as little as possible. When they left, Ignatz applied to Bernadetta for the next course of action. 

“What next, Varley?” Ignatz pressed desperately “What next?”

Getting her to a home—as the apothecary was always busy and the surgeon was closed—was the best course of action. And Bernadetta, realizing that so few healers existed, was saying her name before she realized it.

“Marianne.” Bernadetta breathed. “Ca-Call for Marianne von Edmund.”

Chapter Text

Marianne would never admit it aloud, but her hands were blessed.

There was a time, a long period of time, where she believed they were actually cursed. Instead of being able to reset bones, instead of nursing scrapes and cuts and soothing aches, she thought they caused them. 

White magic has always existed, but mostly it’s a fable told to children to speed their recovery. Many scholars believe that the thought that one can be healed, that the hope and faith of recovery were—and still is—an integral component to healing. In such an age of moralization and enlightenment, and the lack of natural-born healers, white magic was thought to be a child’s story. And with new developments in medicine were occurring everyday, it has faded to be a fairytale.

But Marianne was one of those rare, natural-born healers. Her hands, as if kissed by Saint Cethleann herself, were meant for such terrible injuries, for terrible sickness, for disasters. She thrived in the chaos of a nursing chamber, wiping sweaty brows, holding hands, soothing and healing. 

Her adoptive father, Elliot von Edmund, had noticed this early upon her arrival to Edgeriver Hall and speedily found employment for a white mage, an old woman, who lived in the servant’s quarters and only left the home at night. She taught Marianne all she knew about healing magic, which was looked down upon by their advanced society, and within short years, Marianne had progressed past her master’s expertise.

She never spoke of it, not with anyone aside from her new husband who she found a kindred spirit within. He, while woozy and lightheaded at the sight of blood, was also interested in white magic, more on it’s fall from grace and recent disbelief in contrast to first aid and medicine which was on the rise.

This was a closely guarded secret, which few knew. Bernadetta, after cutting her hands on briers when they met years ago, learnt of Marianne’s talents when she healed her. And like a true friend, promised to keep her secret and never abuse it.

There were few practitioners now of white magic, as most was dismissed as charlatans and scammers… Though, Marianne had heard rumours that Count Gloucester of all people was versed in white magic, and even supposedly had a thyrsus believed to amplify his powers buried somewhere within his estate.

Marianne was reminded of all of this when a gentleman, the suppose intimate friend of Maya Kirsten, burst into the doors of Edgeriver. Marianne couldn’t recall his name immediately, and felt guilty for it, but all was washed away as soon as she met his gaze.

Marianne could read his face with ease: something was deeply wrong. He cried out her maiden name, which she responded to—she was still attempting to get used to being referred to as Mrs Hevring—and her senses all went on high alert.

“We need you. There was an accident, a terrible accident down at the pier. Maya, Maya she slipped and she fell and her head…” He was rambling. “Varley… she said, she said you were a healer, that you could heal her. They’re bringing Maya here, please can you heal her?”

Marianne did not recall agreeing nor declining, and soon found herself, and Linhardt who had been reading beside her, preparing a bedroom to receive Maya. In short moments, two sailors dressed in the dark navy and gold uniforms of her adoptive father’s militia were bringing in Maya who had been knocking unconscious.

“Steady her head! Be gentle with her!” 

Bernadetta, her bonnet around her neck and her hair tousled and wet from an incoming rainstorm with heavy winds, hurried in after them. Marianne and Bernadetta’s eyes met briefly, a guilty glance from each, and an unspoken apology and regrets floated between the two.

But now was the time for action. Bernadetta broke the silence between them, hurrying over to Marianne. In her hands was a bloodied yellow bonnet, and upon her hands was the selfsame colour. Instantly, Bernadetta was upon her, steady as Marianne had never seen before and recounting what had happened as the sailors followed the maids who were to help them.

“She has not opened her eyes for sometime.” Bernadetta said hurriedly. “Five minutes at least. Mr Victor had caught her once when she leapt down, he was supposed to catch her again, but she leapt before he was ready. She slipped on the wet ground and hit her head.”

“Good Goddess…” Marianne breathed.

“Can you heal her?” Bernadetta begged in a low tone. “You have to, Miss Ed…. Mrs Hevring. She’s all her brother has.”

Marianne took Bernadetta’s hands and squeezed them with tender affection. “I promise I will do all I can, Miss Varley.”

At this, Bernadetta nodded quickly. “Thank you.” She murmured and was left standing in the hall.

Marianne took a deep breath, steadied herself and entered the room where Maya was set up, and quietly shut the door behind her.

Come on Bernie. A little longer and you can go home and cry. You have to be strong for just a while longer.

Tears threatened to spill over her cheeks as she smoothed down a compress on Linhardt’s head. He had arrived to gather further information on the contusion, and had barely taken a single at Bernadetta’s hands before even addressing her for the very first time since their initial meeting at the ball. He had barely had the time to ask, “Is that blood?” before he swayed and fainted.

Bernadetta had struggled to support him before he hit the ground. A servant had helped to take him to the drawing room as to not distract Marianne’s attempts at healing with white magic, which required a lot of focus. Ignatz had jolted in surprise, being installed in the drawing room in the pursuits of pacing back and forth. He stared in disbelief at the unconscious gentleman who was hauled onto the sofa and Bernadetta, who was sighing in relief as she took a breath.

“Please stay with him.” Bernadetta said quickly before quitting the room. After her long stay with the Edmunds, she knew Edgeriver well and quickly found a room, outfitted with a washbasin and soap where she washed Maya’s blood from her hands.

She stood there for a moment, staring at the bloody water and almost broke into gasping, heaving sobs. They might have been too slow. Marianne’s powers might not have been enough. Maya Kirsten could have been dead. All these doubts encircled her like a swarm of stinging bees.

No. No she has to be okay. If not for my conscience for her brother. She thought. She rapidly blinked the tears from her eyes and wiped her hands on a nearby towel. 

She had been pouring over orders and drawing up receipts and records of sales for her uncle the night before. Her inkwell had needed to be refilled and she’d spilt some over her fingers, staining them again. The blood had washed away, but the ink would not, and probably never. Little known to Bernadetta, the story which she had been working on for years would finally become clear to her: she would hit a breakthrough with her characters the night after and the words would pour out of her like water.

She swallowed a choked sob, untied her bonnet from under her chin and ran her fingers through her tangling hair. Bernadetta made herself presentable, if not for her, for Raphael, who, when he arrived would need someone to hold together the chaos; and as much as she wished that person was anyone else than her, it was not. Bernadetta would not run, she would not hide, instead she would be the glue, the binding of this story, and hold them all together as best she could.

She kept repeating two things to herself: the first, ‘You have to be strong for just a while longer’; the second, ‘This is for Raphael. This is what he would do for you.’

She left the room, caught a maid who passing by and ordered her to check on Marianne and provide her with support, and then bade her to report back to Bernadetta when Marianne was finished. The next servant she saw, she asked for tea and refreshment for the drawing room to calm Ignatz and to strengthen Linhardt when he awoke. 

Bernadetta paused outside the drawing room door, took a long breath in and willed herself to be strong.

This is for Raphael. This is what he would do. She told herself as she entered and answered Ignatz’s burning questions.

She then took up a post beside Linhardt, smoothing a compress that she requested from a servant over his forehead. She prepared a cup of tea for Ignatz and begged him to sit down, telling him that he would wear a hole through the floor with his pacing.

There was much for Bernadetta to do: reassure poor, anxious Ignatz, soothe him and assure him that Marianne was the best healer she’d ever known. Soon, Linhardt came to and was in a state of confusion and needed to be updated on the situation at hand. Bernadetta was careful not to mention blood, only stated that Marianne had everything in hand and insisted he take some tea and biscuits to replenish himself. He did so, then promptly passed out again.

Ignatz had gone from wildly pacing to sitting stock still in the chair nearest to the window. After a long period of silence, Bernadetta came to her next task, which concerned the same person she was being so strong for.

“We need to tell Mr Kirsten.” Bernadetta told him. 

“Raphael…” He breathed his name with equal parts fear and remorse. “I will go immediately.”

A storm had begun to brew shortly after Ignatz had been sent to prepare Marianne and Edgeriver to receive Maya. It rained quite heavily for almost a half hour, but it had ended now. The humidity had come to a climax and finally broken and the air was cooling down. It had lapsed into the early afternoon. The roads would not be as perilous like in the winter, but still posed a certain threat, especially to someone of a delicate disposition and immense guilt like Ignatz.

“No.” Bernadetta firmly and surprised him  with her tone. She shook took her head and justified herself:  “We must wait.”

“Miss Varley, you don’t understand.” Ignatz said breathlessly. “I’m the reason the Kirstens’ parents died.”

Bernadetta was taken aback. Surely someone as polite and kind and cordial as Ignatz couldn’t be a murderer. Though, as her mind began to run away on her, Bernadetta remembered that she had heard stories of murderers taking all shapes and forms. 

Quickly, she caught herself and stopped all those thoughts. “What do you mean Mr Victor?”

Ignatz hesitated, and then spilled out the story. “Both my parents and the Kirstens’ were merchants in similar circles. My father was one, at least, before inheriting the baronetcy.” He explained and Bernadetta remembered the story all too well. “My parents were supposed to go on a trip into Derdriu from Edgaria to appraise some goods. At the last moment, they could not go as I took ill and wouldn’t leave me.”

Bernadetta listened intently.

“Sir Mayer and Lady Ruth’s carriage was targeted by wolves. It was overturned and fell along Shrew’s Gate Pass, just beyond Edgaria’s walls and perished in the wreck.” He confessed. “My parents should have been the ones to perish but they weren’t because of me.”

Bernadetta remained silent as Ignatz pleaded, “And now Raphael might lose his sister because of me—”

“Don’t talk like that.” Bernadetta said sharply.

Ignatz stopped his babbling and stared at her. Her eyes focused on him and reaching deep into her inner well of courage said: “Maya would have jumped even if no one was there to catch her.” She said firmly. “But you were there to run to Edgeriver. Without you, Marianne would not have heard and not been prepared.”

Ignatz remained quiet.

“There is no way to tell the extent of her injury.” Said Bernadetta. “All we can do now is remain as calm as possible and support her and her brother.”

The parson reflected on this for a long moment. When he attempted to argue this, Bernadetta would negate him earnestly. “You’re too hard on yourself, Mr Victor.” She said. “You carry it all very well upon your shoulders; but it is heavy. You have to forgive yourself.”

Quietly, beneath his breath, Ignatz mused: “I think you’d make a better preacher, Miss Varley.”

Bernadetta looked to the ground and blushed. “I just spent a lot of my life around clergymen. I know their talk well… but of them, you, Mr Victor, are the finest I’ve met.”

The two sat in humble reflection for a long moment before Ignatz asked for an occupation to satisfy his nerves. Bernadetta remembered her uncle, who she had left behind earlier. She checked the grandfather clock in the corner of the room and realized that two hours had lapsed; quickly she asked Ignatz to tell Francois what had happened. Ignatz undertook this duty with care, citing that it would prepare him to tell Raphael what had happened to Maya. 

He left, and soon Bernadetta was left in almost-silence. Every now and then, the fire, which had been lit, would crackle or Linhardt would snore softly. Bernadetta, like a lighthouse amidst a storm, remained there for as long as she could. Soon her back ached and pacing the room made her feel more anxious, so she retreated to the garden, where she fought bitterly against her tears.

When she looked up, Marianne was standing in the doorway with blood on her hands.

“I did not think it prudent to tell you.”

The two women sat in the drawing room in silence. Ignatz was still with Sir Francois and Linhardt had woken, realized Marianne was sitting beside him and enquired after her health and mood.

Marianne had blushed when Linhardt asked if she was alright and waited upon her intently, asking if she needed anything from a cup of mint tea to reinvigorate herself to an Albinean massage technique believed to be better than a full night’s rest. Marianne had thanked him deeply then pleaded for him to leave so she could speak to Bernadetta in private.

Bernadetta watched this all with surprise. The two were so warm to each other, something she could not believe, given that they were arranged to be married and had not the luxury of selecting each other as life partners. 

She felt like a fool, jumping to conclusions and hurt feelings before asking questions, before understanding, before putting Marianne first. A sense of embarrassment and guilt ate at Bernadetta as she stared at the floor between her and Marianne’s feet. 

She had helped a very tired Marianne in from the garden, helped to wash her hands, called for the tea to be refreshed and pleaded with her to just take a single bite of the honey cake that was brought in by a maid. Bernadetta spent the entire time regretting the last few months of silence, the silly rift that grew between the ladies.  

Maya’s condition was stable. She would recover, but until she was conscious. Marianne could not say how quickly she would return to her former self. Marianne reported that at one point, Maya had opened her eyes for Marianne; her brown pupils blown wide and her eyelids drooping down like she was struggling to stay awake, then vomited into a nearby bucket, moaned and rolled over. Marianne told Bernadetta this before Bernadetta had taken over the role of caregiver, tending to a very tired Marianne.

The silence soon took over, and then at last, there was nothing else to speak of but the proverbial elephant in the room.

It felt like it had been ages since Bernadetta and Marianne had sat together alone. A while ago, Bernadetta would have relished this opportunity, to be in the quiet with another like-minded, withdrawn young lady; then, she would have mourned it, wishing to leave Marianne’s side from discomfort and hurt from her own pride; now Bernadetta only wished to fix what was broken.

For a long time, neither woman said a word. Marianne, for her shyness and demure nature; and Bernadetta’s silence was due to her anxiety and exhaustion from coolly handling the situation that had consumed them prior. Both women were wary from healing the wounded, from calming the distressed, and keeping the situation under control.

Bernadetta looked up and caught Marianne staring at her. She quickly looked away. Bernadetta opened her mouth to speak, then shut it.

Marianne then spoke, with quiet reserve and anxiety: “I did not think it was prudent to tell you.”

Bernadetta immediately looked up and gaped, “T-That you’re getting married?” She corrected herself. “That you are married.”

Marianne nodded. “I… It had only been a plan! I did not know if Lin—if Mr Hevring would consent until I received his letter scarcely a day before his arrival.”

“And you still didn’t—” Bernadetta stopped, caught herself and drew a breath. Using what remained of her energy, she lifted her gaze to meet Marianne’s. “You couldn’t tell me? Didn’t you have confidence in me?”

“I did!” Insisted Marianne, then she somewhat dourly added, “I just lacked courage. Not like you.”

“W-What?”

“You’re so courageous, Bernadetta.” Marianne insisted. “You were the one who insisted we talk… That helped us become friends.”

Bernadetta paused and thought. She’s… Not wrong.

She moved closer to Marianne and reached out. Marianne hesitated momentarily, then submitted to Bernadetta’s touch. Drawing her hand into her lap, Bernadetta softly said, “I’m not that strong, not without a lot of preparation.”

Marianne said nothing.

“I just want to know that you’re happy.” Bernadetta said quietly. “Are you?”

Marianne looked up and wore the fondest and most gentle smile that Bernadetta had ever seen. Such joy made Bernadetta feel warm.

“I am.” Said Marianne. “I really do like Mr Hevring, and think that with time I could even love him.” Lowly she added, “I think I’m already… Partway there.”

Bernadetta felt herself smile, but a word caught in her mind: I could even love him.

“And I apologize for not telling you. I did not wish to look like a fool if he did not consent to the marriage contract.”

“I understand, Mari.”

Marianne’s eyes flashed with hope. 

“This was drafted by our mothers in our infancies.” She explained. “I wanted to honour her wish, as Mr Hevring wished to honour the late countess’s. I am certain he will do well here. He likes the ports and the closeness to the water and shares my fondness for reading and the magical arts.” She said, lowly adding, “We have bonded over white magic, actually.”

“That’s a good foundation. Common interests can lead to conversations.”

“But I must confess that I am not a romantic like you, Bernie.” 

Bernadetta coloured and almost shrunk back. “I… I wouldn’t say I’m a romantic.”

Marianne shook her head. “N-Not that it is a bad thing! In fact, your romantic point of view is something I admire about you!” She insisted. “But I am certain that with time, I will love Mr Hevring.” She promised Bernadetta. “He is kind and compassionate and wise”

“You speak like you know him already.”

“We’ve conversed in letters for sometime.”

“How long?”

“Five years.”

Bernadetta was taken aback and quickly regained herself. “Th-That’s a long time.” She said.

“He expressed the interest in coming here and seeing Illyria and Edmund as a whole.” He already asked for my hand, and… he cited a peace in Leicester that wasn’t in Adrestia.” Marianne confessed. “A peace that… That you indulge in too as an outsider.”

Bernadetta felt a flash of guilt. “I… I guess you’re right.” She shook her head slightly. “I’m… I’msorryMarianne…”

“Why ever so?”

“I abandoned you.” Bernadetta winced. “I should have been a better friend. I felt threatened and betrayed, which is… It’s stupid.”

“Betrayed?”

“I thought you were, as you put it, a romantic like me.”

Marianne pondered this for a second. “No. I am not like you in that way.” She admitted. “I do not believe that true love exists, but I am frightened of being alone.”

I am too. Bernadetta thought.

“I can and will be happy with Mr Hevring. He is devoted and kind and good to me.” Lowly, as she gazed at her hands, she added, “Once, in a letter, he promised to dedicate his life to me, and then after dinner on the first night, he reiterated that promise.” In a small, excited voice, she added, “Without prompt or request.”

Bernadetta blushed. “It seems he already has, with that display earlier.”

There was a pause between the ladies as they came to an understanding. Bernadetta accepted Marianne’s point of view, her marrying for comfort and in the end, her version of happiness; and Marianne understood Bernadetta’s romantic perspective on marriage being reserved for true love. While neither lady would choose the other’s opinion for herself, they both came to the silent realization that they could—and would—respect the choices that the other made.

Neither woman could understand the other’s experience, tastes or opinions, and perhaps it was better that way. Bernadetta still felt a speck of guilt for not telling Marianne about the marriage contract to Ferdinand that she had burned, nor of her split-second engagement to Raphael; but that moment between the ladies brought much-needed clarity to her. Bernadetta could never truly understand Marianne, and Marianne could never truly Bernadetta, and that was alright, they would still love each other. There was an uncertain, beautiful peace in not knowing.

Finally, Bernadetta said, “I just want you to be happy, Mari. Are you?”

“I am. I promise you I am Bernie.”

“Friends?” Asked Bernadetta.

Marianne squeezed her hand gently. “Friends.”

Smiles returned to the ladies’s faces as a mutual relief slid off their shoulders. The awkwardness and distance for the last month seemed to be far away and nothing more than a foolish decision made to avoid conflict and confrontation. Soon, they were chatting, if not a little more nervously, like before and close once again.

Soon, Ignatz returned with Bernadetta’s uncle. The tea was refreshed again, and Linhardt entered just before the last piece of cake was about to be offered. He picked it up, gave a full account of Maya’s condition—as he apparently was also a medical scholar amongst other things—and thus came the proceedings of the party. Bernadetta was in constant occupation, ensuring Marianne was not too tired, ordering for another pot of tea, supporting Ignatz’s anxious state, as her uncle began to formulate a plan.

It was decided that Ignatz would ride out that night with a stable account of Maya’s condition, for Derdriu was only a short distance away from Illyria, about five hours by a speedy carriage. He would be conveyed by Francois’s carriage, which Bernadetta sent to be prepared as soon as it was mentioned. Ignatz would explain what occurred and take Raphael home should he desire it. 

Margrave Edmund was in Derdriu for a Roundtable meeting, and Francois would write to him, alerting him of the situation. Linhardt and Marianne agreed to take shifts sleeping and watching Maya, keeping track of her condition and ensuring that it did not worsen. They advised that she not be moved until her head was set to rights. Finally, there was nothing left for Bernadetta to do. Her services had been rendered unnecessary, as she was no healer, nor was she so close to Raphael to support him. She sat by the fireplace as this plan was concocted and fought desperately against a dangerous tiredness that threatened to send her to sleep instantly. 

The binding of this story was now taut, and clips were no longer needed to hold it together. The glue had dried and set into place. Now, all there was to do was wait until she was needed again.

They quickly dined on cold meat and drank more tea and some wine before Marianne departed for bed, half-asleep from exhaustion already, and Ignatz boarded the carriage. Linhardt took the night shift, citing his recent rest and thanked Francois and Bernadetta for their services and usefulness before telling them they knew where the door was.

Bernadetta was supported by her uncle as they left Edgeriver Hall. Her eyelids were so heavy, her legs so tired and the beautified shrubbery and her new growing flowerbeds had never looked so comfortable. Had she been alone, Bernadetta would have laid down and slept right there amongst the rudbeckias and violets that Maya had brought her. 

“You have been most calm, Niece.” Francois observed. 

Bernadetta thanked him. “I was just doing what was needed, Uncle.”

“I think, in another life, you would have made a wonderful Countess Varley.” Francois mused. “Whipped the county into shape and set things to rights.”

Bernadetta thought, briefly, about this and for the first time, did not hate such a future. But she knew that she would have likely holed herself away, avoiding administrative work and hibernating like a bear. Necessity forced her into a position of authority, and while she hated it, Bernadetta handled it… And it wasn’t as terrible as she thought it was; but she’d never admit that to anyone in the dying daylight.

Her eyes were so dry and she realized that hours before she was barely holding herself together, and counting down the seconds that she could go home and sob in peace. But the tears had left her, and Bernadetta wondered if she was would ever be able to cry again. 

She realized then, in the fading sunset as they came up to the guesthouse, that while she had made herself strong, it was Raphael who pushed her to hold it together. It was for him that she was able to be so level-headed, so calm, and all those tiny moments of training five years ago had helped her come to this: to hold together a terrible situation, to support a guilt-ridden acquaintance, to mend a relationship that she thought was beyond repair, to remain steady in the face of uncertainty.

“Maybe I would have been a good countess.” Bernadetta sighed tiredly before they stepped into the guesthouse. “But I’m glad I wasn’t. I’m happier here.” 

Francois gave her a smile and squeezed her hand as they walked into the guesthouse. “And I’m all the happier with you by my side,  dearest Bernadetta.”

The night passed quickly. Despite desperately needing the extra sleep, Bernadetta found she could not rest any longer. She rose, dressed without the help of a maid and braided her hair down her back, remedying to call for a bath later that day when there was enough peace to warrant such an indulgence. She looked positively exhausted—felt positively exhausted— but was pulled by some other force to Edgeriver.

She called upon the house and was admitted. Marianne came to greet her, still tired and barely out of her bedclothes. They had called for a doctor who was set to arrive later that day to give Maya a proper diagnosis. Linhardt was still up watching Maya, but as Marianne assumed, would be growing tired.

“I can sit with her for a while.” She offered. Being of use to Maya would ease her nerves and give her employment. 

Marianne looked relieved and took Bernadetta up to Maya’s room. The girl was still asleep, and Linhardt looked up from his book. His cravat was undone, his hair mussed up from dozing. He checked his pocket watch wearily and said, “Earlier than I expected, Bernadetta.”

She was taken off guard by his open use of her first name. She’d only met him twice, once at the margrave’s ball and then when he passed out the day before. Such intimacy was uncalled for… But she rather liked it, if only for the reason that it was improper. 

“I was expecting you later. My dear, you said she slept in often.”

Marianne shrugged. “Bernie has a way of knowing when she’s needed, my love.”

It’s called anxiety. Bernadetta thought, and realized her sharpened sense of running away to save herself turned to running to help.

Linhardt rose off a cot on the ground, stretched to which Bernadetta heard a lot of cracking and whining of bones. Linhardt swiftly moved to the door, blabbering on about something he’d read while up. Marianne nudged him to give an update on Maya.

“Oh, yes. She woke in the night, showed little signs of memory loss, though she was fuzzy on the details. She is still quite out of it. If she wakes again, be gentle with her.” Linhardt said as he began to take his leave. He paused, turned back to Bernadetta and said, “And thank you for waiting on me when I was indisposed yesterday.”

Bernadetta coloured. Marianne gave her a look as if to say, ‘I know he’s odd, but I like him’, and then bade her farewell and extended all of Edgeriver to her.

Bernadetta felt out of place for a moment. She glanced around the room, which had been cleaned and kept as sterile as possible. For a long while she could not look at Maya for fear of gazing down upon her and seeing the same frightful sights of yesterday and her own failings.

Finally, she turned and stared at Maya for a long moment. Her straw-blonde hair spread around her in short, loose curls. The spot where her head had hit the ground was pressed with gauze. Her eyes were shut in slumber and her chest rose and fell slightly. Her clothes and corset had been folded and waited for her to take them once more. Despite being significantly taller than Bernadetta, Maya looked quite tiny beneath the blanket, like a little girl.

Her complexion was pale, almost death-like, but she breathed, she had a pulse and Linhardt and Marianne had assured Bernadetta that Maya was doing very well, considering the fall she’d taken. Still, there was the bloom of youth in her cheeks and face, but Bernadetta knew, deep down, that this would change her in temperament and actions. Perhaps it would make her more cautious, less lively, and Bernadetta mourned that possibility.

Tears sprung to her eyes at seeing Maya’s condition. She paced for a few moments, put her hands in her pockets. Her hands grazed the small book of Saint Indech’s poetry.

Though, she could not hear nor respond, Bernadetta asked Maya if she would like to hear some poems. “Your brother seemed to like them…” She blushed momentarily, then remembering that Maya was unconscious, took heart and said, “B-Back when we were closer, of course. Perhaps you’ll like them too. I know you’ve have the luxury to read more than him.”

Bernadetta paused, as if Maya could respond. After a moment, Bernadetta drew the worn little book from her pocket and took her seat. She flipped to her favourite poem, her fingers trembling a little. “I read him this one. It’s my favourite and I think he liked it too.” Bernadetta murmured quietly.

She sat there and read to Maya for a long time until her voice grew hoarse. At this point, Bernadetta found herself submitting to sleep.

“It’s you.” 

Bernadetta attempted to pull herself out of the haze of sleep. She blinked once, twice, then saw a pair of brown eyes staring up at her. They were tiny slits, barely open, as if her eyelids were weighted down with sleep. 

“M-Maya!” Bernadetta exclaimed. She barely held herself back from diving on her with a hug.

Maya struggled to keep her focus on Bernadetta, but she was awake. Bernadetta offered her water and helped her up to drink a little. Maya stared up at her and caught her hand.

“Bernie.” She breathed, “Thank you.”

Bernadetta was already in tears at seeing her well—she knew that Maya was safe, but seeing that she was okay was completely another matter. “I… M… Miss Kirsten—”

“I’m Maya. Call me Maya.” She ordered gently. Concussed or not, she still had demands and Bernadetta felt a spark of joy at receiving them.

“Maya,” Bernadetta said firmer. “I… I’m so happy you’re okay.”

“It’s because you were calling the shots.”

“I was just doing what needed to be done.”

Maya could barely shake her head but still endeavoured to do so. “No… You kept it together.” She said. “Miss Edmund said so. Wait… She got married, right?”

“Yes, she did. But not while you were sleeping, it occurred before that, I assure you.” Bernadetta confirmed. “Do not worry, I still forget and call her Miss Edmund too.”

“She told me that it was you who kept Ignatz from hysterics.” Maya said secretively. “You were indispensable.” Then a cloud of remorse came over Maya as she looked at the ceiling. “I should have listened to him…”

“You still would have jumped.” Bernadetta told her. When Maya glanced at her, unconvinced, Bernadetta said, “I know you better than you think, Miss Kirs—Maya. You’re just like that. Someone tells you no, you think of it as a temporary blockade.”

“I do, don’t I?”

Bernadetta found herself smiling through her tears. “It’s… It’s part of the reason why I think you’re so… wonderful.” She smiled, reminded of the same trait that she loved so dearly in Leonie. 

Maya took her hand then. Bernadetta cupped Maya’s and stared at her intently. “What do you need? What can I get you?”

“It is a very important task, one that I wouldn’t give to any other person.” Maya whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “I want you to marry my brother.” 

Bernadetta’s face flushed with colour briefly. She thought she was going to babble incoherent and vehement refusals, but instead found herself softly breathing, ‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t’ to Maya.

“I can’t think of anyone more deserving of my brother than you.” Maya said as a devious, but dim, smile rose to her lips. “If I ordered you to, would you marry him? Please?”

“Your brother deserves someone better than me.” 

“I disagree.” Maya said. “I may be concussed and my memory may be foggy, but I remember when I asked the sort of woman to sway him into marriage, he listed your characteristics.”

Bernadetta found herself growing hopeful, but she immediately cut this hope down. Raphael would never accept her, they’d been teetering along a dangerous friendship which Bernadetta worried would be broken and irreparable soon enough.

She stared at the ground as Maya listed off traits that she shared with Raphael’s wishes. “Kind of heart, with a good temper and interest in reading.” Maya said, then glancing to the poetry book that Bernadetta had left on the bed beside her, smirked and said, “And while I was out, I’m pretty sure you were reading to me. I heard your voice a few times.”

Bernadetta coloured again. “I needed something to keep me busy.”

Maya smiled. “You’d hav absolutely no competition.” She hummed, shutting her eyes as she began another descent into slumber. “Except for that lady he writes letters to…”

Maya’s voice was soon replaced with a gentle snore. She was out before Bernadetta had fully grasped what Maya had said: Raphael was writing to another woman. 

Her heart, which had entertained the tiniest hope of a possible reconciliation which she only indulged in her wildest dreams, crashed into her stomach. A feeling of great sadness crashed over Bernadetta like a tidal wave and all at once, she felt as if she was going to cry again.

She did not dare to rouse Maya to ask her what she meant. Instead, Bernadetta sat there, crying silent tears for a time before Marianne arrived to check on her patient. By then, Bernadetta had composed herself and reported that Maya had been awake for a while, drank some water and spoke to her. Marianne seemed very heartened by her progress and said that she was improved.

Bernadetta quitted the room and went downstairs, noticing as she took her seat in the drawing room that another furious rainstorm had begun. Francois arrived, with refreshments and food from the ports for the servants to make teatime comfortable and prepare supper with. Linhardt dozed on the drawing room chaise, snoring lightly while Bernadetta beat her uncle at cribbage three times over, double-skunking him each time. 

An express arrived, addressed only to the residents of Edgeriver Hall, from Ignatz. He had reached Derdriu, found Raphael and relayed the information as soon as he could. However, it was the rainy season in Derdriu, and another harsh storm prevented the carriage from leaving, as the roads would be too wet for the carriage. Ignatz detailed that Raphael threatened to walk to Illyria, but Ignatz had managed to persuade him that it would be best to wait.

This heartened Bernadetta, knowing that Ignatz’s good senses and confidence had returned to him. Francois had read the letter aloud to their party. The tones of thunder punctuated his reading, the foreboding knowledge that the storm would not fade soon.

The rain let up eventually, but the sky remained grey. Maya was conscious for longer periods of time and her prognosis was good. The doctor, who arrived in the early afternoon, confirmed this and emphasized that the speed of treatment after the fall and the use of white magic were integral parts of her good outlook and the recovery time. Marianne and Bernadetta were commended for their work. 

The afternoon passed in quiet solitude. Bernadetta took to reading while Francois wrote to Duke Riegan and postponed their trip to Derdriu, citing the illness of a family member.

When Bernadetta heard this, she was taken aback. “S-She’s not… I-I’m not…” Her voice dropped in tone despite the fact that they were the only two in the room. “Miss Kirsten isn’t related to us, Uncle.”

Francois shook his head as if to say, ‘foolish girl, she is!’ He shook powder over the ink to help it set and blew it away. “Well I see her as family. She makes me laugh often, more than your sisters do.” Francois said, before lowering his voice, “For we both know, I could never tease you.”

Bernadetta coloured at this. Perhaps, if things had been different, Maya would have been her sister and in turn, a new, amusing niece for Francois. But there was no use dwelling on what could have been.

Soon, the rain broke. Bernadetta’s back ached from sitting in the same attitude for such a long time. The late afternoon sun had broken through the clouds and burned along Edgeriver’s vast property, painting the green trees gold. She walked for a while, taking in the fresh air and focusing on the good. Maya would recover. She and Marianne would be friends once more. Francois would always have her in his life. Things would return to normal, with time and care and patience. 

The solitude and solemnity of her walk was interrupted by hoofbeats. She heard the chaise’s approach before she even saw it, and before she realized, Francois’s dark carriage tore up the driveway, the horses wild and the driver barely having them within his control. Her heart stuttered in her chest and before she realized it, Bernadetta was hurrying towards the garden gate. She pulled up the latch just as the horses ground to a halt and the door to the carriage flew open.

Raphael climbed out, hurrying in the direction of the mansion. He caught sight of her and she, at once, felt like a deer in the eyes of a hunter. Her hands flew to her chest to steady herself from an oncoming panic attack; all the grace and calm she’d managed for the last day and a half left her at once.

Raphael looked exhausted, the lines in his face more prevalent and dark circles beneath his eyes. His outfit was messy and rumpled as if he slept in it. His coat was still wet from the rain and his hair had dried in odd directions. 

“She is out of danger!” Bernadetta called out quickly. 

Raphael approached her with intensity and briefly, Bernadetta grew worried that he was about to yell at her. Deep down, she felt deserved it; she had been prevailed upon to check on Maya and failed to keep her safe. And while she knew she was integral to Maya’s good prognosis, Bernadetta still felt an overwhelming sense of guilt that pecked at her like a wild bird searching for seeds in a suet-cake. 

She shut her eyes tight, waiting for the barrage of pejoratives, insults, demands of ‘what the hell were you thinking?’ She prepared herself for the final cut that would sever their connection at last and estrange them once more. 

All at once she felt warm and cold. Her face was pressed into something soft and she smelt, though it was faint, the tell-tale notes of sandalwood that came from cologne and the scent of well-cooked food. Her eyes opened and all was dark, as if she’d been blindfolded or the sun had rapidly set. Her hands trembled and she felt her body reverberate.

“Thank you, Bernadetta.”

Bernadetta hugged Raphael back, clinging to him desperately as tears finally began to fall and released her from such anxiety. In her wobbly little voice, she sobbed, “I-I-I’m s… I’m s-sorry, R-R-Raphael…”

Bernadetta had thought that Raphael would have squeezed the air out of her, but that was not the case. He was gentle and warm and tired from travel. He held her for what felt like a short time in that moment, but upon reflection Bernadetta realized that it had been a full minute.

He left her arms a moment later and Bernadetta took a long moment to calm herself, soothing her tears, easing her ecstasy of emotions before returning into the house with Ignatz, who had waited behind to offer her his arm.

Chapter Text

After the beloved Kirsten siblings had been reunited in the privacy of Maya’s room—and between sobs of ‘thank the goddess you’re okay’ and ‘Maya you absolute goof’—Raphael left her to rest for a short time while he took tea and refreshment. Back in Derdriu and waiting out the storm, Raphael had been unable to eat, a feat that he thought impossible until it came to pass. His appetite had all but returned after seeing Maya safe and sound.

Bernadetta reentered the drawing room shortly after Raphael sat down and inhaled two plates’ worth of cold meat and preserves. He was on his third cup of ginger tea when she took a seat. Ignatz had been kind enough to offer her his handkerchief to wipe away her tears away, and how the blush of embarrassment and subdued delight at seeing Raphael so happy coloured her cheeks.

The two glanced at each other awkwardly before Raphael broke into a genial smile, hoping to encourage her. Her uncle Francois, a kind man, was slumped against his hand, dozing away; Linhardt had removed to check up on Maya. Marianne sat, disguised as deep in reading, and secretly stealing glances at the two when they weren’t the wiser.

Raphael turned his attention to Bernadetta. “It was actually you I wanted to speak to, Miss Bernadetta.” She garnered the courage to hold his gaze. “I wanted to thank you. Without your quick thinking, Maya would have been in worse shape.”

Taken aback, she could only muster: “I don’t… It was nothing.”

Marianne interrupted. “It was not nothing. The rest of us were quite distraught.” Marianne’s voice was firm. “Bernie kept her head and guided us well.”

Bernadetta wilted at this and coloured. Under her breath, Marianne murmured, “She would have made an amazing leader.”

“She would have.” Raphael said, gazing at her. 

Bernadetta’s face grew hot. She cleared her throat and gave him a gentle smile. “I’m… I’m happy to help. Miss Kirsten n-needed someone to guide her friends.”

Silence settled upon the party. Then, as Raphael was about to speak, Bernadetta found her voice. The two spoke over each other, then blushed—and to Marianne’s amusement—continued the awkward exchange again. Marianne promptly rose, mentioned taking a turn about the garden and left the two in quiet reflection.  

Raphael insisted with a gentle smile, “You first, Miss Bernadetta.”

She inclined her head in gratitude. “Is Miss Kirsten okay now?”

“Yeah. I meant yes. She’s just resting. Mr Hevring said she should be woken every few hours to make sure she’s okay.” He explained. “With two healers and a great leader, I’m sure she’ll make a full recovery. I was told a doctor was summoned to see her.”

“Can… Can I see her?” Bernadetta asked with a blush.

Raphael brightened. “Of course! I’m sure she’d love that.” He said. “She was so happy when you visited before.”

The two rose and stood in an awkward pause for a moment, as if to say more now that all was calm and they were granted this moment of privacy; but neither made such move. Raphael just stared at Bernadetta and she stared back until she glanced twice at the doorway. “We should… Um…” Bernadetta murmured.

“Ah, yes.” Raphael hummed.

There was silence until Raphael fell into step with Bernadetta.

“I really have to thank you, Bernadetta.” He insisted once they were in the hall. He paused, caught himself and went back. “M-Miss Varle—”

“Y-You can call me Bernadetta.” She said quickly before she could regret it. Her heart did a somersault and she swallowed back all her fears like sugar. “I-It’s okay, Raphael.”

Raphael’s own heart did a dramatic leap. He nodded. “Bernadetta, without your quick thinking, Maya would’ve been way worse. Victor, Mr and Mrs Hevring said so, apparently even the doctor agreed.”

“It was nothing.”

“It was everything.”

Bernadetta blushed and glanced at him. “W-We shouldn’t…“ She paused and turned her gaze back to the floor before her. “I’m not deserving of all the credit.”

“You are. Thank you.” Raphael said. “Maya means… She’s a lot to me. She’s everything.”

“I understand.” Said Bernadetta. “To be honest, I envy your relationship with her.”

“You do?”

Bernadetta nodded. “You two are so close and affectionate.” She admired. “Gentle and playful around each other and such… I don’t have that with my siblings.” Lowly she added, “I don’t have much of anything with them anymore.”

“That’s really sad.”

“I haven’t seen them in years…” She blushed hard. “But it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing though.” Raphael said gently in a pained voice. “I really wish you could have a good relationship with your family.”

Even after they tore me from you? She thought wistfully. He is too kind.

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Really?”

Bernadetta stared at her feet and wondered if the walk to Maya’s room had always been this long. “It’s… The relationship I have with them is nothing like what you have with Maya.” She confessed quietly. “In fact, somedays I felt like an outsider amongst them.”

Quickly, she met his worried gaze and added, “But I’m quite happy with my uncle! He’s… Francois is a good person to be around.” She babbled on about how kind he was and how he indulged her.

“I’ve noticed you’re happier with him.”

Bernadetta nodded and forced a smile. “I am, yeah… I mean, yes.” 

“But I hope,” Raphael said quietly and earnestly. “that someday you’ll find a family that treats you well. You’re an amazing person, Bernadetta.”

She coloured. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest as she kept his gaze.

“I hope for that too.” She murmured, then quickly added, “A-And f-for you, of course! To expand your family with your sister!” Blushing, she added, “B-But not like that, Seiros forbid… Oh Bernie, stop talking…”

Raphael smiled softly at her and shook his head. “I knew what you meant, Bernadetta.” He said softly. “Thank you.”

Her face bright red, she began walking ahead of him and stopped before Maya’s door, cursing herself for saying such things, for exposing such hidden emotions. Together, they knocked and entered, both wearing bright blushes that confirmed to a very concussed Maya, that whatever tender feelings had been planted five years ago were in bloom once again. 

And crassly—though both of them would insist that it was the result of her concussion—Maya pushed herself up from her bed and looked at Bernadetta dead in the eye. 

“You!” Exclaimed Maya with delight. “You have to marry my brother.” She ordered with severity and dignity of a queen.

Bernadetta turned bright red and Raphael blushed. “My,” he said, crossing the room to her. “You hit your head pretty badly…”

Maya slowly shook her head. “We don’t know each other well, yet.” She insisted, “But I know you’re a good woman and I have a solution.” She jutted a finger up at Raphael. “Him. Marry him and we’ll be best friends, I promise you. Sisters even!”

She must have forgot that we had this conversation before. Bernadetta thought mournfully. She crossed the room with trembling hands. “I-I’m afraid I can’t.” She managed with as much ease as she could muster. 

“Bernie,” Maya said pleadingly. “You have no competition, I assure you.”

“Maya.” Raphael said in a gentle but warning tone.

Bernadetta brushed some stray hair behind her ears. “Whoever marries your brother will be the luckiest person alive.” She said. “I’m certain of it.”

Maya eased back into her bed and looked up at Bernadetta and Raphael with a displeased pout. “Not even a maybe?”

With thin smiles, they disagreed with her, and Maya sighed. “Tough crowd.” She mumbled, then into her pillow she promised: “I will wear you down eventually.”

The visit was spent waiting on Maya who kept asking questions about Raphael’s trip. After a while, she turned to Bernadetta and asked for her to read from her book of poetry again. Bernadetta was delighted by this and took up reading once more. When Maya requested that Bernadetta read her favourite poem not once but twice, Bernadetta indulged her happily, despite feeling both hers and Raphael’s intent gazes upon her. 

Soon, Maya had fallen asleep and candles had to be lit to brighten the manor. Sundown fell upon them all, Marianne and Linhardt had both retired to be alone together and Francois had already gone home. Raphael led Bernadetta about of Maya’s room, their faces both a soft red from chatting with her in her last moments of consciousness. As he walked her downstairs and to the door—and both realizing that it had gotten so late and they were the only two left awake in Edgeriver—he remedied to walk Bernadetta back to the guesthouse. 

They walked along the gravel path, passing by the shrubbery in silence. After a long pause, Bernadetta asked, “Was she… actually?”

Her heart beat rapidly and her palms were slick.

Are we really going to talk about this now? After everything that happened?

Blushing, Raphael realized that she meant the bit about her marrying him; this quip from Maya had been weighing on both their minds for a long time. He laughed it off with a good-manner smile.

“Maya told me she’s going to call the shots on who I marry. They have to have her approval before mine.” He jokingly explained. “Funny, huh?”

Bernadetta forced an awkward smile. “She sounds like a tough judge of character…”

“She’s got a good heart.” He said before adding, “I’m sorry about her brashness. It must be the concussion. You know she’s not usually like this.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Bernadetta said distractedly, recalling the time before.

There was another pause between the two.

“R…Raphael?”

“Yes?”

“I know we agreed to begin anew but…” She stopped walking and  met his gaze nervously. “I… Did you ever…”

He stopped and held her gaze. Slowly, he shook his head at the unspoken question lingered between the two of them. 

Did you ever tell anyone we were engaged?

“No. Never.”

Her heart and hopes fell. “G-Good. It’s better that way.”

“I never told anyone, Bernadetta. Aside from Gloucester.”

Her heart beat twice as fast. “You did?” She thought back to her recent visit to Gloucester, where she thought Lorenz might have changed. Those thoughts soured instantaneously. 

He nodded. “He was housing me and Maya at the time. I thought it was right to ask him for his counsel.” He said quietly. “He… He only spoke well of you. I think he wasn’t…”

Bernadetta looked at him with concern. Raphael pasted on a soft smile. “Never mind that. It’s in the past, right?”

Bernadetta forced a smile.

“They’ll be a lucky person.” Said Raphael. Bernadetta glanced at him. “Who ever finally wins your heart. They’ll be really lucky.“

“You too. Whoever that may be.”

She jealously thought of the woman he was writing to for years, that he was possibly still writing to. He walked her to the door where they said their adieus and her heart ached in her chest as Raphael turned back and began back to Edgeriver. 

He turned back, almost out of view of the house and waved. Bernadetta forced a smile and waved back and waited at the door until he was gone.

As the last dregs of summer slowly gave way to autumn climes, Maya made a full recovery. Margrave Edmund wasn’t too pleased upon hearing that his home was used as a nursing station, but eased when he learnt that Marianne and son-in-law had been integral in ensuring Maya’s recovery. He saw it as “good press”, especially when Maya’s accident was reported in a local paper, which Maya had read to her multiple times as she laughed and claimed she was infamous. Margrave Edmund had advised a reporter that his adoptive daughter and son-in-law and been the ones to save Maya’s life, thus giving him more creed with the Roundtable of lords, once they saw the papers, of course.

In that stormy summer-autumn, Bernadetta grew closer to her beloved party, even liking Linhardt… This, of course, occurred, after forgiving him for commenting on her choice of crimson over vermillion paint in a portrait. A few times Marianne had suggested that they all remove from the stuffy house and hitch a gig up to her beloved horse Dorte: her scheme, which included Bernadetta and Ignatz, brought them all on a trip to the countryside.

With business only limited to the localities of Illyria and parts of Edmund, Bernadetta’s time was mostly free. She continued to call on Edgeriver until Maya was well enough to be moved back to Hazelvale, providing her with soothing attention and amusing companionship. Ignatz and Raphael waited upon Maya, and Bernadetta called often with books and paints and sheet music to entertain Maya with. 

The younger Kirsten, however, refused to give up her goal of making a match between her brother and friend... With the subtlest air of descretion, though most times, Maya was disregarded it.

Often, Raphael found Bernadetta’s company, and in moments, Bernadetta felt like they hadn’t moved past five years before, that they were still so close. She treasured those moments and feelings most. 

Lorenz granted Ignatz an extended leave from the parsonage after learning of Maya’s injury and sent not only a winsome doctor named Manuela to ensure she was taken care of properly, but also a generous care package of cuts of meat from Sauin Village and hearty vegetables from Edgaria to nourish his friends. 

But the trip to Derdriu could no longer be delayed. Apparently the crown princess of Brigid had arrived in Leicester to view the swords before departing for the winter. Francois and Bernadetta’s engagement could no longer be delayed.

(That, and Petra had written to Bernadetta upon learning that Claude’s business associate was an old acquaintance. She invited her to an evening with her and her husband, where they would bond and discuss the passing of five years. In truth, Bernadetta did not want to do this, but she couldn’t find it in herself to say no. Maya’s accident had reminded Bernadetta how precious life was.)

Raphael was also needed back in Derdriu. Soon, Francois had offered to convey Raphael to Derdriu in his carriage in exchange for a few nights’ stay at his inn. While Raphael and the Varleys were away, Ignatz was commissioned to wait on Maya, who swore she would never go down to the piers below Illyria ever again, and specifically swore off leaping, jumping and leaving the ground without the steadying hand of a good friend. Marianne and Linhardt also extended their services to Maya, in between the margrave’s governmental training, of course. All was prepared and Bernadetta and Francois set off.

Derdriu stole Bernadetta’s breath away. It was a crystalline city of water, where the sea reflected the changing leaves. It was loud and bustling, the capital of Leicester and now, the heart of the Alliance’s social season. Unlike the season in Enbarr, Bernadetta did not feel anxious. Perhaps this was because she would not be participating in it or the marriage market, but it was most likely attributed to her age, experiences and maturity.

Bernadetta and Francois were due to speak with Duke Riegan, who was constantly busy and on a very tight schedule. Meanwhile, Raphael insisted on taking their luggage and settling in the inn. He would hear no refusals and shouldered the bags as if they were nothing at all.

The Varleys hurried to the palace, though missed the duke who had been called to a much more pressing matter. His steward arranged another meeting and the two returned to the inn. 

In all her time in Adrestia, Enbarr had not enchanted Bernadetta so. Derdriu, the youngest of the four capitals of Fódlan, was weird and odd and still in it’s infancy. Enbarr was drenched in tradition, in balls and holy holidays based on dead gods; Derdriu decided that the harvest outweighed any saint or sovereign. The water mesmerized her, and the entire city seemed cloaked in shades of autumnal gold. 

However, while Derdriu was nice, the inn was truly beautiful. The moment Bernadetta stepped in, she felt an overwhelming sense of warmth that enveloped her heart. She stood in an old great house, which as she learned, formerly belonged to a feudal lord and was purchased with all the original furniture in tact. It was tidy and well-kept, with handsome stables and a large patio out back for seating. Wonderful smells of roast pheasant and exotic spices and homey herbs wafted out of the cracks of the inn. Her stomach growled. The floorboards creaked beneath her feet and her uncle carried their small bags which they’d taken to the meeting. While it was mostly likely the exhaustion from travel, Bernadetta felt at ease. 

No. She felt at home.

Bernadetta was in awe of what Raphael had created. She longed to tell him that, but found that she lacked the courage. And he was the proprietor, so surely he would be in the back or tucked away in some office, managing the affairs and ensuring everything ran smoothly

“I can see why Duke Riegan would love this place.” Bernadetta murmured as they checked in at the front desk. 

“As can I.” Francois agreed. “He said that Count Gloucester and he had stayed multiple times in Edgaria and were delighted each time. He said too that the cooking was astonishingly good. “Apparently each location reflects the territory. I imagine the location that Mr Kirsten wishes to open in Illyria will be rich with fish and Almyran goods.”

“I can’t imagine it smelling better than it does here.” Bernadetta found her feet carrying her towards the dining room, despite the loud volume of the inn and the overbearing warmth. It was cool outside, for Derdriu was windy and on the water, but the heat of the inn cut through the cold with ease. Her cheeks reddened as she tucked in to allow a maid to hurry past her with a basket of linens.

The dining room was alive with people, with laughter and happy conversations. Behind the bar sat massive casks of ale and mead, along with the bartender. Tables, with mismatching chairs of different shapes and sizes peppered the floor. Overhead was a repurposed wagon wheel fitted with tall candlesticks and aglow. 

Francois walked ahead to a table with a small chalk board that read their surname on it. The two sat down and Bernadetta looked around the tavern consumed in wonder. 

And then her gaze stopped on the bustling form of Raphael, helping to serve a family of five. He recognized her, smiled and made his way over. 

Her face heated and all the wonder was replaced fragile hope and alarming anxiety. Quickly, she rose from her seat. The carriage ride had been torturous enough, avoiding his gaze and sneaking looks at him; being served by Raphael would be even worse. 

“Uncle, I-I need to rest.”

Francois sighed, “Bernadetta, you’ve not eaten for hours. Food first, I must insist. We’ll go upstairs and take our ease after.”

“I-I really, really need to go… Please give me the keys.”

Francois sighed, unable to deny his niece and handed over the key to her. Bernadetta giddily took it, then turned on her heel—

And directly into Raphael Kirsten’s expansive chest. 

She stumbled back, hitting the table. He reached out to steady her. His hands on her shoulders, his eyes focused on hers.

Bernadetta felt as though time had stopped. And once more, she was lost in his soft gold eyes, and how warm he had always been. He was a sunbeam personified, captured in hard muscle and soft, gentle smiles. She was taken back to his tender embrace in front of Edgeriver. Quickly, his hands left her shoulders and Bernadetta straightened up and cast her gaze to the ground. Her face heated once more, this time hotter and more red. 

“Miss Bernadetta,” Raphael greeted with a bow. Bernadetta quickly curtseyed. “You weren’t going… Were you?”

She met his gaze briefly, and realized she was being foolish. Running away had ruined their blooming relationship before, and while she knew that there was another person that Raphael was writing to—that Raphael was in love with—she would not lose his friendship again. 

“My niece was just going to—”

“O-Order!” Bernadetta interrupted. “I was hoping to order.”

Raphael smiled and led her back to her chair. He pulled it out and helped her in chair, giving her a gentle smile as she thanked him. “What will it be then? Anything on or off the menu.”

She drew up the menu scanned the menu and picked out the first thing she saw. “Spicy fish and turnip stew.” She cringed as she ordered and realized it had never been a favourite of hers.

Raphael smiled and said, “That’s a good one, our turnips were harvested yesterday, so they’re nice and fresh. Makes the dish yummier.”

This made Bernadetta eager again. She forced a smile as her uncle ordered a two-fish sauté, which brought another wave of embarrassment over Bernadetta. He left and she winced wishing to throw herself into the seas on which Derdriu were built.

Francois simply smiled as he produced his business plan and proposal to work on, knowing well that his poor niece was jilted and crossed in love. He’d known for ages, and had an inkling that Raphael was the lucky gentleman to win her affections, but never said a word out of consideration for her nerves and love.

Raphael returned a moment later, now with a bottle of berry wine and glasses.

“Not sure if you guys are big drinkers, but this one is on the house.” He said smiling at Bernadetta. “It’s an export from Gloucester territory. The former count was a big fan of this one.”

Bernadetta nodded in thanks.

“Sir Varley, are you working still?” Raphael asked as he poured her a glass. 

Francois glanced up at Raphael with a bemused smirk upon his face. “I could admonish you for the same thing, Mr Kirsten.”

“You could,” Raphael said, before filling his glass, “but I’m not a guest here, I own the place. I want all my guests to feel at ease when they’re at my inns.”

“Why, you make a compelling argument, sir.” Francois smiled and closed his folder. “There! I shall think of work no more while I dine.”

“You too, Miss Bernadetta.” Raphael encouraged. “Business out there, sure, but keep it light in here. You both are busy people, so take it easy.”

Bernadetta blushed. “But I’m here to work. I follow my uncle on business, as you know.”

“Right. You mentioned helping him with the books.”

Coyly, Francois added: “I’d be in the red if she was not working with me.”

“Uncle…” Bernadetta murmured anxiously.

“She’s a very accomplished woman.” Said Raphael fondly. 

Bernadetta’s heart quickened as she willed herself to speak to him. “What are you doing here, anyways? Shouldn’t you… um… be in the back?”

“The manager recently had a child and wanted time off, so I came to fill the gap.” Raphael explained. 

“You… You work in your own businesses?” She asked. Most self-made gentlemen she knew were not inclined to working their business; seeing him labour, and so earnestly, was indeed a shock.

“Of course I do!”

“B-But you’re a gentleman…”

“It doesn’t mean I can’t roll up my sleeves and work hard.” He protested. “You can’t eat the bread without making it! Or was that cook the bacon…”

Bernadetta found herself beginning to smile and quickly cast her gaze down. “That’s… Quite wise, Mr Kirsten.”

He returned the smile and nodded. “If you two need anything,” he said with a gentlemanly smile and warm countenance, “I’m here. Just holler.”

Bernadetta smiled and nodded. As soon as he was gone, she swallowed hard and looked at her uncle.

“What?” she asked as he wore a small, coy smile.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Dinner arrived. Despite not liking spicy foods—they were often too hot for her delicate palate—the dish smokey and sweet. Bernadetta cleaned her plate and was taken off guard by how lovely the meal was.

Usually Bernadetta enjoyed the solitude of a private room, but found she could not focus in the quiet after dinner. Her uncle had retired to sleep and left his niece in the shared sitting room, where she had begun writing to Leonie. 

Words failed to come to her. Everything she had meant to say—about Marianne, about Maya’s injury and recovery, about the trip—had left her. She stared at an empty page. It had been too long since she’d written, there was so much to debrief Leonie with. The task seemed too enormous. 

She needed something familiar, something tried and true. Writing of any calibre was too much for her at the moment. What she needed was something concrete, something based on rules and facts.

She left the room and returned downstairs, where the tavern was closing up for the evening. Before she realized it, she had found Raphael cleaning the tables and sweeping the floor, greeted him and summoned all her courage. 

“Y-Your sister said, sometime ago that you were looking for a partner.” She began.

Raphael stared at her with wide eyes and gave pause. “I am.” He said. “Someone to help with the finances. I’m no good with that sort of thing.”

Bernadetta hesitated. “I… I am not offering to be your partner…” She began. “But I deal with my uncle’s accounting all the time. Allow me to take a look.”

“No, Bernadetta, I… you’re my guest. Like I said, you’re here to rest. Take your ease.”

“And I’m your my friend.” 

This gave Raphael pause. He stared at Bernadetta for a long moment, before exhaling, “Yes. Yes you are.”

She summoned her professional courage, fleeting as it was in that moment. “I-I remember that Maya… Miss Kirsten said you weren’t… Were… That you needed help with them. I’d like to be that help, Mr Kirsten.”

“I… I don’t think I can afford to pay you, Miss Varley.”

“The bottle of wine was on the house… It was very good too, perhaps the best I’ve ever tasted…” She said softly. “So I’d like for you to consider my services also on the house… So to speak.”

Raphael paused for a moment, then finally acquiesced. “I didn’t realize you were so persuasive.” As he said this, Bernadetta blinked and blushed. “Come on, I’ll show you the books.”

She followed him, behind the invisible borders that were reserved for employees only, and into a tiny, and frankly overcrowded, office. Raphael showed her the book of accounts, the mountain of sales, receipts and the accounting that had already been done.

He explained, in a quiet voice, that he worried about staying afloat, and ensuring that his employees were paid well at this location, then adding that both he and the manager of the Derdriu inn were more customer service oriented as opposed to business-inclined. The manager of the Edgaria inn had no issues managing service and books.

Bernadetta took a look at the mountain of work before her. She swallowed hard, summoned all her courage and asked him for a cup of tea as she got down to work.

The methodical sifting and sorting, the careful counting, the checking and rechecking and triple checking brought that desired sense of calmness to Bernadetta. And, as Raphael came back every so often to check on her, to refresh her tea or bring her a plate of biscuits—or even another glass of that dazzling berry wine—Bernadetta met him with an anxious smile that helped lessen her worries each time.

Soon, the mountain of work was halfway through and she found her eyelids getting heavy. “Miss Varley? Are you sure you’re not tired?”

Embarrassed, she nodded. “A-A little.“

“Then rest. There’s no reason to work so hard for nothing.”

She protested, But I want to for you.” 

This gave a long, pregnant pause between the two. Before she realized it, she was saying, “Secret’s out, I guess.” She murmured. “I like you… a-a lot Raphael.”

Raphael was silent for a long time before closing the open books before her and gave her a soft smile. “I appreciate the gesture, Miss Varley, but don’t you have a meeting with Duke Riegan and the princess of Brigid in the morning?”

Bernadetta felt her heart crash into her stomach. 

“You need your rest. You travelled today. Come on, let me escort you to your room.”

She held his gaze for a moment, then acquiesced. “I-I’ll come back tomorrow. I promise.”

He smiled. “I know you will.”

The two walked back up to the rented room. Exchanging a long look, Bernadetta quickly blushed. “I-I’ll see you tomorrow!” She squeaked, then hurried back inside her room before Raphael could say goodbye.

She hid her face in her palms and blushed hard. “Stupid Bernie, stupid Bernie,” she murmured as she prepared for bed and fell asleep with a smile on her face.

Despite the passing of five years, Petra had not changed a bit. At least in character and kindness. She was still industrious and sweet and definitely not someone to be trifled with. She exemplified this after the tea was taken and the sword was presented at her request.

“I am loving it!” Petra declared. She unsheathed the sabre, weighed it in her hand and almost cut the cravat off Duke Riegan. Her husband, a Faerghan from Gaspard territory, merely smiled and watched without alarm while everyone else was immediately scared.

“Easy with that your highness, it’s a weapon, not a staff.” Ashe joked as Petra began to move with the sword gracefully, as if she were dancing with it. 

The order was immediately made following the meeting. After Francois took the exact specifications and adjustments, Petra applied to him to take Bernadetta away. “We must have dinner together, I insist. We shall bring her home tomorrow.” Said Petra, and she further explained, “In Brigid, our gatherings last long into the night; I am wishing to give Miss Varley the Brigidian experience, for I am certain she will never be able to travel there.”

Francois left the decision up to his niece, and Bernadetta followed Petra back to the Riegan’s guesthouse for dinner with her husband, Ashe and her brother, Manu. They dined on traditional Brigidian cuisine and delicacies, which Ashe explained and likened to Fódlani foods that were familiar to Bernadetta. The three, as Manu cited the vast time difference from Enbarr to Derdriu and went to bed, retired to a very elegant sitting room, where Petra insisted they sit on the floor on cushions. 

“It is more comfortable like this.” Petra insisted.

Ashe agreed. “It sounds a little odd, I know, but trust me. I was the same way, and now I can’t imagine sitting on stiff furniture for so long.”

Bernadetta sat on the splayed cushions and Petra and Ashe drew close. Five years’ worth of history that the two had made spilled out to her. As well, Bernadetta learnt much of Brigid, of it’s political turmoil and slow reconciliation with the empire and the purpose of the swords. 

“They’re for the Order of the Blue Sun!” Ashe exclaimed happily, his cheeks red with the wine they’d drunk. He only partook in a single glass, but he was already a little inebriated. “They’re a brotherhood of knights that Petra has begun. 

Petra blushed and insisted it was a joint idea, and thus began a canoodling of such proportions that Bernadetta leaned ahead, grabbed the bottle of wine and poured herself a heady glass while Petra and Ashe brazenly flirted before her.

As she drank, Bernadetta could help but envy that sort of relationship. The openness of souls, their characters and certain compatibility. The happiness they’d found in each other. Perhaps marriage wasn’t all the terrible, dead-end that Bernadetta had imagined it to be? Maybe instead of a cage, it was an open sky with endless opportunities.

Maybe she’d been wrong this whole time?

And in the back of her mind, as she stumbled up to her apartments with her head swimming and collapsed into her bed, she couldn’t help thinking that would be something she wanted… If she were ever to marry. 

Despite the impending winter, an eternal spring blooms and blossoms grew before Bernadetta. The arboretum was prettier than Bernadetta had ever dreamed it would be, and she delighted at the sight of all the pretty flowers.

Petra and Ashe suggested they take the morning in it before Bernadetta returned to her uncle. Bernadetta had no qualms or reservations and after they breakfasted—nursing headaches and painfully laughing from memories made the night before—they travelled to the arboretum. It was located on Duke Riegan’s grounds, placed between the guesthouse and the edge of the property, where the sea ate at the stone walls. Manu, who Bernadetta learned was a knight like Ashe, stood on guard outside the doors while the three enjoyed the warmth and the plants. 

Bernadetta walked in silent reflection and admired the beautiful flowers while Petra and Ashe discussed both matters of the heart and business for sometime. Before she realized it, Petra had left to discuss something, supposedly with her brother, and Bernadetta and Ashe were alone.

She searched Ashe, looking at him for the first time proper without the flush of alcohol to take in his features. He was fair-faced and freckled, though his skin had tanned slightly from the Brigidian sun. His hair looked very silky and soft, and instead of the cropped, proper style of Fódlan men with sideburns, his hair was long, and along the part of his hair ran a braid similar to the ones that Petra wore in her hair. She searched absentmindedly for a wedding ring, something to tell her that she didn’t dream up wine on the cushions yesterday; soon she spotted  it, on his bare hand, out in the open like it’s nothing at all!

How can it be nothing at all? He’s a husband now. He’s married to a queen, a literal queen of an island nation and it’s nothing? Bernadetta thought anxiously. 

Bernadetta had no clue what to say to Ashe, and for a long time they sat in silence. Soon, his head turned, and along his neck, exactly where his cravat ended, exposed a half moon of dark blue ink in the space between his jawline and column of his neck. She realized, belatedly, that this mark was similar to Petra’s, which laid beneath her eye.

Did he get that to match hers? Bernadetta wondered.

Ashe turned, caught her gaze and as if knowing, answered her question. “It’s a marking to protect me.”

“P-Protect?” Bernadetta was taken aback.

He smiled. “Brigid is much different than Fódlan. There are no saints or goddess there, instead there are spirits. This mark is protect me from evil spirits.” He said. “You’ve noticed Petra’s, of course.”

Bernadetta hesitated. “Yes…” Then leapt forwards in apology. “I-I didn’t want to appear rude, though.”

“You should have asked her about it. Her country is her pride.”

Bernadetta felt guilty for a moment and then, seized his advice. “M-Mr Ubert—”

“It’s Macneary, actually.”

“M-Mr Macneary, may I speak plainly?”

“Of course.” He said softly. “Go ahead, Miss Varley.”

She wondered if it would matter if she was married now, if it would be plastered upon every door, in every ragged tabloid after the torrid—and apparently false—affair of the emperor and her minister of imperial affairs, right above the latest story about the second son of the former defense minister and daughter of the Duke Goneril found in yet another compromising position.

Bernadetta felt as though she was about to throw up. Ashe glanced her way, brows raised, and in his typical chivalrous way asked, “If it bothers you so, Miss Varley, don’t speak of it.”

“No!” Bernadetta squeaked before catching herself. She eased and repeated, “N-No, I’m okay.” 

The two sat in relative quiet for a moment as Bernadetta rebuilt her courage. She met his eyes and asked, “What do you think of marriage?”

Ashe’s brows rose. His gaze flickered to his hand, the ring unhidden and glinting in the scraps of sunlight that poked through the arboretum’s glass ceiling. “Well… It’s…” He paused, then admitted in a small voice. “I never thought I would marry.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “I thought I would devote myself to the Church.” There was no maliciousness or anger in his tone, nor was there disappointment. “Or become a knight. That was my dream. Typically, there isn’t a lot of free time in the career, and it hard to ascend into. I did not think it was fair to take a wife and not be able to dedicate myself to her.”

“Yet you are one?”

He smiled. “Because Petra insisted upon it.” He said. “It was her idea after learning about knights in Fódlan. She thought it would help declare Brigid’s independence from Adrestia. Equal respect, if you will.” He paused and smiled. “It’s… It’s quite funny actually, she told me she was going to make my dreams come true.”

Bernadetta watched as he busied himself with his hands. “She did. But not with the brotherhood.” He confessed quietly.

“You… Really love her.”

Ashe nodded.

“I don’t think a deeper love could have swept me away!” He laughed, lightening the mood. “Especially to another country!”

“You left everything behind for her…” Bernadetta murmured.

“My siblings came with me, actually. They’re very happily set up in Brigid.” He said. “But I would do it all over again.”

There was a long pause between the two of them. “Initially, when I thought about it seriously, I couldn’t imagine myself as a husband.” He confessed, “I entered the social season with no intentions of marrying and yet…”

“It happened.”

Ashe glanced around, looking as if anyone were about, then leaned close to Bernadetta. “Petra suggested it, that we get married, shortly after we met and decided we liked each other. Quite unexpectedly, I might add; just out of the blue one day.” He told her. “And I told her, ‘Petra, these things take time, a wedding is a lot of work. Marriage is a lot of work.’ She didn’t see it that way. She said, ‘it is only hard work if you make it hard work.’”

“What?” Bernadetta murmured, aghast.

“That’s what I said!” He laughed. “But what she meant is if you choose your partner wisely, if you truly love them it won’t be hard work.”

“But… What about failure?” She whispered.

“Failure?”

“Like what if you disappointed Petra? What if you upset her? You hurt her?

Ashe paused and his brow furrowed. Then he leaned close. “I don’t think I could let her down.” He said to Bernadetta. “Do you think you could let someone you loved down?”

I already have. She thought mournfully of Raphael. “N-Not intentionally.”

“I think you’re much too hard on yourself, Miss Varley.” Ashe confessed. “And I think we’re both a little alike.” He admitted softly, “If I could advise my former self, I’d tell him to let his heart come to his senses.”

They enjoyed the flowers and plant life for a while after and soaked up all the warmth that the arboretum could provide. After an hour lapsed, Petra and Ashe were engaged to be with Duke Riegan for the better part of the afternoon. Manu walked Bernadetta outside the estate ground and gave her the directions back to the inn. Then, partway through the walk, past street-sellers and performers in the street, she heard her name being called.

“Bernadetta? Bernadetta von Varley!”

It was Ferdinand. Bernadetta felt as if ghosts from five years before were following her. But instead of running away, she turned and walked towards Ferdinand.

He greeted her with a happy hello, expressed his surprise at seeing her in Derdriu of all places.

“I am here just picking up items for my family.” He said. “Derdriu has so many ports, one may get anything here!”

“T-They are all well? I hope?” Asked Bernadetta. “Y-Your family, I mean. All your brothers and sisters, I remember you had many… And your parents?”

Ferdinand paused. “Yes. Yes they are, I thank you.” He said. “And… Yours?”

“Very well.” Bernadetta lied.

The two stared at each other for a longer before Ferdinand sighed and admitted, “I have not spoken to them in years, actually.”

Bernadetta was taken aback, then confessed, “Neither have I.”

Ferdinand gave her an elated look, as if she were a kindred spirit. “Miss Varley, will you join me for a cup of tea?”

A pot of Almyran pine needle tea sat between the former lovers as Ferdinand regaled Bernadetta of five years’ absence and news.

His father, Ludwig von Aegir, had been accused of some particularly heinous acts regarding parliament and ruling and oh, just a conspiracy to take over the emperor’s throne. While the rest of the family had been eager to save their reputations and left Ludwig to the mercy of the new Marquis Vestra, Ferdinand had been stripped of purpose. House Aegir lost it’s claim to leadership and would no longer produce the prime ministers. 

Ferdinand himself hadn’t been in the best standing after burning the marriage document, to which he steadfastly owned to and took all the responsibility for. He told this to Bernadetta with noble pride, that he had not exposed her name or identity at all: and in turn, he’d gotten some very cruel lines from Grégoire von Varley in a letter. Ludwig hadn’t been much more inclined to speak with his son either, realizing the lucrative deal that had been lost due to his impudence. Yet, Ferdinand did not care nor pay those transgressions any mind: he ranked the happiness of a friend ahead of anything else.

Bernadetta learnt that he had taken some time in Faerghus to figure out what his purpose was and lived under the roof of Margrave and Margravine Gautier. While there, he was introduced to the margrave’s close friend and…

“Her name is Ingrid.” He confessed giddily. “I think you’d…” 

Realizing that he was speaking to his former betrothed, Ferdinand censored himself. 

Bernadetta shook her head and wanted, really wanted to hear about this woman. “I would like her, I’m sure of it, Mr Aegir. Y-You were always an excellent judge of character.”

He smiled brightly. “She is steadfast and noble and the finest of ladies. A bold rider, fine sportswoman and so genteel. Her only rival is you, Miss Varley.”

Bernadetta smiled at this. Ferdinand eyed the table nervously before replenishing her teacup. She pulled the dipper from the honeypot and swirled some into her tea.

“I… I assume you are still Miss Varley?”

She nodded and met his gaze. “S-Still just Bernadetta.”

“So… I assume he was not…”

“No. He wasn’t.” She said. “I’m sorry I put you through so much.”

“No, no it should be I who is apologizing. I was so ready to be married and take my place in society that I wasn’t… I didn’t realize what…”

They both sat in silence for a long moment. Then, Bernadetta said, “I never thanked you.”

“You did though,” he lowered his voice, “For the document, I was more than happy to—”

“I meant for something else. You taught me a lesson… About… Um… About love.” She said, colouring. “You… You helped me realize that I wanted… want to marry for love. That I won’t settle for anything else.”

Ferdinand stared at her. “Really?”

She nodded. “Yes.” She said. “It was truly a noble lesson you taught me.”

Ferdinand seemed pleased for a moment, then quickly turned the conversation back to her. She told him—the first person aside from Leonie to know—about the momentary engagement to Raphael, about the failed comeback into high society, her being disowned and taken in by her uncle. 

Ferdinand looked crushed and then said, “But you look… You seem… Altered.”

“You’re not the first person to use that word.” Bernadetta mused.

“No, I mean, you look… Brighter.” He explained. “There was a certain gloom that followed you when I knew you in Enbarr. You look happy now. Truly happy, though the gloom returns sometimes.”

Bernadetta gave a small smile. 

“Are you happy here?”

“A thousand times happier here than in Varley.” Bernadetta promised him.

“Then I would burn the contract a hundred times over.”

Conversation turned more topical. Ferdinand spoke of his wife, Ingrid, and Bernadetta learned that they had a little boy together. Ferdinand worked with Ingrid’s brother, the recently ascended count, in managing the affairs of her family’s land and found joy in his work. Bernadetta talked of the business which she conducted with her uncle and even of her own pursuits in writing which Ferdinand applauded.

Soon the tea was finished. Ferdinand insisted on seeing Bernadetta back to the inn. He too was in awe of how well-furnished and lovely it was. He would not enter for refreshment, and insisted he had to be back to his own lodgings to rest and depart back to Galatea County at dawn. They departed, promising to write to each other at their respective homes. 

Bernadetta ascended the stairs, entered her room with a renewed sense of clarity in what she desired, and was removing her bonnet just as her uncle appeared, bearing a letter on purple paper, addressed to Miss B. Varley.

Lorenz had been tending to the consequences of his own actions for a long time. 

First, and foremost, were his abominable behaviour and actions before, which he would never live down as long as he breathed. Next was using Ignatz Victor so unjustly in his schemes for a certain country girl’s hand—not to mention he proposal that he attempted—and botched—so spectacularly. Of course, mounting the list was how he first attempted to persuade Raphael out of proposing to Bernadetta, and later, how he pressured Raphael to leave Enbarr and return to Derdriu to get away from her.

But the worst, no doubt the worst, was what he did to poor Bernadetta von Varley. He had fed the poor girl to the wolves without any sympathy or remorse. He justified it in the moment, thinking she was playing with Raphael’s heart, blowing hot and cold like an Edmund wind and under the assumption that she was as good as engaged to Ferdinand, who had told Lorenz of his own intentions to take her hand in marriage.

But Leonie had made that all crystal-clear in her refusal of him. And yes while his remorse was still slightly self-centred, Lorenz genuinely mourned what he had brought unto Bernadetta.

Perhaps Lorenz’s punishment was his father dying so early and leaving him as the new Count Gloucester to sop up his father’s massive mess. His mother, Camellia, followed shortly after of acute dementia, though he had few tears to shed for her. And now, Lorenz wore his heavy conscience, with knowledge of all his shortcomings and terrible behaviour, as a crown upon his brow.

After reading all the letters that Maya had provided him, Lorenz knew that Raphael had been writing these five years to Bernadetta. He loved her still, as deeply as he did before, but with reserve for burned feelings, for the falsehoods that Lorenz assured him were the facts.

His desk was covered with Raphael’s letters like snow. Atop all the letters to Bernadetta, sat a prim, pressed new one from Maya Kirsten who commissioned this goose chase. She had almost completely recovered from her concussion. Another long letter, sent previously by Maya who heroically recounted how indispensable Bernadetta was, confirmed the inkling that Lorenz had all along: that he was very wrong in his judgments of Bernadetta. Not only had she loved Raphael, she also loved his sister just as much and as Leonie had suggested, was simply shy.

In short, he’d been the most incorrigible ass ever.

Gloucester, I no longer want to know who this mystery person is. The addressee doesn’t matter anymore. I want, more than anything, to call Miss Bernadetta von Varley my sister and I now ask for your help. Please help me to sway my brother, to show him that Bernadetta will make him the most sensible, kindest wife and partner ever, and that Raphael will make her the finest husband.

Lorenz stared at the letter, his eyes pouring over each character, the dots of ink where Maya’s hand had wavered in writing. Maya wanted this, more than anything, and she could have had it, if only had he not intervened five years before. 

Lorenz took another drink from his goblet, and the taste of bitter wine washed over his tongue. He sighed softly, feeling the guilt and knowing that the punishment would be terrible. Raphael would cease to speak to him, but if the Goddess willed it, it might bring the estranged lovers back together.

Chapter Text

Camellia Manor, Derdriu, Duchy of Riegan
2nd of the Wyvern Moon, Imperial Year 1187

Miss Varley,

I have heard word that you are in the Aquatic Capital on business. I too am visiting, though it is my sisters, Ladies Marguerite and Priscilla, for the end of the social events here in Leicester. I invite you to our residence—Camellia Manor—tomorrow afternoon for tea and an interview. I am…

Yours &c.,
His excellency,
Count L. H. Gloucester

Bernadetta stared at the letter for a long time. Though she had seen Lorenz Gloucester recently and her opinion of him adjusted slight due to his improved behaviour, she still chiefly thought of the night at the opera.

He had warned her to not hurt Raphael, and she had warned him too in his thinly-veiled pursuit of Leonie. A barely-polite, very dangerous warning not to fuck with each other’s dearest friends.

“Why now?” She whimpered, having just dealt with so much already. First Raphael, then balancing the books for his inn, Petra and Ashe showing her that marriage was not the death sentence she thought it was, and Ferdinand’s support of that fact. Was she to see every ghost of her past in the course of this weeklong business trip? She’d already been persuaded to go to the pump rooms twice by Duke Riegan and had little desire to see anyone else after all these interactions. She rubbed her temples and whined under her breath.

True, Bernadetta had connections to Gloucester. Mainly through the village of Sauin, though it had been years since she’d been back there; and, of course, Leonie. But outside that, Lorenz, who had assumed the role of Count Gloucester, had contacted Sir Francois several times for weapons and tools, which the Varleys produced in tandem with weapons, for there are only few differences between a lance and a pitchfork.

“It was probably too good to last.” She sighed, then immediately wondered if she could avoid the teatime by lying and saying she was laid up with a headache.

No. A voice inside her insisted; perhaps defiance or an overwhelming sense of wounded pride. If he wants to see you weak, he’ll have to try harder. Much harder.

And so, she heeded it. Bernadetta prepared a fresh sheet of paper, mended her pen and wrote the cockiest reply she’d ever make.

Kirsten Cottage Inn, Derdriu, Duchy of Riegan
2nd of the Wyvern Moon, Imperial Year 1187

Dear Count Gloucester,

It would bring me the greatest delight to join you for tea. My favourite is Albinean Berry Blend, and I do enjoy a sweet or two. It seems the least you could do for me, considering you will steal me from my work for an afternoon.

Yours &c.,
B. Varley

She called for the servant to send the letter and stood there, satisfied. 

“Gentleman caller?” Asked Francois as the maid left with her response.

“No, not a gentleman.” Bernadetta scoffed, and thinking of Leonie’s charming comparison that she’d made to Lorenz Gloucester said, “More like a rat.” 

The following day, Bernadetta found herself in the little nook-office of the inn’s backroom, hunched over a desk, making notations on how to run the business better. Once one idea came, so did another and another and soon it devolved into a harried mess of ideas and thoughts and theories.  

Her ears only propped up when she overheard, quite mistakenly, that a snowstorm was due north, towards the Duchy of Riegan, and would probably settle in Derdriu. In the coming days, the Aquatic Capital would be blanketed in snow.

This gave Bernadetta pause. She had lived in Faerghus for a while, intermittently pausing to go from here to there, but it was always in the southern climes during the cold winter months. In the summer, when it was less frigid and more bearable to her warm southern blood, they went north into Fhridiad. 

Edmund, in the time that Bernadetta had lived there, got a mild dusting of snow and the ground froze. It mostly got cold and rainy, given the closeness to the sea. There would be a decent amount of snow, but nothing that would close down the margraviate—barring the odd heavy storm in the dead of winter, of course. The ports would slow and trade with Sreng and Almyra would ease during these months.

Illyria, which was further north than Derdriu, would certainly be covered in snow, perhaps their first large one of the year. The cold, which would be made bitter by the sharpness of the winds blown in from Almyra would be the worst, but nothing Bernadetta could not hide from before the comfort of a strong fire and many blankets inside the guesthouse.

The trees were in the process of losing all their leaves and the colours of autumn began to quickly fade. In Enbarr—and Adrestia as a whole—the autumn months would drag on, and the leaves would remain, sometimes, until the late days of the Red Wolf moon. But in Leicester, further north than the ancient city, the forces of fall would come swiftly and leave nothing but shades of grey and scraggly, naked trees behind. 

In between bringing fresh sheets to a gentleman in room 23 and helping out in the stables, Raphael came to check on Bernadetta in the little office. “I’ll be back to hear your thoughts soon, promise!” He told her in a hurried tone. “If you need anything, just grab it, don’t worry about the tab! It’s on me!”

At this implore, Bernadetta did worry about the tab, as she was calculating his finances and knew he was toeing the line of retrenchment.

Bernadetta got up to stretch her legs and ease her tired back from being bent over the desk for most of the morning. She stopped by the kitchens, caught a server and asked—without stuttering or feeling too anxious—for cup of lavender tea with honey. As she waited, she overheard a visitor ask a server the directions to the Riegan arboretum, which they did not know. They were blank for a moment, pausing and blinking, and then admitted that they hadn’t the faintest idea.

Bernadetta cropped up. “I-It’s just past Hartfield Street.” She said. 

The visitor turned to her—and Bernadetta, proud of herself as she managed to remain calm and was clear—gave them the directions and wished them well. She stood there in silent reflection for a long moment, pleased and surprised with herself. It was actually quite easy to give the directions and speak someone she did not know—surprisingly easy.

Soon, she was served her tea and brought it back to the little nook office, still riding the wave of surprise and delight. She placed trust in herself and was not quick to judge her own actions, as she might have sometime before. 

Before her cup was drained, Raphael stopped by the nook office and took up the entire doorway. “Sorry that took so long. I’ll have to go back out there.” He sighed. “A couple workers who live outside the city didn’t show up today because of the storm.”

“So you are stuck, running around mad…”

“It comes with owning the place.” Raphael gave her an easy smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Have you had time to eat?” Bernadetta asked.

This gave Raphael pause and to their mutual surprise, he had not and both grew ravenous with hunger. Quickly, Bernadetta found out that lunch was a bubbling tureen of Daphnel stew, ordered two crocks and they sat, cramped in the little office and shared a meal together. 

“It needs cumin.” Said Bernadetta as she sipped the gravy-like broth. The chicken was tender and still juicy and the chef had used a special type of onion, small and potent in flavour and found only in Derdriu, instead of the traditional white ones. In addition, they’d used beans, boiled and crushed up to thicken the gravy, which added a velvety texture. “And maybe some red wine to give the broth body.” Then musing to herself said, “Or maybe white wine because of the white meats…”

Raphael stared at her. “You’re a cook too,  Miss Varley?”

She coloured. “Well I do keep my uncle’s house! Besides, the housekeeper isn’t always around.”

“We’d better get this paperwork over with so you can have time to cook.” Raphael caught himself and said, “I didn’t mean in my kitchen but…”

Bernadetta laughed. “No, no, I intend to have you and Miss Maya to the house soon so I can cook for you both.” Quietly, she added, “I’d… Actually like to cook for you both… I’d like it a lot.”

There was a heady silence as the two finished their crocks and then set them, with no better place, on the floor. Bernadetta launched into her findings. She was brief and precise. Her years working for Francois honed her into a fine businesswoman with a keen eye for the bottom line. And she was a natural problem-solver, though it did not seem that way at first.

“You’re not in the black, but it’s nothing too hard to bounce back from.” She explained to him after a long discussion of profit margins and what he charged for this and that and all his losses. “If you raise the prices slightly for the larger room, maybe add some surcharges for hot water or couriered services like mail or food taken in the rooms over the tavern, you can easily get to the black without sacrificing your employees’ wages.”

Raphael looked at her in disbelief. “Really?”

“Yes. Now, hot water might the best surcharge—people might get mad, especially given that we’re headed into winter… Or something like horse care. I noticed that you don’t charge for that.”

“We don’t.”

“But you do take care of the horses, right?”

Raphael nodded. “We feed and tend to them for as long as their owners are with us.” He said. “I’ve been thinking about hiring a stablemaster or someone to help with the livery.”

“Then start to charge. Consult the hands outside what they do towards caring for the horses and what they think it should be charged as.” She said. “Once you’ve bounced back, you can consult the idea of a stablemaster again.”

“That’s a good idea.”

Bernadetta blushed and looked down to her lap. “T-Thank you.” She quickly looked back up. “And open the tavern and dining room to people everywhere! The food is good—”

“—But the stew needs cumin.” Raphael joked. The two shared a quiet laugh. 

Bernadetta smiled. “The food is good, as I said, but advertise it, bring in the customers. Your location for the inn is great, there’s a theatre nearby and a park too, you could easily catch those customers.” She was on a roll now, adding, “And if you’ve got large parties dining, like um, eight or more, maybe even six depending on the night, add a surcharge to deal with the backup in the kitchen and the tables they’ll take up in the dining room. Oh! And events! Add specials and discounts, like for visitors from the Empire or Kingdom to boost the tourism during the social seasons… Or when there’s big events like balls or coronations!”

Her enthusiasm was infectious. Raphael wore a grin better than he wore his cravat and smiled. “You’re a genius, Bernadetta!”

The two went silent. Bernadetta blushed hard. Raphael coloured. “I’m sorry.” He smiled self-consciously. “I got a little ahead of myself.” 

Bernadetta shook her head. “So… so few people call me by my name I forgot what it sounded like.” She confessed. “I… I’m okay if you call me Bernadetta again… If… Only if you want to, of course!”

“Then you have to call me Raphael.” He insisted.

Bernadetta’s face burned bright red. At a loss for words, she smiled and nodded. They’d been referring to each other by their first names for a while, but to have it approved, to hear it made it all the more tender.

With the work done, Bernadetta found herself taken back to the front of the tavern, where Raphael offered her a cup of tea for refreshment. She politely declined, insisting that she would have to be off soon. She realized that she still had to dress for tea and looked rather plain in her undecorated purple dress and simple shawl. They parted with genial goodbyes, burning looks that wished to remain engaged for a moment longer and Bernadetta found her heart racing.

Francois asked Bernadetta what her plans were as she began to prepare for her engagement at Camellia Manor. Francois sat at the table, closest to the fire, consumed with writing letters of business, presumably to his brother, distributors and craftsmen or his clients. Bernadetta had recently set her hair in a chignon that was acceptable for teatime and would easily hide beneath her bonnet.

“Your face is red.” Francois noted, not looking up from his work.

Bernadetta’s hand flew to her cheek; sure enough it was warm to the touch. “I-I must have been sitting too close to the fire when I was dressing! Whoops! My mistake…” She said quickly and lamely. “G-Goodbye, Uncle.”

Francois looked up from his letter and turned his gaze to Bernadetta, taking in that she was dressed in the only fine gown she’d brought and had taken the pains to powder her face. She wore those yellow gloves that she often was not seen without and her reticule was upon her elbow. Bernadetta busied herself with fastening her coat, her fingers fumbling over the buttons. 

Francois waited a moment before asking Bernadetta the dreaded question. “Do you have an engagement this afternoon, niece?”

She secured her purple bonnet on her head, tied the ribbon and walked towards the door of their room to leave. “Yes, I do.” She said.

“Ah. Is it Mr Kirsten?”

Bernadetta froze and stopped moving, her fingers poised on the doorknob. “W-Why would I be going to tea with M-Mr Kirsten?”

“Well,” Francois said with a pleased sigh. “When I was returning from my evening stroll last night, I crossed paths with him. We spoke and he commended your talents in bookkeeping. He told me you helped manage his books.” He added, “And I conjecture that you’ve wrangled some rather troublesome numbers for him.”

She blushed again and cursed herself for it. “It was nothing!” She insisted in a high voice. “He was never good with mathematics.”

She paused the second the words left her mouth, wishing to suck them back in. Instead, Francois ignored them, or better yet, didn’t hear them. Instead—and worse—he looked up and smiled at his niece. 

“I’m certain it was not nothing to him. The man is earnest in everything he does. You helped him and he sought me out to tell me what a wonderful person you were. He said much about your fine qualities and accomplishments, but much more about your character and personality. He holds you in a very high regard.” 

She turned to look back at him. “R…Really?

Francois nodded then took up his pen again. “He is quite an amiable man.”

“The kindest and best of them.” Agreed Bernadetta quietly.

Don’t try and foster false hope, Bernie. You broke his heart and he’s too good for you, then and now. She thought lowly.

“So, where are you off to? If not tea with Mr Kirsten, is it with his sister?”

“Not unless she left her sickbed in Illyria…” Said Bernadetta.

“Miss Pinelli then?” Francois mused, “Perhaps she is up here for the hunt… I bet she’s a better shot than I ever was. My education included archery, but I am no bowman. She must be a fearsome creature now.”

“I wish...” Bernadetta murmured under her breath. “But I assure you, Uncle Francois, she’s a gentlewoman. I don’t think you’d recognize her.”

“No sticks in her hair and scabby knees?” He joked.

“No. Last time I saw her, she was wearing ladies’ gloves.”

“Goddess help her.” Francois’s brows raised. He stared for a long moment before murmuring, “How odd…”

“But it’s neither the Kirstens, nor Leonie. Count Gloucester invited me for tea.”

Francois raised a brow, as if to say ‘is he going to woo my niece?’

Bernadetta added, “I-I know it sounds odd but…” Her eyes fell on her old poetry book, the one she carried everywhere with her for comfort, which was left out on the table nearest the fire. “He shares my interest in poetry and wished to show me some of his personal volumes.”

“Ah yes, Gloucester the First was a great poet.”

Bernadetta forced a smile. “Y-Yes! Exactly. We’re discussing the poems of Gloucester the First.”

“Very well, as long as you’re not stealing a commission from me.” Francois cajoled.

A smile came naturally to her lips as she laughed. “Never from you, Uncle.” 

She quickly ensured that she did not look ill dressed or unprepared, grasped the doorknob and pushed the door open—

Right into Raphael Kirsten’s chest.

She stumbled back and he reached out to steady her. Her face was on fire with a blush so fierce she thought she was burning alive. Her eyes met his and she noticed then that he was blushing too. Francois caught this all with a bemused smirk.

“Bernadetta…”

“R-Raphael!”

The two regarded each other with the proper, albeit hurried and awkward, bow and curtsey and promptly spoke over each other until Raphael smiled earnestly and asked, “You first, I insist. You’re all dressed up! Are you going out?”

Bernadetta nodded. “Y-Yes. I’m going to… Um.” She paused then met his gaze with equal parts renewed anxiety and confidence. “Count Gloucester has called upon me.”

Raphael’s expression became confused, slightly taken aback. “Count Gloucester?”

She nodded. “His excellency, Count Lorenz Hellman Gloucester?”

“Oh.”

“I-Is there something wrong?” Bernadetta squeaked. 

“No!” He insisted, then gave her a warm smile. “No, of course not! I was just thinking about how your friend Miss Pinelli never did get along with him.”

“D-Did you think I would be the same way?”

Raphael sheepishly nodded. “Kinda foolish, huh?”

Bernadetta smiled at the floor. “No… I would’ve thought the same thing.”

“Well, I hope you have a good time at tea.” He said gingerly. “I really do. Count Gloucester may not look it, but he’s a nice guy. Beneath all the feathers and powder, of course.”

Bernadetta’s heart flip-flopped in her chest, and deep in her heart, she wondered if he was jealous; if he still held for her the same feelings she’d been carrying around for five years.

“T-Thank you.” She said as he bowed to her and began walking away. 

‘Maybe we could share a cup of tea after,’ she wished she’d called out after him. She stared blankly and her uncle wanted to ball up his letter, hurl it at her head and tell her to speak. But instead, he remained composed and swallowed his disappointment with his tea as she turned towards the stairs and went down to the tavern.

Camellia Manor reminded Bernadetta of Varley Maison back in Burgundy. Covered in gold and silk, cold and marble, and so open that it made her nervous. And cold. It was so cold. She hated that most about Varley Maison: a home, she thought, should always be warm and inviting. Perhaps it was why she was so comfortable at the inn, even in the private enclaves where the employees ruled.

The steward took her bonnet and coat before showing her the front halls of Camellia Manor. As they walked the dressy halls, the steward insisted that his master had been expecting her, and brought her to what they called the solarium: a room encased in glass and much hotter than the rest of the manor. Decorated in a style of class-over-comfort, the solarium was adorned with structured sofas and low tables with bells to ring for the servants on them and boards for cribbage and backgammon. All around were perfect spots to read until the sun or the words gave one a headache. The steward left Bernadetta in uncomfortable solitude as she slowly paced towards the western windows, anxiously playing with her yellow gloves. 

Outside the solarium and Camellia Manor stretched a small wood of tall birchbark trees that scraped the sky. Their leaves had all withered and fallen away, gracing the ground below. The sun broke through the clouds and scraggly tree limbs, and in the distance, along the flat landscape that was Derdriu, spread the grounds of Camellia Manor. 

Bernadetta could imagine it in the spring: hundreds of plump, flowering, thick camellias, the flower that the manor was named after—or what she supposed it was named after—stretching as far as she could see.

She stared for a long time, taken with the beauty of the views and the vastness of the Gloucesters’ estate before turning away and to the hearth. When she did, Bernadetta nearly jumped out of her skin at the sight of a woman sitting on the couch.

Marguerite Acacia Gloucester was lately married, barely twenty-three, and very beautiful. Her skin was marble, her eyes a catching shade of dark violet, and her manners sharp as her skills on the harp. She wore a collar of black, in mourning for her departed mother.

Marguerite rose as Bernadetta took notice of her, curtseyed and regarded her with a calculating gaze. “Miss Varley, it has been too long.”

Bernadetta blushed and forced a smile. “It h-has.” She said quietly, remembering that Marguerite had been on the marriage market around the same time as her. They’d dined in the same circles, had tea together a few times and knew each other some years ago. She recalled now that Lorenz had also mentioned his other sister, Priscilla, and wondered where she was hiding out, if she were to ambush Bernadetta too.

“You were a legend of our time. I often wondered what happened to you.” Marguerite mused. 

Bernadetta’s stomach brewed with anxiety. “I… I expanded my horizons.”

“With work?” There was a tone of distaste and dissatisfaction in Marguerite’s voice.

“Yes.” Bernadetta said. “My uncle needed assistance, first keeping his house, and now with his business. It has been… m-most enlightening.”

“I see.” Marguerite marvelled then smiled and said, “My brother will be along soon. Business to attend to with our baby sister. Tell me, do you still play the pianoforte?”

“I do.” Said Bernadetta, then remembering how ink-stained her fingers were beneath her gloves. She flushed and spoke again, “But I’m not—”

“We should play a duet!” Insisted Marguerite. “I will accept no refusal from the jewel of the Adrestian courts, for you were the most eligible debutante of our year.”

Bernadetta found herself unable to disagree or decline and was shown to the pianoforte. 

“‘The Wings of Kupala’ is suitable to you, yes?” Said Marguerite. 

Bernadetta acquiesced, despite not having played the instrument in many weeks. The last song she’d played on the pianoforte was a silly song she and Maya had made up to lift each other’s spirits. 

Bernadetta nodded, then eased against the bench of the pianoforte. As she was about to play, and preparing to remove her gloves and be ridiculed by Marguerite, Lorenz entered. The two ladies rose as his eyes fell upon Marguerite.

“Already attempting to get your way, sister?” He asked.

Marguerite forced a tinny laugh. “Miss Varley was more than willing! Besides, how else were we to entertain ourselves without you, brother?”

Bernadetta’s hands settled back into her lap, her eyes wide. Lorenz spoke: “Thank you for keeping Miss Varley company, sister, but I must speak to her alone. It is of great importance and not for any ears aside her own.”

Marguerite glanced to Bernadetta, then back to Lorenz. She rose from her harp, walked past Bernadetta with a sly smirk and murmured, “Perhaps I will gain another sister.”

Bernadetta’s heart beat in double-time at such a thought. She blushed hard at the prospect of this being a proposal. During her time in the social season and on the marriage market, Lorenz had falsely paid her attention, if only to spy on her as she assumed. 

And to be just, Bernadetta did not like him. If not for her own suspicions of his ruining her reputation or his previous temperament and arrogance, for Leonie’s sake. Leonie hated him with a passion that Bernadetta had never seen before. One that exuded a certain disgust that was reserved solely for himself. She’d never disclosed why, and Bernadetta never pushed, not once.

If this were a marriage proposal, Bernadetta would summon all of Leonie’s energy and answer in the way she would. She built up scenarios in her head: turn her tea into his lap, yell at him, storm away, throw something in the vague direction of his head.

But upon remembering his patronage to her and Francois, Bernadetta found conflicts in feeling so ill towards Lorenz. At Rosedale, he seemed genuinely altered, he had grown for the better.

And Bernadetta could not think of him and disregard how he had possibly saved Leonie’s advice by sending a doctor to her side. How could she hate him still? At best, Bernadetta could see him as the count who saved Leonie; at worst, she could suspect that he was the man who had ruined her life.

After a long moment of avoiding each other’s gazes, Lorenz finally looked at Bernadetta. There was a pause, in which an awkward sense of displeasure and duty grew between the two. It was broken by a servant who arrived with the tea cart. They stopped before the sofa and Bernadetta realized that the two had both risen and been standing awkwardly, staring at each other in the middle for the solarium for a long time.

“Albinean berry tea and sweet buns, as requested in your letter.” He stated as the lid was lifted by a gloved servant and sweet buns caught the light projected down by the sun’s gleam. They glistened brighter than ever and probably, with the Gloucesters’ connections and wealth, were better than any she’d ever had.

Her mouth watered as she took off her yellow gloves. “I see you took the pains to read it.”

“Of course. You were very kind to respond to me, and to come on such short notice.” Lorenz said. “Please sit.”

Bernadetta took the pains to not inhale the sweet buns immediately. The tea was served at the perfect temperature and the honey—which had been served with the comb still intact—was also fresh and gooey.

It was the perfect teatime, and it set Bernadetta on edge. She recalled all her etiquette training and sat so straight and erect that her back was unused to it and pleaded out for relief—she had spent too much of her time slouching over numbers and order details. 

“How are you, Miss Varley?” Lorenz asked after she’d sipped her tea. She noticed that Lorenz had not touched either the dish or the drink. Immediately, her mind began working against her.

No Bernie-Bear. She told herself. Control how you react. Stop thinking such silly things.

“I am well, thank you.” She said. “And yourself, your excellency?”

“Very well. Thank you for your kindest enquiry.”

There was another bout of uncomfortable silence before Lorenz asked, “If I recall, you… You are no longer associated with Count Grégoire von Varley, yes?”

“I am not.” She admitted. “I haven’t spoken to him in about five years now.”

“And… your mother? Brothers and sisters?”

“No.” She found these questions disturbing.

Lorenz sensed her discomfort and said, “If you permit me to speak freely, I will explain myself, Miss Varley.”

She nodded and he spoke:

“I wished to enquire if you were still connected to Grégoire von Varley, as he… has been accused of some particularly abhorrent dealings.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Bernadetta murmured.

“I must admit, and mark my words I will deny it if you speak of this again… But the news fails to surprise me too. He always seemed to be the worst creature alive.” He confessed. “I ask, for you seem increasingly altered since the last time I saw you at Rosedale. You are…” He paused and actually complimented her. “You are blooming with confidence and due pride.”

This took Bernadetta back. She paused, opened her mouth only to shut it promptly and then did this again. She looked at Lorenz and said: “You’re flattering me.”

“No. No, I insist I am not flattering.” He pressed. “You are… completely different than the person I knew some time ago.”

The tension surmounted and Lorenz finally said, in the heaviest of tones: “I am afraid, Miss Varley, in previously judging you so quickly that I have done you a terrible disservice and… and have been the source of your present situation.”

Bernadetta looked at him curiously. “I don’t follow where you stray, Mr… Count Gloucester.”

“Please give me your time, Miss Varley.” He begged quietly, entreating for her patience. “But you must prepare yourself… It… I, I did an abominable thing. Allow me to refresh your tea.”

A sinking feeling lingered between the two of them, and Bernadetta became acutely aware that the suspicion that had fuelled that hate-filled, tear-stained letter to Leonie was about to be confirmed. Lorenz picked up the pot, and just as he did, Bernadetta’s hand jutted out and rested over the lid. Lorenz observed her hand, took in the stains, the pressure point on her finger, her short, greying nails and followed the motion of her hand as they set it down.

“Occupation has made us both different.” She said. “But time makes many changes as well.”

“Yes. Yes, you are correct again, Miss Varley.”

Riding the wave of confidence, she asked: “So tell me the meaning of this. Now.”

Lorenz paled and acquiesced. He sat a little taller, a little straighter and said, “I received a commission from a dear friend not long ago. I will not discuss it for matters of pertinence and secrecy, however, it brought me to a long-overdue meditation concerning how I… How I played a role in your life in Imperial Year 1182.”

Bernadetta watched him with a stern gaze. “Go on.” She ordered.

Very quickly, Lorenz rose and paced the room. “Miss Varley, I… I was the source to which your clandestine attachment to our dearest Mr Kirsten was exposed.” He confessed. “I noticed you that night, at the opera very warmly regarding him. My assumption of your regards led me to misjudge your character and assume that you were… That you were… That you were playing with my friend’s heart for your own enjoyment.”

Bernadetta went still, unable to respond. She was aware and had an inkling for sometime that Lorenz was the source of her current situation, yet she was still shaken. Lorenz took this as a cue to continue. Her eyes filled with tears—fresh, full tears that had been absent for so long.

“That night, I called upon Count Varley, alerting him to what I thought an impertinent match. As such, he stepped in and forced you two apart…” He turned to face Bernadetta whose gaze was fixed on his in a silent anger and deep disappointment. “Miss Varley… The depth of my guilt and apologies cannot be expressed. I am forever sorry for my actions upon your life, your family, your happiness.” He stood straighter, taller, and with his head held high, said, “I am the source of all your losses.”

For a moment, Bernadetta was speechless. For years she had lived off the assumption that Lorenz had been the source of her woe, her present situation. But to have confirmation, to have the understanding and assurance that he indeed had been the source of her ruination, the cause of her unhappiness, the root of all the misfortunes that had befallen her in these past five years was something she couldn’t comprehend immediately. 

And it was something that she could not hold in any longer.

“You… You back-biter.” She spat out.

Lorenz’s brow knit together. “I beg your pardon?!”

“You rat! You addle pate! I wish you would hang in chains for the rest of your life!” She turned away from him, her face hot and temper aggravated. “What… What a shabbaroon… You…”

“Miss Varley,” He murmured, aghast.

“You thingumbob!”

Lorenz went pale at such an address. For modern readers, Bernadetta von Varley, of the esteemed and noble Varley line had just insulted his excellency, Count Lorenz Hellman Gloucester of the self-titled county and Leicester Alliance as such:

• An inconsiderate and foolish fellow,
• One who slanders another behind his back,
• A vile, desperate fellow, 
• A mean-spirited person,
• And, testicles. She called him a ballsack to his face.

Bernadetta, stood up to him and stared the esteemed Count Gloucester dead in his eyes, spoke her emotions thusly:

“I loved Raphael Kirsten. I still do.” She said firmly. “And to hear that you are the man who ruined my happiness, who foiled my hopes… To have a name and face to pin my grief to is little consolation.”

Lorenz remained silent. He only stared at her.

“Leonie was right about you.” She said. “You are a rat.”

At the mention of her dearest friend’s name, Lorenz’s lips twitched and fused together. Bernadetta searched her reticule for her handkerchief, sifting through her smelling salts, calling cards and meagre change. Lorenz offered his which she took regretfully and wiped at her eyes.

“I am.” He agreed. “I am all of those things you called me, Miss Varley. I do not deny them.”

Bernadetta sniffled and blew into his now-snotty handkerchief.

“And,” he said softly. “I will never apologize enough for my actions in the past. For as long as I live, I will regret what I have done to you.”

It took a long time for Bernadetta to collect herself. The truth, while heavy, felt both freeing and fleeting. There was joy in being correct, followed by immediate sadness for the loss, then anger at Lorenz for his judgements and actions and suddenly, crippling numbness as she realized that none of this could be undone: all these emotions came one after another in a relentless wave. 

She then looked at him Lorenz and digging deep into herself said: “I can’t forgive you.” She said. “Not now. Not yet.”

Lorenz looked up at her, wearing an expression of shock and incredulity. 

“I think,” she said, and really believing herself, continued, “that you thought that you were doing the best thing for Mr Kirsten. You were thinking of him, not me. And I can’t… I think…” She was firm now. “I would have done the same thing. If it were me, and if it were Leonie.”

Lorenz stared at her for a long time. Then, in a small voice, he confessed: “I would not hate you for that. It is the mark of a true friend.”

Bernadetta, eyes now dried and emotions somewhat-collected asked, “Have you…” She whispered, feeling herself grow exhausted from such an emotional conversation.

“Mr Kirsten does not know yet.” He said. “I thought you must know sooner, as your reputation suffered more than his.”

Bernadetta watched him for a long moment, her anger softened but still wanted more answers. “I feel that I’m owed more from you. More information. Tell me why. How? What do you gain from this? Why are you speaking now?”

“It has weighed on me for some time.”

“And you’ve had a sudden change of heart?”

Lorenz weighed his words and said with utmost care and caution, “My commission brought this reflection on. It reminded me of our interview at Rosedale where I first witnessed the change in you.” 

“What about this commission?” Bernadetta asked. “Tell me more.”

“I cannot tell you.” He said desperately. “If I could, I would, Miss Varley. Believe me, I would.”

Reflecting on everything in the past, she asked: “Am I right to assume the Kirstens’ removal from Enbarr was your doing too?”

“No, that is not true.” Lorenz said. “I pleaded with him to stay, but he would not. He and Miss Kirsten left for Leicester.”

“But I saw you… I saw you walking the grounds, you looked disheveled—” 

“Kirsten had intercepted a letter from our friend, Mr Victor. He is the parson at the church at Rosedale Estate; he’d written that my father had suddenly taken ill and the Kirstens changed course. They went to Edgaria, where they were most useful to my late parents and sisters.”

Bernadetta still grappled with everything, all of which she’d already known. She wanted to know why Lorenz had told her father, what methods of persuasion he used, but her head began to ache from the stress and tears she’d shed. 

After a long pause, Lorenz continued: “I felt… I feel the depths of my guilt everyday. Kirsten was miserable and so was I. He poured himself into making those inns and building them up. They kept him busy and working, and I conjecture, the full weight of his true unhappiness at bay.” His face was pale, the dark circles beneath his eyes showing. “After a rather embarrassing portrait of myself and character had been painted for me, I decided to make amends and correct the errors that had been made.

“I thought Raphael’s attachment was deeper than yours. And I thought you were using him for my connections and money. I fell prey to vicious rumours and trusted my half-formed judgements rather than being frank and open with you.” He said. “I fell to gossip and tittle-tattle. It was foolish and faulty.” He said her name so achingly, so softly. “Miss Varley, I am sorry and I will never cease to be.”

“I…” Bernadetta said quietly. Looking up at Lorenz, she saw the face of a man who knew he had done wrong, one who wished to make amends. Knitting her hands together. “I’m sorry Count Gloucester, but I don’t know if I can forgive you now.”

Lorenz bowed his head. “I understand wholeheartedly.” 

“I…” Her emotions caught up with her but she would not cry again, not in his presence. “I must go.”

“Yes, allow me to call the carriage for you, please. You should not walk in your state. I will not have it.”

Lorenz excused himself as Bernadetta stared at the unending glass ceilings of the solarium. She felt the glass walls enclosing in on her, like a songbird kept in a cage. The lavish wallpaper and the bright, rich purples of Camellia Manor strained her eyes. And when Lorenz returned, escorted her to the carriage and wished her well, Bernadetta could not find the tears to cry for a lost future. Instead, she found only an aching numbness that filled her completely.

After handing Bernadetta into the carriage, Lorenz turned back into Camellia Manor, right into his steward.

The old gentleman received his apologies with a subdued apology that he had caught Lorenz by surprise, then held out a letter to him. “Message for you, your excellency.”

“Thank you, Musgrove.” Lorenz said. He was deeply tired and aggravated by the conversation he had to have with Bernadetta. His true character had been peeled back and revealed, his cruelties and the blackness of his heart exposed for all the world to see.

He dreaded telling Raphael, but informing Bernadetta was much worse. Her sharp tongue had lashed him and he’d never been called such words before—at least to his face—but it was how quickly her anger cooled. She’d been practically burning one moment with hot tears, then ice-cold the next, staring at him with eyes of silent, entreating pleas to undo the last five years’ pain and suffering. 

He settled in his study, guaranteeing that he would not be bothered by Priscilla or goddess-forbid Marguerite. He pulled out the chair behind his desk and collapsed into it, rubbing his face for a long moment in still, exhausted reflection. His desk had been cleared of the letters that covered it a few days prior. They had all been returned to their envelopes, carefully bound and knotted with twine and set on the sideboard to be returned before Raphael realized they were gone. 

Lorenz did not know what to expect out of Raphael. He was already so busy with the inn, and had Lorenz not been steadfast in his convictions and lacked the guts and heart to follow through, would cite that, but Lorenz would not hold this any longer. He hoped, prayed and wished that Raphael would be as he always was: kind, giving and in all, the best of men.

After getting up and helping himself to the bar cart and pouring a finger’s worth of Sauin whiskey, he decided that there was no more cause to delay reading the letter. He had instantly recognized the handwriting and knew that it was Maya Kirsten, asking for another update in his commission.

Hazelvale Chateau, Illyria, Margraviate of Edmund
1st of the Wyvern Moon, Imperial Year 1187

Dear Count Gloucester,

Tell me you have an update. I’m running half mad here in Illyria. Everyone has left me, barring Ignatz, and my mind keeps falling prey to delightful dreams in which my brother and Miss Varley come to an understanding. He’d never listen to me, as much as he loves me, but whenever I attempted to discuss Miss Varley with him, his guard would be up and he would be unreachable to my persuasions.

He values you so deeply as a friend and guide. I need you to lead him, persuade him that he will be happy with her, should he open his heart to another.

My brother bears it all so well. He has for years, settling the family estate, figuring out how to bring me up right, providing for me, and now the business. Yet he never concerns me with it, he never wants me to worry. I need you to do this. I beg of you.

I send all my compliments and wishes for best health and happiness to your sisters and yourself. I am…

Your friend,
M. Kirsten

The pain and guilt that Lorenz knew well were once more made brand-new. He stared at the note for a long time, then glanced to the bound packages of Raphael’s letters to Bernadetta.

He knew Bernadetta’s character well now. She was of a nervous disposition, but moreover was considerate, kind and good-hearted. Her fickleness, her unease and nerves of five years ago, while not yet dead, had been nursed by merciful time and hard work. Lorenz had been wrong about her.

Lorenz sat there until an unspeakable hour, his whiskey long since finished and consumed with the task of all his mistakes. How could he tell Maya that he had been the source of her beloved brother’s unhappiness and her saviour’s ruin, and the mutual loss of five years’ happiness?

The carriage dropped Bernadetta at the inn just as dusk settled upon Derdriu. The cloudy sky had broken up—just long enough, for about a quarter of an hour—as the sun began it’s quick descent into the blue sea. The brilliant reds, vibrant oranges and soft pinks painted the Aquatic Capital in the shades of late autumn. The lampposts outside the inn were slowly being lit, and the sign that proudly read Kirsten Cottage Inn, 109 Norland Street, City of Derdriu was bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. Such a sunset made her disbelieving of the impending snowstorm which was soon to arrive.

The driver assisted her out, offered to convey her to the door which she declined. Instead, she stood and watched as the carriage was prepared to depart and peeled out of the little bend in the driveway. In short moments, it disappeared into the city, the wheels clacking long in her mind after it left her behind. 

She looked up at the inn differently. By assumption, this had been the first inn that Raphael had opened. The same property that he and Lorenz discussed all those years ago, the same reason he had quitted Enbarr. Bernadetta stared up at the painted-yellow shutters that burned orange with the fading sun and wondered if she could still look so fondly on this place knowing that Lorenz had been the one to finance it. He had built Raphael up and cut her down; he raised Raphael to distinction and wealth and been the source of her loss of connections and inheritance.

No. She thought. I probably still would have been ruined without him. I was not strong then, I might not have been able to run away with Raphael.

The inn now had a two-toned feeling to it. She still felt the intense sensations of warmth as she walked through the door and began towards the grand staircase that led upstairs. But there was small bite of bitterness that she could have been here much earlier if it had not been for Lorenz. 

Yet, it still felt like home to her, despite her staying there for scarcely two weeks.

Such conflicting feelings were odious to her. Bernadetta felt the dull effects of a headache that only worsened as she climbed the stairs. By the time she was at the door of her apartments, the dull pain had turned into a sharp sting behind her eyes. She scarcely was able to make it to the sofa, where she crashed into her embroidery hoop and almost pricked through her coat with the needle, and fell fast asleep.

Francois had been out with old school mates and friends from his youth who had come to Derdriu for the evening. He returned home to the inn, much later, only to find his niece passed out on the sofa, still in her coat and bonnet and gloves. When he called her name, she moaned and turned away.

“Is it your nerves, Bernadetta?” He asked with growing concern. His niece had always been of a delicate nature, but in the past few months she had not suffered a single attack of her nerves. In fact, she’d been quite happy over the summer. Francois worried that it was only a temporary blessing and that her previous anxieties and agitations had returned twofold.

Her voice was muffled by a decorative little pillow. “It’s my head.”

Francois accepted this and left her for a while to take tea down in the tavern and read. But when he returned an hour later, he found that Bernadetta remained same spot and in the same position. He was about to call for a doctor to let her blood but stopped short of summoning a servant when she rose, groggy and disoriented. With one look in Bernadetta’s grey eyes, he saw the pain she’d endured and quickly got up from his seat.

“I’ll call for the carriage. And get a lady to help you to pack.”

Soon their room was awash with hushed busyness, as Bernadetta’s headache not eased. Outside the air grew colder and the storm’s threat grew. The sky was grey and the carriage was double the price, given the impending inclement weather. Bernadetta was assisted into the carriage, her hand over her eyes to shield her vision from the glare of Derdriu. She was set up in the carriage, the shades drawn and a shawl over her face to entice her to sleep.

The first flakes of snow were beginning to fall and the wind was blowing harder. Their bags were loaded on the back of the carriage and the horses were tacked and bridled, ready for the haul back to Illyria.

Francois checked everything over twice and was just about to climb into the carriage and order them away, but gave pause when he saw the inn’s proprietor approach. Raphael was pulling a larger wagon, meant to be hitched to a horse all by himself, which was full of logs and lumber. 

Francois’s heart fluttered at this, he wouldn’t lie—while Raphael was much younger than he and not his type, he reminded Francois of one of the very fine stablehands who worked at Varley Maison in his youth that he fancied… Though Raphael lacked his fine hands and coy nature.

“Sir Francois!” Raphael called out, dropping the wagon’s arms with a thud. “What’s going on? Are you leaving?”

“Indeed we are, I apologize for the short notice, Mr Kirsten.” He said, then quickly added, “It is not on account of your accommodations, I assure you! In fact, I paid all three weeks of my intended stay in the inn, so you were not without the finances. My niece has taken ill and would be easier at home.”

Francois did not know what happened between Bernadetta and Raphael, though he suspected it went much deeper than a newfound-friendship in this past year. The concerned expression and sudden paleness on Raphael’s face confirmed this. “Is she okay? Can I do anything?” Raphael asked earnestly.

“She will be fine with some rest. The Derdriu air might not agree with her.”

“I see.” Raphael said with disappointment. “I hope she’s well soon. Give her my regards and wishes for her quick recovery.”

“I would be happy to!” Francois exclaimed. “I must confess that your inn is the finest I’ve stayed in, Mr Kirsten, and I have travelled a lot. I’ve not eaten better in years, but do not tell Bernadetta that. She’s a fine cook when the need presents itself.”

Raphael’s lips ghosted with a smile. “Yeah. I think so too.” He mused, quickly adding, “She gives the impression, I mean.”

The wind began to howl and both Francois and Raphael cringed against it. If ever there was a cue to leave, this was it. “I really am sorry to leave so soon, Mr Kirsten, but we must be off.” Francois insisted.

“Yes, yes, go.” Raphael said. “I hope you can come back soon when there’s no threat of snow!”

Francois smiled at this and climbed in the carriage and shut the door. He settled, and he carriage took off. He was shucking off his gloves as he noticed that Bernadetta had shifted from her original position. She had been facing the window that looked out onto the streets, but now she looked over at the inn. Her shawl had been moved as well, so that it did not cover her face so fully, and revealed a swatch of her cheek that glistened with fresh tear tracks.

“This was left behind, sir.”

Raphael glanced up from the desk in the little nook office. In the doorway, with her hand outstretched, was Mrs Harville, one of the few of his workers who had shown up despite the storm. He had been pouring over Bernadetta’s designs to improve the business and finances of the inns. She’d even written it out—in very plain, simple language—what he should do to improve the cash flow and profits. Even in business talk she was mesmerizing.

Raphael looked once, then twice and immediately recognized the plain brown cover of the pocket sonnets. It was Bernadetta’s. She must have left it behind by accident and he mourned to think of how distraught her nerves were without it. The book was a source of comfort to her; it was—if another hadn’t stolen her love in the five years that had made them strangers—her favourite book. Once, long ago, she’d confessed that she owned three copies of it, including the pocket sized version. 

“It was in the Varleys’ room. Frederick saw them leaving in a hurry.”

“Yes, they wanted to get out before the storm hit.”

Raphael took the book from Mrs Harville and thanked her. He stared at the book for a long moment, then preyed upon by long-standing emotions, opened the book and found her favourite poem and read it again. Though, it didn’t sound as sweet in his own voice.

The inn had been full of people in the morning, but now it was empty. Most of the guests had already cleared out. Earlier that day, the staff had all been running mad to try and help people check out and get on the road before the storm hit. Those who decided to remain in Derdriu, or were unlucky and could not pack up soon enough, had retired to their rooms for a long winter’s nap. After the rush, Raphael had gone to their nearest neighbours to drop off some extra firewood, as no one knew how long the storm would render the city frozen.

Raphael was entranced with the poetry book for a long while. He was no literary critic, nor was he a great reader, but he understood that the poems before him were works of fine art. He gotten a crock of some leftover Gautier Gratin Soup from the kitchen that was a little cold for his liking and took a seat closest to the hearth in the dining room. As he ate his supper with the ease and manners of a gentleman, Raphael read over the poems—there were not that many, and he knew most of them well thanks to Bernadetta’s kindness in lending it to him. Maya had transcribed a duplicate of them for his own perusal, which he kept by his bedside wherever he went.

The door slammed and Raphael was on his feet immediately. He spooned a last bit of soup into his mouth, spilling a little of the broth on his cravat and cussing beneath his breath, calling, “Be with you in a moment!”

Raphael grinned when he left the dining room and was greeted by Lorenz in the great hall. He was frosted with snow that was quickly melting in the heat of the inn. “Gloucester!” He exclaimed happily. “Did you walk?” Raphael gasped, immediately taking his coat from him. 

“The roads were not fit for the horses because of the ice. They could not salt or brine them soon enough.”

“That’s a pity.” Raphael murmured, batting the snow off his coat and giving him a hearty hug. “As much as I’m happy to see you, Lorenz, why are you here? Camellia Manor is much more comfortable than the inn.”

Lorenz recovered from the strong pat on his back that Raphael had graced him with. He straightened up, smiled and asked, “Need I a reason to come see what I helped create?” 

“No, but… there’s sort of a storm going on outside.” Raphael said, then lead him into the dining room where he had been taking his ease. Raphael got Lorenz a cup of brandy to warm him up and dragged another chair to his table. “Are your sisters okay without you?”

“Yes, yes, they’re fine. They have their employments and the full house and staff at their disposal. I do believe that they will enjoy the peace and quiet.” Lorenz said dismissively, before his voice took on an urgent tone. “I had to come see you.”

Raphael smiled with a note of incredulity. “Okay, why?”

Lorenz glanced at the table where Raphael had been sitting. His eyes absorbed the bowl of cold gratin and devoured the book that laid out before him. The front page bore in her careful script, Property of Miss B. Varley, Imperial Year 1180.

Then, Lorenz turned to Raphael and asked, “What do you think of asking Miss Varley to marry you?”

Chapter Text

Edmund virtually shut down due to the storm, and Illyria, with it’s coastal border, was hit hard. The snow that came down would not let up for anything in the world, and it was so thick and heavy that even the strongest of farmhands could not move it. The boats that had been docked were secured, the ports all shut up and barren. In the city, people stocked up on firewood and most homes were shuttered. The storm lasted two days with it’s relentless flakes and howling winds, but coupled with the cold that followed through, many people did not leave their homes for a week.

Bernadetta slept through most of the storm. The headache had plagued her turned into a fearsome migraine that would not let up. When she learned of Bernadetta’s condition, Marianne donned her heavy boots, her thickest coat and scarf and trudged to the guesthouse. What usually took only a few minutes at a leisurely pace almost became twenty long minutes, trekking through the snow and sludge left behind. Frosted with snow and half-frozen, Marianne was admitted into the guesthouse and entreated by Francois to sit before the fire and take her ease.

But Marianne insisted on seeing Bernadetta before anything else. She was led into her room, where the curtains were all tightly drawn to cast out the egregious glare of the sun on the fresh snow. The chamber was almost pitch-black and Bernadetta slept, face down in her bed, with a barrage of blankets pulled over her head.

When she did wake, Bernadetta would only complain of a headache that would not let up. She described it as a nagging, constant pain behind her eyes and a hammering in her head, as if a nail was being knocked into her skull, hard and constant. Marianne did all she could to make Bernadetta comfortable, but it wasn’t much more than a cup of chalky porridge with bitter herbs meant to ease the pain, a heady drink of water and leaving her to her sleep.

“How is she?” 

Marianne startled when she heard Francois’s voice. He had been poised outside Bernadetta’s door, waiting until Marianne emerged. Resting a hand over her heart, she settled herself and finally looked at Francois. His brow was knit together, and dark circles had  made a home beneath his eyes. His hair, mid-length and usually kept, was tied back, from his face and he was in desperate need of a clean shave. There was a concern in his countenance, a worried desperation that Marianne did not like. 

“She’s still in pain. I gave her some porridge mixed with healing herbs to hopefully ease her nerves, but sleep is the best remedy.” Marianne said.

Francois meditated on this for a long moment. Then, remembering his manners, offered Marianne to take tea. She declined and insisted that she was needed back at main house: the margrave was devising a plan on how to deal with the snow and deliver supplies to the needy in the meantime.

Marianne extended an invitation for Francois to come and dine with them if he wished to brave the snow. But steadfast Francois shook his head and said, “I cannot leave Bernadetta. She would not leave me if I were in her condition.” Softly, he mused, “This is not the first time she’s been like this… It reminds me of when she was a little girl, when I first took care of her. She was so…”

His voice trailed off and Marianne looked at him expectantly. Francois spoke again, this time firm and gentle. “I digress, but I must decline, Mrs Hevring. My old bones don’t like the snow much anymore.”

“And yet you’re a merchant. You brave all sorts of weather. It must be tiresome, so I cannot fault you for staying, especially with Bernadetta indisposed.”

Francois looked pensive for a moment. Then, forcing smiles to remain strong, Francois and Marianne made their adieus at the door: the lady to the problems of the margraviate, the gentleman to his niece’s sickbed.

The storm had rendered most of the roads unusable. Riegan and Edmund were so close and shared most of the main highways, which with the snow had frosted and ice had covered: travelling along it posed a threat to both horses and the carriages they pulled. In Derdriu—which was more southern than Edmund—the snow had been superseded by heavy rains, which with the cold temperatures, turned the city into an ice sheet.

Raphael hoped that Bernadetta and Francois had made it back to Illyria safe and evaded the worst of the storm. Most of the tenants who stayed in the inn had sought the comfort of each other and taken to the dining room where they engaged in conversation. Someone had even found an old lute left behind and began playing it to fill the air and calm the anxieties of those in the inn. 

Raphael himself had relegated himself to the tiny nook office, where he barely fit into the little chair used by his manager and Bernadetta,  and penned a letter. He realized, as soon as he signed his name—not R. Kirsten—that no messenger or postman could receive or carry it with the snow.

He both despised and was grateful for the storm. It allowed him to process and collect his thoughts, to distill the emotions brought on by the truth that Lorenz had brought with him last night.

Neither man slept very well. They retired to their beds at a very late hour and found each other in the early morning, both in search of coffee. Lorenz had spent the better part of the night explaining himself and, lowering himself to his noble knees, asked Raphael for his forgiveness.

“I thought I was protecting you.” He’d confessed to his friend and the embers of dying fire. “I convinced myself that it was to keep you safe, but I was being selfish and cruel. I am no friend, I have no right to call myself that. I am a liar, a fraud, and I—as I will be to Miss Varley—forever repenting my actions as long as I shall live.”

Raphael had not known what to say. For a while he wanted to snatch something heavy up and throw something and feared he would. Then there was unmistakable joy, a burning happiness that consumed Raphael all over as if a flame that had long since died was reignited. And at last, there was forgiveness.

Raphael lowered himself to Lorenz’s level. His hands rested on his friend’s shoulder and he said, “I forgive you, Lorenz.”

Lorenz had looked up in shock and began, for the first time in a long time, babbling and stumbling in his arguments. But Raphael, with that deep well of forgiveness and love that Lorenz sought to protect, hushed him with a hug. Raphael realized—and would admit this to Lorenz much later—that the period of five years made him realize that he had little inclinations to marry without love, and the distance and time had tempered that affection he felt for Bernadetta. It made him wiser, more tender and confirmed that she was the only person who could make him happy.

Soon, it was decided that they would leave the inn as soon as possible. Lorenz would send his steward to monitor the inn once they left and oversee it’s management until either the Derdriu manager returned or Raphael found a replacement. Lorenz was able to procure reports of the weather and state of the roads from people who braved the outdoors for food or other goods. Duke Riegan was doing his best to try and get the city back to a sense of normalcy, but it was not speedy.

Though Raphael had forgiven Lorenz, it wasn’t to say that spending four days stuck in an inn with one’s friend who ruined their happiness was comfortable. Lorenz had trouble holding Raphael’s gaze and was constantly directing his attention out the window, as if his eyes could melt the ice that trapped them inside.  

Lorenz was posted closest to the inn window and looking out at the sea of bright white for all the moments of awful tranquility and solitude the two endured together. He had been eager to help assist the tenants, and at meal times, donned an apron and served the foods to the guests who delighted at the Count Gloucester introducing plates of two-fish sauté and citing that it was his particular favourite. 

It was agony waiting for the ice that covered Derdriu to melt. But as soon as Lorenz’s steward had been able to leave Camellia Manor and arrive at the inn, Raphael and Lorenz were engaged to depart. They loaded into the carriage, almost slipping down the driveway and departed.

However, when they were barely out of Derdriu, Lorenz demanded that the carriage stop and return to Camellia Manor at once. Though Raphael asked for a reason for the delay, Lorenz did not answer immediately. Instead, he was red-faced and silent until the carriage stopped before the great manor. He leapt from the carriage as soon as the door opened, almost slipping on the gravel driveway. He disappeared into the house and emerged a few moments later with a bundle of letters that Raphael recognized after a long moment of study.

Lorenz yelled for the driver to go, settled in the carriage and met Raphael’s gaze. He sighed and all at once, Raphael knew why they had stopped. At the same time, both men uttered in a defeated and knowing sigh, the name of Miss Maya Kirsten.

Bernadetta had many regrets for all her actions before. If only she’d been more courageous; if only she’d been stronger, wiser, more trusting in her gut and heart. If only she’d been less modest and more… open. 

She had spent many years recounting these regrets in vivid detail, while travelling in Faerghus and Leicester and counting receipts and bills for her uncle. They followed Bernadetta like a shadow, and while ultimately they had changed her for the better and helped to shape her into the person she would become, she mourned what could have been: five years of the greatest felicity, gone because she was modest and too shy. 

If she had have known then what she did now—that Raphael would become independent, that Francois would support her, that she would not all alone, ruined and destitute—Bernadetta would have taken Raphael’s hand, turned away from her foul family and walked to the Gloucester Enbarr Great House for Lorenz’s aid. 

But she did not know about all the blessings she’d receive: instead, she only knew, at the time, that she would be destitute if she married Raphael. And so, Bernadetta would continue to mourn this loss until she died.

These regrets manifested in the form of a crippling headache that bled into a depression that relegated her once more to her room. Francois was kind and gentle and understanding, and above all, deeply concerned. He brought her water and tea and food instead of the housekeeper, and insisted that she tell him any wish she had.

This made her feel like a little girl again, snot-faced and sobbing at being deemed difficult and sent to live with him for a year. At the time, she missed her mother and father and siblings; though they did not return that love she so desperately craved, that comfort only they could provide as family. Francois, upon receiving her for that season, had not known what to do with her and so he brought her along on his adventures. Perhaps it was not the right thing to do with an anxious child, but it was what he did. And he indulged every wish, every whim she had during their year together when they both were younger.

Bernadetta wanted to push back time. She wanted to physically grab the hands of time and force them back to the moment in the garden at Varley Maison before her father had stepped in, where she had briefly been so happy and so miserable. She wanted to shake herself, to grab Raphael’s hand and drag him out before her father could arrive, she wanted to be quicker, more confident, stronger. 

But in someways—perhaps it was better this way—there was a purpose in losing five years. Like she thought before, she might not have been able to run away with Raphael. She lacked the sternness of character, the conviction in herself and the fragile confidence that loss and those years with her uncle would teach her so well.

Still, there was no guarantee that Raphael would return her feelings, nor reassurance that they could come to another understanding like before. In fact, it seemed increasingly unlikely that they would reunite as lovers, for second chances are rare.

These thoughts plagued poor Bernadetta and her only escape from them was sleep, which she plunged herself headfirst into.

It seemed every evil was intent on stopping Raphael. One of the horses slipped it’s shoe; the winds picked up and snow blew into the eyes of the driver and they almost crashed into trees several times; the carriage lost a wheel in the frozen muck that adorned the roads to Edmund. 

But Raphael was intent on getting to Illyria as soon as possible. In between Lorenz gripping the handles in the carriage in anxiety and his voice raising with nerves, he explained to Raphael how he came to this realization. Maya had found the letters that he had been writing to Bernadetta for the last five years and commissioned Lorenz to find the addressee. Lorenz had an inkling before he even began his search and it was confirmed before finishing the first package of letters.

Lorenz had been all apologies on the ride home but Raphael told him to keep them. All he cared about was seeing Bernadetta again. 

When the carriage lost it’s wheel, just outside the city he had called home for almost a year, Raphael hopped out of the carriage. Lorenz leapt out after him and the driver, barking concerns at his passengers, was given a hundred gold marks and told that someone would come to aid him soon.

Raphael turned back when he heard Lorenz’s footsteps. “You don’t have to come with me.”

“No.” Said Lorenz. “I insist, I must see this through. It is my duty.

“Lorenz.” Raphael said firmly. “You have to stay.”

The firmness and unyielding in Raphael’s tone caught Lorenz off guard. The count paused, studied his friend’s face for a moment in the howling wind and then acquiesced. He patted Raphael’s arm and wished him all the luck in the world and watched as his friend disappeared along the driveway, running as fast as he could against the ice and snow.

“There now.” Cooed Marianne gently.

With Marianne’s help, Bernadetta had managed to sit up and even dress in a loose-fitting house dress which she did not care much for. Given the cold, Bernadetta was wrapped with a shawl and Marianne took the pains to make sure they sat closest to a fire in Bernadetta’s room. Marianne had been happy to do it, for she knew all too well the terrible effects of depression.

With a little ice magic, Marianne had managed to whip up some peach sorbet to entice Bernadetta to eat, and soon was nourished enough to go down to the parlour. Francois had prepared the room, fixing the fire, ensuring there were plenty of comfortable cushions for them, and all the delights and entertainments that two ladies of their station would enjoy. He held back his excitement at seeing Bernadetta leave her room at last, almost a half a week since they returned from Derdriu.

Marianne had enticed Bernadetta to play cribbage, her favourite, and which Bernadetta still bested her. Conversation was light and never veered towards Derdriu or the missing members of their beloved party in the summer.

Bernadetta was thankful for Marianne’s kindness and sensitivity. She saw her uncle lingering by the sitting room door in anxiety,  eager to ensure she was well. Bernadetta paid him no mind, knowing that he would insist he was only passing by to stretch his legs in between reading something or doing something else.

After pacing outside for a time to assuage his own nerves, Francois finally entered the room and sat down with the ladies. As Marianne did, he did not mention their friends or Derdriu or anything that could upset Bernadetta. Instead, he would glance up from the book about botany that he picked up from the side table and remark on a good play made by either lady.

Bernadetta’s eyes wandered: Marianne, bless her heart, had never been a good cribbage player and was no match for Bernadetta. She stared, blankly, until she noticed something down the path of their home—someone trekking through the snow. 

I thought it was too thick. Bernadetta mused and recalled how it took Marianne some time to come from Edgeriver to the guesthouse. Then, Bernadetta stood up uncertainly and gazed out the window, her eyes growing wider with every passing second.

Marianne murmured her name; Francois asked if she was alright. Bernadetta did not answer and instead ran out of the room. As she left, her companions followed her into the hallway where the housekeeper was letting in Raphael and Lorenz. 

They should be back in Derdriu. Bernadetta thought. Why aren’t they back in Derdriu? Why are they here—

Bernadetta stared at Raphael for a long moment, her heart leaping into her throat. Uselessly, the housekeeper introduced the gentlemen as she took their coats. “A Mr Kirsten and Count Gloucester for you, ma’am.” 

There was a long moment of awkward silence as Bernadetta and Raphael regarded each other anxiously. Both were in a state of disarray and dishevelment. Bernadetta was pale and colourless and Raphael’s face was red from the cold, his clothes soaked. She bore the signs of illness and he was frosted with the remnants of the snow.

Immediately, Marianne was on her feet and speaking to Francois, shepherding him out of earshot. “Sir Francois, might I speak to you in your study? I-I just remembered that my adoptive father was discussing something the pertained to your business. Another order of shovels, yes, for the future winter…”

Francois blinked twice, garbled a, ‘oh, yes indeed yes,’ and their footfalls echoed through the guesthouse. 

Bernadetta went so painfully still: she felt as if she moved a muscle that she would shatter into a million, irreparable pieces. Raphael was no better, the once bright and lively man had lost all his spirit and stood, still as a statue in the doorway, staring at her. 

Lorenz rested a hand on Raphael’s shoulder, as if bringing him back to the moment and then reached out for Bernadetta’s hand which she gave willingly. In a small voice, Lorenz said, “I have robbed you both of five years of happiness, for which I will ever regret.” 

Into Bernadetta’s hand, he placed a small bundle of papers, tied with twine. Beseechingly, he said, “Pray, do not waste anymore time.”

Bernadetta stared at the weighty papers in her hand, then looked back to Raphael with a heart even more his own.

Lorenz gently pushed Raphael towards the drawing room. Bernadetta suggested, in a low voice, that they take a moment of privacy by the fire where he could warm himself. Raphael consented, and soon the door was shut and the two were alone at last.

The room was so quiet and still that shutting of the door was so loud in comparison. Bernadetta felt a million emotions at once: fear and confidence, anger and joy, despair and hope.

They found the chairs and table before the fireplace, ignoring the half-finished cribbage; Bernadetta had leagues over Marianne already. Raphael and Bernadetta enjoyed the warmth for a moment, both sitting on the edge of their seats. After a pause, they both began in unison, and talked over each other several times before Bernadetta asked, the packet of letters now in her lap, “Are these… A-Are these for me?”

Raphael nodded slowly. Then, daring to lean closer to her, outstretched his hand with two items. The first, her small book of poetry that she must have left at the inn, and crumpled letter, addressed to Miss B. V.

“But this one is… Um, it’s more recent.” He said.

Bernadetta’s trembling hand reached out to take the letter. She almost broke the little wax seal, but instead let it fall to the floor. She looked at Raphael, her heart thundering loudly, and asked, “Raphael, have your feelings changed?”

“T-That letter um… it tells—”

“I am asking you.” She managed to force out. There was a great pause as she struggled to ask: “Do you still love me?”

He did not hesitate. His lips parted and he said in the calmest, most assured of tones, “I do. I still love you.”

Bernadetta felt her breath hitch. The room was tilting, the floorboards beneath her feet coming undone as he spoke these words to her.

Sentiments of five years ago—all those tender feelings that she had thought long died—had returned in a thrill of limitless joy. Those old flowers of attachment had been hardy and survived, thrived even. Suddenly, her entire being became lighter. A weight was pulled off her shoulders, the ache in her heart finally medicated, a longing quelled at last. 

“But it doesn’t have to be more than that!” Insisted Raphael politely. He started towards her in earnest pleas. “I know that… Your feelings aren’t like mine anymore and that’s fine! I am just happy, overjoyed really, that we’re friends again, can we stay that way?”

Bernadetta stared blankly at him.

“Bernadetta? Hello?”

He loved her. The last five years were spent in agony, heartbroken and sick and certain he hated her; but his feelings had not changed, his feelings had not soured. Instead, it sounded as if they’d warmed, further intensifying with the passage of time. As if the bloom of youth had not been the only thing drawing him to her, but one of many. She thought then about all his past compliments to her that she thought excessive and made out of pity: her talents in mathematics and bookkeeping, her evenness of penmanship, her music, her singing voice, her paintings and her tone as she read poetry aloud again.

Her words jumbled into one, her heart tumbling into her stomach. She was launched back into the behaviours and emotions of five years ago. “Youloveme?”

“I’m… Sorry, I didn’t hear that.” 

“You love me.” Bernadetta said slower.

He held her gaze and slowly nodded, his countenance focused on her and flushed.

“And these letters were all to me. Five years of letters, for me?”

He nodded again, more sheepish and reserved.

She stood up, paced for a moment, as if weighing this knowledge, then broke into most inappropriate laughter. Raucous, obnoxious, heaving belly laughs that sent her reeling back into the chaise and slowly deflated into broken sobs for breath. Raphael rose and approached with alarm. He hesitated, then gingerly rested a hand upon her shoulder. She looked up at him, teary-eyed and snotty and positively unladylike, a complete mess of a gentlewoman, he gingerly smiled at her with the care and deep affection of a lover. 

“Bernadetta, it’s okay. You don’t have to love me back.” Raphael assured her. 

“I am trying to tell you that…” She said between laughing sobs that melted into achy, frustrating hiccups. “That I love you too!”

Raphael stared at her.

“I’ve loved you for these last five years! I loved you when we were momentarily engaged, and I never stopped loving you!”

Raphael looked puzzled and sat down beside her on the chaise. “But our engagement… Mr Aegir…”

“I was forced into a marriage contract! I never said yes! I never wanted to break it off, and I did! My father tried to force me into it, and threatened me with your life!” Cried out Bernadetta. “Hurting you was the worst thing I have ever done and I have never been able to forgive myself for it!”

“You… You did it to protect me?”

“It was the only way. I could barely live with myself.”

“Bernie…” He breathed her name so softly and Bernadetta almost melted on the spot. It had been too long since she’d heard it said by him. Such emotion washed over her like a tidal wave.

“Raph…” She responded quietly and he looked as if she’d restored all happiness to him by saying his name.

Their eyes locked as if seeing each other for the first time again. Bernadetta’s hands found his, and hard callouses and soft ink intertwined tenderly. She sat up, adopting her erect, ladylike posture, and Raphael leaned lower, closer to accommodate his large size. There was hesitation and assurance, relief and pain, joy and longing before contact and their lips met with a besotted first kiss, five years in the making.

A minute felt like an hour, and time passed both quickly as grains of sand and slowly and sweetly as molasses. In his embrace, Bernadetta felt revived, she felt strong, as if she was at last roused from a decades-long slumber and finally awake again. 

She melted into his broad chest momentarily before Raphael sat back against the chaise, holding her most warmly. He began to move away, and in an attack of panic, Bernadetta clambered after him. Raphael lowered himself to his knees before her and Bernadetta’s eyes flooded with emotion and anxiety.

“Bernadetta, please.” He said gingerly. “My heart is more your own than when you almost broke it five years ago. Will you marry me?”

With happy tears in her eyes, Bernadetta nodded. “I will… I will!” She promised over and over as he quickly rose and swept the lady into his arms and kissed her again. 

Owing to his propriety as a nobleman, Lorenz had departed and managed to make it to Hazelvale Chateau without freezing or sliding on hidden ice. Maya was astonished to see him and immediately called the maid to bring tea and ensure the fire was mended when she saw how disheveled he was.

Lorenz found Maya alone; Ignatz had departed to ensure that the storm, which was due south, would not injure his property at the parsonage. She was delighted, albeit slightly confused by Lorenz’s appearance, but quickly realized why he had come on the fringes of a snowstorm.

“You know who is.” Maya breathed as the servant left with Lorenz’s hat and coat. “The mystery addressee. You’ve found them at last.”

Lorenz nodded. “Indeed I have.”

“Well then! Who is it?” Maya jumped on him, then wrestled with herself. “Although I’d much prefer to hear that you’ve convinced my brother in marrying Miss Varley. Oh, but I need to know. Tell me Gloucester, tell me!”

He took Maya’s hand, gently patted it in a warm, brotherly way and said, “Maya, I believe I might make you the happiest of girls in a short moment.” He said. “But first, tea.”

As the joy of the moment eased and the two returned to themselves—though smiling more than they usually did—Bernadetta proclaimed: “I… I think this is a good match, for many reasons, actually.”

“Which are?” Asked Raphael earnestly. They had moved to sit beside each other on the sofa. Raphael held her hands with the gentlest touch.

“You need someone to handle the finances.” Bernadetta said pointedly. “For the inns.”

“I do.”

“And that will be me.” She said. “Though I may go away to help my uncle from time to time…”

“I will support you in anything you do.” He said tenderly touching her cheek. “You’re amazing, Bernie.”

Bernadetta smiled and felt her eyes well up from overwhelming felicity, and felt that she was happier than she ever deserved to be.

They discussed, at length, the events and miscommunications of five years ago. She had not been engaged and he had not been spiteful; inconstancy and trueness of heart were not to blame, but only the judgements of a man attempting protect his friend, who was now endeavouring to make amends. They agreed, with two hearts once more tied together, that they would find it in themselves to forgive Lorenz for his actions someday.

They talked leisurely and openly about this whole engagement, with little reserve and the most emotion. And, by the end of the interview, came to a proper understanding at which Raphael went to Francois’s study to make his addresses. 

Bernadetta found herself collapsing in a heap of joy and exhaustion. She sat, smiling before the fire for a long time, musing and wondering how it was—if it was—possible to be so happy. Soon, Raphael returned and insisted he had to leave and ensure Maya was alright. They parted, embracing tightly and happier than they had both been in years. 

Bernadetta was not alone for long. Soon, Francois returned to the drawing room with a mischievous look in his eyes. Now, and only now, he would tease his dear niece. 

He took a seat beside her on the chaise, and after enquiring after her mood and health, asked, “Whatever could make you so happy, Bernadetta?”

She fought a smile and said, “You know full-well why I’m smiling, Uncle.” Though, her heart stumbled at the thought of Francois not giving his blessing.

“Indeed I do.” Francois said. “And I’m certain you’re aware that Mr Kirsten made his addresses to me, and that he’s asked for your hand.”

Bernadetta bit back a smile hand clawed back her joy as she realized that it meant she would be leaving her beloved uncle. The same man who had come to her aid when she was disowned and provided her with a home, career, friends, education, light and love for the last five years. Her heart ached at the thought of leaving him alone. “I am aware of that, sir.”

“Then, you must also be aware that I gave my heartiest consent.” 

Fresh tears pricked at Bernadetta’s eyes and she rushed her uncle in a warm embrace. He held her tightly and whispered, “I would not part with you if I had the slightest clue you weren’t happy, Bernadetta.”

“Thank you, Uncle.” She managed through her happy tears. Quickly, she snapped back and asked, “But what about you? What about Hazelvale? Or here? You’ll have no one to keep it.”

“It is not the first time I have been alone, nor will it be the last.” Francois smiled genially, took Bernadetta’s hand and laid it upon his arm. “I think, given how I now have the whip hand over Mr Kirsten, that I might see if old Hazelvale suffices for another inn.” 

Bernadetta’s heart soared at the possibility of returning to the home she’d loved so. “I’m sure he’ll approve it.”

“I think he will have much to contend with if he refuses…” Playfully, Francois added, “I hear Brigid is lovely this time of year. Or perhaps I could visit Valentin Pinelli and finally beat him at backgammon, I swear he cheats… But I do know what I will do first.”

“And that is?”

“Write my letter of resignation to Grégoire.” Francois said with a pleased smile.

Fancying herself recovered, Bernadetta called at Hazelvale early the next day. Raphael received her with the bloom of youth and beauty all around her. They regarded each other before Lorenz emerged from the drawing room and met Bernadetta’s eyes. She felt the lingering desire to call him a thingumbob again, but stopped herself.

He regarded them, took in their blushes and happy expressions and said, “I presume that it is all settled then?”

The lovers looked at each other with warm regards and a happy promise. “Yes.” Bernadetta agreed. 

“It is.” Echoed Raphael.

Lorenz smiled at this, and it was not with the hidden daggers of betrayal—instead, he was genuinely happy for their engagement. He swiftly bowed. “Then I must go. I have left Camellia too long. My sisters are probably bored to tears.” He explained. “But I insist upon your presence at Rosedale in Edgaria, to celebrate your union. Perhaps when the new year comes and spring is anew.” He looked to Bernadetta. “Miss Varley, perhaps you can see old friends again?”

Bernadetta immediately thought of Leonie, back in Sauin. If her geography was not that skewed and lovesickness hadn’t warped her head, Rosedale was not too far from Leonie’s village. She could see Leonie again, for the first time in ages. Such an idea made Bernadetta smile. “That would be lovely.” She agreed. “I would look forwards to it.”

Raphael realized that he had neglected one important person, “I’ve got to tell Maya, as soon as I can. She talked all through dinner about the storm, I couldn’t get a word in. I’ll go fetch her.” Raphael said, leaving Lorenz with Bernadetta. 

As Lorenz donned his hat and gloved himself, Bernadetta leapt ahead, saying: “I don’t… You’ve changed, Gloucester.” She remarked.

When his eyes met hers, Bernadetta continued, “I-I mean… You confessed to me, then to Raphael. You braved a snowstorm to come here and make it right. And now you want us at Rosedale.” She shook her head. “I mean, your offer is kindly accepted and welcome, but… Why?”

Lorenz quietly remarked, “The delicate art of persuasion, which I have long since mastered, was made clear to me. My powers in it, I mean.”

“By someone of particular interest.” Bernadetta supplied and Lorenz was taken aback by her bluntness. She blushed a little. “I… I think I know who it is.”

He coloured and cleared his throat. “My warning from years ago still stands,” Bernadetta said, squaring up to Lorenz. “if you hurt Leonie, you’ll answer to me.”

Lorenz regarded her with respect and impression, “As does mine. If you hurt Raphael, I will come for you.”

“I-I’d sooner hurt myself than him.” She promised him.

Count Gloucester softly chuckled and turned to the door.

“But… Your excellency,” Bernadetta said. “If… If you showed her this side of you… She’d…”

Lorenz regarded her with a kind nod. “It is frightening to show off the vulnerable sides of myself.” He confessed. “Forgive me.”

Bernadetta hurried up beside him, impulsively took his hand and squeezed it. “I know it is.” She leaned close and promised him, “But the payoff is rewarding.”

Before the flurry of what occurred next, Bernadetta thought about writing Leonie, defending Lorenz, pushing for his good name in her mind.

Leonie. She thought anxiously of her dear friend. She did not know her felicity yet; completely ignorant to the happy realization.

Bernadetta had penned a very angry letter to Leonie regarding her suspicions following her ruination. There was no doubt regarding Leonie’s stance on Lorenz: she hated him. And yet, he had been the one to bring Raphael and Bernadetta back together.

She thought, pondered and meditated on what she could do for him. If she should write in defence of Lorenz.

No. Bernadetta abandoned the idea. Leonie won’t listen. She’ll think I was put up to it.

Leonie would find out in time and draw her own conclusions: Bernadetta would not wield powers of persuasion over Leonie. 

She understood why Marianne had kept her own engagement from her now. She too worried that Leonie would see her differently and feel the spikes of betrayal that injured her so. And that Lorenz’s involvement would sour Leonie’s opinion of her.

Maya and Raphael soon appeared and Bernadetta’s thoughts about Lorenz and Leonie left her. Maya was adamant on taking tea in the drawing room. They sat, all anxious, all aware of what was to come. The servant prepared the tea and they all sat comfortably—with Bernadetta in the chair closest to the window—and prepared for the ecstasy to fall upon them all.

“Maya,” said Raphael as she looked between the two with an excited gaze. “Miss Varley and I—”

Bernadetta interrupted him. “Maya.” She said urgently and looked to Raphael to continue. 

He nodded and let her speak; Bernadetta drew a breath and rising, moved closer to Maya. She sat beside her upon the chaise. “I have a question, a wish actually, that only you can grant.”

Maya stared at Bernadetta intently. “What is it, Miss Varley?” There was subdued excitement in her voice, the echoes of impending happiness. 

“I wish to take your brother’s hand in marriage. I know that he has said that you must approve of his spouse. I’m sorry, but he has expressed a desire to wed me, he has made his addresses to my uncle, Francois, and I think, only being right, that you approve.” She said, her tone lively and buoyant. “If you do not give your consent, I’ll leave him in peace, but I will forever regret him.”

The two looked at Maya as she gathered herself, forming the face and smile of a true lady and said, “Bernadetta, you have my approval.”

There was a momentary pause, the hope of peace. Quickly it was shattered and Maya, no longer able to restrain herself, erupted in a squeal, launched herself towards Bernadetta and embraced her tightly. “I told you! I told you we’d become the best of friends and look now, we’ll be sisters!”

Sisters.

Bernadetta relished the word as she embraced Maya happily, laughing to keep away the tears. She would have a sister more close and kind to her than her own blood. Her family—save Francois—would soon fade to unhappy memories of before. A troublemaking sister and a loving husband would form the foundation of her new family, and perhaps in short years, they would welcome children. She would have a ménage of her choosing, her endless happiness, who would respect and love her as she’d always deserved.

Change was upon Bernadetta—and it frightened her—but at the same time, she welcomed it. She would finally be with Raphael, as a happy consequence of many years parted. The past, while it did concern them, did not matter, for the future would be hers. His. Theirs. 

Soon, the winter arrived in Illyria with more snow than the margraviate had ever seen. The cold months were spent happily playing music and dining at Hazelvale and Edgeriver and delighting in each other’s company. Bernadetta and Raphael, were most often seen reading the little book of Saint Indech’s poetry together, or playing cribbage and backgammon, which Raphael became exceedingly good at thanks to the many games and tips his fiancée graced him with.

Soon, words burst out of Bernadetta’s imagination and forced her hands to move faster than she could write. At last, the book she had been writing for years was finished. And the day after she bound the manuscript with twine, she received a letter asking about it.

Rosedale Estate, Edgaria, County of Gloucester 
22nd of the Lone Moon, Imperial Year 1187

Dear Miss Varley, 

In the anticipation of the new year, I wish you much joy and good fortune. We here are Camellia Manor are preparing for the annual new year ball, which my youngest sister, Priscilla will give. Following the ball, I will return to Edgaria, alone.

My invitation to you still stands and I renew it now: come to Rosedale with our beloved Kirsten and celebrate your engagement proper. Gloucester is beautiful this time of year and the foods are divine. Your noble palate would surely appreciate it.

I write not only with the good wishes and invitation, but my own selfish questions. Pardon my rude asking—as your fiancé advised me in his latest letter—but you are a writer are you not? Surely you are, with your imagination and temperament and hands—your hands are meant for writing. I am a lover of books and poetry and all in between. Pray tell me it’s name. If you have the intent to publish, I can help you find someone—of course not mentioning any names for delicacy and your disposition—to expose your genius to the world.

May the goddess smile upon you. 

With warmest regards,
L.H. Gloucester

Bernadetta shared this letter with Raphael who sheepishly admitted that he did mention her writing, as she emerged from her room one day with a stiff back and complaining of her hands aching and completely blackened from the ink. (She’d written almost thirty pages that day, a new record.)

After a short discussion, Bernadetta and Raphael found no reasons to further delay the invitation. Francois offered to stay behind with Maya who was seeking the benefit of an art master to improve her natural talents. It all became settled, they would go. She responded to Lorenz.

Hazelvale Chateau, Illyria, Margraviate of Edmund
26th of the Lone Moon, Imperial Year 1187

Dear Mr Count Gloucester,

After discussing it with my fiancé, we have come to the conclusion that we will join you at Rosedale on the week of the 14th of the Great Tree moon. Rest assured that Maya will be cared for; my uncle, Francois, will remain behind with her so she may continue her studies. You—as I know you appreciate all art—will be amazed with her progress, she has quite improved. She wishes to set up a gallery… Perhaps your generous heart could make that happen. But you did not hear it from me!

And, to answer your enquiry, yes, I am a writer. I have long thought about publishing but was laughed off once and haven’t fully recovered yet. My words need the eyes of a honed editor, and you, being a lover of the written word, might be that person. Schedule permitting, of course. Do not feel pressured to look at my manuscript.

It’s name is The Elliots, but I’m also quite taken with the name Persuasion.

Sincerely,
B. Varley

Chapter Text

Verona was beautiful.

It was just as Raphael described it. Big, clear skies and wonderful food and kind people. The townspeople had so much to give, so much to be thankful for, and a grace and gratefulness followed everyone. Spring had arrived, a promise of a new year, a new life, and Bernadetta found herself with so much to be grateful for.

Owing to his recurring travels and visits to Verona on the way to Derdriu, Raphael was recognized by many of the people there. Bernadetta wasn’t the most comfortable talking to people she’d never met before, but with Raphael by her side, she felt at ease. She felt like she was at home. 

This feeling of home had been following her for a long time… Bernadetta traced it back to that first night in Derdriu at the inn. And in truth, though it would be year until Bernadetta would admit it, it grew stronger when she was around Raphael.

He took her to see the old mansion where he had been born, where he grew up and eventually had to sell at the tender age of 15 when his parents died. It had been abandoned and boarded up, but it was no match for Raphael, who took down the boards with strong grip and a swift pull.

Raphael took her through the house, her hand held delicately in his, and Bernadetta followed with a cautious step and curious eyes. It was empty, everything sold and cleared for retrenchment, but it remained as the sites of his childhood where his history had been written. And he talked about his parents for the first time—not just in passing or telling her that they were gone—and he painted a vivid portrait of Sir Mayer and Lady Ruth of House Kirsten. 

“They would have loved you.” He told her as they settled in the abandoned garden, which was growing over with hops and ivy and moss. Raphael set down a hamper of snacks while Bernadetta fanned out a picnic blanket and unpacked the food she’d made for their day trip. In the days following their courtship, she learned to cook heavily to appease her fiancé’s relentless appetite. He even helped her in the kitchen, peeling potatoes, wrapping up food, lifting the heavy items that she could not manage, and she would duck swiftly out of his way. 

They sat beneath an old maple tree that Mayer had once fitted with a swing for Raphael and Maya. It was all long gone. Soon, Bernadetta arranged herself against Raphael’s chest—she’d grown bolder since their visit to Rosedale. But, being shielded by the tall grasses of the garden, and the distance from the rest of Verona, gave her a little more confidence.

“Really?” Bernadetta asked. “You think so?”

“I’m sure they would have.” He said. “It’s hard not to like you.”

Bernadetta blushed at his comment and said quietly, “I wish I could have known them. They must have been amazing people, if they raised a son like you.”

They ate and with their bellies full, soon settled into a dreamy afternoon state of sleepiness. Raphael’s arm wrapped around Bernadetta, protectively holding her close. Bernadetta delighted in the feeling of such love, such tenderness that she almost began to tear up again.

She blinked rapidly and looked up at the beautiful home behind her. In a tiny voice, she marvelled, “It’s a beautiful old home.”

“Yeah. It’s a shame it’s abandoned.” He said. “The previous owners, after us I mean, had to flee after some bad financial choices.”

Bernadetta paused, and quickly said, “And Illyria’s so cold.”

“Yes it is.”

“And Hazelvale’s being improved to become the new inn.”

“Which might take awhile, right?”

“Yes, I’ve been tracking it’s progress. It is slow going.” Bernadetta said, before adding, “And Edgeriver is full with my uncle and Maya and then you and I and the Hevrings and the Margrave…”

Raphael looked at her and asked in an astonished and touched tone, “You want to buy the house?”

She looked up at it and said, “I think I could swing it into the finances. I thought we’d start bringing in entertainment to the inns, like a travelling library for a short stint or musical groups. Boost the revenue. I’m sure Margravine Gautier could put in a good word to her old opera company to come up here.” Her eyes took in the old stones that built up the abandoned house, the warmth that exuded from it and said, “This is the only place I think I could call home.”

She stopped, murmured ‘silly Bernie,’ under her breath, which had replaced the ‘stupid Bernies’ that peppered her dialogue with herself after a long conversation with Raphael. Smilingly, Bernadetta confessed, “Only place I could call home is beside you… But this house is a good second choice.”

Raphael grinned. 

“And it’s close to Derdriu, so we can get to the inn there quickly if needed, as it’s the most needy right now. And Gloucester is close, as is Duke Riegan…”

Raphael took her hand in his and sat up, effectively moving her as well. Raphael pressed her hand and asked excitedly, “You really like it? Pokey hallways and all?”

Bernadetta nodded, her eyes filling with happy tears. “Though my favourite is the creaky woodwork.”

Raphael smiled and pulled her close. Bernadetta melted in his embrace and murmured, “I finally feel at home.”

Following the engagement of his niece, Francois abandoned his business and severed all contact with his brother, Grégoire. Owing to his new situation and lack of an accountant, Francois had taken a hefty commission from his brother and built a savings account with plenty enough to comfortably live off of for the rest of his days. But whenever he was strapped for cash, he found work as Bernadetta’s book agent, where her work was in constant demand. 

As he watched his party of young friends slowly leaving Illyria, Margrave Elliot von Edmund entreated Francois to stay with him at Edgeriver. Francois could not resist and moved his belongings from the guesthouse and into Edgeriver Hall proper. It was said that they maintained the closest of friendships and were constantly in each other’s company until the bitter end.

After Elliot’s retirement, Marianne and Linhardt inherited the margraviate of Edmund, making their chief business the reintroduction of white magic to society. Linhardt was deeply interested in researching it and studied in Ordelia for a long period of time. In his absence, Marianne assumed the role of leader and did much good across the land. When Linhardt returned, with many new books in tow, he pressed for Marianne to open a school for magicians. Marianne could never refuse him, and together the two formulated a strong business plan to present to the Roundtable of the Great Lords, and it was unanimously funded. Though their relationship was odd by many standards of society, Marianne and Linhardt were stated to be the most devoted to each other; it was said that only their love for their son surpassed their devotion to each other. 

After a few years of torturing himself, and with Bernadetta and Raphael’s gracious absolution, Lorenz finally forgave himself for his actions. He grew to be the just, rightful and devoted ruler of Gloucester County… Though his wife was cited as the better of the two. But you are already aware of that story, dear reader.

The Varleys ended up virtually penniless. Without Francois to smooth things over and no sense of self-control, Grégoire ended up bleeding the family’s funds dry. In Imperial Year 1190, an uprising occurred in Burgundy, in which Varley Maison was damaged. The family fled to Enbarr where they found that they had no credit left with anyone. Before he was investigated by Marquis Hubert von Vestra, Grégoire learned of Bernadetta’s prosperous engagement and attempted to welcome her back into the family in hopes of garnering her good favour and wealth. These entreaties were ignored by both her and her very muscular husband. 

Grégoire ended up being found guilty of theft from the imperial house of Emperor Edelgard and the Church of Seiros’s treasury, amongst other crimes. Subsequently, he was placed under imperial arrest and died in custody. Grégoire and Bernadetta never made amends, and she was certain there was no way to, given the state of their relationship.

As for her mother and siblings, they all fared much better than Grégoire. Bernadetta’s mother, Elodie, found work in the government, which she ended up enjoying deeply. She attempted, after some time, to make amends with Bernadetta which was slow-going. Her favourite siblings, Emmanuel and Heloïse, were mostly spared from the damage Grégoire had incurred. Emmanuel and his family were given patronage by Count Gloucester and Heloïse became a governess in her aunt’s home in Rusalka which she enjoyed.

Louis was left to pick up the pieces in Burgundy, which put much strains on his family. He came to bear the sins of his father and the men before him, and slowly, began the process of reconciliation. Francois, the younger, fled to Faerghus and was never heard from again, while Colette charmed and married a gentleman of decent worth, thus securing herself a good life.

The swords that the Queen of Brigid commissioned arrived just in time for the knighting ceremony and commencement of the Order of the Blue Sun into royal service. Petra and Ashe were renowned as the finest leaders of Brigid, and their romance was captured in poetry, song, dance and the blue waves which they both loved. It is said that Petra commissioned a fountain at the exact spot in Enbarr where they met, and the waters run clearest there. To this day, the fountain is still active and bears a golden placard that reads: For the Blue Sun’s First Knight.

Dorothea delighted in welcoming Bernadetta back into her life. In the time apart, Dorothea had become an important political figure in Gautier territory. Bernadetta visited Gautier territory, in the time between her engagement and wedding, where the two ladies deepened their friendship. Bernadetta was able to see Dorothea perform on the stage that Sylvain had made for her from her own private box. In her later years, Dorothea became so inspired with Bernadetta’s stories that she adapted them into operas, most which took Faerghus and other territories, by storm. 

Edelgard succeeded and became emperor. She did not marry, though it was stated that she kept very close connections with both Marquis Vestra and Duke Riegan. During her time as emperor, she brought about many changes, including the removal of hereditary titles and power, and was venerated as the flame emperor for the daring red robes she always wore at court.

Indisposed but not powerless, Ferdinand found a new people to serve in Faerghus. As mentioned in the five years parted, Ferdinand met and married Ingrid Galatea, a very esteemed beauty of Galatea County. Their mutual love for horses brought them together, and it was widely believed that they met at a horse track race of all places. Their mutual senses of nobility, justice and knightly devotion tempered a deep admiration and respect for each other. Ingrid and Ferdinand assisted in the rehabilitation of the famine-struck Galatea territory and served her eldest brother, the count. When he passed the title was onto Ingrid, Ferdinand served her and his people with the fervency, kindness and love of a true gentleman.

Maya Kirsten went on not to marry… at least immediately. Instead, she set out on her own and sought the benefit of an art master in Derdriu, perfecting her craft. Her dear friend, Ignatz Victor, and her sister-in-law Bernadetta both found themselves surpassed in short years by Maya’s skill with brush. In the prime of her youth, while other women were focusing on marriage and children, she was setting up Leicester’s first public art gallery, with the help of Ignatz and patronage of Lorenz Gloucester. Art became her love and her life, and she found a particular interest in Brigidian landscapes and art. She disappeared for a short while and returned later as princess consort of the island nation, having married Manu Macneary, the brother of the Queen of Brigid, Petra.

The Kirsten Cottage Inn, with the spotting of Count Gloucester serving food during the infamous snowstorm of 1187, flourished. With many visits from esteemed dignitaries, a kind host and well-educated accountant and many glowing reviews about the fine food, Raphael Kirsten found himself rebuilding House Kirsten. The inns popped up in all of the major cities of Leicester and did so well that they expanded into the east of Faerghus and southeast of Adrestia. The inns were renowned for it’s food, supposedly crafted by the proprietors and documented in a rather large and secret cookbook that to this day still hasn’t been found.

Raphael was offered the baronetcy that died with his father but declined it. It was said that while he enjoyed the ease and comforts of his home in Verona, where he and Bernadetta settled, he loved the chaos and jovial nature of his inns all the more. Yet—and he would say this until the day he died—he loved the embrace of his darling wife best.

As for Bernadetta, she delighted in the role of an innkeeper’s wife, and quickly, as a co-proprietor of the inn. Marriage, as she had feared for a long time, was not a cage in which she found herself entrapped in: instead, she found herself feeling free for the first time in her life. 

The constant bustle of going from inn to inn, balancing books, managing funds and making decisions came naturally to her. The years she spent with Raphael honed her confidence and made her an outgoing and authoritative individual. But as much as she loved working, she deeply loved her privacy and pursuits in art and writing and music, formerly touted as her accomplishments. 

Her writing, arguably, became the biggest pursuit. While the inns were wildly successful, Bernadetta’s writing was so beloved by Fódlan that they were scarcely ever out of print. Perhaps it was born out of her deep love for Saint Indech’s poems or her overactive imagination, regardless, her writing charmed thousands. While her comedies of manners made her famous, she dabbled in everything under the sun, even famously binding a book of her own fairytales inspired by Saint Cichol for a dear friend’s children, which is now kept as a rare archive in Garreg Mach University’s library.

And as for Bernadetta and Raphael… Well, what else can be said of their happiness? There were no two hearts so open, so complementary, so well-matched for one another, than theirs. The lively, warm, jovial Raphael Kirsten, and easily-frightened, gloomy, thoughtful Bernadetta von Varley seemed born to the fantastical fate of finding each other, against miles of land that separated them, the years that made them strangers and the classes that shifted and swayed them into nouveau riche and nouveau pauvre. While they certainly would have been happy had they not been separated in 1182, those five years tempered their affections, taught them patience and made those gentle feelings which they held for each other all the more tender. Raphael became calmer and gentler with time; Bernadetta wiser and more confident in those parted years. In their later years, they came to the agreement that those years apart, while painful, would not be traded for the world.

Marigold slipped past through garden in her newest frock, the scraggly brushes pulling her wavy purple hair from her twin tails. 

Behind her, somewhere far-off, she heard the old housekeeper call her name to come be primped before their illustrious guests arrived. It was surprising, even to her at the young age of six, how quiet she could be when the situation called for her to be. 

Her slippers already bore verdant stains from the bleeding green blades beneath her feet. And her hair, now free of the plaits and ribbons, fell in a messy, coarse heap. She looked positively primeval and knew she would be chastised if she was caught, but Marigold could not resist, not when she was about to see it.

She ran as fast as she could, hurrying along the shrubbery where the rudbeckias and violets began to bloom with the approach of spring, and across the expansive green of the grounds towards the little shed, hidden beneath a canopy of heavy maple trees. It was a plain blue structure, with a single window located on the roof of all places and an old wooden barn  door that had to be pushed open. 

As soon as the little shed came into view, Marigold slowed and crept as quietly as possible. She could already hear voices. 

The first was her father: always so bouncy and jolly and bright, but now it was tender and careful. “Will you read me some more? Like old times?” 

There was a pause, and then the sound of her reserved, gentle and doting mother: “Of course.” 

Chairs scraped across the floor inside as if the two were getting comfortable. In the cacophony of sounds, neither noticed as Marigold pulled the door open a little more and hunkered down beside it on her knees. The window in the ceiling—a skylight—was the only source of light, aside from a lantern that was positioned on the desk to provide her mother with better visibility while doing her “secret work” as she called it.

The two sat before a work desk, piled high with paper. Marigold loved this sight: her parents working together, silently, as if two gears so intimately connected and unstoppable when together. She had caught sight of this once in the drawing room when she woke from a bad dream and needed the comfort that only a parent could supply. Her parents sat on the floor like children, poised before the coffee table. Her father measured, folded and cut long sheets of paper for her mother, who wrote almost endlessly and then handed the finished sheets back to be powdered and set by him in order. All the while, they spoke in soft, gentle voices, saying words like “Oh Lizzy would never do that,”, “Darcy sounds too proud…”, and “But how can I prove their devotion?”

And little Marigold was taken with how gently they spoke their own names, their given ones which Marigold thought were so pretty—Bernadetta and Raphael—as if they were a profound secret, shared only between the two of them. Yes, of course they said their names in public which apparently was odd according to her Auntie Dorothea, but there was always the preface of ‘honey’ or ‘dearest’ as if to soften the blow. In public they were Mr and Mrs Kirsten, proprietors of a chain of esteemed inns and hotels, but in the private of this shed they were Raphael and Bernadetta.

Marigold adored that scene and whenever she saw her father walking across the property with the worn wicker basket filled with cheese, and bread for sustenance and maybe a little wine for inspiration, Marigold would follow just to catch a glimpse.

“I do like Jane. She’s… what’s the word… Reserved, I guess?” Her father waffled on his words often, and wasn’t as articulate as her mother. “So quiet, so resigned to everything. It’s sad, but I’m rooting for her whenever you tell me about her…”

“Lizzy needs a foil. Someone who looks better than her.” She said. “But don’t worry, Jane will end up happy.”

“I can’t wait until you read it to me. Fully.” Then he said, with excitement in his voice, “Maybe we could sell it? Like in our inns?”

Her mother’s strong tone became aghast and shaken. “I-I could never!”

“Really Bernie?” 

“M-Maybe if my name wasn’t attached…” 

“I think it should be though! Everyone deserves to know that you’re the person who made up Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth. And the Dashwood Sisters! Remember the review Dorothea sent from that Faerghan paper?” He asked. 

“‘I am never too tired for Sense and Sensibility… And once more, the novelist who brought us the timeless story of Wentworth and Anne shows love in it’s purest form: sisterly.’” There was a momentary pause, as if she was smiling at the memory; then the shuffling of papers, and, “But there’s no presses available… I… Already checked.”

“Gloucester has a lot of friends, I’m sure he could track someone down with an empty press.” Her father said. “Besides, you already wrote that big book of fairytales for Leonie and Lorenz’s children.”

“That was bound by me! I did not have to send it off to some unknown printer… It’s different… Strangers would see my work. See my name on it.”

“And I’m sure they’d love it!”

Marigold watched as her mother’s hands slipped around her father’s arm and she embraced him with a blush on her face and a smile on her lips, despite her vehement refusal. 

“We shall see.” Her mother said. 

“Oh c’mon Bernie…”

“Do you want to talk about publishing or shall we read, like you wanted?”

“You know how to give the runaround.” He sighed. “Besides, you we can say it’s for your confidence training!”

Her mother blushed. “I have been shirking…” She thought aloud as she gathered the papers. “Where did we…”

“Chapter seven. You got three paragraphs in before Jas got fussy.”

“Oh right.” She got up, and Marigold shrunk back so her mother wouldn’t see her. Her mother looked through her locked box, the same one she kept on the high shelf that Marigold could not reach. She pulled it down, fished out the chapter, unknotted the twine and sat down beside him amongst the piles of paper and words. Her parents sat, cuddled as closely as they could be on two old, comfortable chairs, with his arm wrapped around her.

“Right there.” He pointed out the spot where they dropped off. In the comfort of his arms, the warmth of his smile, her mother found her voice and read these words of her manuscript: 

“There could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no countenances so beloved. Now they were as strangers; nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted. It was a perpetual estrangement.”

Marigold could not comprehend the solemnity or pain of these words; nor would she realize until much later that her mother was writing about something she knew all too well. Her parents would later hope that their bright Marigold never would experience such pain when she first bloomed and became apparent to the agonies of love.

This would become the love she’d strive for. Like her mother, only the deepest love would ever sway her into matrimony. 

“Goldie! What are you doing there?”

Marigold jumped and startled, then turned around to see her Aunt Leonie, her mother’s best friend. She was a tall woman, freckled and firm and always ready to tell Marigold about her mother when she was young. Pinned above her heart, right on the lapel of the smart walking coat that she’d stolen from her husband, was a purple rose, one she was scarcely seen without. And just like her mother, Marigold adored Aunt Leonie. 

Leonie was halfway across the lawn, with her own brood of children—some who looked like her, some who looked like Uncle Lorenz, and others who didn’t look like either of them but bickered just like a Gloucester would—following after her. Uncle Lorenz followed behind the brood, with her little brother Jasper in his arms. They reminded Marigold of a herd of geese and their goslings that her Aunt Marianne had shown her once when they visited her home in Edmund territory. Marigold spotted Piper amongst them, who was little older than her and was deeply admired by Marigold. She hoped that they would play pirates in the garden during the visit.

Marigold smiled and broke into a run, practically leaping into Aunt Leonie’s arms and laughing. “I missed you Auntie!”

“So have I!” She said, then leaned to her, most conspiratorially, and asked, “What are you doing now, tell your Auntie,” and then tickled her sides and said, “Otherwise I’ll have to throw you in the river!”

“But there’s no river here!” Screeched Marigold in delight. “And you know I can’t swim!”

“Then I’ll have no choice but to steal you away! That will teach you!” 

“You’ll do no such thing.” Uncle Lorenz told his wife. “We’ve enough children. Plenty to fill the halls of Rosedale and deprive it of it’s peace…” Glancing at Marigold, with a look of playfulness in his eyes, he added, “Besides, she lacks the Pinelli spirit.”

Aunt Leonie rolled her eyes at her husband and then touched Jasper on his small nose. “I think she’s got chops. There’s nothing saying she cannot learn to be one of us.” She said. “There’s promise there. She’s like her father in that respect.”

Marigold leaned close again and said delightedly, “Mama and Papa are in the shed reading. I saw them!”

“Did you follow them?” Leonie asked. 

Marigold felt a bit of shame. She knew she shouldn’t have done that, but she couldn’t help herself. She nodded and Aunt Leonie only winked in that way that said, ‘you know better, so I won’t lecture you, kid.’ 

Instead she sunk to Marigold’s level, ruffled her hair and said, “How about you go let them know that we’re here? I know your father hates to leave people waiting. And tell your mother that I want to know what happens to Lizzy next. Charlotte just accepted Mr Collins’s proposal.”

Marigold nodded and turned to run to the shed. Then, realizing she had not addressed her uncle, swiftly turned back and darted into his leg, hugging him tightly. He always doted upon little Marigold, bringing her the finest books from a faraway place called Edgaria and sheet music for her to someday learn. 

“I missed you too, Uncle Lorenz!” She exclaimed into his pant leg then broke away quickly to run to the shed. 

She went on not knowing how her uncle blushed and felt gratified and would be teased by his loving wife all evening. Then, Jasper promptly sneezed onto the orange rose pinned to his breast—much to Lorenz’s annoyance—and demanded to be let down to greet the Gloucester children.

Marigold hurried to the shed, just as her mother was reading. Her voice was strong and clear, and filled the shed with her words:

“‘I was well satisfied with my appointment as you can desire. It was a great object with me at that time to be at sea; a very great object, I wanted to be doing something.’

‘To be sure you did. What should a young fellow like you do ashore for half a year together? If a man had not a wife, he soon wants to be afloat again.’”

Marigold stepped on an errant board which creaked loudly and watched as her parents break apart like a courting couple caught cuddling by their chaperones. Her confident mother startled and began to rapidly put away her writing. Her father aided by distracting her.

“Mari! I thought Mrs Price was getting you ready for Uncle Lorenz and Auntie Leonie’s visit?” He teased warmly, “You silly girl… I’d think you were a little goose and not my daughter!”

Her mother breathed a sigh of relief and in the blink of an eye, was calm again. She turned around and greeted her daughter. “My Marigold,” she smiled, dropped down to her knees and hugged her tightly. Her ink-stained hands ran through Marigold’s tangled hair. “Oh your pigtails. Those pretty ribbons I got you are gone!”

“They fell out.”

“We’ll have the gardener look for them.” Her mother told her happily.

“Auntie Leonie and Uncle Lorenz are here with their children!” Marigold told them, and then leaning to her mother most excitedly said, “Auntie Leonie said that she wants to know what happens to Lizzy next. She said that Charlotte has just accepted Mr Collins’s proposal.”

Her mother’s eyes brightened. Her father was already reaching up onto the high shelves and pulling down a box once labelled First Impressions. That title was scratched out, and written haphazardly was the new name: Pride and Prejudice. He pulled out a large bundle of papers and leaned down to Marigold. 

“I think we can make that happen for Auntie Leonie.” Said her father. “You think you can carry this?”

Marigold’s eyes glinted with confidence. “I can! Leave it to me, Papa!” She promised him. Weighed down by the heavy manuscript, she dashed out back to the hill that the Gloucesters were slowly ascending up, with all the children in tow. Her mother and father left the little writing shed and once more became Mr and Mrs Kirsten.

The two families shared warm greetings. Hugs and kisses on the cheek replaced stiff bows and awkward curtseys from years before. Jasper soon demanded attention, Raphael bent down to hold his son’s tiny hand. 

Marigold, struggling to carry the manuscript, suddenly burst forth. “Auntie Leonie! Uncle Lorenz! I know what happens to Charlotte!” She exclaimed.

“What happens, Goldie?” Leonie asked.

“Pray, do tell.” Lorenz echoed, looking more intrigued than his wife.

“Uhm…” Marigold sheepishly paused, then admitted, “I don’t know yet, but I will know when Mama reads it to us!”

“Well I suppose I can wait until we get to the house and have some cake.” Leonie admitted. “And I have some questions for you, Bernie-Bear… Mainly about Lizzy.”

Marigold heard the feigned ignorance in her mother’s voice. “Oh, you do?” Asked Bernadetta nonchalantly.

“Yeah,” Leonie said, “she seems awfully familiar.”

“As does Darcy.” Lorenz added. “Terribly similar to someone I previously knew.”

Laughing, Bernadetta said, “I think this new chapter will answer all your questions. Primarily about Charlotte.” She leaned down to take her daughter’s hand. “At least I hope it does. I’ll endeavour all I can do to please you, my stingy hornet.” Then to Marigold she said, “But first, cake.”

“Yes! Cake!” Exclaimed Marigold, to which all the children agreed with bright smiles and happy tones. She took her mother’s hand in one and clung to the weighty manuscript with the other, and in that long moment preceding down the hill, was most exquisitely happy.

FINIS.