Chapter 1

My father-in-law rides home from the war with two women — a mother and her daughter — and announces they'll be the new ladies of Ashworth Manor.

The Earl of Ashworth, Richard, comes through the gates at midday. Behind him trail two figures on a single horse: a woman with a face that still turns heads, and a girl barely old enough to lace her own corset. They share the same dark eyes, the same careful smile.

I stand behind Grace, my mother-in-law. My husband William stands across from me. His eyes land on the girl and stay there. He doesn't blink.

The great hall is packed. The air feels thick enough to chew.

Richard hasn't even removed his chainmail. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword. His voice scrapes like steel on stone.

"Wife. This is Margery. She'll be the new lady of this house."

He points to the older woman.

Grace — the Countess of Ashworth, the woman who has run this estate for twenty years — doesn't flinch. She steps forward and takes Margery's hand like they're old friends.

"You must be exhausted from the road, sweetheart."

I watch the creases around Grace's eyes. Every single one is arranged into the perfect shape of joy.

Richard looks satisfied. He turns to William.

"William. This is Agnes, Margery's daughter. She'll be your wife."

William's face goes red. Not from shame. From excitement. His mouth opens — he nearly blurts out "I'll do it" — but catches himself and swallows hard. He just nods. Hard.

Nobody looks at me.

I'm like one of the carvings on the pillars. There, but meaningless.

Richard wants a new woman. William wants a new wife. This house is throwing two celebrations today.

How festive.

My nails dig into my palms inside my sleeves. I can't feel the pain.

Grace's voice rises, bright and cheerful, the voice of a woman throwing a feast.

"What wonderful news! The Earl and his heir, both blessed with new companions — the Lord has truly smiled on this family!"

She waves the steward over. "Open the cellars. Bring up the wine we've been saving — the twenty-year vintage."

Then she turns and takes my hand. Her fingers are warm. Steady.

"Clara, don't just stand there. Go to the storeroom, take out the finest silks — the Flemish brocade, all of it — and have new gowns made for Lady Margery and Agnes. Spare nothing."

I look up and meet her eyes.

They're full of warmth, like the first sun of spring. But standing this close, all I feel is cold.

I nod, numb.

"Yes, Mother."

I turn toward the storeroom. The keys hang from my belt — a ring of brass keys, heavy enough to crush me.

I pass William on my way out. I don't exist to him. Every ounce of him is fixed on the girl called Agnes. She keeps her head down, cheeks flushed, stealing glances at him through her lashes.

They already want each other.

And me? What am I?

I push open the heavy storeroom door. The smell of cedar and lavender hits me. Bolts of silk and brocade sit stacked in neat rows, gleaming faintly in the dim light.

I stand there for a long time.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do. Cry? Scream?

I don't want to cry. I think I've already run out of tears. And screaming — what good would it do? Richard holds the title, the land, the power. William is next in line. They make the rules.

My only purpose here has ever been to manage the household and be a quiet, obedient wife.

Now he's getting a new one.

I run my hand over the cold silk. Flemish brocade, Italian velvet, each bolt worth more than my entire dowry. These are the finest fabrics in the county.

Grace told me to take the best.

I pull out a bolt of crimson brocade shot through with gold thread. It glitters in the shadows, stinging my eyes.

I carry it out like I'm carrying a burning coal.

The welcome feast fills the great hall. Loud. Bright. Suffocating.

Richard and William sit at the head of the table. Margery and Agnes sit just below them, laughing, talking, glowing.

Grace moves between the guests like a perfect hostess, pouring wine, serving food, smiling without pause. She looks genuinely happy.

I set the silks aside and slip back to my seat. I don't touch my food.

Three cups of wine in, Richard starts talking. His tongue is loose, his voice too loud. He tells the story of how he found them — how Margery's husband, one of his fellow soldiers, died in battle. How Agnes had no one to care for her. How giving her to William was an act of mercy.

He speaks like he's some kind of saint.

William listens, nodding along, looking at Agnes with pity and desire mixing in his eyes.

My stomach turns.

I slip away from the table and walk back to my chambers.

The courtyard is quiet. My two maids, Bess and Meg, stand under the eaves, their eyes rimmed red. They see me and open their mouths, then close them again.

I wave them off and go inside.

Everything in my room is exactly as I left it. Neat. Tidy. Our marriage certificate still sits under a stack of books on the desk, the red wax seal bright as blood.

I sit down. I stare at nothing.

I don't know how long I sit there. The sky goes dark. The noise from the feast fades.

Soft footsteps stop outside my door.

It's Bess.

"My lady, it's late. You should rest."

I don't answer.

Then — three knocks. Slow. Deliberate.

That's not how Bess knocks.

My heart jumps. I stand. "Who's there?"

A voice, barely a whisper. Familiar.

"Me."

Grace.

I freeze, then cross the room and open the door.

She stands in the corridor, still wearing the crimson gown she put on for the feast. But the smile is gone. Completely gone. In the moonlight her face is hard, her eyes sharp as a blade.

She slips inside and shuts the door behind her. Slides the bolt.

She doesn't look at me. She goes to the window, tilts her head, listens.

Nothing but the wind in the trees.

"Mother, what — "

She turns, crosses the room in three steps, and grabs my wrist. Her grip is iron. It hurts.

Her voice is low and fast. Half whisper, half command.

"Clara. Pack your valuables. We're leaving tonight."

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