One morning, Edouard found Tomas struggling to relight a balky fire in the library hearth. Knees popping, the old man muttered curses at the damp kindling.
"Permit me, Tomas," Edouard said, his voice still carrying a faint rasp from the healing wound. He knelt – a movement that still pulled at his side – and with a few precise adjustments of the logs and a carefully directed breath, coaxed a healthy flame to life.
"Where'd a fine lord learn fire-starting like a camp cook?" Tomas grunted, easing himself into a worn armchair with a sigh of gratitude.
Edouard remained crouched, watching the flames. "A man picks up many skills," he said, his gaze distant for a moment before refocusing on Tomas. "Especially when the fine lords aren't around to do it for him. My... upbringing was unconventional."
Tomas snorted. "Unconventional? You mean you weren't swanning about ballrooms since you could walk? Could've fooled me with that 'fiancé' act you pulled on them Belroque leeches." There was a spark of shrewdness in the old man's watery eyes. He might be slow of body, but his mind was still sharp. "Saw the way you looked at her. Like you were sizing up a battlefield, not a bride."
Edouard rose smoothly, dusting non-existent soot from his trousers. "Lady Eglantine is a battlefield, Tomas. One I find myself unexpectedly enlisted in." He offered a ghost of a smile, dry and humorless. "And ballrooms? Let's just say my dancing lessons involved more... evasion than elegance."
Tomas chuckled, a wheezing sound. "Evasion, eh? Useful skill, that. Especially when the creditors come calling again, mark my words. Or them Belroques, licking their wounds." He eyed Edouard thoughtfully. "You any good with a ledger, 'Lord Halden'? Or just with starting fires and looking dangerous?"
Edouard met his gaze evenly. "Numbers can be made to behave, Tomas. Much like unruly fires. Or inconvenient truths." He paused, letting the implication hang. "Perhaps, when the creditors do come calling, you might point me towards the accounts? A fiancé should understand the depths of the water he's stepping into, shouldn't he?"
Tomas studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Aye. Might just do that. Dangerous waters indeed." He settled deeper into the chair, closing his eyes. "Wake me if the fire needs tending again, lad. Or if Lady Ice decides to thaw enough to smile."
---
Later that day, Edouard sat at the small escritoire in the Blue Room. The weak light from the frosted window illuminated the fine grain of the wood and the stark contrast of his callouse hand holding a quill. He dipped it in ink, the scratch of the nib loud in the quiet room.
The letter he wrote was a masterpiece of banality. It began with pleasantries about recovering from a "hunting accident" in the hospitable care of the Eglantine family. He inquired after the recipient's health, lamented the harshness of the borderland winter compared to the milder climes of his southern estates, and mentioned a fondness for a particular volume of botanical illustrations he recalled seeing in the recipient's library – a volume that didn't exist.
He folded the letter precisely, sealed it with plain red wax impressed only by the smooth base of a candlestick, and addressed it simply: M. Durand, Chez Leclerc, Rue des Tanneurs, Villefort.
Finding Tomas in the pantry, Edouard handed him the letter. "Tomas, would you see this posted with the next courier to Villefort? An old friend, concerned for my welfare."
Tomas squinted at the address. "Rue des Tanneurs? Smelly part of town for a lord's friend."
"An eccentric collector," Edouard replied smoothly. "Specializes in rare fungi. Our paths crossed during my... travels." He offered a coin – stamped Imperial currency this time, deliberately ordinary. "For the courier."
Tomas pocketed the coin, eyeing the plain seal. "No family crest? Odd for a noble."
"Durand values discretion above all," Edouard said, his tone implying shared secrets. "Like many who delve into the... darker corners of natural philosophy."
Tomas grunted, clearly filing away another piece of the puzzle that was Edouard Halden. "Discretion. Right. I'll see it sent, M'lord."
---
The night was bitterly cold, the wind moaning like a lost spirit around the eaves. Edouard stood by the window in the Blue Room, fully dressed despite the hour, watching the moonlit expanse of snow. His side ached with a dull throb, a constant reminder of mortality he usually ignored. He didn't wait long.
A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness near the stables, moving with silent, predatory grace. Moments later, a soft tap came at the window. Edouard unlatched it, letting in a blast of frigid air and a figure swathed in dark wool, face obscured by a scarf pulled high.
The man slipped inside, closing the window swiftly. He pulled down the scarf, revealing a face weathered beyond its years, with sharp, intelligent eyes that scanned the room instantly before settling on Edouard. He dropped to one knee, head bowed.
"My Lord," the man breathed, his voice tight with urgency and remorse. "Forgive me. The trail went cold after the ambush. I should have been here sooner."
Edouard didn't offer a hand to raise him.
"Rise, Simone," Edouard commanded, his voice low and devoid of inflection. "Recriminations waste time we don't have. You found me. That is sufficient."
Simone stood, his posture rigid, military. His eyes flickered over Edouard, assessing the pallor, the subtle tension around the wound. "You are recovered, my lord?"
"Enough. The bullet missed anything vital. Luck, or poor marksmanship." Edouard dismissed his own near-death with chilling practicality. "The priority remains unchanged. We need to find the Heir of Velnar and eliminate them. The Emperor's patience is not infinite." The name 'Velnar' hung in the cold air like a death sentence.
Simone nodded sharply. "Intel suggests the heir fled north after the Purge. Rumours place them near these borderlands, possibly under a false identity. It's why I was scouting the area when I lost your trail. The attack... it was too precise, my lord. They knew you were coming."
Edouard's hazel eyes, usually so unnervingly steady, hardened like amber trapping an insect. "The attack is secondary," he stated, a flicker of the old, suppressed rage momentarily surfacing before being ruthlessly quashed. "A distraction. Finding the Heir is paramount. Whoever shot me likely knows *why* I was here. That makes them connected to Velnar. Find the Heir, Simone, and you find the hand that pulled the trigger."
He turned fully to his aide, the moonlight etching sharp lines on his face. "Leverage your contacts in Villefort. Durand received my letter?" The cryptic message about the non-existent botanical book – a pre-arranged signal for a dead-drop meeting location.
"Understood, my lord. The 'botanical interest' was noted. I'll meet Durand tomorrow. He may have gleaned whispers from the underbelly." Simone paused, his gaze lingering on the bandages visible beneath Edouard's shirt. "And the woman? The Eglantine? She poses a risk. She pulled you from the snow. She harbors you."
Edouard's expression remained impassive, but a muscle ticked in his jaw. "Lady Eglantine is... useful. Her estate provides cover. Her fiction," he gestured vaguely at the room, at the persona he wore, "buys us time. She sees me as Edouard Halden, a disinherited noble playing a role for mutual benefit against local vultures. For now, that belief serves our purpose." He met Simone's concerned look. "She is not to be touched, Simone. Unless she directly interferes. Is that clear?"
The order was delivered with quiet, absolute authority.
Simone bowed his head again. "Clear, my lord."
"Go," Edouard said, turning back to the window. "Report anything Durand uncovers. Use the usual channels. And Simone... watch your back. The shadows here bite."
Simone melted back out the window as silently as he arrived, vanishing into the darkness. Edouard remained at the window long after, staring out at the moonlit snow.
A soft knock echoed the tap on the window, but this time at the Blue Room door. Edouard turned, schooling his features back into the weary one, before calling, "Enter."
Mireille stepped inside, closing the door firmly behind her. She wore a heavy dressing gown over her nightdress, her light brown hair braided tightly, her amber-flecked eyes sharp and assessing in the moonlight filtering through the window.
She took in his fully dressed state, the lingering chill near the window, the absolute stillness that hadn't been there moments before Simone arrived. Her gaze lingered on the faint condensation on the windowpane near the latch.
"Couldn't sleep, Monsieur Halden?" Her voice was cool, probing. "Or expecting company?"
Edouard offered a faint, tired smile. "The cold makes old wounds ache, my lady. And solitude is a poor companion for insomnia. Merely contemplating the... fragility of borrowed time."
He gestured towards the chair near the cold hearth. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Mireille didn't sit. She remained near the door. "Borrowed time is precisely what I wish to discuss."
She met his gaze directly. "The Belroques retreated today, but they'll be back—stronger. With lawyers, or thugs, or both." She gestured between them. "My fiction needs substance. Your presence needs permanence—or at least the appearance of it."
"Luckily for you, they're too stupid to find out whether Edouard Halden is even alive. Not even his own family knows, since he was disowned years ago."
Edouard leaned against the windowsill, crossing his arms carefully, mindful of his side. "Appearances are costly, Lady Eglantine. What price does this one demand?"
"A contract," she stated flatly. "Marriage. On paper only."
He raised an eyebrow, feigning mild surprise he didn't feel. "A rather drastic solution to a problem of vultures."
"It's the only solution they understand. A husband consolidates power, deflects claims. Especially one with a name, however disinherited." Her voice was pragmatic, stripped of sentiment. "Six months. That's the term."
"Six months?" Edouard echoed, his mind already calculating – six months to find the Heir, to complete his mission, to disappear.
"Six months," she confirmed. "Enough time to solidify the claim, drive off the Belroques, and... allow you to recover fully before moving on to whatever path you walk. At the end of it, an annulment. Clean. Simple."
"And the terms within these six months?" he asked, his voice low.
"No expectations of affection," Mireille said, her gaze unwavering. "No shared chambers. No... heirs."
The word was clipped, final. "You retain the name, the title of husband for the duration, and the protection of this estate. In return, you lend your presence, your perceived authority, and your... particular skills, if necessary, to secure my inheritance against all challengers. A business arrangement, Monsieur Halden. Protection for both parties. You gain sanctuary; I gain a shield."
Edouard studied her. The moonlight caught the determined set of her jaw, the fierce intelligence in her eyes. She was offering him the perfect, legitimate cover to operate from – a noble husband on his wife's estate in the very borderlands where the Heir of Velnar might be hiding. It was almost too convenient. And far more binding than simply playing a fiancé.
"And after six months?" he asked quietly.
"We go our separate ways," she replied. "You vanish back into the snow from whence you came, Edouard Halden ceases to exist, and I am a widow – conveniently unencumbered and legally secure in my inheritance. A ghost marriage dissolved."
Silence stretched between them and the wind rattled the windowpane again.
"You drive a hard bargain, Lady Eglantine," Edouard finally said, a wry smile touching his lips. "Sanctuary and a name, in exchange for playing the dutiful, deadly husband for half a year. And all without the messy complications of sentiment."
"Sentiment is a luxury buried with my father," she stated, her voice like the icy crust outside. "Do we have an agreement?"
He pushed off from the windowsill, standing tall despite the ache. He didn't offer his hand; their agreement wasn't one sealed with touch. "We do, my lady. Six months. A shield for a sanctuary. A ghost for a ghost marriage."
A flicker of relief passed through Mireille's eyes, quickly masked. "Good. We'll draw up the papers tomorrow. Tomas can witness. Keep it simple." She turned to leave, her hand on the doorknob.
"One more thing, my lady," Edouard said, stopping her.
She paused, glancing back—wary.
"Tomas mentioned creditors," he said, his tone deceptively mild. "When they come calling... understanding the depths of the water requires knowing just how deep it truly is. How much did your father owe?"
Mireille froze. Her fingers tightened on the doorknob, knuckles paling.
"The creditors aren't just coming, Monsieur Halden," she whispered, each word seeming to cost her. "The man who holds the largest share of the debt... arrives tomorrow."
She met his gaze then, the amber flecks in her eyes glinting like shards of frozen fire. "And he doesn't deal in paper. He collects in blood."
Without another word, she slipped out the door, leaving Edouard alone in the Blue Room.
In blood? Edouard smirked. How intriguing.