The morning air hung heavy with sorrow. Velmire, usually humming with merchant chatter and clattering hooves, seemed quieter somehow—like it too was mourning.
Nerine stood in the entryway of Madam Helen's house, dressed in a simple green cloak. Her satchel was light, filled with only a few clothes and the ruby necklace her mother had given her. Everything else she left behind—memories, warmth, safety.
Her fingers trembled at her side, though her face remained composed.
Sir Marudas's carriage loomed outside like a black beast, its polished wood glinting beneath the morning sun. He was already standing beside it, issuing instructions to a footman, his voice a booming contrast to the somber hush inside the house.
Elizabeth clung tightly to Nerine's waist, her tiny face crumpling. "Don't go," she whimpered. "Please don't leave."
"I have to, Lizzie," Nerine murmured, brushing the girl's hair back gently. "But I'll write to you, I promise."
"You're lying!" Elizabeth burst out, tears running freely. "People always say that when they leave!"
Nerine pulled her into a tight embrace. "I'll find a way," she whispered. "No matter what."
Gracy stood quietly nearby, her arms folded tightly across her chest, while Madam Helen wiped the corner of her eyes with the edge of her apron. Even the usually stern Gracy seemed more fragile than usual.
Sir Marudas stepped forward, clearing his throat loudly.
"To show my… appreciation," he said, extending a finely wrapped box toward Madam Helen, "for the years you've watched over my daughter."
Helen didn't move to take it. Her lips tightened.
"I don't want your gifts," she said coldly. "You weren't here. I was."
The silence thickened.
"Please take it," Nerine said gently, placing her hand on Helen's arm. "We can use it for the house. The girls."
Helen looked down at her, saw the truth in her eyes—and the fear—and with a resigned sigh, accepted the box.
She pulled Nerine into one last hug, her voice low. "Remember who you are. And don't let them shape you into something you're not."
Nerine nodded silently.
Then, without another word, she turned and walked toward the waiting carriage. Elizabeth's cries echoed behind her, growing smaller with each step.
She climbed in and sat down without looking at her father.
Sir Marudas followed, his presence filling the space like a shadow.
"Ah, my daughter. You'll find things different where we're going," he said, voice overly cheery. "Much better than this… provincial setup. You'll be fitted properly, educated further. We'll make something of you yet."
Nerine said nothing. She kept her eyes on the passing streets as the carriage lurched forward, leaving Velmire—and her true home—behind.
Sir Marudas talked most of the way. Stories. Jokes. Political quips. His booming voice filled the cabin, bouncing off the velvet-lined walls.
Nerine didn't respond once.
The silence grew heavier than the words.
The estate came into view just before dusk—a vast manor nestled between two hills, surrounded by perfectly trimmed hedges and iron-wrought gates. Marble columns framed the entrance, and carved gargoyles stared down from above the balcony like stone sentries.
The carriage came to a halt with a crisp jolt. A maid in a pale grey uniform awaited at the steps, her back straight and hands clasped.
"Take her to her room," Sir Marudas instructed.
"Yes, my lord."
The maid didn't offer her name. Her eyes flicked over Nerine, lingering a second too long on her face, and then she turned on her heel.
Nerine followed without a word, her boots soft on the velvet carpet. The halls were decorated with ornate paintings and golden sconces, but the atmosphere was cold—like wealth without warmth.
The maid's gait was stiff, her attitude clearly rehearsed.
Nerine noted it instantly—this one had been sent by someone else.
Her stepmother, no doubt.
When they reached the assigned room, the maid opened the door with a practiced gesture. "This is your room, Miss."
Nerine nodded and stepped inside.
It was beautiful—a wide bed with ivory covers, an armoire, and an attached balcony overlooking the gardens. But none of it comforted her.
She walked over and collapsed onto the bed without removing her cloak, sighing into the silken sheets.
A knock sounded a few minutes later. She didn't answer, but the door opened anyway. Another maid entered, carrying a folded bundle in her arms.
"Evening attire," she said simply, placing the garments on the edge of the bed.
Nerine sat up and picked up the top layer—a delicate pale blue gown, embroidered with silver threads.
Her stomach turned.
She said nothing. It wasn't like she had a choice here.
The maid helped her dress and began brushing her hair in preparation.
Then, she paused.
"Your hair… it's strange," the maid remarked, more to herself than to Nerine. "Is it dyed?"
"No," Nerine replied coolly. "It's natural."
The maid said nothing else, but her expression remained skeptical.
When Nerine entered the dining hall, she was greeted by the sight of a long polished table adorned with silverware and candelabras.
At the far end sat her stepmother—Lady kate—regal in a burgundy gown, her blonde hair pinned up in pearls.
Beside her, lounging with one elbow on the table, was Sofia—golden-skinned, sharp-featured, and smirking.
Nerine's eyes flared with quiet rage—but her smile was calm, practiced. She curtsied.
"My lady. Sister."
Lady Seraphine arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "So this is the daughter, is it? You didn't say she was so… peculiar."
Her eyes narrowed slightly at Nerine's hair.
"I take after my mother," Nerine replied evenly.
Sir Marudas cleared his throat and gestured for everyone to sit.
"Let us eat. We are a family now. And after dinner, I want both of you"—he looked pointedly at Sofia and Nerine—"to get to know each other. Bond."
The dinner passed in agonizing silence, broken only by the occasional clang of silverware and the forced small talk Sir Marudas attempted to ignite.
Nerine barely touched her food.
She missed Madam Helen's vegetable stew. The laughter at the small dining table. The flicker of candlelight in the shop window.
Lady Seraphine spoke again, voice light but mocking. "Tell me, Nerine… this hair. You say it's natural?"
"Yes."
Seraphine frowned. "It draws attention. You'll need to dye it black. Look more... proper. Less wild."
Sir Marudas shot her a look, subtle but warning.
Seraphine ignored it.
"It's for your own good, dear. You'll look more like a girl. Less like… a ghost."
Nerine smiled stiffly. "Thank you for the suggestion."
The Balcony
After dinner, Nerine followed Sofia reluctantly through the grand staircase and into the upper balcony, where the cold air bit through her sleeves.
Sofia turned to her before she could say a word.
"Let's get one thing clear," she said, voice sharp and venom-laced. "We don't need to bond. I don't want a sister, and I don't want an illegitimate brat sharing my air."
Nerine blinked, expression still calm. She said nothing.
Sofia scoffed. "What, no snark? Nothing to say about your dead mother or your charity case upbringing?"
Nerine's fingers curled into fists at her side. Her blood pounded. But she didn't flinch.
This was the second time Sofia had insulted her.
And she wouldn't waste breath on her either.
Without waiting for a reply, Sofia flipped her hair and disappeared down the corridor, heels clicking like war drums.
Nerine remained on the balcony, staring into the night.
The stars above were distant.
So was home.
But her resolve burned closer than ever.
This wasn't defeat.
It was her entry point.
Her mother's blood still ran in her veins—and Nerine was far from finished.