As the grand doors of Whitman Manor creaked open, Jason leapt from the carriage with the energetic glee of a boy who had just conquered the world. Behind him, two maids carefully carried a brown-wrapped package — a painting set with carved wooden figures he had picked out during his outing with Mary Jane.
"Be careful with that!" Jason called out, puffing up his chest with pride. "That's for painting knights and dragons! I'm going to make a whole army!"
Mary Jane chuckled as she descended from the carriage, with the footman's assistance, smoothing the folds of her travel cloak. "An army, huh? Should I be worried you'll take over the manor next?"
Jason grinned. "Only if you refuse to be my royal advisor."
"Ah, I see. Then I'll be in trouble if I don't impress you with my new invention," she said with a wink.
Jason's eyes lit up instantly. "You're making something?"
"Yes," she said, lowering her voice slightly as they walked toward the main doors. "Actually, I need your help. I want to make a new kind of toy. It doesn't exist in this world yet, but I think kids your age will love it."
"Really?" He leaned in as if they were about to exchange state secrets. "What is it?"
"Wooden blocks," she whispered. "But not just any blocks. These will stack into a tower. Players will take turns pulling out one block at a time — without making the tower fall."
Jason gasped. "That sounds fun! Like… like a trap tower!"
"Exactly!" she said, snapping her fingers. "And here's the best part — we can use your new painting set to decorate each piece. You can draw your dragons and knights on them if you want. Make each block unique."
Jason clutched the package under his arm tightly, already imagining it. "We could paint one side with fire symbols, and the others with lightning bolts! Oh! Or secret messages!"
Mary Jane's laughter bubbled out as they passed through the front doors and into the polished foyer. "I love the way you think. Now, all we need is someone who's good with wood. Do you know where the manor carpenter usually works?"
Jason beamed, proud to be of use. "He's in the east wing, near the stables! That's where they keep all the tools and fix broken furniture."
"Perfect. Would you mind showing me the way?" she asked, matching his brisk pace as he led her confidently down the hallway.
Jason looked up at her, earnest. "Are you really going to make toys for other people too?"
Mary Jane nodded. "That's the plan. This is just the first step. If it works, I'm hoping to make more and start something big — maybe even ask the Grand Duke to invest in the idea."
Jason's mouth formed a perfect O. "The Grand Duke? You're serious!"
"I am," she said softly, a determined glint in her eyes. "And I think this tower game might be the beginning of something… bigger than we both realize."
The scent of sawdust thickened as Jason led Mary Jane through the corridor behind the kitchens. Toward the small stone annex that housed the estate's workshop they went, with Nanny Jones becoming a permanent shadow behind them. The building stood a little apart from the main manor, its windows slightly fogged from the heat of the hearth within. A hammer clinked rhythmically against wood, its song sturdy and purposeful.
Jason knocked once on the door, then pushed it open with the confidence of someone who had been there many times before.
"Mr. Garren?" the boy called.
Inside, a tall man with graying hair and broad shoulders looked up from a half-carved chair leg. His face was sun-worn, with a scar cutting through one brow — not unkind, but weathered and sharp-eyed. The faintest furrow appeared between his brows as he spotted the countess behind Jason.
Mary Jane stepped forward with a smile, lifting the hem of her skirt to avoid the shavings on the floor. "Good afternoon. I hope we're not disturbing your work."
Garren wiped his hands on a cloth, straightened, and gave a shallow bow — polite, if slightly stiff. "Countess. Young master." His voice was gravelly but calm. "What brings you both here?"
Jason beamed. "We bought painting supplies! And Mother wants to make a toy! A new one."
The carpenter blinked, glancing from the excited child to the noblewoman behind him. "A toy?" he echoed, clearly uncertain if this was some sort of noble whim.
Mary Jane chuckled softly, picking her way across the workshop. "Yes, a game, actually. I was hoping I could ask for your help. It's simple to make, but I don't have the tools or wood myself. I'd be happy to compensate you for the time, if necessary."
Garren's eyes flicked toward Jason, then back to her, curiosity creasing the weathered lines on his face. While he hadn't interacted much with Lady Whitman in the past, the workshop's walls had ears, and rumors rarely died quietly. But this version of her — this version that smiled and ruffled children's hair with enthusiasm in her eyes — didn't match the stories whispered in the servant halls.
Garren raised a brow. "Compensate? For making toys?"
"I plan to make more of them," she said honestly. "Eventually, to sell them. This would be the first prototype — for a business venture."
He studied her for a moment, then folded his arms. "Begging your pardon, my lady… I don't mean to offend, but this ain't like you."
She offered a rueful smile. "I've heard that a lot lately."
A pause. Then Garren gave a short, amused snort and gestured toward a broad worktable near the hearth. "All right then. Let's see this 'game' of yours."
Mary Jane's eyes lit up. She glanced at Jason, who nodded enthusiastically, clutching the small wooden case of paints in his arms. Together, they moved to the table while Garren pulled over some scrap wood — offcuts from furniture legs and hearth logs.
Mary Jane picked up a charcoal stick and quickly began sketching: a small rectangular tower, divided into evenly sized blocks. She drew a hand pulling one block out, and then drew the tower with less blocks, teetering.
"It's a stacking game," she explained. "All blocks the same size. You build the tower three blocks per layer, then players take turns pulling one out without toppling it. Whoever knocks the tower over, loses."
Garren leaned in, stroking his chin. "Simple enough… no moving parts, just careful cuts and sanding."
"Exactly," Mary Jane said. "It's something kids can play, but adults too — it gets fun the more competitive it gets. I thought it might be an easy place to start."
Jason chimed in, bouncing on his toes. "And I'll paint the pieces! I could even paint numbers or animals or shapes, right, Mother?"
Mary Jane nodded. "We can experiment. Color sets, themes, even challenges written on some pieces. But for now, we just need one clean set. Think you can manage that, Mr. Garren?"
The carpenter gave a thoughtful grunt, then reached for his measuring tools. "Aye. I've got some leftover oak and Maplewood that'll hold up. I'll cut the first set this afternoon."
"If you don't mind," Mary Jane said. "I'd like to help out and learn how it's made."
He tilted his head, genuinely surprised now. "No offense, my lady, but most nobles don't care about how things are built. Nor would they want to dirty their hands. Just whether the finished product look nice and don't fall apart."
Mary Jane smiled, this time a little softer. "I'm not most nobles."
With a faint smirk, Garren rolled up his sleeves and turned to his bench. "All right then. Let's make a tower worth toppling."
Jason clapped his hands in glee and quickly settled beside Mary Jane at the table, pulling out his paints and brushes.
And for the first time, in a long time, the old workshop at Whitman Manor buzzed with something new — not the echo of commands or the weight of orders, but the quiet thrill of creation, and the soft stirring of hope.
The sun hung low outside the windows, golden light pooling against the rough-hewn wood of the floor. Inside, sawdust danced in the air like lazy fireflies as Garren's workshop echoed with the rhythmic rasp of a hand saw, the thud of mallets, and the occasional giggle from Jason.
The game tower was beginning to take form. Dozens of small wooden blocks were stacked neatly beside the workbench, sanded smooth, the corners curved. Jason sat cross-legged on a stool nearby, tongue poking out as he painted a block sky-blue with a surprisingly steady hand.
"See? I made this one the 'ocean' piece," he declared proudly, holding it up for Mary Jane to inspect.
"It's perfect," Mary Jane grinned, brushing her fingers along the edges. "We'll have to make a whole ocean-themed set now."
She had tied her long sleeves back and insisted on helping with the sanding process, even after Garren warned her how fine dust could cling to everything.
"I've got lungs, I'll use them," she'd joked.
Now she stood at the side table, working slowly with a sanding plane. Her strokes weren't perfect, but she was determined. Lifting her arm to wipe the sweat off of her forehead with the sleeves of her gown, she lamented to herself. Ah, Bettina's body was indeed a pampered noblewoman's body—ill-suited for hard labor. I could have finished those pieces much faster if I was in my own body.
Garren kept one eye on her while focusing on cutting the remaining raw pieces. The room was filled with the soft scrape of wood under her hands.
"Careful," Garren muttered, not looking up, "grain's shifting on that piece."
Mary Jane leaned forward, squinting at a stubborn edge. "I think it's splintering here. Maybe if I—"
Her words were cut short by a sharp yelp.
The sanding block had slipped, the sharp, unfinished edge catching the heel of her palm. She jerked back, and in doing so, bumped a small, sharp chisel that was left on the edge of the table — it flew a few feet, spinning madly in the air, toward Jason's direction. With a gasp, she flew after it, wanting to catch the chisel before it hit her precious boy. Unfortunately, the sharp end of the chisel sliced her other hand before she was able to get a better grip.
Jason's eyes widened. "Mother!"
Blood welled fast from the thin but deep lacerations across both hands. Mary Jane instinctively tried to cup her palms to stop the bleeding, but it only smeared red down her wrists.
Before she could say another word, Nanny Jones burst into the room, skirts swishing like a storm at sea.
"What happened—Jason, step back—!" Her voice cracked like a whip, firm but not unkind, as she pulled Jason protectively behind her with one arm and knelt beside Mary Jane with the other.
Mary Jane tried to smile, pale-faced. "It's alright, really—just a slip—"
"Hush now," Nanny said briskly, pulling a handkerchief from her apron and pressing it firmly into Mary Jane's hands. "Garren, fetch cloths and clean water—quickly. And you—" she looked at Jane who had just arrived to announce supper, "—send for the doctor immediately. Go!"
"There's really no need for a doctor, just—"
Jason hovered nervously, peeking around Nanny's side. "Is Mother going to be alright?"
"She'll live," Nanny muttered, but her gaze flicked down to the bloodied hands with genuine worry. "We'll get you cleaned up. Come, my lady. This workshop is no place for wounds."
Garren returned with fresh cloth, which Nanny Jones used to wrap the countess's hands with surprising gentleness for someone known for being so stern. Her hands were brisk but careful, her mouth set in a thin line of disapproval — more at the tools than the countess herself.
Jason reached out to hold Mary Jane's elbow as they walked, brow furrowed in concern. "Mother… next time, maybe just draw the toy and let the carpenter do the hard parts."
Mary Jane chuckled weakly, despite the throbbing pain. "Wise words, young master."
Nanny Jones, walking slightly ahead of them, shook her head with a mutter. "And here I thought the countess was raised to play piano, not tinker like a blacksmith."
But behind her back, Mary Jane noticed that her tone had softened, and there was something oddly protective in the way she kept glancing over her shoulder to make sure the countess and her young charge weren't lagging behind.
*****One life fade, another reborn*****
The grand double doors to the dining hall opened with a soft groan. It was dinner time.
Mary Jane stepped inside, her two hands wrapped in fresh bandages, her arms stiff at her sides. She just endured a lot of clucking from Jane earlier, who somehow resembled a mother hen watching over her baby chick, as the doctor was applying salve on her wounds and bandaging her hands upstairs. The sleeves of her evening dress were rolled carefully above her wrists, to keep from brushing against the injuries. She winced slightly, but kept her head high.
At the far end of the long dining table, the Earl sat at the head, polished and impassive, cutting his meat with steady precision—as if he didn't just hear the dining hall doors open. Jason was seated at his right-hand side, legs swinging beneath his chair, mid-bite of a buttered roll.
The boy caught sight of her first.
"Mother!"
Jason leapt down from his chair so fast the bread in his hand flung onto the table.
Mary Jane barely had time to prepare before his arms wrapped around her in a tight embrace, his small hands careful not to touch her bandages too much. His gaze flicked up; worry etched across his brow.
"Do your hands still hurt?" he asked, voice small and unsure.
"They're a little sore," Mary Jane said with a gentle smile. "But I'm alright, darling."
"But, shouldn't we call for a healer priest?"
"It's really not that bad," she assured the boy. "Doctor Stein said it will heal in no time at all. You're so sweet for worrying, though. Thank you."
Jason studied her for another moment like a little knight inspecting a wounded comrade. Then he turned sharply toward the table.
"Father," he called, not asking — declaring, "Mother should sit next to me tonight!"
The Earl paused mid-cut; his knife poised over the roast. His eyes lifted slowly, unreadable.
"She is perfectly capable of walking to her usual seat," he said evenly.
Jason frowned. "But her hands are hurt. She can't eat properly."
Mary Jane stiffened. She knew what was coming, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or hide under the table.
The Earl let out a low sigh — the kind that sounded more resigned than irritated. Then, quietly, he set down his utensils.
"Very well."
Jason grinned in victory and turned, leading Mary Jane like a proud young gentleman to the chair beside his. Nanny Jones, already standing nearby with a steaming soup tureen, narrowed her eyes but said nothing.
Mary Jane sat down carefully, keeping her palms on her lap as if wanting to keep them away from everybody's sight. Before she could protest, Jason was already clambering up on his chair, grabbing her spoon.
"I'll feed you!" he said brightly, dipping it far too deep into the soup and lifting it with a slight wobble.
"Jason, there's really no need—" she started.
But the boy was determined.
He brought the spoon up with such concentration, blowing on it to cool the contents, making Mary Jane chuckle. She was sure her soup will be mixed in with a new liquid ingredient. His little tongue poking out the side of his mouth, he moved the spoon with cooled-down soup near her mouth. He aimed, aimed again—then tipped it slightly too early.
The spoon clattered against her lip. A thick dribble of soup plopped onto her collar.
Mary Jane blinked at the warm splash, then at Jason's horrified face.
She burst out laughing. She couldn't help it. The boy was too cute.
Jason laughed too, and wiped at her with a napkin clumsily, clearly both delighted and mortified. "I'll do better! Just one more try—"
A sharp cluck of the tongue echoed from the head of the table.
"Enough."
Jason froze mid-wipe, the spoon still in his hand.
The Earl rose from his chair, smooth and slow, and crossed the space between them in a few long strides.
"Jason, eat your own meal," he said. "You'll make a mess."
"But Father—"
"I'll feed her."
Jason blinked. Even Mary Jane blinked.
The Earl took the spoon from his son's hand with a calm firmness and motioned for Jason to sit. With his usual commanding efficiency, he pulled up a chair on Mary Jane's other side and began to sat down. She flinched at the scrape of the chair legs on the marbled floor very near her. Somehow, the sound and the movements were triggering an unpleasant memory in her mind. Of looming stepfathers and raised hands.
But the big man beside her didn't do anything else. He just picked up her spoon and dipped it into the soup with exact care.
Mary Jane's throat dried instantly.
She wanted to say something — a protest, a joke, anything — but all she could do was sit frozen, watching this man with wide eyes — this man who once couldn't look at her without a storm in his eyes. When he raised the spoon to bring it carefully to her lips, Mary Jane flinched once more and reflexively closed her eyes as if preparing for an impact.
Too close.
He's not yelling. Not looming. Not drunk.
But he's still a man in control of the house, isn't he?
His face remained unreadable, yet watchful, his posture relaxed yet authoritative — and still, she couldn't help the subtle tightening in her chest.
"Eat," he said quietly.
She bit the inside of her cheek, a long-ingrained reflex. Her body, even now, couldn't separate "gentle" from "dangerous." The memory of knuckles against her ribs. The sound of plates and glasses being thrown and breaking. The way her stepfather's voice changed before a blow.
No. No. He's not that man, she reminded herself.
But it didn't stop her hands — or what was left of them beneath the bandages — from curling tightly on her lap. It was a failed effort to stop her involuntary trembling.
"Are you not hungry?" The Earl asked, lowering the spoon and spoke softly.
She hesitated.
"I-I'm hungry," she finally admitted.
The Earl nodded, lifted a spoonful of creamy vegetable soup once more, and paused just a beat before offering it to her. Still no words. Just that steady, piercing gaze flicking to her, assessing.
Then, because Jason was watching them both with bright eyes and a hopeful smile — and because she had promised herself that she wouldn't live in fear anymore — leaned forward slightly, and took the bite.
It was warm. Delicate.
He repeated the motion, slow and methodical, each gesture precise. He was closer now. She could smell the sharp, clean scent of cedar and cloves clinging to his coat. His hand didn't tremble, but his gaze flicked to her mouth each time, each look a little longer than the last.
Her lips trembled around the spoon.
"Your grip is steadier than Jason's," she murmured dryly, a small, shaky attempt at humor. "Less soup on the floor, too."
The corner of the Earl's mouth twitched — whether he was preventing himself from smiling or frowning, she didn't know.
Jason giggled beside them.
Mary Jane exhaled, barely noticing she had been holding her breath. Her shoulders relaxed just a touch.
He didn't snap at me. Didn't bark orders. Just… fed me.
Another spoonful. Another careful pause. He wasn't rushing. In fact, the man seemed so focused on the task — on not overwhelming her, maybe — that it felt oddly formal, like a duty he'd taken up out of obligation.
Why was he being nice all of a sudden? He could have just ordered a servant to feed her. Is it Jason he's doing this for?
Mary Jane tried to keep her breathing even. Thankful that her trembling had subsided.
But she couldn't deny it — the tension inside her had started to melt, just a little, like snow softening under early spring light. There was no aggression in him. No hidden threat in the way he held the spoon, nor in the timbre of his voice when he finally spoke.
"You should have called for the carpenter yourself instead of going down there," the Earl said, low but even. "You didn't need to get your hands dirty nor injured."
Mary Jane tilted her head slightly, testing the sound of his concern.
"Didn't know I needed permission to stand around and point at wood."
Jason let out another laugh, nearly choking on his bread. The Earl simply raised a brow and offered her the next bite.
For a fleeting moment, she wondered what this man looked like when he smiled — really smiled. The thought startled her.
Don't get comfortable.
This isn't safe.
He went back to silently feeding her. But his silence was heavy — not empty, but full of watching. His brows furrowed slightly, like something about this felt wrong. Or right. Or…maybe something he couldn't name.
He hated that he was being gentle.
She could see it in the tick of his jaw — the way his eyes narrowed whenever she flinched or smiled too freely. She wasn't supposed to be like this. She wasn't supposed to make him hesitate.
Despite it all, his calm and steady movements made Mary Jane's pulse slow down. The edge of panic dulled. And yet, some part of her — some wounded, deeply buried part — still braced for an outburst that didn't come.
And that made it even more disarming.
She swallowed another bite, let out a breath, and quietly said, "Thank you."
His hand stilled, spoon hovering in midair.
For a moment, their eyes met.
The flicker of confusion in his eyes was momentarily replaced with a slight softening—almost imperceptibly visible. But then it was gone in an instant, buried beneath his practiced calm. He looked away first.
"It would be inconvenient if you starved," he said curtly, scooping another spoonful.
Jason peeked up at them between bites, a wide grin spreading across his face.
"Father, you're good at feeding Mother. Maybe you should do it all the time!"
The Earl made a sound between a scoff and a hum. "Let's hope she regains full use of her hands before then. Or else, I would be starving."
Mary Jane smiled, softly, despite herself.
Nanny Jones, across the room, watched all of it with pinched lips and crossed arms.
Something, she would say later, was definitely going on.
*****By blood, by will, by kindred fate*****
The knock on the door was soft but measured. Dinner was long past and he was back in his study after leaving Jason to his bedtime ablutions.
"Enter."
Nanny Jones stepped in, dipped a respectful curtsy, then straightened, hands clasped in front of her apron. Her expression was tight with hesitation.
"You've been watching," the Earl said simply, eyes not leaving the papers on his desk. "Report."
"Yes, milord."
She inhaled sharply; the kind of breath taken by someone about to walk a careful line.
"Today, she made good on her promise to bring the young master outside and buy a new toy. She allowed the child to choose his own toys and waited patiently for Lord Jason to make up his mind. Spoke to him kindly, asked questions. Not a single harsh word." Nanny Jones paused a little, and when the Earl did not speak, she continued on.
"After the toy shop, Her Ladyship requested assistance from the manor's carpenter."
At that, Anthony's eyes flicked up, just once.
"She said she had an idea for a new kind of toy — stacking blocks. A simple design, she claimed. Jason helped her paint on the wood that she and the carpenter cut and smoothed. They worked together in the workshop. Then she... cut her hands, milord."
That made him pause. "Deeply?"
"Nothing serious. Splinters and shallow slices."
"And Jason?"
"He was sitting on a stool a good distance from their work area. I saw her ladyship attempt to grab the flying chisel before it flew in the boy's direction."
At that, Anthony's eyebrow lifted, the only outward evidence of his inner thoughts. "What happened next?"
"The young master was terrified. She kept calm, didn't cry or demand treatment, said she didn't need a doctor. I insisted on cleaning the wounds. She let me." A beat. "She even apologized for the mess."
The Earl leaned back in his chair. "She apologized."
Nanny Jones hesitated. "Milord… the Countess expressed a variety of emotions today, but none of them looked contrived. I observed her very carefully for any possible slip. Laughed a lot and was gentle. With Jason. Like she… meant it. It did not look forced."
His jaw flexed. "And you believe it?"
"I don't know what I believe, sir." The older woman folded her arms, her voice lowering. "But I've served this household for over two decades. I remember how the Countess treated the staff. Impatient as storm, cold as snow, and thrice as cutting. But this… This woman asks how the maids are doing. She noticed Betty's limp and told her to rest. She asked me how long I've known Jason… It's not just her manners that changed. It's her eyes."
Anthony's eyes narrowed slightly. He didn't want to admit it, but he did catch glimpses of what Nanny Jones described during dinner earlier. Perhaps he hadn't been looking close enough.
"I'm not saying she's changed," Nanny added quickly, her tone still guarded. "But either she's playing a very long game, or…" she paused again, "...or something did break in her during that fall. Maybe even for the better."
She gave another curtsy. "That is all, milord. I'll return to check on Jason."
He gave a silent nod. She left without another word, the heavy door clicking shut behind her.
Silence swelled, the room still, save for the faint hiss of firewood settling in the grate.
Anthony exhaled slowly and stood, walking to the window. The glass was cold beneath his fingers. His reflection stared back at him — sharp-eyed, unreadable.
She laughed, he thought, remembering the sound. It hadn't been cruel or mocking. Indeed, it did not sound forced. It had been soft. Bright. The kind of laugh one cannot easily fake when soup spills on a fine dress.
Jason had been happy. Happier these days.
And she was calm through her own injury. No shrieking. No demanding the servants be punished. She hadn't even wanted the physician.
His brows furrowed.
She knew where the tools were in the workshop. She sketched without fuss. The old Bettina would never have lifted a finger, let alone held a hammer.
He stepped away from the window, one hand raking through his dark hair.
She was trembling when he tried to feed her.
Was it because of anger at him sitting close to her? Or was it because of fear? Of him.
The first time he lifted the spoon to her face she recoiled and closed her eyes. As if she was waiting for him to hit her. Where did those reactions stem from? He had never raised his hands against her. Nobody else ever dared to do so as well. She was a woman who was confident of herself and of her worth. And as far as he knew, she had a wonderful and loving relationship with her parents before they passed away.
And yet…
His mind returned to their dinner. Jason giggling, spoon in hand. The countess laughing — that same warm sound. Her cheeks flushed; eyes creased at the corners. For a moment, Anthony didn't see the woman he hated. He saw a woman who might have been… someone else entirely.
Was it really due to amnesia? Could amnesia change someone so completely? Or was she still the serpent he once knew — just cloaked in sheep's wool?
He sat heavily back in his chair, silent. The fire crackled again.
Watch her, he reminded himself. Study her. Play along if you must. But don't be fooled.
Still… when he closed his eyes, he could still hear her laugh. A traitorous part of him, one that wasn't there before, wanted to hear it once more.
And that terrified him more than any lie she might tell.