As the stranger, who doesn't seem to be a stranger at all, walked in, Mary Jane felt her insides quiver as she observed him.
"My mage in retainer," the duke announced grandly. "He goes by many titles, but for now, you may simply call him Mage Henry."
Mary Jane's breath caught for the briefest second as the mage's sharp eyes met hers directly. His gray-blue eyes, the color of storm-churned seas, reflect a slight hint of violets when touched by sunlight just so. There was something unnervingly knowing about his gaze—as if he could see far more than she intended to reveal. Those eyes. It has a slightly, disturbingly, similar hue with hers when his were shrouded by the shadows. Had she met him before?
Mage Henry inclined his head slightly. "Lady Whitman," he greeted, his voice smooth yet carrying an undeniable weight. "I have heard of your… intriguing ideas."
The countess exhaled, steadying herself. The mage's voice seemed so familiar to her, as if she had heard him speak before, it was disconcerting. A part of her wanted to stay away from this man who had an air about him that she could only describe as dangerous. Although, he hadn't actually done anything to her, having only just met him, so she couldn't actually say no. The Grand Duke had also recommended him. And, if she was to bring a touch of modern ingenuity into this world, she would need all the help she could get.
Maybe it was just because he was a mage and has magic swirling about him that made her hairs stand on end. Maybe she was just being paranoid for no reason. She took a deep breath and attempted to dispel her own misgivings.
"Bettina, why don't you show Mage Henry your sketches."
"Oh yes," she had to blink hard in order to wrench herself away from the magnetic scrutiny of the mage. "Um, please sit here." Bettina motioned on the seat beside her.
As the mage sat beside her, she had to furtively wipe her hands on her skirts to stop herself from inching away. She could almost touch that invisible energy wafting about the mage.
"Now, I believe you wish to get started on your first product as soon as possible?"
"First two products, actually," she corrected, a faint smile touching her lips. Reluctance was forgotten in front of her drawn projects.
Edward arched a brow, intrigued. "Two? You certainly don't waste any time, my lady."
"Time is a luxury I don't intend to squander, Your Grace."
The smile she wore wasn't just polite—it was quietly resolute. In truth, she had a dozen ideas waiting to be drawn, shaped, and carved to life. All of them whispered fragments of her past life, filtered through the lens of her new world.
"Alright then," Edward said, folding his arms. "Let's hear the first one."
"The first product is simple—wooden blocks, uniform in shape and size, used in a stacking game that tests balance and nerve. Jason wanted to call it 'Wobble-Tumble'. Players take turns pulling out blocks from a tower and placing them on top without toppling it. Whoever causes it to collapse loses the round."
She paused, suppressing a small, sheepish grin. I'm sorry original creators…
The Grand Duke chuckled. "A fitting name for a game of tension. I can already see noble children arguing over who made it fall."
"And adults," she added, her grin widening. "The beauty of it is its simplicity. Production is easy—just fine, smooth-cut hardwood blocks. Uniform weight, clean and safe edges. It's the kind of game that practically sells itself once people try it."
"That should be simple enough to make," Mage Henry mused, already calculating. "And the second product?"
Her expression shifted, eyes alight with a deeper ambition.
"Something more imaginative. Interlocking wooden blocks—not just plain ones, but crafted with grooves, pegs, and slots so they can snap together securely. Children can use them to build towers, walls, little houses, even animals if they get creative. It's like a construction set, but sturdier than anything that falls over with a sneeze."
The Grand Duke blinked. "So… like a toy puzzle? That you can build into anything?"
"Exactly," she said. "I want the pieces to hold their shape once assembled—snug, but still easy to detach. No glue or nails. Just clever shaping and smart design."
"Ah, a challenge for the mind and the hands," said the mage.
"That looks fun to make, Mother." Jason sat by her knees and was now peeking on the papers with her sketches. He must have finished drying up the Jenga, ahem, the Wobble-Tumble pieces. She smiled, ruffling his hair as it had become her habit.
"You intend the blocks to lock in place using the wood's shaping alone?" Mage Henry asked, leaning forward. "If you want a consistent snap-fit, we'll need precise measurements—perhaps even magical assistance to precisely replicate the cuts."
"I was hoping we could use non-magical means for most of the pieces, to keep the product affordable," she replied, "but if you have any suggestions to make the production process easier, it would be a great help."
"A rune-assisted carving blade could help in the initial shaping process. A standard template, maybe?" He said, folding his arms. "Engraving runes could ensure each groove and peg matches within a margin of hair-width. With quality wood, it should last for years."
The Grand Duke rubbed his chin, visibly impressed. "You've come impressively prepared, Bettina. A game of balance and a toy of endless creativity—clever. These blocks sound like something a craftsman might enjoy as much as a child."
She nodded. "That's the idea. A product that grows with the user. Small children can make simple structures. Older ones might start inventing elaborate cities."
"And the materials?" the Grand Duke asked, peering at her notes as she unrolled a parchment.
"For Wobble-Tumble, we'll need quality hardwood—oak, maple, or walnut. Fine grain, low variance. For the interlocking blocks, the same, but I'll need craftsmen who can follow very specific carving and shaping instructions. Smooth finishes, no splinters. Polishing that's safe for children. Maybe branding irons if we want to stamp them with our seal."
"I know a reputable wood carver and carpenter," the Grand Duke said. "He supplies the nobility with fine furniture. Though he won't come cheap."
Lady Whitman gave a wry smile. "I'll bring the charm. You bring the coin."
Mage Henry's gaze lingered on her a moment longer, then flicked to the parchment. "And what of prototypes? You'll need to test the lock strength of each piece. I could draft a minor kinetic rune to measure resistance and pressure if needed."
"Please do," she said gratefully. "If we can back up our product with magical precision, even better."
Edward leaned forward, spinning a quill between his fingers. "You are certainly not short on ambition, Bettina. One product simple and scalable. The other potentially addictive and educational. Did both ideas come to you at once?"
She lifted her teacup, hiding a knowing smile behind its rim. "Let's just say... inspiration visits quickly when you've been in the dark for too long."
He studied her, amused but not pressing. "Still interested?" she asked.
"More than ever," he said, standing with renewed energy. "Shall we visit the craftsmen? The sooner we begin, the sooner we make history."
Lady Whitman rolled up her parchment. "Yes. The carpenter first."
As they moved toward the door, Mage Henry remained where he stood—near the window, eyes unfocused. Then, as if pulled back to the moment, he turned his gaze to Lady Whitman. There was something in his look—subtle, fleeting, like a shadow brushing a familiar memory—but then it was gone. He gave a short nod and followed them in silence.
*****One body, one will, one immortal soul*****
The morning air in the capital was crisp, tinged with the scent of fresh-cut wood and varnish. The carpenter's house stood in a row of artisan homes, its walls the color of aged pine and its eaves drooping slightly under the weight of time.
Bettina adjusted her cloak as she stepped out of the carriage, her boots touching down onto cobbled stone with quiet resolve. Jane followed close behind, her basket looped over one arm and her eyes wide with curiosity. Mage Henry, on the other hand, already went back home to await summons once the countess receives permission from the Earl to allow him to live within the Whitman Manor temporarily.
"This is the place," the Grand Duke said, nodding toward the modest but well-kept home attached to a busy workshop. The rhythmic tap of hammers and the whir of carving tools drifted from behind its open wooden gates.
Lady Whitman moved closer to him with the grace of a queen despite her simple cloak, her eyes scanning the scene before her—children darting between carts, a black cat lounging on a stoop, and the rhythmic hammering of craftsmen shaping wood into artistry.
Edward offered his arm. "The man who lives here is master of his craft—furniture so fine that half the nobility commissions him. But he's always resented nobles who waste his time."
"And we are not here to waste time," Lady Whitman replied evenly.
As they approached the entrance, a boy—barely in his teens—stood at the gate, his face pinched with determination as he pleaded with a man inside.
"Please, sir. Let me take Papa's place. He can't move his arm anymore—not since the timber fell. But I can work. I'm strong, I promise!" The boy's voice cracked with desperation.
The foreman inside shook his head. "You're a child, George. Go home to your mother."
George stood firm. "But I have experience! I worked with my dad for months!"
The older man looked uncomfortable. "It's not your place, George. You're a lad, not a laborer."
"If I don't work, we don't eat. Let me work, please!"
Mary Jane had already stepped forward before she realized what she was doing. "Excuse me," she said gently, her voice lifting with concern. "What happened to your father?"
The boy blinked up at her. "He got hurt two weeks ago. Broke his arm bad when a cartload of timber rolled over. They let him go. I want to take his place but they wouldn't let me."
Lady Whitman exchanged a glance with the Grand Duke. He arched a brow but said nothing.
Mary Jane knelt beside the boy, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes. "What's your name?"
"George. George Everly."
"And how old are you?"
"Thirteen, ma'am." He added the last part hastily, eyes flicking to her dress.
She took one of his hands and inspected it. His palms were rough, fingers calloused—hands that worked, not played.
"Your father's trade?"
"Carpentry. He taught me a lot."
"And you?"
"I helped him at jobs. And I made toys for my siblings." He pointed at his feet, looking rather pleased with himself. "Made these shoes too."
Mary Jane gave a small laugh. "They look very sturdy."
The boy flushed with pride. He reminded her of her brother. The resemblance tugged at her chest.
"Well, George Everly," Mary Jane said with a soft smile, "you've got grit. How would you like to help us instead?"
The Grand Duke leaned forward. "Lady Whitman is starting a new enterprise. We'll need a pair of steady hands and someone who can learn quickly."
George's eyes widened. "You'd let me work?"
Bettina straightened up; arms crossed in thought. "We're seeking apprentices," she said quietly, but with conviction. "You'll need to work hard. Obey rules. Keep your word."
George's chin lifted. "I will, I swear it."
The Grand Duke raised a brow, amused. "We'll need your mother's permission. But if she agrees… welcome aboard, lad."
A flicker of disbelief crossed the boy's face, followed by a light so pure it took Mary Jane's breath away. He nodded, almost too stunned to speak. "Yes, my lady. Thank you."
The Grand Duke's chuckle rumbled like distant thunder. "He's already better mannered than half my council."
"There is one condition though, George. You'll have to live with us for a while. We're still building the workhouse, so we'll be working from my home. You'll have your own room, meals, everything."
"Live with you?" he echoed, clearly stunned.
"You can visit your family twice a week. They can even visit you at my home to personally see your work environment. Sound fair?"
He nodded quickly. "That sounds like a dream!"
"I hope it is. Go tell your mother and father, gather your things, and meet us back here."
"I'll be fast!" he promised, then bolted away like someone had lit his shoes on fire.
The duke gave her a sidelong glance, clearly trying not to smile. "I believe the young man just became your first employee and your first rescue."
They entered the carpenter's workshop moments later, the conversation behind them still warm in the air. And just like that, George Hensley became the first soul touched by Lady Whitman's quiet rebellion.
The interior of the carpenter's workshop smelled richly of cut wood and beeswax, a warm, honest scent that clung to the walls like memory. Sawdust dusted the floors in golden flecks, and the sound of hammering had only just ceased when the Grand Duke stepped through the wide archway, Lady Whitman following close behind.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in his fifties—his graying beard neatly trimmed—rose from a workbench with practiced grace and gave a shallow bow. "Your Grace. A rare honor."
"Master Wenton," the Grand Duke replied with a genial nod. "Still turning Kingswood into art, I see."
"Not quite art," the man said with a chuckle. "But sturdy enough to last generations."
"Allow me to introduce my friend and business associate, Lady Whitman." Edward gestured formally to her.
Bettina stepped forward, offering a respectful tilt of her head. "It's a pleasure to meet you. His Grace tells me you're the best in the capital."
Wenton gave her a look of measured appraisal, and nodded once. "If the Grand Duke speaks well of me, I must be doing something right."
After a brief exchange of pleasantries, the conversation turned to business. Lady Whitman outlined her needs with just enough clarity so as not to divulge important aspects of their project before it is needed—uniform, smoothly cut wooden blocks for a balance game and modular pieces for a children's construction toy. Wenton listened, arms folded, the corners of his mouth tightening slightly.
"I can craft the first prototypes myself," he said at last. "But I don't take on mass production alone anymore—my hands aren't what they used to be. However," he added, glancing toward the back room, "I have two journeymen who've trained under me for years. Good lads. One's as precise as a ruler, the other can see flaws before they appear. I trust them."
Lady Whitman exchanged a glance with the Grand Duke, who gave her a slight nod of approval. She turned back to Wenton. "If they can match your standards, I'd like to meet them. Perhaps we can begin with a trial batch?"
Wenton grinned, pleased by her professionalism. "Fair terms. I'll call them in."
Wenton opened the side door of the workshop and let out a sharp whistle that echoed down the alley, followed by beckoning motions.
Moments later, two men entered—one with quiet steps and sharp eyes, the other ducking slightly beneath the frame, his boots trailing sawdust in a cheerful path.
"This is Elias Rourke," Wenton said, nodding to the lean man who offered only a polite dip of his head. "He doesn't talk much, but give him a pattern once and he'll carve it better than your imagination pictured it."
Lady Whitman's gaze swept over him curiously. His clothes were clean but well-worn, and there was a calm, unwavering focus in his expression. The countess returned his nod with a measured smile. "A pleasure, Mister Rourke."
Elias gave the faintest of smiles in return but said nothing.
"And this mountain here is Bram Huxley," Wenton added, slapping the broad-shouldered man on the back.
Bram beamed, his face ruddy with good humor. "Aye, milady. If it can be carved, bent, or balanced, I've likely tried it once or twice before. Might not be as pretty as Eli's work, but it'll hold up to a child's wrath, and that counts for something."
Mary Jane stifled a laugh, charmed despite herself.
"I believe your sturdiness may be precisely what we need," Lady Whitman said lightly, exchanging a glance with the Grand Duke.
The Grand Duke, who had been listening silently with a look of mild approval, finally spoke. "You'll be paid fairly, your names kept confidential should the venture succeed or fail, and you'll be working in a private wing of Whitman Manor. You may also live there for convenience if you need it. There will be no room for gossip."
"Indeed," agreed Lady Whitman. "We wish for our products to remain a secret from the general public until we are ready to distribute them in the market."
Eli gave a slow nod.
Bram scratched at his jaw, then grinned. "A quiet job, inside a fine house, working with good wood? You've got yourself a deal, Your Grace."
"Good," Lady Whitman said, rising. "Master Wenton, if you'd have them ready within the week, I'd be grateful. We'll send word with the carriage once arrangements are made."
Wenton inclined his head. "You'll have them. And they'll behave."
Lady Whitman offered her hand in gratitude. "Then I'll leave them in your good care."
As they stepped back into the afternoon light, the Grand Duke's coat catching a sudden breeze, Mary Jane whispered, "You think they'll be up for it?"
The Grand Duke didn't look back. "They're the best Wenton has. You'll see."
And with that, they completed mapping out their work arrangements with the two journeymen, and concluded their business.
The sun hung lower now, casting long amber shadows across the cobblestones as the Grand Duke's carriage waited patiently outside the carpenter's modest workshop. Wenton had returned to his craft, and the journeymen, eager yet focused, had gone back inside to prepare their tools for when they'd start working for them. Lady Whitman adjusted her gloves with quiet grace, glancing up just as the familiar figure of George came trotting back into view—his steps fast with purpose, his cheeks ruddy with excitement, and something bright and nervous glittering in his eyes.
George stopped a few feet from them, panting slightly. "Milady, Your Grace—I asked me mum and da. Da says he's proud. Mum nearly cried. But they both said... yes."
He stood straighter then, chin high despite the tremor in his voice.
Lady Whitman's smile bloomed like morning light. "Then we're honored to have you, George Everly."
The Grand Duke nodded approvingly. "Come. There's a seat waiting for you."
George looked to the polished carriage again—this time with less hesitation but no less awe. He climbed up slowly, as if trying not to wrinkle anything with his dusty boots, and settled onto the plush seat across from Lady Whitman. He didn't lean back, only perched on the edge, his cap pressed neatly on his lap.
"Reckon I've never sat on anything this soft before," he admitted after a long moment, eyes flicking to the tassels, velvet lining, and gold-etched interior.
Lady Whitman chuckled softly. "You'll get used to it."
"I don't want to get too used to it," George replied earnestly. "Else I might forget where I come from."
The Grand Duke gave a quiet, approving grunt. "Good lad."
As the carriage rolled forward, George's gaze lingered out the window, widening at every estate and fine building they passed. Marveling that the noble district was definitely like a different world compared to their own borough. By the time the great gates of Whitman Manor came into view, his mouth had parted in pure, unfiltered wonder.
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead lightly against the glass. "Whoa!"
Lady Whitman followed his gaze. The late afternoon light glinted off the estate's many-paned windows and danced across the gardens like fireflies in daylight. The stone wolves flanking the grand entrance seemed to stand taller at their arrival.
"It's not just a home," she said softly. "It's a responsibility. And everyone who walks through those gates has a role to play in protecting it."
George looked at her then—truly looked—his expression thoughtful beyond his years. "Then I'll do my part, milady. I promise."
For a moment, he sat utterly still, nose pressed against the windows.
"I never thought I'd be anywhere like this," he whispered.
Lady Whitman stepped beside him. "And yet, here you are."