George tried not to gawk, but the sheer size of the estate made his eyes go wide. As the carriage slowed to a stop before the Whitman Manor's grand front steps, he leaned forward, nose nearly pressed against the glass window. The towering stone structure loomed over a wide lawn so precisely trimmed it might as well have been measured with a ruler. White limestone wolves guarded the entrance; each carved with powerful limbs and watchful eyes like they might pounce at any moment. He whispered under his breath, "Whoa."
He didn't move until the door opened, watching the two adults precede him from the carriage. They were larger than life. The Grand Duke stepped down first, his tailored coat snapping slightly in the wind. He turned and extended his hand to the woman who followed—Lady Whitman, her ivory gloves pristine against the gleaming black lacquer of the door frame. She stepped down like she owned the earth beneath her shoes. There was grace in her, but more than that—there was command.
George, watching her, still hadn't quite wrapped his mind around how someone could look like a queen and talk to him like a normal person. When she gestured for him to come next, he hesitated.
"Come on, George," she said with a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "I think you'll like it here."
He climbed down, and the moment his boots touched the cobbled path, his head tilted back as far as it could go. "It's bigger than the bakery, the milliner's, and the blacksmith's put together."
Lady Whitman's smile was not one of condescension. It held understanding—empathy. "It's a bit much at first, I know."
He nodded, eyes still wide.
The tall double doors opened, and the butler emerged at that moment. Mr. Clive's presence was a study in formality: impeccably dressed, his face composed, his movements measured. Yet his gaze flicked to the boy with interest.
"My lady. Your Grace." He said with a slight bow.
Lady Whitman offered a polite nod, but her gaze turned warm as she gestured to George. "This is George. He'll be staying with us for a time. I'd like a room prepared for him—something close to the staff quarters, but warm. He's not a servant. He's going to be helping me with my project."
Mr. Clive's eyes briefly dropped to George, noting the boy's patched clothes and wide-eyed awe. "Very good, my lady," he said. There was no hesitation in his tone—only a slight softening, as if he approved but was still deciding how much.
"He is not here to do household chores except in assisting me with my project, is that clear?"
There was a pause, then a nod. "Of course."
"And Mr. Clive?" Lady Whitman added.
"Yes, my lady?"
"Make sure he's fed first. The boy's traveled a long way, and no one should be made to work on an empty stomach."
Mr. Clive's brows lifted almost imperceptibly. "Quite right. I shall see to it at once." The butler, then gestured for George to follow him. "Come along now, George."
George's gaze had wandered to the grand staircase visible through the doors, to the flicker of polished brass and velvet carpets. He took a shaky step forward, then looked back at Lady Whitman.
"I've never seen anything like this."
She didn't laugh at him. She touched his shoulder lightly, guiding him toward the entrance. "Neither had I. The first time I came here… I think I was holding my breath."
George glanced at her, the awe slowly fading into something steadier. Trust, maybe.
And for the second time, quieter this time, he whispered, "Whoa."
Bettina and Edward shared a smile as they watched the boy slowly follow the butler inside the Manor, eyes still flying everywhere.
When the boy was beyond their sight, Lady Whitman turned fully to the man beside her. "It is quite late. You must be hungry as well. Would you like to stay for dinner?"
"Ah, Bettina," the Grand Duke sighed. "I would love that immensely. Alas, I have other business to attend to."
He really did look disappointed. "Alright. Next time then."
"That's a promise." Edward held out her hand, on which Bettina placed her hand, and he raised it up to his lips.
"Sure." She smiled. She was getting quite used to these mannerisms of the grand duke.
"Your company is a pleasure, as always. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yup. See you."
*****Let past and present interlace*****
The scent of warm cedar and citrus polish clung to the air as laughter rang softly from the drawing room—young, free laughter that hadn't echoed through the Whitman Manor in years. The drawing room was in chaos. At least, by Whitman standards. Cushions were strewn, one or two blocks had rolled beneath the couch, and the gleam in the two boys' eyes was brighter than any chandelier above them.
Even Nanny Jones in the corner, whose presence have been their constant shadow, couldn't keep her lips from twitching at the trio's antics around the coffee table.
Lady Whitman seemed to have shrugged off her sense of nobility altogether as she knelt on a velvet cushion beside Jason, her fingers carefully removing a hand-carved wooden block from the wobbling tower as the boy grinned up at her. George hovered close by, his eyes lit with wonder and the faintest glimmer of disbelief. There was awe in his expression, not just for the exquisite furnishings and golden sconces, but for being here at all, invited—welcomed—into a world that once seemed galaxies away.
The blocks teetered perilously, and Jason squealed with laughter as George ducked dramatically, arms flying up in the air like a soldier under fire.
"They're still standing!" She shouted triumphantly, her smile tugging higher than it had all day.
"It's gonna fall," Jason replied with a laugh.
George leaned closer to Jason and whispered, "This is the biggest room I've ever seen."
Jason, wide-eyed, nodded solemnly. "This isn't even the biggest one." He said innocently, without any hint of boastfulness.
Mary Jane watched them, her chest warm and full in a way that surprised her. She remembered these feelings. Joy. Belonging.
She knew these feelings even though they only manifested in her when a certain person was absent in this tiny home.
"Your turn, George," Mary Jane said gently, encouraging the boy.
He hesitated only for a moment, his fingers twitching nervously before he reached out, a breath caught in his throat. Jason leaned over with conspiratorial excitement. "Pick the one on the left—no, not that one! That one!"
The tower shuddered, then stilled. All three exhaled, and George looked up at her with something like gratitude.
The door opened behind them with a click that cut through the air like a sudden wind. The Earl of Whitman entered in silence, his eyes sweeping the scene—his son, radiant with childish joy; the countess, golden hair in a careless, yet somehow appealing, bun as was becoming more usual of her; and an unfamiliar boy with soot still smudged near his ear. His jaw tensed.
At his arrival, George shot up and bowed to him, the newcomer who exuded such a strong aura of nobility.
"Father!" It was Jason who greeted him first. He hopped off the cushions on the floor and paused just long enough to give a respectful nod—then hurried over. "You're home!"
"I'm home." The Earl replied with a smile and hugged the boy back. His eyes, though, were still trained on Lady Whitman.
Bettina rose with quiet poise, brushing her skirts. "This is George," she announced, as if daring him to challenge the warmth she now invited into their home. "He'll be living here under my employ. He has talent. Heart. And he was brave enough to ask for a chance."
The Earl nodded slowly, unreadable. "And this is because of your project?"
"Yes. I've also hired two journeymen," she said evenly, chin raised. "They'll be arriving soon. I intend to begin production within the week."
"May I speak with you?" His voice was polite, but clipped.
He wanted to speak privately? She wanted to decline, but knew it would be pointless. She knew that he might object to her bringing strangers into his home, but she needed those strangers. Mary Jane hesitated. She wasn't sure if speaking alone with him was a good idea. She hadn't seen any outward violence from the Earl before, just cold looks and sarcastic remarks. But of course, she also didn't know the limits to his tolerance. She looked down at the two boys who were busy starting a new game.
"Are you coming or not?" Came a cold question from the Earl.
Clenching her hands in her skirts, she braced herself for whatever may come.
She followed him to his study, the warmth of the drawing room replaced by cold paneling and colder tension. The door clicked shut behind them, and the silence lingered.
He folded his arms. "How serious is this… endeavor?"
Her gaze met his, unflinching. "As serious as I've ever been."
"So, you're working with the Grand Duke on this project of yours." It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"And are you planning to mass produce and sell your toy in the market?" The Earl leaned back on his mahogany table; arms still folded.
"Yes, we are," came her measured reply.
"Why didn't you just come to me and asked for my help? The Sutherland Trading Company is big enough and wealthy enough to invest in your business idea."
"I… wanted to do this on my own. Without your company's backing," she answered honestly.
His frown deepened. "The Sutherland Trading Company is not just mine, Countess. It is also yours." The Earl corrected her. "I may be the leader of the group right now, but this company has been founded and built from scratch by your own parents and by my father. It is our company."
Mary Jane felt a slight pinch in her chest. As if her body reacted instinctively in the Earl's words. "Nevertheless," she countered. "It doesn't feel right to me."
Mary Jane was honestly reluctant to use Bettina's own money and riches for her own purposes. Ultimately, it wasn't actually her money. And whatever money she could earn through her own business venture, would certainly help her in a lot of different ways especially in this fantasy world full of mystery.
"You're already wealthy, Countess. Independently so. Why get your hands all dirty?"
She hesitated, then said quietly, "Because wasting one's life is a far greater tragedy than losing one's fortune."
Something in him shifted—barely. A twitch of the mouth. A flicker in those sapphire-colored eyes.
And she knew then—he wasn't angry. He was afraid. Not of her… but of the way she now moved like a storm that could undo everything familiar. The evil countess had vanished. In her place stood a quiet woman with a clear purpose.
And still, his voice was soft when he asked, "Is this about freedom?"
She tilted her head, her smile returning. "It's for me. For a dream I've had since before I came here. Something kind and joyful."
He stared at her.
No, she wanted to say. It's about healing. About honoring dreams that belonged to a woman named Mary Jane and a boy named Ethan. About a new life, built not on ashes, but on heart.
Instead, she said only, "It's about living."
And she saw it—there, in his eyes. That flicker. That whisper of something unguarded.
"What are you afraid of?" she asked softly.
He exhaled sharply and looked away. "That this… will change everything."
She stood her ground, her voice light but steady. "Maybe change is exactly what we need."
For a moment, she thought he might argue. But instead, he sighed and said quietly, "Maybe."
And that was enough.
In the stillness that remained, long after the countess had left, Anthony felt something within him. Something cracked in him. Not enough to shatter—but enough to let the light in.
*****Let fate restore her rightful place*****
While everyone within the Whitman Manor slumbered this quiet night, an urgent meeting was being held in another place, a place far away that was too hidden and too remote to find. The air in the underground chamber was thick with the scent of incoming rain and something more unsettling—fear.
The chamber was dim, choked in shadow save for the flickering glow of a single oil lamp. Using magical implements were never their custom, especially during covert meetings like this, because magic was always traceable.
The stone walls sweated with moisture, as every whispered breath of wind that snuck in from the cracks above caused that lamp's light to flicker, casting tall, dancing silhouettes across stone walls. The flame was never steady—like the truth they were trying to bury. Shadows danced across faces half-hidden beneath hoods and scarves, their identities concealed even from each other. They trusted no one. Confided in no one.
A long, polished table stretched between them, an unspoken boundary none dared cross.
One man shifted in his seat. The leather of his gloves creaked softly as he laced his fingers together. "He's digging," he said, voice low and sharp. "Port Elbridge. Aurenport. Internal audits. Route reallocations. It's not just a quarterly adjustment. The Earl is circling."
Another leaned forward from the opposite end, a silver ring gleaming faintly on his finger. "He's growing too bold. Perhaps the Countess is whispering in his ear now."
"Impossible," the third said quickly—too quickly. "She has no influence."
A pause.
In light of the recent gossips that were circling high society, it was a little difficult for them to accept that.
"Regardless," said the man with the gloves, "we underestimated him. He's not drunk on comfort like his father. This one wants order."
"Or power," muttered the fourth. His voice carried a hint of bitterness. "A man asking too many questions usually wants the answers for himself."
Someone chuckled—dry and bitter.
At the far end, a figure who had remained silent until now finally spoke.
Unlike the rest, he wore no hood. He didn't need one. His face was the only authority they still bowed to.
He had once been a prince after all.
"We underestimated him," the fallen royal said softly, each word a silken blade. "Our mistake. But mistakes can be corrected. And if Lord Whitman wishes to meddle in affairs too vast for his station, then we shall simply...change the game."
Silence followed, heavy and expectant.
His tone was colder, smoother. Regal, but sharp. Measured. "What we built must not be touched by anyone other than us. If he continues to pry, we respond. Quietly. Thoroughly. Deliberately."
The others glanced toward him, wary even in his silence.
The fallen prince.
He had not claimed the name, but none in the room doubted who he once was. Or what he still believed he deserved.
"How?" someone asked, almost fearfully.
"Divide the suspicion," the prince answered smoothly. "Arrange for someone else to take the fall—perhaps a loud, ambitious partner. Someone known to gamble or take to other, expensive vices."
Another voice broke in, panicked now. "And the rerouting of shipments? He'll notice the delays. The discrepancies—"
"Then let us give him no discrepancies to find," the prince replied with chilling calm. "Real goods will move where he expects them. Only the value will change. Quality slightly diluted. Contents slightly misreported. It's been done before."
"What about the internal audits?"
"Bribe the accountants and the auditors. Rotate them. And if that doesn't work—replace them."
Every eye around the oil lamp looked at each other. Minds already making plans and calculations.
"If they cannot be bribed, then the auditors can be redirected," he continued. "The records… manipulated. A few unfortunate accidents, delays, misplaced ledgers. Our people are still embedded deep."
"And Port Elbridge?"
"There are too many eyes on it now. We remove the cargo. Divert it before inspection. Let them chase shadows."
A pause.
The one by the torch gave a harsh laugh. "Easy to say. Not so easy to do. Especially with that damned Duke sniffing around."
The prince rose slowly, deliberately. "Then we shall distract the duke."
"How?" several voices asked in unison.
"Give him what he wants. Scandal. Rumors. Let him chase shadows of rebellion in the east or sedition in court. Feed him whispers of treason that leads nowhere. And while he chases ghosts…" He let the sentence drift, his meaning as clear as the lightning that split the sky overhead.
Then another voice—a new one, younger, but tense with fear—spoke up from the side. "And if the Earl uncovers the off-ledgers? The smuggling docks? The bribes?"
A silence fell.
The prince's expression did not change.
"He won't," he said simply. "Not if we bleed the trail dry before he follows it. All we have to do is be even more meticulous, make sure our tracks are well covered."
"And if we get caught?" asked the gloved man.
The prince gave a long, slow look around the table, each man straightening under the weight of it.
"Then we remind him why his father left certain doors unopened."
Thunder cracked.
No one moved.
"We've come too far," the prince murmured. "Lost too much. There will be no collapse. Not now."
Outside, the storm finally broke, rain hammering the stones above. Inside, ten men remained in silence, men who were each leading their own men, each of them weighing the cost of shadows and secrets, and the fire of a cause they no longer dared to name aloud.
*****As flesh and spirit now entwine*****
Days have passed and the lives of each citizen of the empire continue on. Shipments in ports come and go, goods in the markets were bought and sold, while peoples' plans get carried out on their own times. Meanwhile, in the Whitman Manor within the capital, their recently frequent visitor was there once again to share in the Lady's triumph at the completion of the second stage of their first project. They were also now planning for its third.
The morning sun filtered through the mullioned windows of Whitman Manor's drawing room, casting a golden hue over the embroidered carpet where Lady Whitman and the Grand Duke sat facing one another. There was a stillness between them—pregnant with anticipation—as their conversation drifted from polite musings to the practicalities of a grand idea.
"A tea party," Lady Whitman said, her fingers loosely clasped around her teacup. "Not too large, but not so intimate that it's ignored. Just enough to stir curiosity. It must feel exclusive."
The Grand Duke leaned forward, amusement tugging the corners of his mouth. "You mean to entice the aristocracy through social hunger, not intellectual intrigue."
"Precisely," she returned with a small smile.
"Are you certain it must be a tea party?" he asked with a small smirk. "You do remember what happened the last time you hosted a public affair?"
Lady Whitman laughed under her breath. "If we keep reminding everyone, no one will remember to move on."
"We both know they've never stopped talking about it."
"That's why this must be perfect." She held up a piece of their prototype—sleek, polished wooden block taken from the ones stacked with symmetry on the coffee table. "We aren't simply offering tea and sweets. We're introducing something new. Something revolutionary."
"A toy," he said, smiling wryly.
"A bridge," she corrected, "between children and parents. Between learning and leisure. And," she added, glancing up with steel in her gaze, "between what I used to be and what I intend to become."
The Grand Duke's amusement softened to respect. "Then we'll make it an afternoon tea they won't soon forget."