The morning sun spilled warmly across the front steps of Whitman Manor, glinting against the polished stone and setting the sprawling gardens ablaze in vibrant color. A crisp breeze carried the scent of early-blooming roses as Lady Whitman stood in the courtyard, carefully supported by Jane and a discreetly placed walking cane.
George's family clustered near the waiting carriage, their simple traveling clothes a stark contrast to the grandeur of the manor, but no one seemed to care. The children—George's siblings—were practically vibrating with excitement after spending a night inside a house grander than anything they had ever imagined.
George's mother approached shyly, her hands clasping something carefully bundled in soft linen.
"My lady…" she began, her voice a little tremulous. "This…this is not much, but..."
She hesitated, fumbling awkwardly. Lady Whitman stepped forward with a warm smile, her cane tapping lightly against the stones.
"Whatever it is, I am sure it will be precious to me," she said gently.
With tears shining in her eyes, the woman unwrapped the bundle, revealing a handmade shawl — woven in simple but sturdy patterns of muted blue and cream. The yarn was uneven in places, the stitching imperfect, but it radiated care and earnestness in every knot.
"I made it… for you. For your kindness to my boy. To our family."
Lady Whitman felt an unexpected tightness in her throat. She reached out, smoothing a hand reverently over the rough weave.
No jeweled crown or brocaded robe in the entire empire could have meant more to her at that moment.
"Thank you," she said, her voice low and heartfelt. "I shall treasure it."
Carefully, she draped the shawl over her shoulders. It was a little coarse, a little scratchy against her skin—but it was warm. Real. Comforting.
George's mother curtsied deeply, her eyes glistening, and the entire family offered their grateful goodbyes. George himself hesitated, then ducked in to hug her briefly around the waist before dashing off after his family, embarrassed.
Lady Whitman watched their carriage rattle down the lane, the laughter of children floating back on the breeze, until they disappeared from sight.
It was only then that she noticed the Earl standing just a few paces away, his arms crossed, watching her with an inscrutable expression.
"That was... well done," he said quietly.
Lady Whitman, still touched by the moment, smiled ruefully. "I hardly did anything. It was they who were kind."
There was a brief, almost fond silence between them before the Earl's expression shifted, tightening slightly.
"I waited until their departure to trouble you with news," he said. "But you ought to know: the culprit who dropped the flower pot upon you has been caught."
Lady Whitman stiffened slightly, gripping her cane tighter.
"Who?" she asked with a sick twist in her gut.
The Earl's mouth was grim.
"Sarah. One of your attendants." He paused, studying her face carefully. "It seems she fled immediately after the incident, which made her absence all the more suspicious. After a few days' search, my men found her hiding in a poorhouse on the southern edge of the city."
Lady Whitman's lips parted in shock.
Sarah—the same girl who had sneered so often behind polite smiles, shirking her duties, and who had pushed her to social events before she was ready—Sarah had tried to kill her?
"She has been held in the manor's lower cells since her capture," the Earl continued. "I was reluctant to trouble you until your recovery was more secure."
A thousand thoughts swirled in Lady Whitman's mind. Anger. Fear. Confusion—strange and unwelcome.
And yet... beyond all that, there was a need. A deep, aching need to understand.
"I wish to speak with her," Lady Whitman said firmly, her cane tapping once against the ground.
The Earl's brows drew together in disapproval.
"Bettina, there's no need for you to meet her. She's an attempted murderer. I only told you of her capture just to—"
"I need to," Lady Whitman interrupted, softer this time but just as unyielding.
There was a long pause.
Finally, the Earl gave a curt nod.
"If you insist... I will accompany you."
Lady Whitman expected nothing less.
He offered his arm wordlessly, and she took it—the warmth of his skin grounding her—as he carefully led her toward the narrower servants' corridor that sloped down into the manor's underbelly.
The heavy door to the manor's lower dungeons groaned on its hinges as it opened, the cold air carrying with it the scent of damp stone and rusted iron. Anthony, Earl of Whitman, stepped inside first, his tall figure cutting a severe silhouette against the torchlight. One hand rested lightly on Lady Whitman's elbow as she followed carefully behind him, her injured leg still slightly stiff from the recent fracture.
He glanced sideways at her. "If you change your mind, say the word," he said under his breath, his voice low and protective.
Lady Whitman shook her head gently. "I must speak with her."
Anthony frowned but gave a curt nod. He led her down the narrow passage until they reached the far end, where Sarah sat slumped against the wall of her cell. The girl's dress was rumpled and stained; the fire of resentment that once burned so brightly in her eyes was now reduced to exhausted embers.
Sarah looked up as they approached. Her gaze flickered briefly with guilt—and defiance.
Anthony unlocked the cell door but held it open only a crack.
"You'll have five minutes," he said quietly, looking directly at Lady Whitman. "I'll be just outside."
Their eyes held for a moment—a silent agreement of trust—before she stepped inside.
The door clanged shut behind her with an ominous finality.
Lady Whitman limped forward and sat carefully on the worn stool across from Sarah. For a long moment, neither spoke, the only sounds the distant drip of water and the crackle of torches on the walls.
At last, Lady Whitman broke the silence.
"Why?" she asked, her voice soft but steady.
Sarah stiffened. Her fingers clenched into fists in her lap. "Would you even understand?" she muttered, bitterness thick in her tone.
"Try me."
Sarah's jaw worked as if wrestling with the words she'd locked inside herself for years. Then, like a dam breaking, they came spilling out.
"You ruined my sister," she hissed. "She was just a maid, just a girl who tripped over a carpet and broke your precious necklace. And for that...you had her whipped until her legs were mangled! Her legs rotted. When the healer arrived, it was too late. We had to amputate her legs from the knees down. She lays in a bed even now, unable to do anything without anyone's help—"
Sarah's voice cracked, and she turned away to wipe at her face roughly.
As she spoke, fragmented memories flooded Lady Whitman's mind—
—The cruel, snarling figure of the original Countess Whitman, meting out the punishment herself with trembling wrath.
—A terrified young maid sobbing, her legs useless, as she was dragged away.
—The sickening sound of lashes striking flesh until the whip reached the bones.
Mary Jane's heart twisted, almost vomiting at the visions that flashed across her closed lids. She, just a random soul within the countess's body, was not responsible for those crimes—but she bore the consequences now. And the guilt was no less real for it. She gulped for air deeply to settle her insides.
"I'm sorry," Lady Whitman whispered. "More than you can know."
Sarah let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. "Sorry? Sorry won't fix her legs! Sorry won't fix our lives!"
"No," Lady Whitman agreed. "It won't."
She shifted slightly, grimacing at the soreness in her leg.
"But maybe something can."
Sarah turned to look at her warily.
"I can't undo the past," Lady Whitman said steadily. "Especially if it is a past that I could not remember. But I can do something now. I promise that I will do everything I can to find a way to help your sister." She leaned forward, earnestness burning in her eyes.
"And once I find a way, I'll make sure she receives it. I'll also set aside a stipend for her care—enough to live comfortably without needing to work again."
Sarah stared at her, suspicion and hope warring across her face.
"But..." Lady Whitman added firmly, "you cannot stay here. You endangered my son. You endangered innocent lives. And for that, there must be consequences."
Sarah swallowed hard. Would it really be possible to help her sister? But as she looked directly at Lady Whitman's earnest eyes, for the first time since she started serving the countess, she finally saw what the others have been saying lately.
Her defiance finally crumbled.
"I'll do it," she whispered. "I'll do whatever you say."
Lady Whitman rose carefully from the stool, favoring her injured leg. She extended a hand—not to shake, but simply as a gesture of grace. Sarah looked at it, stunned, before lowering her head in a silent, shuddering nod.
The cell door opened again with a creak. Anthony was there; his brow furrowed as he assessed the emotional weight lingering in the air.
Lady Whitman turned to him and said quietly, "I'd like to speak with you. Privately."
He nodded once, motioning for a guard to take custody of Sarah.
They walked back through the dungeon passage slowly, Lady Whitman's pace measured by her healing leg. Once they were out of earshot, she paused by a narrow window where the pale rays of the afternoon sun spilled across the stones.
"I'm not pressing charges," she said, turning to face him. "But I've ordered her banishment from Whitman Manor."
Anthony folded his arms across his chest. His eyes, so often sharp and calculating, softened as he listened.
"She has a sister," Lady Whitman continued. "An invalid... because of… the former me… because of the former Countess' cruelty." She met his gaze without flinching. "I cannot fix what's broken, but I can at least ensure her sister lives a dignified life."
He was silent for a long moment.
Then he reached out—hesitantly, as if unsure of his welcome—and lightly brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"You're not the woman you once were," he said quietly.
Her heart gave a painful, confusing twist. She felt the heaviness of the responsibilities left by the original Countess Whitman, but she was grateful for the words of kindness bestowed by the Earl nonetheless.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Anthony's hand fell away, but his eyes held hers—filled not just with approval, but something deeper. Something dangerous and beautiful taking root between them.
"Come," he said at last, offering his arm. "You need rest."
Once more, Anthony gently lifted her up in his arms, unwilling to let her walk again.
And as she accepted his support, she knew with sudden clarity:
This was no longer a mere truce between two adversaries.
This was the beginning of something far more complicated...and far more precious.
*****And hush thy mind*****
After carrying Bettina up to her bedchamber and leaving her to the ministrations of her attendant, Anthony went back down to the dungeons.
The Earl stood silent for a long moment, his sharp gaze never leaving Sarah's pale, trembling face.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low but firm—the voice of a man who commanded armies and estates alike.
"You are fortunate," he said, each word crisp and deliberate, "that the Countess has chosen mercy over retribution. In another household, your actions would have cost you your life or, at the very least, earned you an eternity at the gallows."
Sarah flinched, tears slipping down her cheeks.
"But mercy," he continued, "does not mean freedom from consequence."
He stepped closer, his terrifying presence filling the small stone chamber.
"You will not return to service within this household," he pronounced. "Instead, you will be placed in the care of the Sisters of Saint Marien, where you will labor under their strict discipline until you have paid your debt to society through good works."
Remembering Bettina's broken leg and screams of pain, the Earl's voice hardened just slightly.
"You will be given food, clothing, and shelter—but your days will be spent in service to the poor and the sick. Perhaps, in doing so, you will find a better purpose for the anger that nearly ruined you."
He waited a beat, letting the words settle heavily in the cool air.
"And mark me," he added, his tone dropping into a dangerous quiet, "if you ever raise a hand in violence again—toward the Countess, or anyone else—you will answer to me. And next time, I will not stay my hand."
Sarah dropped to her knees, sobbing openly now, bowing her forehead to the cold stone floor.
"Thank you, my lord," she whispered, voice hoarse. "Thank you, most especially to her ladyship."
The Earl merely turned and left.
*****Through threads unseen*****
The morning sun poured in gently through the open windows, bringing with it the fresh scent of late-blooming roses. Lady Whitman sat comfortably in the drawing room, her leg no longer bandaged but still propped up on a cushioned stool, a soft shawl—the gift from George's mother—draped over her shoulders. She had barely set aside the latest ledger Mage Henry had left for her when the butler entered, his voice polished and calm.
"Grand Duke Edward Chambers has arrived, my lady."
Before she could even arrange her skirts modestly, the Grand Duke swept into the room with the energy of a man who had never been properly taught the concept of knocking. His coat, an elegant shade of forest green, matched the mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
"Well, well, well. So, it's true," he drawled as he approached, bowing extravagantly. "First your hands, now your leg. At this rate, my dear friend-by-affection, I ought to have you swaddled in Mage Henry's best cushioning spells, like a precious artifact!"
Lady Whitman couldn't help but laugh, though it sent a small jolt of soreness through her side. "If you think that will stop me, Edward, you sorely underestimate my stubbornness."
"Not at all," he grinned, settling himself in a nearby armchair with the ease of a man claiming familiar territory. "I fully expect you to invent something even enchantments couldn't withstand."
She chuckled, pleased to feel so light-hearted. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today, Edward?"
He leaned forward, clasping his hands together. "Business, my dear Bettina. Glorious, profitable business."
At her raised brow, he elaborated. "First—the building we discussed? Purchased and secured. A fine structure on Bellmont Street, just a stone's throw from the Royal Market Square. Workshop in the back, shopfront on the main floor, storage and offices above. Prime location."
Lady Whitman's heart swelled with excitement. "That's wonderful news!"
He lifted a hand. "Second—demand for our toys is surging, particularly among the nobility. Several households have even sent private messengers requesting custom versions."
Her smile widened, pride threading through her chest. "We'll need to expand production immediately."
"Indeed. Which brings me to third—" Edward's grin turned slightly sheepish, "—it would be awfully nice if we could hurry along the second toy design you mentioned. The little...building blocks?"
She laughed softly, recognizing the twinkle of mischief in his voice. "Ah. You mean the 'Build-A-Wonder' sets."
He snapped his fingers. "A fine name! Much better than what I had—I was going to call them 'Snapwood.'"
"Snapwood?" she teased. "Truly, Your Grace?"
He placed a hand to his heart in mock injury. "I am a soldier, not a poet."
"Then, we'll need to hire a few more people." Still chuckling, she gestured toward the servant standing discreetly near the door. "Please fetch Mage Henry. There's much to discuss."
A few minutes later.
Mage Henry entered, his cloak slightly covered with sawdust, a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. His brows lifted at the sight of both the Grand Duke and Lady Whitman waiting for him.
"You summoned me, my lady?" he asked with a teasing lilt. "Am I to heal another limb today, or are we drafting battle plans for toys?"
Lady Whitman smiled warmly. "Neither, I hope. First, I wished to thank you again, Mage Henry. You saved my leg."
Mage Henry inclined his head, a bit more seriously. "It was my honor. Few mages can claim to heal such a cleanly reset fracture—thanks also to your brave physician."
With gratitude acknowledged, she moved on. "I have another project that I hope you could help me on. One that is perhaps even more meaningful to me."
Curious now, Mage Henry set down his satchel and sat down on one of the cushioned seats. Lady Whitman's voice softened, touched by memory and determination.
"I want to create a new kind of wheelchair," she said. "One light enough to be handled by the user, strong enough to carry even an adult, and—most importantly—mechanized."
Henry blinked. "Mechanized?"
"I want it to move on its own without needing to be pushed," she explained, her fingers sketching the air with invisible diagrams. "A small button or a simple voice spell to control movement. We could enchant lightweight metal, craft it carefully, make it practical and affordable. You know, like the enchantments on the lamps." She gestured on the lamps along the drawing room wall.
The mage rubbed his chin thoughtfully, spying some beginner-level magical books strewn along with her sketches on the coffee table. "It's ambitious...but not impossible. Particularly with modern forging techniques. Have you been studying magic, my lady?"
"Oh, just trying to learn a little bit about magic circles and sigils," she waved the question away. "They're a bit difficult to understand but quite interesting to read on about."
Grand Duke Edward whistled low. "You intend to remake the world, don't you Bettina?"
Lady Whitman smiled, feeling the fire of her old dreams burning brightly inside her. "No, Your Grace. Only to make it a little kinder."
The two men exchanged a glance—respectful, a little in awe—and Mage Henry dropped into a nearby chair, already pulling parchment and quill from his bag.
"Tell me everything," he said.
And so, together, they began to dream a new future—one invention at a time.
It was very lucky indeed that Lady Whitman's healing was progressing quite well because the following days were a flurry of activities that washed over the residents of Whitman Manor like a storm.