The week that followed passed in a strange fever of longing.
Sophia no longer experienced the day in hours.
She experienced it in sightings.
A glimpse of him crossing the eastern lawn.
The sound of his laugh drifting faintly through open windows.
The way sunlight caught in his hair at luncheon.
She would wake and lie still for a moment, staring at the canopy above her bed, recalling the exact cadence of his voice the previous evening.
Did he smile when he spoke?
Had he leaned closer?
Had his sleeve brushed hers intentionally or by accident?
The smallest detail became monumental.
She replayed every exchange until memory blurred into imagination.
When she saw him at breakfast, she would lower her gaze demurely — but her mind raced.
He is here.
Under this roof.
Walking these same corridors.
Breathing the same air.
It felt unbearable and exquisite at once.
And beneath all of it, a growing dread.
Less than two weeks remained.
Twelve days.
Then eleven.
Then ten.
Time had become an adversary.
She could not allow him to leave without something of herself remaining behind.
Something tangible.
Something that might rest in his hand after he returned to university and remember her.
She remembered his words.
"I admire skill of the hand."
"Embroidery… a token."
He had not demanded it.
He had not even emphasized it.
But the idea had lodged itself firmly in her mind.
A gift made by a lady's hand.
She would become that lady.
Her embroidery skills, however, were modest at best.
She could stitch neat borders.
Simple florals.
Clean hems.
But nothing worthy of a count's son.
Certainly nothing worthy of an angel.
She would need something meaningful.
Something heraldic.
Something that spoke of lineage and honor.
A family crest.
Yes.
A handkerchief embroidered with his family crest.
A token. Subtle. Elegant.
Not a confession.
But a hint.
To accomplish this, she required knowledge.
And knowledge meant Fredrick.
Fredrick was the most studious of her brothers — perpetually surrounded by books, ink stains marking his fingers, hair slightly disheveled from restless thought.
She approached him cautiously in the library.
"Fredrick," she began, striving for casual composure, "are there volumes that catalog the crests of noble families?"
His eyes lit immediately.
"Of course there are," he replied eagerly. "Several."
"I should like to learn more of history," she added quickly. "Of other houses. Their rise. Their symbols."
Fredrick straightened with visible pleasure.
"I am gratified you asked me."
She resisted the urge to glance toward the garden.
He launched into an enthusiastic explanation of heraldic evolution over the past two centuries — detailing alliances, wars, rising families, fallen names.
He spoke of dukes and earls, of houses that had prospered and others diminished.
"One particularly fascinating figure," Fredrick added, pacing slightly, "is Marquis Edward Astor. Inherited his family estate at fourteen after tragedy. Now at twenty-four, he has built his holdings so remarkably that his fortune rivals that of many dukes — perhaps not ours," he added pointedly, "but certainly others. He has also recently discovered a mine on his lands and from what I have heard, it holds rare minerals and gems. But our household also owns quite a few mines," he gloated, "That's why mother is often in sapphires which are quite coveted by other ladies."
Sophia nodded vaguely.
Marquis Astor might as well have been a shadow on a distant hill and who cares about some shiny rocks.
Her mind was elsewhere.
"Yes, yes," she murmured politely. "And… the Erskines? Just curious since one of brother's friends is from that lineage." she fumbled for an explanation which would sound plausible enough to not give her intent away.
Fredrick paused.
"The Counts of Erskine?" Fredrick didn't seem too interested, almost dismissive, "Northern lineage. Established agricultural wealth. Their crest is distinctive."
Her heart leapt.
"Distinctive?"
"Yes. A bear holding a spear, framed by wheat."
A bear.
Holding a spear.
Framed by wheat.
She absorbed it carefully.
"A curious composition," she said softly.
"It reflects their region," Fredrick replied. "Northern strength. Agricultural prosperity."
"And what volumes can I find other family crests in?" she needed to divert his attention to make him think she was merely curious of history.
Fredrick smiled, pleased beyond measure, and retrieved ten heavy books from the library shelves — leather-bound, dust-kissed, filled with centuries of crests and genealogies.
"For thoroughness," he said grandly, "Ours is in the second book, it spans well over thirty pages since we were one of the first nobles during the founding of the nation." he looked super smug to belong to such a noble bloodline.
She accepted them with gratitude she did not fully feel.
Her thoughts were already stitching.
For two days she searched.
She flipped through pages meticulously, fingers brushing engraved illustrations of lions, eagles, serpents, shields, wheat sheaves, crossed swords.
Her breath caught when she found it.
There it was.
The Erskine crest.
A bear, standing upright, powerful forepaw wrapped around a spear.
Wheat framing the shield in graceful arcs.
It was more complex than she anticipated.
The bear's musculature detailed.
The spear angled.
The wheat symmetrical.
How was she to embroider a bear?
Wheat was manageable.
A spear was simple.
But a bear—
She stared at it.
Then lifted her chin.
She would do it.
The remaining days became a quiet frenzy.
She selected a fine linen handkerchief — one she had been saving for no particular reason. White. Unmarked. Smooth beneath her fingers.
She sketched the outline lightly in yellow chalk — hands trembling slightly.
Then she began.
Stitch by stitch.
Thread pulled carefully through linen.
Needle piercing fabric in patient rhythm.
Wheat first — golden thread curving gently.
The spear next — slender, precise.
Then—
The bear.
It was far more difficult than she had imagined.
Capturing the curve of muscle.
The tilt of head.
The grasp of paw.
She pricked her finger on the first attempt.
A bead of red surfaced instantly.
Wincing, she pressed it quickly against her lips before it stained the cloth.
She could not afford mistakes.
Every stitch felt monumental.
She worked in the mornings before breakfast.
In the afternoons instead of strolling.
At night by candlelight.
She missed two teatimes with Laurence.
Two.
That alone would once have been unthinkable.
Arthur noticed first.
"She is hiding," he declared at supper. "And she smells faintly of thread."
Fredrick adjusted his spectacles. "I believe she has developed an interest in heraldry. She was eagerly asking me all sorts of questions in the library about family crests and lineage. Ten volumes would be sure to keep her occupied for well over a week!"
Maxim shrugged, "She is safe in her room," he looked in Arthurs direction before adding something unnecessary, "Away from your mischief."
Fredrick gave out a slight laugh as Arthur's eyebrows furrowed, his mouth turning into a frown, "I'm being serious here!" Arthur declared, "Her fingers are red."
Laurence said nothing. But he had noticed.
He noticed her absence at two o'clock.
The faint exhaustion beneath her eyes.
The way she excused herself early from meals.
He had a suspicion.
But he did not voice it.
One evening, he carried a small tray of fruit and sugared almonds up the corridor to her chamber.
He knocked.
There was a sudden shuffle inside.
A hurried rustle of fabric.
"Come in," she called — slightly breathless.
He entered.
She sat near the window.
Book in hand as if to suggest she had been reading.
Too rehearsed.
Too deliberate.
The embroidery hoop lay half-hidden beneath a cushion.
A loose thread betrayed it.
He saw it immediately.
He saw the faint red pricks along her fingertips.
He saw the exhaustion beneath her composure.
"You have been absent," he observed calmly.
"I have been occupied," she replied lightly.
"With?"
She smiled.
"History." gesturing to the book in her hands with her eyes.
He stepped closer.
Picked up her hand gently.
Examined the pricks.
"History bleeds now?"
Her cheeks flushed.
"Some pages are sharper than others. You know how delicate a ladies fingers can be."
He studied her face.
Trying to decipher.
Trying to confirm what he already suspected.
She did not hide it well.
But she tried.
He released her hand slowly.
"You should not strain yourself," he said quietly. "You look tired."
"I am not."
She was.
He saw it.
He wished she would simply abandon it.
That she would return to two o'clock untouched.
Uncomplicated.
But he did not pry.
He did not mention Florian.
He did not accuse.
He placed the tray on her table.
"Eat something," he said gently. "And retire early."
He turned.
Left.
Closed the door softly behind him.
In the corridor, as he stood for a few moments his back facing her bedroom door, something dark rose within him.
It was no longer simple displeasure.
It was no longer mild displacement.
It was sharper.
Hotter.
She had never labored this way for anyone.
Never bled her fingers for token or praise.
And now—
For a man who would leave in days—
She stitched devotion into linen.
He felt something dangerously close to hatred flicker beneath his restraint.
Not explosive.
But coiling.
Toward Florian.
Toward the ease with which he had unsettled the order of De Montfort.
Toward the way Sophia had shifted her orbit.
Laurence descended the staircase slowly.
Composure intact.
But inside—
Conflict burned.
Inside her chamber, Sophia resumed stitching.
The bear's outline was nearly complete.
Her fingers ached.
But she smiled faintly.
He will hold this.
He will see it.
He will know I thought of him.
Even if he never understood how deeply.
She pulled the thread through once more.
And counted the days.