Chapter 17
NATALIE
Iwoke to the bitter chill of the coastal morning creeping through the thin gaps in the floorboards.
The fire in the cast-iron stove had burned down to fine, white ash during the night.
I lay perfectly still under the thick, coarse wool blankets, staring up at the exposed wooden beams of my loft ceiling.
My breath plumed in the freezing air, a small, pale cloud in the dim light.
The physical sensation of the empty bed beside me felt sharp, distinct, and absolutely necessary.
I missed the illusion of the partner I thought I had married, rather than the physical warmth of the man who once occupied the space next to me.
Throwing back the blankets, I swung my legs over the side of the mattress.
My bare feet flinched against the freezing wood.
I pulled a thick, oversized knit sweater over my head, the rough yarn scratching against my skin, a stark and grounding contrast to the imported silk nightgowns the palace dressers had constantly pushed upon me.
I walked down the narrow, creaking staircase into the small kitchen area of the loft.
The room smelled of old woodsmoke, dried herbs hanging from the rafters, and the faint, ever-present tang of the sea.
I moved to the counter, pouring dark beans into the grinder.
The physical effort of turning the crank sent a jolt of energy up my arm.
The earthy scent of roasted coffee bloomed in the cold air, pushing away the lingering, phantom smells of the capital, the cloying perfumes and the sterile air of the grand corridors.
I filled the kettle from the copper tap and set it on the stove, striking a long wooden match against the stone hearth.
The sulfur flared, sharp and acrid, before catching the dry cedar kindling.
I watched the flames lick the edges of the wood, feeling the sudden, fierce heat against my face.
The fire demanded fuel, oxygen, and attention.
It lived. It consumed. It felt infinitely more real than the bloodless, carefully orchestrated life I had left behind in the royal court.
Waiting for the water to boil, I looked down at my left hand.
The skin on my fourth finger remained pale, a distinct, unmarked band where the plain gold wedding band had rested for three years.
The simple gold circle had been a symbol of absolute security, a promise forged in the grandest cathedral in the realm under the eyes of a thousand nobles.
It became a chain. Henrik possessed a brilliant, calculating mind.
He ruled with logic, managing the kingdom through ledgers, treaties, and precise schedules.
He looked at our marriage through an identical clinical lens.
When the distance between us grew into a gaping chasm, he did not reach across it.
He sent his secretary to deliver apologies.
He dispatched a page with a velvet box containing diamond earrings to compensate for missed dinners.
He treated my loneliness as an administrative error to be corrected through delegated tasks and treasury drafts.
“You cannot delegate a soul,” I said to the empty room, my voice swallowed by the hiss of the boiling kettle.
I poured the steaming water over the grounds, the dark liquid pooling in my chipped mug. Carrying the hot cup, I pushed open the solid wooden door leading to the wraparound deck.
The wind hit me instantly, a brutal, freezing gale that snatched breath from my lungs.
I gripped the railing, squinting against the stinging salt spray.
The sky hung low and gray, pregnant with a massive storm rolling in from the open ocean.
The sea churned below, a chaotic expanse of dark water crashing fiercely against the jagged rocks of Oakhaven.
This brutal landscape was my home. I needed the salt air.
I needed the biting cold of the coast to freeze the memory of the palace out of my mind.
The royal court felt like a gilded cage built of silk and polite condescension.
I could still smell the cloying perfume of the courtiers, a scent that masked the ruthless ambition rotting beneath their pristine velvet coats.
I turned my back to the ocean and stepped into the attached cellar.
The air inside smelled of damp earth, oak barrels, and yeast. I set my mug on a workbench and walked over to the wooden wine press.
A heap of winter-harvested berries sat waiting in a sorting crate.
I dug the heels of my hands into the wooden press, scrubbing down the slatted oak frame with a stiff bristle brush.
The physical strain radiated up my forearms, a welcome, grounding ache.
I rinsed the wood, pressed the bristles deep, and scrubbed again.
Over and over, I repeated the motion, clearing away the dried residue of the last pressing, forcing my own frantic thoughts into a singular, brutal rhythm.
Three days had passed since I walked out of the capital.
The journey back to Oakhaven remained a blur of rocking carriage wheels, endless muddy roads, and the ceaseless drumming of rain against the wooden roof.
The coachman had offered to stop at a roadside inn, citing the dangerous weather and the exhausted horses.
I had refused. I needed to get back to the mud, the vines, the real world.
I scrubbed the wood harder, gritting my teeth as a sharp pang seized my chest. My mind drifted back to the day we met.
Henrik had come to Oakhaven to inspect the naval shipyard, surrounded by a phalanx of royal guards.
I was selling my father’s vintage in the open-air market, my apron stained with dark grape must, my hair tied back with a leather thong.
He had stopped at my stall, his piercing blue eyes locking onto mine.
He looked at me with a hunger that stripped away all my defenses.
He claimed he loved my fire, my independence, my refusal to bow to convention.
He courted me with a relentless, consuming passion that made me believe I could survive the suffocating atmosphere of the capital.
I walked over to a rack of fermenting glass demijohns, each vessel holding the potential of a new vintage.
The wooden floor groaned as I knelt. I grabbed the siphon tube, preparing to draw a sample from a large glass carboy.
Dipping my hands into a bucket of clean water, I wiped down the neck of the glass container.
The cold water mixed with the sticky residue of yeast on my skin, creating a slick film that coated my wrists.
The task demanded precision as I siphoned the fermenting liquid to check its clarity.
My muscles bunched and tightened, stabilizing the delicate glass.
This was honest work. The wine must demanded absolute presence, absolute attention, or a single mistake would ruin the entire batch with vinegar.
Henrik never understood this. He looked at my hands, stained with dark grape skins and calloused from hauling oak casks, with a mixture of confusion and polite distaste.
He had once offered me a pair of imported silk gloves, suggesting I protect my skin before a royal gala.
He wanted a pristine porcelain doll to stand beside him on the balcony.
He got a woman who bled, who sweat, and who demanded a partner willing to stand in the storm with her.
I monitored the slow rise of the fermenting bubbles, adjusting the airlock to ensure a steady release of pressure.
The liquid remained dark and unyielding.
The memory of leaving him rushed back, sharp and uninvited.
I had walked through the grand corridors, my leather boots leaving faint tracks on the crimson carpets.
The guards had bowed their heads, their polished armor clinking in the unnatural silence of the hall.
I entered Henrik’s private study. The room smelled of lemon polish and ancient, dry paper.
The massive mahogany desk sat perfectly organized, a monument to his absolute control over the realm.
I placed the divorce papers precisely in the center of his leather blotter.
I slid the gold ring from my finger, feeling the sudden, strange lightness in my hand.
The ring landed on the parchment with a final, definitive click.
A sudden, brutal crash of thunder rattled the windows of my cellar, shattering the memory. I jolted, my hand slipping as I held the siphon. The glass demijohn tipped, crashing against the stone floor, the fermenting must spilling out in a dark, foaming pool.
I cursed under my breath, staring at the shattered glass.
The storm outside had escalated into a raging tempest. The wind shrieked through the gaps in the old timber walls, bringing a bitter draft that raised goosebumps on my damp arms. I grabbed a coarse linen towel and scrubbed the red must from my hands, the rough fabric scratching my skin.
A deep, groaning rumble vibrated through the floorboards, distinct from the thunder.
It sounded like the earth itself was tearing apart.
I froze, the towel clutched to my chest. The noise rose from the base of the cliff, a sickening scrape of massive stones shifting against one another.
My cellar sat precariously close to the edge of the bluff, supported by an ancient retaining wall built by the first settlers of Oakhaven.
The relentless rain was washing the foundation away.
I dropped the towel and ran to the large, floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the slope. Condensation blurred the glass. I wiped it away with the side of my hand, pressing my face close to the cold pane.