Chapter 29
Chapter twenty-nine
The carriage turned around the bend, revealing Nin’s new home.
A quiet cottage lay beyond the city, tucked beneath a canopy of trees saturated by the warm glow of the sun.
The structure, built with white stone, was adorned with ivy and blossoms, while its open windows allowed the gentle scents of petrichor and pine to drift in.
The thatched roof slanted downwards, with smoke gracefully curling from the chimney.
A cobbled pathway led toward the wooden door, continuing around a small garden brimming with flowers and herbs.
Two wooden rocking chairs sat perpendicular to one another, perfectly framing the door.
Upon one, a familiar figure rocked back and forth—their blond hair cut and combed into a popular style among country folk.
The young man placed his foot down, halting his rocking as he stood when the carriage approached.
Alain!
The carriage wheels hadn’t begun their last roll over the loose gravel when Nin flung the door open. She raced up the path, heart beating out of her chest. Hot tears burned at the corners of her eyes when her brother met her halfway.
Their arms met and fiercely clung to each other. Tears fell, streaming down Nin’s cheeks as she relished his warmth and solid presence beneath her embrace, anchoring her to the moment, reminding her that this wasn’t a dream—he was real and alive.
Alive!
She silently sent a prayer of gratitude to the Maker for the miracle. His shoulders were broader, his build filled out and not hollowed by illness and hunger. The arms that came around her held more muscle and strength than he'd had in months.
Nin’s throat clenched, a cry wrenched deep from the wells of gratitude and joy.
“It’s all right, sis,” Alain teased. “I’m not dead, see? I told you I was getting better.”
“I know,” she sniffed against his chest. “And I’m so happy.”
He held her tighter. “I missed you, too, but you should really save those tears for my funeral. Otherwise, you might not have any to spare for when I’m actually gone.”
Nin chuckled a choked sound through her cries and peered up at his dark blue eyes. “Not at this point. I’ll be gone before you at this rate.”
He ruffled her hair, disturbing the messy bun she had pinned in that morning, sending strands to tumble loose around her face.
“Don’t,” she laughed, the sound scratching against her raw throat. “I finally managed to keep my hair in place for once.”
“That’s a first!”
She swatted his chest playfully before pulling away, keeping her hands secure around his shoulders, afraid he would vanish into thin air if she let go.
A sense of disbelief lingered despite the wool-blended fabric of his coat beneath her fingers.
She kept looking at his face to reassure herself that she was here with him.
But the strength in his stance, the weight in his steps when he shifted, reassured her of this moment once more.
An awkward cough sounded behind them.
They turned, and a physician with a white wig over his wrinkled forehead offered a small, patient smile.
“Your brother has made remarkable progress, mademoiselle,” he said, approaching with his hands folded behind his back. “With the help of good rest, clean air, and a new environment, the medicine has worked wonders.”
Alain stepped from Nin’s grasp and clapped the physician on the shoulder. “Monsieur Roche is being humble. He really helped me through this recovery. I feel good enough to probably outrun you, sis!”
Monsieur Roche sighed. “I would advise against that for now.” He turned to Nin, “Please ensure the young man does not overexert himself.”
Nin bit the smile tempting her lips and grasped a hand around her brother’s arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep him out of trouble.”
The physician nodded, his expression easing as though relieved to have someone else to rein in her brother now that he had regained some strength.
When Monsieur Roche took his leave, Nin turned her attention to the lush green hedges lining the property, and a man with graying hair paused in his trimming to tip his hat at her before continuing his work.
“That’s Paul,” Alain said, gesturing to the man and waving to him. “He’s our groundskeeper.”
Nin nodded, hardly comprehending the words "our" and "groundskeeper" within the same sentence.
The cottage was nothing like the palace. There were no guards on every corner, no vast hallways glittering with gold and luminous crystals, or velvets draping the windows. It was quaint and cozy—away from the false glamour of the palace.
“It’s perfect,” she breathed, leaning her head against Alain’s shoulder.
“You should see inside,” he said, nudging her toward the door.
She allowed him to lead her, and she paused at the threshold, drinking in the sight with her hand over her heart.
Her shoulders eased, inch by inch, as she stepped inside.
A low fire burned in the hearth, its light flickering against the timber crisscrossing over the walls.
A pair of green-upholstered chaises, a sturdy wooden table and chairs, and a fresh vase of flowers sat in the living space.
Beyond that, she glimpsed several doors and a narrow staircase winding toward the second floor.
“We have more than one room!” she declared with a soft breath of wonder.
Alain chuckled behind her. Even though she’d logically grasped the idea of receiving a home, seeing it firsthand was a profoundly different experience.
“Yes, and it’s all ours,” Alain said, stepping out of her grasp and turning around with his arms spread open. “Isn’t this incredible? I’ve been dying for you to see it for yourself!”
Nin took another tentative step over the rug and then another. Her fingers brushed against the curve of a chair, relishing its smoothness. Nothing here sparkled or demanded anything from her.
For the first time, she belonged.
“Madame Colette bakes bread every morning,” Alain said, opening a door into a kitchen. “She’s out getting supplies for the week, but she’s an excellent cook.”
A loaf of bread, crisp to the touch, sat on the wooden counter.
“I can cook, though…” she murmured.
“I know,” Alain said, grabbing a bread knife from one of the drawers and cutting into the soft, white center. “But it’s nice, isn’t it?”
He offered her a slice, and she took it gingerly. The sourdough had the perfect amount of fluffiness, balanced by a faint tang and a deep, nutty warmth.
Memories of her mother's skillful hands working the dough to achieve the perfect texture came flooding back as she chewed. Even when Mother worked all day scrubbing clothes and mixing lye for mere coppers, she found time to rise early before dawn to ensure Nin and Alain had bread for the day. It had been years since she’d sampled anything similar.
Of all the delicacies she’d been surrounded by over the past month, this was the most comforting of all.
Alain indulged himself in a slice, stuffing his mouth like a grinning fool. “I’ve been woodcarving again, too,” he informed her after he swallowed, thankfully. “You should see the collection I’ve made while you’ve been gone.”
He looked at the clock on the wall. “I’ll have to show you later, though. Monsieur Roche gets upset if I’m not resting.” He sighed dramatically. “Every two hours.” He rolled his eyes and shrugged.
“And you’re following orders?” she asked teasingly.
“Only because he’s right,” he muttered. “I still get tired.”
Nin ushered him out, reassuring him they could catch up later, and he soon disappeared up the stairs.
Silence descended upon the cottage at his departure. The scent of sourdough lingered in the air, and she rested her hand against the table.
She exhaled a long, slow breath.
A knock sounded at the door.
Her heart stumbled, knowing the rhythm and weight of it, but there was no possible way it would be…
She rushed to the door, peeking through the window, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe. With trembling fingers, she twisted the handle.
Cedric stood there with a small box in his hands. She recognized the sky-blue and pink ribbon from the patisserie, where she’d frequently pressed her dirty face against the pristine window, dreaming and longing for a taste of one of the confections within.
“I brought these,” he said in stiff greeting, extending the box toward her.
Nin could only stare at the offering, then at him.
Sunlight spilled over his broad shoulders, warming the dark fall of his hair into a deep, rich brown that curled around his face in effortless, tousled waves, softening the lines she’d seen drawn tight for duty.
The simple navy wool coat he opted for suited the cozy and serene backdrop behind him, as though he belonged there despite the uncertainty in his eyes.
It had been less than twenty-four hours since she had bid him farewell, yet a lifetime seemed to fill the space within her aching heart.
Her throat tightened as she took the box, the ribbon smooth and silky against her skin. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” he said. “But I wanted to.”
Silence grew between them. Not the oppressive hush of the empty palace corridors, but something soft and warm, like the buds of springtime anticipating their full blooms.
Cedric cleared his throat. “To be frank, I didn’t know if you would open the door.”
“And I didn’t think you would be on the other side of it,” she said softly, with an amused chuckle.
A secret joyful rhythm pulsed in her heart.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” he said, straightening.
“No, of course not! Come in!”
She stepped back, allowing him entrance, but paused at how easily the words had come, how much her stomach fluttered when his coat brushed her hand as he crossed the threshold. The space changed with his presence, not all at once, but subtle enough that her pulse thrummed.
Instead of taking a seat, he opted to stand before the fireplace, crackling softly in the silence.