21. Kessara
KESSARA
"No, Bran. The letter 'g' has a tail that drops below the line." I guide his hand with mine, watching him form the letters with painstaking care across the parchment. "Like this."
His tongue pokes out between his lips in concentration, the way it used to when he was small and trying to stack rocks without them toppling. The familiar gesture tugs at something deep in my chest—a reminder that despite everything we've endured, he's still just thirteen.
"Is this better?" He holds up the parchment, green eyes seeking approval.
The letters march across the page in uneven rows, some tilting left while others lean right, but each one shows improvement from yesterday's attempt. Pride swells in my throat.
"Much better. You're getting the hang of it."
At the other end of the library table, Master Ramin's dry voice pierces through the morning quiet like parchment rustling. "Miss Lysa, if you spent as much time focusing on your sums as you do watching the birds outside, you might actually solve this problem."
Lysa's curls bounce as she turns back to her slate with an exaggerated sigh. "But Kessa, did you see that blue jay? It's been building a nest in the oak tree all morning."
"Eyes on your numbers," I say gently, though I can't help smiling at her enthusiasm.
Tobin's pencil scratches furiously across his slate, his freckled nose scrunched in determination. "I'm already finished with mine! Look!" He waves the slate triumphantly, nearly knocking over the inkwell.
"Careful." I steady the glass bottle before it can spill across the expensive books lining the shelves. "Let Master Ramin check your work first."
The elderly tutor adjusts his spectacles and examines Tobin's arithmetic with the same intensity he might use to decipher ancient texts. "Adequate. Though your handwriting could use refinement."
Tobin beams as if he's just been crowned king.
This morning feels surreal. Yesterday we were sleeping in the servants' quarters, and now each of them has a room larger than our entire cabin back home.
Lysa spent an hour just opening and closing the wardrobe in her chamber, marveling at the smooth hinges.
Tobin discovered his room has a window seat overlooking the gardens and declared it the perfect spot for reading adventures.
And Bran... Bran keeps glancing at me with those thoughtful green eyes, as if he's trying to solve a puzzle he can't quite piece together.
"Kessa?" His voice drops low, meant only for my ears. "Are you all right?"
I force brightness into my smile. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
His gaze flickers to the faint marks on my neck that my hastily braided hair doesn't quite conceal. Heat creeps up my throat, and I adjust my collar, suddenly grateful that Master Ramin remains absorbed in correcting Lysa's sums.
"You seem... different this morning."
Different. That's one way to put it.
I woke up in silk sheets worth more than our parents could earn in their lifetime, in a bed that could fit our entire family. The memory of Zerion's hands on my skin, his mouth claiming mine with desperate hunger, sends warmth spiraling through my belly even now.
But beneath the heat lies something colder. Something that whispers questions I do not want to answer.
Is this what I've become? A woman who trades her body for her family's security?
The thought sits like a stone in my stomach, heavy and uncomfortable.
I wanted something real with him—something that grew from choice rather than desperation.
But how can I tell the difference when survival has tangled itself so thoroughly around desire?
"I'm fine, Bran." I reach over to correct a letter that's wandering off the line. "Just tired."
He doesn't look convinced, but Master Ramin's sharp clap cuts through whatever he might have said.
"Excellent work this morning. You may consider your lessons complete for today." The tutor begins gathering his materials with brisk efficiency. "Tomorrow we shall begin working on proper sentence construction."
Lysa bounces in her chair like a spring released. "We're done? Really?"
"Can we go explore the gardens now?" Tobin's already halfway out of his seat, energy crackling around him like lightning.
"Please?" Lysa clasps her hands together, wide hazel eyes pleading.
"Yes, you can explore the gardens," I say, watching their faces light up like candles. "But stay on the main paths. No wandering into the hedgerows or climbing the fountain."
"We promise!" Lysa bounces on her toes, already gathering her slate and chalk.
"Hold on." I raise a hand before they can bolt for the door. "Books back on the shelves first. Slates cleaned and stacked properly. Master Ramin's materials organized just as we found them."
They scatter like startled rabbits, racing to tidy their workspace.
Tobin nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to return his arithmetic book to its proper place on the shelf.
Lysa carefully wipes her slate with a damp cloth, tongue poking out in concentration.
Bran moves with more measured efficiency, but I see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watches his younger siblings practically vibrating with excitement.
"There!" Tobin slams his slate onto the stack with theatrical flourish. "Can we go now?"
"Thank you for your patience with them, Master Ramin." I turn to the elderly tutor, who's already packing his leather satchel with methodical precision. "They're eager students, just... enthusiastic."
"Enthusiasm properly channeled becomes discipline." He adjusts his spectacles, fixing me with a steady gaze. "They show promise, Miss Thornefield. Young minds, when properly guided, can achieve remarkable things."
The formal way he addresses me still catches me off guard. Three months ago, no one called me 'Miss' anything.
"Come on, Kessa!" Lysa tugs at my sleeve. "The blue jay might be gone if we wait much longer!"
I herd them toward the library door, their chatter echoing off the vaulted ceiling. The moment we step into the main corridor, they burst forward like water through a broken dam, feet thundering against polished stone as they race toward the front entrance.
"Remember—main paths only!" I call after them, but they're already pushing through the heavy oak doors.
I follow at a more sedate pace, pausing in the doorway to watch them spill into the morning sunlight.
Lysa immediately veers toward the rose garden, her dark curls bouncing as she searches for her beloved blue jay.
Tobin makes a beeline for the fountain, probably hoping to spot fish in the ornamental pool.
Bran trails behind them both, protective instincts already engaged.
Leaning against one of the massive stone pillars that frame the manor's entrance, I let myself smile. They look like children again instead of survivors.
My gaze drifts past them, following the cobblestone path that winds through the estate grounds toward the main gates. That's when I notice the wagons.
Three of them, positioned just outside the property line where the estate road meets the public thoroughfare.
The canvas covers are pulled tight, concealing whatever cargo lies beneath.
Men move around the vehicles with purpose, but something about their movements feels wrong. Too careful. Too watchful.
I straighten, instincts sharpening.
Near the gatehouse, two of Captain Draven's guards stand with rigid postures, hands resting on sword hilts. Their attention remains fixed on the strangers, muscles coiled like springs ready to snap.
At least I know the guards are here to keep the manor, and my siblings, safe.