5. Claire
Claire
Morning light spilled through the window above the hearth, catching in the steam as it rose from my cup. I held it close, breathing in the warmth. Outside, the village was just beginning to stir with the promise of another ordinary day.
I sighed.
“Claire?” Papa’s voice cut through the calm.
I startled, steadying the teacup in my hands before setting it down beside the two perfectly square sugar cubes I’d just arranged. The small ritual felt fragile, like it might shatter if I rushed.
“I’m coming,” I called, smoothing my skirts.
Papa stood near the front door, his hand still resting against the wood as though he’d only just closed it. I heard the faint echo of shuffling footsteps on the other side.
“Claire, I need to speak with you. Come sit. Please.”
Please.
That word alone was enough to unsettle me. I wandered through the kitchen area, the familiar scent of flour and yeast wrapping around me as Matthew worked at the counter, his hands buried in dough. He barely spared us a glance, though the way his shoulders had gone still told me he was listening.
I took a seat at the table. The moment my weight settled, it gave a wobble and dipped hard to one side. I stilled, then shifted again—only for the table to lean with me, one leg uneven against the floor.
“Of course,” I muttered, bending down to peer beneath it.
One of the bolts had come loose. I found the missing stud tucked near the baseboard, rolled half beneath the chair, and snatched it up. A quick turn of my fingers had it fastened back into the bottom of the leg. The table thankfully steadied beneath my hand.
Papa hovered, shifting his weight, his fingers tugging absently at the edge of his sleeve. “I received a visit from a raven who was asking for your mother.”
“But Mama is…”
Gone.
The word wouldn’t come out. Papa’s face tightened, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as though the mere mention of her was enough to reopen a wound that had never truly healed.
“I know,” he whispered. “It wasn’t… it wasn’t someone from here. It was a communication from a duke, from Norwich.”
A duke?
The title felt too large for our small kitchen distressed wooden table.
A duke was one of the highest-ranking nobles in the realm, a title usually passed from parent to child, or sometimes through marriage.
A duke was a ruler of territories, charged with overseeing trade, law, and the protection of all who lived under his banner, owing fealty only to the crown itself.
“Out with it, Pa,” Matthew called from behind us. “Don’t dance around it.”
Papa ran a hand through his thinning hair, pacing once before finally stopping in front of me.
“Your mother owed a debt to a fellow named Duke Halloway. I don’t know the full extent of it, but…” He faltered, his gaze drifting like he was trying to piece it together even now.
My fingers twisted together in my lap. “What was it?”
He looked at me, then. Really looked at me. And the distress in his expression made my stomach drop.
“It was a betrothal,” he whispered.
The word struck like a bell.
“Your mother offered her youngest daughter to repay her outstanding debt.”
Silence fell.
“And Duke Halloway is officially calling for you to come to his estate… to be wed.”
For a moment, everything stopped. The sounds of the kitchen, the warmth of the morning light, the steady rhythm of Matthew’s kneading—gone. All that remained were fragments echoing through my mind.
Duke.
Debt.
Betrothal.
Matthew swore under his breath, the sharp thud of dough hitting the counter, breaking the stillness as he shoved it aside and rounded toward the table.
“You can’t let him do this,” he snapped. “Papa, you can’t—”
“My hands are tied, son. It’s a contract. A debt that must be paid.”
“But Mama is dead,” Matthew argued, his voice rising. “Whatever she promised—”
“I know,” Papa cut in, though it sounded more like a plea than a rebuttal. “I know, but—”
“How old is he?” I heard myself ask. My voice felt detached, as though it belonged to someone else.
Papa hesitated. “Twelve years your senior.”
“And he is… established?”
“He’s very wealthy. He owns his own estate and comes from a well-respected family.”
Matthew scoffed. “Let me go talk to him. I’ll set this straight. This is madness—”
But his voice faded as something else rose within me. It came slow at first, and then all at once. I pushed back from the table so quickly the chair legs scraped loudly against the floor, the stud rolling away again.
Before Papa could react, I threw my arms around him, hugging him tightly. He went rigid.
“By the gods!” I exclaimed, pulling back just enough to look at him, my heart racing for a different reason now. “My prayers have finally been answered!”
Their confusion was evident, but I barely noticed.
“I’m getting married,” I said, the words spilling out, glittering and impossible. “And to a duke.”