38
LADY CECILY DE VEYRON
She woke slowly, the way she always woke these days, surfacing through layers of fog before the world settled into shape around her.
She rolled over, her gaze sweeping the chamber.
Morning light illuminated hunting tapestries where stags were forever frozen mid-flight.
Silk bed hangings, dyed in the oppressive Veyron colors, suffocated the space.
Even the wedding chest in the corner, a gift of carved oak from her uncle, seemed less a treasure than a tomb.
Everything a lady could want, and she despised every piece of it.
She lay still and tried to remember what day it was. The effort took longer than it should have. She heard the manor stirring around her. She heard servants moving through the corridors. She heard voices from below.
She should get up. The steward would be waiting. There were accounts to review, household matters to attend to.
Lady Cecily de Veyron had responsibilities.
How long had she been here? Nearly a year, she thought. Maybe longer. Sometimes it felt much longer. She could barely remember a time before this room, this bed, this numb routine of waking and dressing, the straight back, the composed face that did not show the fear behind it.
She sat up slowly. The room swayed. Or was it she that swayed?
She gripped the bedpost, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
It had been happening more often lately, the exhaustion, the trembling in her hands, the spinning sensation, the way food tasted off, bitter.
She was always tired now, always fighting to stay upright.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” she called weakly.
Her maid entered and dipped a curtsy. “My lady, shall I help you dress?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
The routine began. Being unlaced from her night shift, washed with cool water from the basin. Dressed in layers, shift, kirtle, gown. Her hair was brushed and arranged, then covered with a veil.
Lady Veyron must look the part. Even when she felt like she was disappearing.
∞∞∞
Julian sat at the high table with Benedict beside him. They were always together. This morning, they were deep in conversation and didn’t look up when she entered. She took her place, and a servant brought food: bread, a slice of cold fowl, and a cup of spiced wine.
She forced herself to eat, though everything was tasteless, as if made of sand.
Julian glanced at her finally. “You slept late.”
“I’m sorry.”
“The steward has been waiting for his instructions since dawn.”
“I’ll see to it.”
He returned to his conversation with Benedict.
She was dismissed.
Cecily took another bite. Her eyes drifted around the hall.
There were new tapestries on the walls, rich imported work, the kind that cost money.
She didn’t remember those from last month.
Julian’s tunic was finer too, with new gold embroidery at the collar and cuffs.
Benedict wore a gold chain she hadn’t seen before.
Where was the money coming from?
Julian had been drowning in debt when they married.
Her dowry was supposed to help, but it was modest. This was something more.
Something recent. They had found a way to bring money into the estate, but she didn’t understand how.
Julian wasn’t smart enough to manage the estate’s money competently, she admitted to herself. But Benedict…
She wanted to ask but didn’t.
“You look unwell.” Julian’s voice cut through her thoughts.
“I’ve been a little tired. Nothing serious.”
“You should rest more.” He paused, choosing his words. “You need to be strong.”
They’d been over this before. He wanted an heir. But the weaker she became, the more he avoided her, and she’d been weakening ever since they were wed. Still, she felt the pressure from him, as if she was failing at the simplest of tasks.
She nodded and looked down at her plate.
She became aware of Benedict watching her and looked up. His expression was shrewd, cold, and patient. The way a man watches a candle burn down. He was waiting for something. She did not know what. She looked away quickly.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I need to speak with the steward.”
Julian waved a hand. She stood, then gripped the table edge as dizziness hit her again. She didn’t want them to see her unsteadiness, though she knew they were watching. She steadied herself, then left the hall.
The corridors were long and cold despite the spring warmth outside. Servants bowed and curtsied as she passed. Lady Veyron. The title felt like a prison.
The bitter irony of it wasn’t lost on her. She’d fled across time to avoid this exact fate. She’d run from Lord Alard Veyron in 1239, used a machine she barely understood, risked everything to escape marriage to a Veyron baron.
And here she was. Married to Julian de Veyron. Baron of these lands. Descendant of the very man she’d escaped.
The cruelty of it made her want to scream. And then, beneath the cruelty, beneath everything, the same thought that returned to her every day:
Finn. His face flooded her mind.
What happened to him?
∞∞∞
The solar was her private space, the one room that felt like hers.
Her embroidery frame sat by the window, her books were stacked on the shelf, and a cushioned seat rested where she could look out over the gardens.
A large oak spread its branches not far from the window.
She sank into the chair and stared at the view.
She needed to escape.
The thought came clear and sharp, despite the fog that had taken hold of her thoughts.
Just take a horse and ride away. Disappear into the countryside.
She had no money of her own—Julian saw to that—no family except Uncle Stephen, who’d arranged the marriage in the first place.
But maybe she could find work somewhere as a servant.
She’d done it before. Anything but this.
This life as a figure woven into a tapestry—beautiful, watched, unable to step out of the frame.
But even as Cecily thought it, she knew she couldn’t escape. She could barely make it down the stairs some days. How would she ride for hours to get away from Veyron? Where would she go?
Tomorrow, maybe. When she felt stronger.
Her thoughts drifted to the widow’s cottage, and with it, to Finn. Nearly a year. He had sworn at the chapel ruins that he would come for her. Now, only silence. Had he forgotten her, or had he been silenced somehow? The not knowing was a constant, dull ache, worse than the spinning in her head.
The memory of his kiss was the only thing that wasn’t melancholy in this place, and it was the one thing that could give her strength.
A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.
“Enter.”
It was Isabel, carrying her embroidery. “May I sit with you?”
“Please.”
Isabel settled into the chair opposite her and took up her needle. They worked in companionable silence. She was the only person in this place who felt like a friend.
After a while, Isabel put her embroidery down and said quietly, “The new tapestries are lovely.”
Her tone seemed careful. Neutral.
“Yes,” Cecily said. “It seems Julian has been fortunate lately.”
“Has he?”
“His investments, I suppose. The estate is doing better.”
Silence. Isabel took up her needle and pushed it through the cloth.
“Strange how quickly fortune can change,” Isabel said.
Something in her voice made Cecily look up. “What do you mean?”
Isabel met her eyes. “Nothing. Only that months ago, Julian was worried about debt. Now he buys rare imports from France.” She paused. “It’s… unusual.”
“You think something is wrong?”
“I think many things are wrong.” Isabel’s voice dropped. “But I don’t know what.”
They sat for a moment. Then Cecily asked, “Do you remember that man at the widow’s cottage? The soldier.”
Isabel’s hands stilled. “I remember.” She looked down at the embroidery in her lap.
“Do you know what happened to him?”
The silence stretched too long.
“I don’t know,” Isabel said finally. “He disappeared.”
“Disappeared how?”
“I…” Isabel looked uncomfortable. “I heard Julian and Benedict talking once. About someone they’d dealt with. I didn’t hear clearly.”
Cecily’s stomach tightened. “Dealt with?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know if it was the same man.”
But the look on Isabel’s face said she knew. Or suspected.
“Do you ever think about before?” Cecily asked. “Before you were married?”
Isabel’s jaw tightened. “Every day.”
They sat in that shared understanding.
Cecily heard footsteps in the corridor. Heavy boots. Both women looked toward the door. The steps passed, but Isabel’s face tightened.
“I should go. Benedict will be looking for me.”
She stood quickly. Cecily, again overcome with a spell of dizziness, caught her hand and clung to her. “Isabel—”
“What is it, Cecily? You seem unwell.”
“I feel… so tired all the time. My head spins.”
Isabel set down her embroidery. “Cecily, you must rest more. Go to bed earlier. Let the steward handle things for a few days.” She looked at Cecily with concern. “Shall I send for a physician?”
“No. I’m sure it will pass.”
Isabel squeezed her hand once, then pulled away and left.
∞∞∞
Evening came. A servant brought wine. Cecily drank it because she was expected to, but it tasted bitter. Everything tasted off lately.
She thought about what Isabel had said. About Finn. About Julian and Benedict dealing with someone.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would go to Julian’s study. She had to know where the money came from, and she had to know what they had done to Finn.
She could not die here. She would not live in this prison forever. She would find a way out.
∞∞∞
Julian came to her chamber that night. She heard his steps in the corridor, knew them by the sound now. He entered without knocking.
“You’re still awake.”
“Yes.”
He moved toward the bed, then stopped. He assessed her from across the room.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “When you’re not so tired.”
“Of course.”
He studied her face for a moment, then nodded and left. She heard his footsteps retreat down the corridor.
Cecily lay in the dark.
Something was wrong. She could feel it deep in her bones, in the way her body had stopped feeling like hers, in the way thoughts slipped through her hands before she could hold onto them.
A sickness, maybe, that the physicians could not name.
Some weakness in her that had been there all along, perhaps.
She closed her eyes.
Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow she would feel better.
But even as she thought it, she knew the truth.
Tomorrow she would feel worse.