Chapter 3

Chapter 3: The Ghost in the Halls

The first morning in the Oriana Estate did not arrive with the gentle, golden clarion call of a Britannia dawn. Instead, it was a slow, bruised awakening of grey light filtering through heavy frost, the sun struggling to crest the jagged granite teeth of the Devonshire peaks.

Amethyst awoke encased in the heavy sable cloak Levi had given her. She had fallen asleep atop the covers, her boots still laced, her posture even in slumber reflecting the rigid defensiveness of a soldier behind enemy lines. When she sat up, the silence of the room was absolute—not the hollow, echoing silence of an empty house, but the dense, muffled quiet of a home insulated by centuries of thick stone and fallen snow.

She stood, her joints aching from the cramped position, and moved to the washbasin. The water was steaming. Someone had entered while she slept, moving with the ghostly silence of a well-trained servant, and replaced the cold pitcher with fresh, hot water.

Efficiency, she thought, splashing her face. Or surveillance.

She dressed herself, refusing to pull the bell cord for a maid. She chose a gown of deep, midnight plum—high-collared, structured, and severe. It was a dress designed for a woman who intended to command, not to be comforted. As she pinned her hair into a coiled crown so tight it tugged at her scalp, she stared at her reflection.

"You are a Britannia," she whispered to the glass. "You are not here to be 'settled.' You are here to endure."

The hallways of the Oriana Estate were a labyrinth of memory. As Amethyst descended the grand staircase, she realized that the house was not merely a building; it was a reliquary.

Every few yards, there was a reminder of the woman who had come before her. A small, embroidered stool tucked into a sunny nook—Natasha’s needlework. A collection of pressed wildflowers framed in the hallway—Natasha’s hobby. Even the scent of the house, a faint, lingering trail of dried lavender and beeswax, felt like the exhale of a woman who had spent thirty years making sure every corner was softened.

Amethyst’s heels clicked sharply against the parquet floor, a jarring, discordant sound. She found the morning room, where breakfast was laid out on a sideboard.

A young maid, perhaps no older than nineteen, was polishing a silver tea service. When she saw Amethyst, she nearly dropped the cloth.

"G-good morning, Your Grace! I didn't expect you down so early. The Archduke is in the stables, and the Young Lords and Ladies are usually in the study by now."

Amethyst ignored the greeting, her eyes fixed on the tea service. It was engraved with a delicate rose—the symbol of the Oriana line, but intertwined with a spray of lilies.

"The lilies," Amethyst said, her voice cool. "They are everywhere. Even on the silver."

The maid looked down, her face softening into a wistful expression. "Oh, yes, My Lady. Lady Natasha loved them. She said they reminded her that even in the harshest winter, something pure could grow. The Archduke had the silver commissioned for their twentieth anniversary. He hasn't seen fit to change it."

Of course not, Amethyst thought, a bitter taste rising in her throat. Why change perfection?

"Take it away," Amethyst commanded.

The maid blinked. "Pardon, Your Grace?"

"The tea service. It’s tarnished. And I dislike lilies. Bring me something plain. Functional."

"But... Lady Natasha always—"

"Lady Natasha," Amethyst interrupted, stepping into the girl’s personal space until the maid had to tilt her head back, "is currently occupying a very lovely plot in the family cemetery. I, however, am standing in this room. Do you find the distinction difficult to grasp?"

The girl’s eyes welled with tears. She bobbed a frantic curtsy, seized the silver tray, and scrambled out of the room.

Amethyst stood alone, her chest heaving slightly. She felt like a monster, but the alternative was feeling like a shadow, and she would choose being a villainess every single time.

She spent the afternoon wandering the estate, not as a resident, but as an auditor. She took mental notes on the thickness of the walls, the number of guards at the perimeter, and the sheer volume of wealth displayed with such casual indifference.

In Britannia, wealth was a weapon—it was gold leaf and diamonds designed to make the viewer feel small. In Devonshire, wealth was a comfort—it was the quality of the wool, the abundance of the grain, the warmth of the fires. It was a far more insidious kind of power.

She found herself in the library, a massive, two-story room with a rolling ladder and a fireplace large enough to roast an ox. She reached for a book on Northern Topography, but as she pulled it from the shelf, a small slip of paper fluttered out.

It was a bookmark, dried and brittle. On it, in a delicate, flowing hand, was written: Levi, remember to rest. The mountains will still be there tomorrow. N.

Amethyst stared at the note. It wasn't a formal document. It was a heartbeat captured in ink. It was a reminder that Levi had been cared for, watched over, and loved with a domestic intimacy Amethyst couldn't even fathom.

She crumpled the paper in her fist and shoved it deep into the pocket of her gown.

"You have a habit of lurking in the corners, Duchess."

Amethyst spun around. Caspian, the eldest son, stood by the fireplace, a glass of dark amber liquid in his hand. He looked at her with a weary sort of disdain, the kind one reserved for a stray cat that had wandered into a palace.

"I am exploring my home," Amethyst said, her chin lifting.

"Is that what you call it?" Caspian stepped forward, the firelight catching the harsh angles of his face. "In my experience, Britannia women don't have 'homes.' They have 'territories.' My father might be blinded by his sense of duty, but I see you, Amethyst. You’re looking for the cracks in the foundation."

"If the foundation were strong, Caspian, you wouldn't be so worried about me looking at it."

Caspian let out a short, dry laugh. "The foundation is stone. It’s the atmosphere I’m worried about. This house has been at peace for a long time. My mother made sure of that. She was the heart of this province."

"And hearts eventually stop beating," Amethyst retorted. "I am not here to be your mother. I am here to be the Archduchess. If that offends your sensibilities, I suggest you spend more time at your military outposts."

Caspian’s eyes narrowed. He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving hers. "You’re quite the little viper, aren't you? Tell me, does it bother you? Knowing that no matter how many rooms you walk through, you’ll never be more than a footnote? You walk in her light, and yet you’re perpetually in the dark."

Amethyst felt the blood drain from her face. It was the exact thought that had been gnawing at her since she crossed the border, but hearing it spoken aloud by a man who looked so much like Levi was a different kind of pain.

"I prefer the dark," she whispered, her voice like ice. "In the dark, you can see things that people in the light are too blind to notice. Like the fact that your father is a man who is starving for something he can't name, and all you give him is a museum of his own grief."

She turned and swept out of the library before he could respond, her skirts swishing angrily against the floor.

Dinner was, once again, a choreographed play of politeness. Levi was attentive, asking her about her impressions of the grounds, but Amethyst met every question with a monosyllabic wall of indifference.

She watched the way the children interacted. Elara and Julian debated a point of law; Lyra told a story about a local merchant’s wedding. They were a unit. A closed circle. Levi sat at the head, a quiet observer, his eyes occasionally drifting to the empty chair at the far end of the table—the chair that had once belonged to Natasha.

Amethyst felt a sudden, irrational spike of anger.

"Archduke," she said, her voice cutting through Lyra’s laughter like a knife through silk.

The table went silent.

"Yes, Amethyst?" Levi asked, turning his full attention to her.

"I wish to have the East Wing gardens replanted. The lilies are... seasonal. I prefer something more permanent. Evergreens. Or perhaps thorns. I’ve always found thorns to be more honest than flowers."

The silence stretched. Lyra’s smile faltered. Elara put down her fork with a deliberate clink.

Levi didn't look angry. He looked at her with that same, infuriatingly patient gaze, as if he were trying to translate a difficult text.

"The gardens were Natasha’s pride," he said softly. "The people of the village often come to see them in the spring. It is a tradition."

"Traditions are just habits that have lost their purpose," Amethyst said. "I am the Duchess now. Unless, of course, this is not a marriage but a regency for a ghost?"

Caspian’s hand clenched into a fist on the table. "Father—"

Levi raised a hand, silencing his son. He kept his eyes on Amethyst. "You are the Duchess. You have the right to change the grounds as you see fit. However, I would ask that you wait until the spring thaw. The ground is too frozen for change right now. In Devonshire, we do nothing in haste when the ice is deep."

Amethyst felt a hollow victory. She had won the point, but she had lost the room. The children looked at her with a new, sharper kind of resentment. She had attacked their saint, and in doing so, she had solidified her role as the villainess of their story.

Late that night, Amethyst found she could not sleep. The sable cloak was warm, but the room felt too large, the shadows too long.

She slipped out of bed and walked toward the East Wing. She wasn't sure what she was looking for—perhaps proof that her anger was justified.

She passed a small, private chapel. The door was ajar, and a flickering light emanated from within. She peered inside.

Levi was there. He was kneeling at a small altar, not in prayer, but in a quiet, slumped posture of exhaustion. He was holding a small piece of blue ribbon—the kind a woman might use to tie back her hair.

He wasn't weeping. He was simply existing in the presence of what he had lost.

Amethyst stayed in the shadows, her breath hitching. She saw the lines of age on his face, the way his shoulders carried the weight of a province and a broken heart. He wasn't a monster. He wasn't even a cold man. He was a man who had been given the sun, and was now trying to learn how to navigate by the stars.

And then, he spoke. It was a whisper, barely audible over the crackle of the votive candles.

"She is so much like the winter, Natasha. Cold, sharp, and beautiful. I don't know how to tell her that I don't want her to be you. I don't know how to tell her that I just want her to stay."

Amethyst backed away, her heart hammering against her ribs. She felt like an intruder—not just in the chapel, but in his life.

She fled back to her rooms, her bare feet silent on the rugs. She climbed back into the massive bed and pulled the furs over her head.

She hated him. She hated his patience. She hated the way his children loved a dead woman more than they feared a living one. But most of all, she hated the blue ribbon in his hand, because it represented a kind of love that no one in Britannia had ever deemed her worthy of receiving.

I am a Britannia, she told herself as she stared into the dark. I am a villainess. I do not need to be loved. I only need to be respected.

But as she closed her eyes, the image of the blue ribbon stayed with her—a tiny, fraying piece of silk that was more powerful than any treaty, and a ghost that was more alive than Amethyst had ever been.

The third day in Devonshire had ended, and the "Viper" had realized that her venom was useless against a house that was already built on a foundation of tears. She was not the master of this estate; she was a tenant in a museum, and the ghost of Natasha was the only one who truly held the keys.

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