The pre-dawn light was the color of a faded bruise, cold and clinging, as Marianne pulled herself from the fitful depths of sleep. In her first life, she had grown to love this hour; it was the time when generals reviewed maps and assassins moved through shadows. Her body, however, had not yet caught up to her mind. As she sat up on her thin straw pallet, her sixteen-year-old bones ached with the dampness of the floor, and her muscles felt frustratingly soft.
She expected to wake to the sound of her mother's heavy breathing and the silence of a sleeping house. Instead, she heard the rhythmic thunk of a hammer and the low, melodic sound of a girl's giggle.
Marianne rose, moving with a ghost-like silence that was purely instinctive, and stepped through the sagging doorway. The morning mist was thick, curling around the base of the shack like white ribbon. There, silhouetted against the rising sun, was Gerald.
He had clearly been awake for hours. Two full buckets of water sat by the door, the surface of the water perfectly still, reflecting the gray sky. He was currently perched on a low crate, bracing a splintered beam he had pulled from the scrap heap, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal the lean cords of muscle in his forearms.
But he wasn't alone.
Crouched beside him, ostensibly holding a box of rusted nails but actually doing nothing more than posing, was Lila, the Miller's daughter.
In the Aethelgard slums, Lila was considered a "beauty." She had hair the color of sun-dried wheat and a way of batting her eyelashes that made the local boys trip over their own feet. In Marianne's first life, Lila had been driven by a frantic, clawing hunger for status. She had eventually married a corrupt tax collector, selling out her neighbors for a chance to wear real silk, only to be executed when the rebellion burned the tax office to the ground.
Now, Lila was looking at Gerald as if he were a banquet and she were a starving woman.
"You're so strong, Gerald," Lila cooed, her voice a sugary trill that made Marianne's skin crawl. She reached out, her fingers trailing—half-accidentally—over Gerald's shoulder as she handed him a nail. "Most boys around here would have spent the morning complaining about the cold, but you... you've done more work in two hours than the blacksmith's son does in a week."
Marianne leaned against the doorframe, her eyes narrowed. She watched Gerald's reaction. He remained polite, a small, distant smile on his face, but he was focused entirely on the wood. He was a prince; he was used to being stared at, used to the fawning of court ladies. Lila's charms were like a dull blade against a suit of plate armor.
"The wood was rotting, Lila," Gerald said, his voice practical. "Strength has nothing to do with it. It's just common sense to fix it before the wind turns."
"Oh, you're so modest, too!" Lila giggled, moving closer until her shoulder brushed his. "You know, my father says he could use a man like you at the mill. We have a proper room above the granary—much warmer than a chair in a common room. And I... I could make sure you're well-fed. Better than cabbage water, at least."
Marianne felt a cold, sharp spark of irritation. It wasn't jealousy—or so she told herself. It was the tactical disgust of seeing a predator hunt a man who was far more dangerous than she realized.
"The cabbage water is fine, Lila," Marianne said, her voice cutting through the mist like a sword stroke.
Lila jumped, nearly dropping the nails. She turned, her sweet expression souring instantly as she saw Marianne standing there, disheveled and dressed in her morning shift.
"Oh, Marianne. You're finally awake," Lila said, her tone dripping with fake sympathy. "I saw poor Gerald out here working all by himself while you were snoring away. I thought I'd help. Some of us actually know how to take care of a guest."
Marianne walked forward, her bare feet silent on the cold earth. She stopped right in front of the crate, looking down at the beam Gerald was fixing. She didn't look at Lila; she looked at the way Gerald's hands stilled the moment she approached.
"He's not a guest, Lila. He's a traveler paying his keep," Marianne said calmly. She reached down and took the box of nails from Lila's lap before the other girl could protest. "And the sun is up. Don't you have flour to sift? I'd hate for your father to think you're wasting your beauty on a 'nobody' like Gerald."
Lila stood up, tossing her golden hair. "He isn't a nobody. Anyone with eyes can see that. And as for the mill... Gerald, the offer stands. A warm bed is much better than a drafty shack."
She gave Gerald one last lingering look—a look that promised she would be back—before sashaying away through the mist.
Once Lila was out of earshot, the silence between Marianne and Gerald grew heavy. Gerald went back to hammering, but the rhythm was off.
"You're late," he said quietly, not looking up. "The water is fetched. The wood is prepped."
"I didn't ask you to do any of it," Marianne replied, sitting on the dirt step. She watched him. "Lila is right about one thing. You're wasted here. Why didn't you go with her? She's the closest thing to 'nobility' this village has. She could have given you a life of comfort while you hide."
Gerald stopped hammering. He looked at Marianne, his gray eyes searching her face. "Lila looks at me and sees a prize. She sees a way to climb out of her father's mill."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "But you... you look at me as if you're waiting for me to disappear. Or as if you're waiting for me to strike. Why is that, Marianne? What did I ever do to make you look at me with such... mourning?"
Marianne's breath caught. You died for me, she wanted to say. You wrote our names in blood while I watched the world go dark.
"I just don't like people who hide behind masks," she said instead, her voice hardening. "Especially when those masks attract girls who don't know the difference between a trader and a prince."
Gerald stared at her, the hammer heavy in his hand. For a second, the mask of the "trader's son" slipped, and the Prince of Dwelfinth stood before her, powerful and perceptive. "Then perhaps we should both stop wearing them," he whispered.
But before she could answer, the sound of a horn echoed from the village square. It was the brassy, arrogant blast of the Aethelgard Imperial Guard.