WHACK.
The slap cracked through the great hall. Rosamund's head snapped sideways. Fire bloomed across her cheek. Her chestnut hair, pinned so carefully for the ball, fell loose—a curtain between her and the world.
"You have brought shame upon this house." Her father's voice was low, almost calm. "An unforgivable disgrace."
Her mother appeared at his side, fingers fluttering at his sleeve. "My lord, I beg you—"
"Do not beg." He did not look at her. His eyes stayed on Rosamund, who knelt at his feet. "You will learn your place."
He was not a man in that moment. He was a monument—marble and cold tradition.
"As a woman," he whispered, for her alone, "you must understand. Men are your betters. This is the natural order."
"Never." She lifted her chin, eyes burning. "I will not be silent while wrongs are done. Lord William was assaulting a maid—"
"A maid?" His lips twisted. "You would shatter my honour for a servant? You put out an eye of a marquess's son for her?"
He crouched, breath sour with wine and fury. "You are a fool, Rosamund."
He rose, voice crashing against stone. "You have made a fool of me before the entire court!"
Rosamund stood. Her legs trembled, but her voice did not. "Then tell me, Father. What is a woman to you? Property? Does her lack of title make her pain nothing? If so, the true fool has been standing here all along."
He lunged. Her mother grabbed his arm. "Rosamund! To your room. Now."
Rosamund did not run. She walked—slippers silent on cold stone. She did not see the maids she passed, only felt their whispers, sharp as needles.
Her chamber door closed with a soft, final click.
---
Downstairs, her mother released her husband's arm and turned to the frozen servants. Her gaze could have chilled wine.
"Return to your duties. All of you."
---
In her room, Rosamund sank onto the bed. The fine quilt offered no comfort. A single hot tear cut through the powder on her cheek. She wiped it away.
A timid knock.
"Not now, Margaret."
"But, my lady, your gown—"
"Margaret." The name was a blade. "Do not test me."
Footsteps retreated. She seized a pillow and screamed into it—muffled, raw. When she pulled it away, her chest heaved.
She hurled a vase. It exploded against the wall. "He hurt her—and walks free!"
Another vase shattered into the hearth. "We are married off like livestock! Our pain in childbirth a trifle, while men's infidelities are medals of honour!" She collapsed among the shards, breath ragged. "And they call this order."
---
Then came the darkness. A living void that breathed against her skin.
"Where am I?"
Her voice vanished. A single searing beam pierced down. She stood in an endless aisle, and against her will, she moved. Strings jerked at her wrists, her ankles, her jaw.
"What is this!" she screamed. No echo.
She blinked.
The hall became a cathedral. A faceless congregation filled the benches. White lilies crowded every surface. Before her stood a groom of polished wood—blank-faced, elegant in black.
The priest turned. His smile was a gash.
"Do you take him, Rosamund, as your beloved husband?"
No. The denial was a fortress in her mind. But her throat was dust. Her lips, stone.
A string yanked.
Her wooden mouth formed the words: "I do."
---
"Rosamund."
A thread pulling her up.
"Rosamund."
Her eyes opened. The world swam into focus—bedposts, morning light striping the floor. Her mother's face, etched with weary worry.
"Mother?" She groped for the pillow.
"Rosamund, will you compose yourself?" Her mother's voice trembled. "The court is buzzing. You have caused a scandal. How do you intend to mend it?"
Rosamund sat up slowly. "I do not propose to mend it. I will not marry."
Her mother's jaw tightened. She sat on the edge of the bed. "Listen to me. I too had fire in my veins. I believed I could shape my own destiny." Her eyes were pools of old grief. "We women are like flowers in a royal garden. Cultivated to bloom for a season, admired, then we must gracefully fade. It is the way of the world."
"Lord William has agreed to take you." A soft death sentence. "You will marry him."
The air left Rosamund's lungs. "Lord William." A curse.
Her mother reached out. Rosamund recoiled.
"There is no one else." Her mother's composure cracked. "You have ensured that."
Rosamund turned to the window. The world outside was impossibly bright, impossibly calm.
"I will not marry him, Mother."
"You brought this upon yourself!" Desperation bled through. "At least his bloodline is untainted. It is time you behaved as a lady of your station—as your sisters do. They are the very portrait of grace."
"I am not my sisters." Her eyes glistened—not with tears, but with a clarity more devastating. "Mother, you know I do not want the life you lead. Father holds no love for you. Because you bore him no son… while his mistresses…"
"That is enough."
"He sees you as a failure. I will not accept that fate. Men are merciless."
"Enough!" Her mother rose, voice shaking. "I said enough."
Rosamund leaned forward, her voice a shattered whisper. "You told me you were a wildfire once. Look what they made of you. Ashes. And now you would feed your own daughter to the same flames?"
Her mother stood still—a battleground of duty and buried self.
Finally, she whispered, "Sometimes, child, ashes are all that survive the fire. But they survive. That is the only victory left to us."
She turned to the door. "Lord William arrives at noon to discuss the marriage contract. Make yourself ready."
The latch clicked. A future locked away.
---
Silence roamed the room like wind.
A breath. "There must be another way."
"Love," she murmured to the empty air. "If I could but find you…" A bitter laugh. "God, what folly. What am I even saying?"
She smacked her forehead with her palm.
"Mother is right. No lord would want me now." She looked at her hands—the hands that had thrown vases, that had blinded a man. "I am… ruinous."
"I don't care. Do I?" Hollow.
"Ahhhhhhh!" The scream was not sound but tearing. "Just… someone else. Anyone but him."
She curled into herself—a vessel of silent, shaking grief.
---
The door opened later, without preamble.
Rosamund did not stir. She lay as if carved from the palace stone.
"My lady? Breakfast is ready."
Mrs. Edith's voice was calm—honed by decades of weathering royal storms. Her white hair was a crown of discipline, her apron a flag of unwavering service.
Rosamund turned her head slowly. "Edith." Her voice scraped clean. "I have no appetite."
A silence. The maid lingered on the threshold.
Rosamund's gaze sharpened. "Tell me. What is the purpose of a woman in this world?"
Edith's hands twisted in her apron. "I… I could not say, my lady."
"Never mind." Rosamund turned to the wall. "Help me change my dress."
Relief washed over the maid's face. "At once, my lady."
Her footsteps hurried away. Rosamund rose.
---
The bath waited. Steam, scented with honey and rosemary, curled toward the painted ceiling. Maids moved in a silent ballet—curtains, linens, the soft rhythm of routine.
She sank into the water. For one blessed moment, the heat was all that existed.
"I wish to pick oranges from the orchard today." Her voice cut the quiet.
"Yes, my lady." Edith folded the discarded ballgown, her touch reverent.
"And I will do it myself." Rosamund opened her eyes, watching the steam. "With your assistance."
A hesitation. The maids' hands faltered for a heartbeat.
Edith looked up, her aged face tightening. "My lady, of course, but…" She set the silk down. "Your mother instructed me to attend Lady Agnes for her fittings this morning."
"Oh?" Rosamund turned, water rippling. "How… opportune."
The room grew still.
"There has been a change of plan." Rosamund's eyes held Edith's. "You will accompany me to the orchard."
Edith swallowed. "Yes, my lady."
Rosamund leaned back, water closing over her shoulders. She shut her eyes and saw it—sunlight through orange leaves. A world away from this gilded cage.
---
Later, dressed in simple cotton, her hair carelessly pinned, Rosamund descended the grand staircase. Her step was light, almost buoyant—a fleeting memory of the girl she might have been. She was nearly at the bottom, forgetting the breathless woman behind her.
Then she stopped.
Her feet rooted to the stone. The smile she hadn't known she was wearing vanished.
He stood at the foot of the stairs, waiting.
Lord William was immaculate. Dark coat, white cravat, boots that mirrored the gloom. And where his left eye should have been—a stark black patch of silk.
A slow, deliberate smile touched his lips, not reaching his good eye, which remained cold and flat as a winter pond.
"Lady Rosamund." A shallow, perfect bow. "What a… profound pleasure."
The empty space beneath the patch seemed to see her more clearly than anyone ever had.
In the great hall, the clock began to strike noon.
---------------------------------
To be continued...