Chapter 1
Winter, Year Twenty-Nine of the Crown Calendar.
On the day I died, a heavy snow fell over the Crown City.
Thick white flakes drifted down from a dull gray sky and settled against the window glass, along the roofline, and over the bare crabapple tree in the courtyard.
A fire burned steadily in the hearth, filling the room with warmth, but I was still cold.
It was not the kind of cold a blanket could fix. It had settled deep in my bones.
"My lady, your medicine is ready." Elowen Thorne came in with the bowl. Her eyes were red, and she kept her gaze lowered.
I leaned against the headboard and watched her set the dark brown medicine on the small table beside my bed. The bitter smell hit me at once.
I knew without asking that it was the new prescription from the royal physicians. They claimed it would keep me alive, but all it could do was hold me at the edge a little longer.
"Where is he?" I asked.
Elowen lowered her head even further. "His Grace is... in the study."
The study.
Of course.
We had been married for seven years, and for seven years, he had spent nearly every night in that study.
I gave a faint smile, picked up the bowl, and drank the medicine slowly. It was so bitter that my tongue went numb, but I did not frown. I swallowed every drop.
"My lady..." Elowen started to cry. "Please don't do this. You have to keep fighting. You have to live."
I set the empty bowl down and looked at her.
"Elowen, bring me paper and ink," I said.
Elowen blinked, uncertain. "My lady?"
"Paper and ink," I said. "I want to write a letter."
Who was the letter for?
For him, far away in the Southern Marches.
For the boy who had grown up beside me, who had promised to marry me, and whom I had driven away with a single letter.
For the person I had pushed out of my life with my own hands when I was fifteen.
Elowen brought everything over. I picked up the pen, but only then did I realize I no longer had the strength to write.
My hand shook so badly that when the pen touched the paper, it left only a dark smear.
I put the pen down, leaned back against the pillows, and closed my eyes.
Memories came back one after another.
When we were children, we climbed over a garden wall to pick apples.
He fell out of the tree and scraped his knee, but before he even looked at the blood, he shoved the best apple into my hands.
When I was twelve and my mother died, he sat with me all night on the hill behind the estate. He did not say much. He only held my hand.
When I was fifteen, he was leaving for the Northern Frontier to join the army.
Before he left, he came to me and said, "Ophelia, wait for me for three years. When I come back, I'll marry you."
Three years later, he did come back. But by then, I had already married someone else.
And after that?
After that, he left for the Southern Marches and never returned to the Crown City again.
As for me, I stayed in the Duke of the North's estate and lived like a ghost trapped inside my own body.
"Cedric..." I whispered.
No one answered.
Outside the window, the snow fell harder.
My mind grew foggy, and the light in front of me faded little by little. In my last moment of clarity, I thought I saw someone walking toward me through the storm.
Was it real?
I did not know.
All I knew was that in this life, I would never be able to repay what I owed him.
Winter, December 23, Year Twenty-Nine of the Crown Calendar.
Lady Ophelia Reed, Duchess of the North, died.
*****
I woke to a violent headache.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the pale blue canopy above my bed.
Sunlight slipped through the narrow gaps in the curtains and spilled across the floor, bright enough to sting my eyes.
I froze.
This was...
I sat up at once and looked down at my hands. They were fair and smooth, with none of the sickly pallor, thin skin, or raised veins from those seven years of illness.
I touched my face. My skin was firm and warm, not wasted away by disease.
I threw off the covers, climbed out of bed, and stood barefoot on the floor. The wood was cold under my feet, but I barely noticed.
I walked to the mirror.
The girl staring back at me looked fourteen or fifteen. Her features had not fully matured, and there was still a little softness in her cheeks.
Her hair was braided simply, and she wore a plain mauve morning dress.
It was me.
Me at fifteen.
I stared at that young face in the mirror, slowly raised my hand, and covered my mouth.
I stared at that young face in the mirror, slowly raised my hand, and covered my mouth.
"M-My lady?" a timid voice came from behind me.
I turned and saw Elowen. No, not the Elowen I remembered. This Elowen was years younger, with her hair pinned up neatly and a basin of water in her hands.
She looked at me in shock. "My lady, what's wrong? Did you have a nightmare?"
I looked at her, and a slow smile spread across my face.
"Elowen," I said, my voice hoarse, "what day is it?"