Chapter 2

As the carriage neared the South Gate, it suddenly came to a halt.

Outside, the sound of horses' hooves rang out, fast and frantic.

Richard called out, "Evelyn Harper."

The carriage curtain was yanked open.

Richard was mounted on his horse, still dressed in the dress uniform from the victory banquet. The wine stain on his chest was glaring in the moonlight. He was breathing hard, sweat plastering his hair to his brow.

"Come down," Richard said, reaching out to grab my wrist.

I shrank back a little. "Do you still need something, General?"

His expression grew even darker, and he climbed straight into the carriage, squeezing into the tiny space. The coachman was so terrified he didn't dare make a sound.

"You haven't even received the decree yet. Then where do you think you're going?" Richard snapped.

"Riverside District," I replied. "My grandmother's sick. I'm going to see her."

"But your grandmother has passed away three years ago," Richard shot back.

"Then I'm going to visit her grave," I said.

Richard stared at me, then suddenly smirked, his smile icy. "Evelyn, you never lie."

'It's true. I really never lied before.'

Instead of covering those by telling lies, I'd make excuses for him. When he stayed out all night, I'd tell myself he must be busy with military affairs.

When he went boating with Charlotte, I'd explain it to myself that she was of noble birth, so, of course he should accompany her. When he accepted gifts like embroidered handkerchiefs and gold pocket watches, I'd reason it was part of a general's social obligations.'

But now, I don't wanna do that for him anymore.

"Let me go," I said, meeting his gaze. "Richard, it's been seven years. Isn't that enough?"

His fingers trembled slightly.

The carriage was so quiet I could hear his breathing.

*****

Seven years ago, after my father passed away, General Ashford brought me into his manor.

I was thirteen, and Richard was sixteen. He stood under the eaves, frowning at me and muttering, "She's so skinny. Will she even last here?"

General Ashford shot him a glare. "She's the only child your Uncle Carter left behind. Make sure you take good care of her."

Richard made a face, but the next day, he ordered extra firewood for my room.

That first winter, my hands were covered in chilblains, so bad I could barely hold fork. He saw me struggling but didn't say a word. Yet that evening, he tossed me a box of ointment. "Don't let anyone say our Ashford family treats you badly."

The ointment worked wonders.

Later, I found out he'd ridden thirty miles to a monastery outside the city to get it for me.

The first wooden sword I ever made was on my fourteenth birthday. It was all crooked, and the carving on the handle was a mess.

He took it and stared at that for a while. "You're the daughter of a royal doctor, and you're still so bad with your hands?"

Tears welled up in my eyes.

He clicked his tongue and hung the wooden sword in his study. "Eh, good enough."

Ever since then, every year when his birthday came around, I'd carve a wooden sword for him.

The next year, the night before he went off to battle, he showed up at my courtyard. He stood there for ages before he finally spoke up, "I'm bringing that wooden sword with me."

The third year, he got injured at the border and had someone deliver a message: "Stop making those swords. You're straining your eyes."

But I went ahead and carved one anyway.

The fourth year, he came back triumphant. He came to me, drunk, knocking on my door, and leaning against the door frame. "Evelyn, I'm back."

Moonlight draped over his shoulders. I wanted so badly to reach out and touch him, but all I managed was, "Congratulations, General."

Year five, year six...

And now, it's the seventh year.

At the party, Lady Charlotte tossed the wooden sword to the floor, but Richard sat there, completely unmoved.