The kitchen of House D’Claire was abuzz with activity—not because of breakfast prep, but because of something far juicier.
“He brought a woman home!”
Hissed Clara, the scullery maid, her hands still wet with dishwater as she leaned toward the huddle of staff near the bread ovens.
“I saw it with my own two eyes,” added Mira, the youngest chambermaid, wide-eyed with excitement.
“She stepped out of the carriage with him like she owned the place. Hair like violets soaked in moonlight. Boots made from shadow. I swear, the storm got quieter when she looked up.”
“That was no ordinary woman,” came the voice of old Matilda, the longest-serving linen maid, as she shuffled in carrying a basket of folded napkins.
“That was Lady Vaelira Nyx Aetherveil.”
The entire group froze.
“You mean the Aetherveil Aetherveil?”
Clara whispered.
“The very same,” Matilda said with a knowing nod.
“One of the Heirs to the estate of Aetherveil, granddaughter of the Apple Alchemist, and possibly—possibly—part bat.”
“Part bat!?”
Mira gasped.
“That’s just what I heard,” Matilda said with a shrug.
“They say she sleeps upside down in the library when she’s tired. One of the kitchen boys from Aetherveil fainted just catching a glimpse of her smile. They had to fan him awake with a silver tray.”
“Oh gods,” groaned Elena, one of the upstairs maids.
“Do you remember what happened to the last suitor who tried to court an Aetherveil daughter? Disappeared for three days. Came back mute. Could only communicate through interpretive dance.”
“No, that’s the cousin,” Clara corrected.
“Vaelira’s the one who made a merchant prince cry by just asking about his shipping logs.”
“And what about the duel?”
Piped in a footman, who was clearly eavesdropping while pretending to check the spice racks.
“Which duel?”
Asked three voices in unison.
“The one where she sliced a man’s boot laces off mid-charge. He tripped into a fountain. Publicly. In front of nobles. During a coronation.”
“Oh no…”
Mira put a hand over her mouth.
“Do you think Master Lucien knows who she is?”
“I hope he knows,” Elena said dramatically.
“Because if he goes back to his old moody self and says something snide—”
“There will be blood on the marble tiles,” Matilda finished gravely.
A long silence followed.
“I mean… she looked very serious,” Clara added.
“You could balance a tray on her posture. You think she even blinks?”
“Not unless it’s tactical,” Mira said, utterly convinced.
“And her eyes! I swear, when she looked at me, I forgot where the pantry was. I’ve worked here for three years.”
“I’m just going to avoid her entirely,” muttered a hall maid, walking past with a tray of teacups.
“I’ll send in the tea and run. Not taking any chances.”
“Good plan,” Matilda agreed.
“Lady Vaelira’s the sort that’d thank you politely… and then notice you chipped the saucer.”
The room fell quiet for a moment, all eyes cast toward the distant hallway where Lady Aetherveil now sat, having breakfast with their awkward, once-hopeless young master.
“…Do you think it’s serious?”
Mira asked finally, whispering.
“Oh honey,” Clara whispered back, “if she lets him live, that’s serious.”
***
Under the creaking porch that overlooked the battered remains of the eastern orchards, two old men sat shoulder to shoulder—Sir Richardson, the steward of the estate, and Terrin, the bent but unbowed gardener whose hands had touched nearly every tree on the land.
Rain drummed like war drums on the wooden shingles above, while the fields were swallowed in grey.
The twisted apple trees stood like stoic veterans, their branches bowed but not broken.
“Damn storm,” Richardson muttered, squinting through the curtain of rain.
“Could wash away half the valley if it keeps up.”
Terrin huffed a laugh, hugging a worn shawl around his shoulders.
“Yet them old trees still stand. Rooted in spite of it all, eh?”
“Like a couple of old fools I know,” Richardson grunted, elbowing him gently.
Terrin grinned, eyes crinkling.
“We’re not trees, you old dog. We’re more like weeds. Too stubborn to die, too unsightly to be displayed.”
“Speak for yourself. I was quite the sight in my prime.”
“Bah!”
Terrin laughed, “You were a walking broom with boots! And worse with a sword than I was with a rake.”
They chuckled for a bit, silence trailing after them like smoke from a dying pipe.
After a while, Terrin’s voice turned thoughtful.
“But… it’s something, isn’t it?”
“What’s something?”
“The timing,” he said, eyes narrowing toward the orchard.
“That Lady Vaelira herself sets foot here, of all places… now of all times, when the young master’s thinking of bringing life back to these lands.”
Richardson snorted.
“Hah! You’ve been out in the rain too long, old friend. That’s fairy tale talk. Destiny and fate and apples blooming by moonlight.”
“Call it what you want,” Terrin said, “but can’t deny the feeling in your gut, can you?”
Richardson didn’t answer at first.
He folded his hands atop his cane and watched the wind toss the trees like dancers in mourning.
“…I can’t,” he admitted.
“Doesn’t mean I believe it. But… aye, it’s a hell of a coincidence.”
Terrin glanced at him.
“And the two of them? Sitting in there, talking like the world ain’t crumbling outside?”
“That’s the bit that unsettles me most.”
Richardson shook his head.
“I’ve known Lucien since he was barely tall enough to hide in the wine barrels. Couldn’t get two words out of him on a good day. Now he’s sipping tea with a wolf in noblewoman’s clothing.”
Terrin let out a barking laugh.
“You just don’t like being surprised.”
“I don’t like getting hopeful,” Richardson corrected sharply.
“It’s dangerous. I’ve seen too many young lords dream up grand projects only to lose interest the moment it gets their boots muddy. This? Orchards? Trade? Sabers and cider? Sounds like a noble’s fad. A phase before the academy chews him up and spits him out like all the rest.”
Terrin turned, eyebrows raised.
“That what you really think?”
“I think the boy’s earnest,” Richardson sighed.
“But earnestness doesn’t make fruit grow. Nor does it stop creditors from coming, or vines from dying in frost.”
The gardener was quiet for a beat.
“Funny,” he said, “because I saw something in that boy’s eyes this morning.”
Richardson didn’t reply.
Terrin continued, voice a little softer.
“When he spoke about the trees, about the land—it wasn’t playacting. It was like… like someone remembering a dream they had when they were young, and daring to believe it could still come true. I’ve seen that look before, you know.”
Richardson cocked a brow.
“On who? Yourself?”
“No,” Terrin said, smiling faintly.
“On his mother.”
The porch creaked beneath them as the wind picked up again.
“…For what it’s worth,” Terrin added, “I’ll give my all for this. For him. For the soil. I’ve buried too many years in this land to sit by and watch it die without one more fight.”
Richardson looked over, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re a sentimental old weed, Terrin.”
“And you’re a living monument to cynicism, you stiff tree stump.”
They both chuckled, letting the rain swallow the sound of their mirth.
Beyond them, the orchard stood still.
Wounded, waterlogged, but breathing.
And for the first time in many seasons, something more than rain hung in the air—possibility.
“…Let’s see if this fool of a boy proves us wrong,” Richardson murmured.
“Aye,” Terrin said with a nod.
“Let’s see if something blooms again.”
***
Author’s Note:
Hello Hello ( ^_^)／
So I don’t really know how to explain this chapter except that I got very fixated on how people talk when they think they’re not being watched.
I like that kind of layered communication. Also I wanted to try writing weather as a mood instead of just a setting?? ヽ(O_O )ﾉ
Not sure if it worked but it made sense in my head.
The kitchen staff are maybe too invested. The orchard men are maybe too sad. But it feels honest to me, so… yeah.
I hope that came through. ╭( ๐_๐)╮
Thanks for reading if you made it this far. (ﾟoﾟ〃)