The days bled into one another.
Every morning, Victoria came. Every morning, Lyomord protested. And every morning, she forced him to eat, to wash, to live.
Slowly, grudgingly, his body began to reclaim fragments of its former strength. He still ate sparingly—a quarter of his plate, no more—but it was progress. A bitter, hard-won progress.
His temperament, however, remained unchanged.
He was still sharp-tongued, caustic, venomous. He hurled names at her—"demon woman," "cursed creature," "half-wit." Yet Victoria paid them no mind. Even as his insults lashed the air, his body responded to the sustenance and rest she imposed upon him, bit by reluctant bit... something he hadn't experienced in months.
As she swept the room one afternoon, Lyomord grumbling as he always did, she paused mid-motion and asked:
"My lord, would you care for a turn in the garden?"
"No." His tone was flat with disinterest.
She resumed sweeping. "Perhaps I might read to you instead?"
A muffled grunt. "No."
Victoria's face brightened with false delight. "Wonderful! I'll fetch the books."
"*No—*I don't want—" He buried his head beneath the pillows.
But in the brief silence that followed, she returned, arms laden with leather-bound volumes, her quiet determination gleaming in her eyes.
She began reading with theatrical enthusiasm from the first book:
"Once upon a time, there lived a valiant knight—"
"Change the story," Lyomord interrupted irritably. "I don't like it."
She closed the book without comment and selected another.
"In distant lands, beyond towering mountains, there dwells a legend—"
"Stop! This is dull." His voice emerged muffled beneath the pillows.
Victoria ground her teeth, responding with deceptive calm:
"My lord... dearest... I haven't even finished the first line. How can you judge it boring?"
She switched to a third book and began anew:
"On a night of utter darkness, behind a silent stone, sat a fair-haired girl with the face of an angel, weeping tears that turned to pearls. Kings and merchants coveted her, imprisoning her in a dungeon beneath the seventh earth, subjecting her to endless torment until—"
"These are women's stories, aren't they?" Lyomord's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Do you truly believe I read such maudlin drivel?"
Victoria closed the book with deliberate gentleness and left the room.
Minutes later, she returned bearing children's tales. She settled herself at the foot of his bed and began:
"Once upon a time, in a far-off kingdom, there lived a young prince in a grand and beautiful palace, but he could never leave—"
"Wait, wait..." Lyomord's tone shifted to bewilderment. "Are these children's stories?"
Victoria smiled serenely. "Indeed. And I shall continue reading whether you approve or not."
He tried to ignore her at first. But as the minutes passed, he found himself listening. The story wasn't terrible. And her voice...
"Stop," he said abruptly.
Victoria paused. "What's wrong?"
"You're... reading too quickly. I can't picture the scenes."
"My apologies." She slowed her pace.
Several pages later, he interrupted again.
"That pronunciation is incorrect. It's 'Arion,' not 'Arian.'"
"Are you certain?"
"I'm certain," he snapped.
She sighed. "Very well. 'Arion' it is."
No matter how he attempted to derail her—whether through feigned hatred of the narrative, invented grammatical corrections, or claims that he couldn't visualize the events—she remained immovable.
The reading lasted three uninterrupted hours, until Victoria's voice finally gave out, her strength utterly depleted.
Even as she left, the Duke remained quiet. For the first time...
"Finally," she muttered, dragging herself to her own quarters. "I can sleep in peace."
She collapsed onto her bed that afternoon, sleeping for the first time in what felt like an eternity.
Three weeks had passed since Victoria's arrival at Ashford Estate.
Three weeks of morning battles, of refused meals grudgingly accepted, of books read aloud while Lyomord pretended not to listen yet corrected every mispronunciation.
Gradually, imperceptibly, things began to shift.
Lyomord no longer threw objects at her. Well, not often, at least. And when he did, Victoria simply caught them—or dodged—then continued her work as though nothing had occurred. This infuriated him more than any reaction could have.
He now consumed half his plate—substantial progress compared to previous weeks. His body was regaining strength, his pallor no longer quite so alarming.
One morning, as Victoria prepared for another day in her chamber, a forceful knock echoed at her door.
She opened it to find Mrs. Gregory standing rigid in the corridor.
"Good morning, ma'am."
"Good morning." The older woman's voice was clipped. "Let's dispense with pleasantries. Here."
She extended a wooden box to Victoria, filled with an alarming number of letters.
"What is this?" Victoria asked, startled.
"Correspondence the Duke hasn't answered in nearly two months."
"Shall I present them to him?"
"Do as you see fit," Mrs. Gregory replied, her tone stern yet deliberate.
Victoria's mind whirred: The first time I've been given such autonomy... an opportunity only granted to those deemed trustworthy.
Victoria entered the Duke's quarters without hesitation.
"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," she announced with artificial cheer.
Lyomord's response was a single, withering word:
"Leave."
She smiled. "Splendid. So you're awake."
She yanked open the curtains in one swift motion, flooding the room with light.
"By the way, when do you intend to respond to your letters? They've accumulated into mountains that could drown migrating birds."
She deposited the wooden chest on the table beside him.
"What's that sound?" Lyomord demanded sharply.
"Your correspondence, my lord," she said evenly. "Hundreds of them. Unopened."
Heavy silence descended.
Then, his voice cold as winter steel:
"Burn them."
"My lord—"
"I said burn them!" He cut her off violently. "I don't want to hear about them."
"Some may be important," Victoria pressed. "Estate affairs, trade, obligations—"
"I don't care." Bitterness saturated every syllable. "All those letters are from people who want something from me... or worse, people who pity me."
Victoria glanced at the chest, then back at him.
"And what if they're not?"
Without hesitation:
"Burn them."
She paused.
Then simply:
"Very well."
That night, alone in her small room, Victoria lit a candle and opened the chest.
If Lyomord doesn't respond, someone will come to investigate.
And if they see him in this state?
Everything ends.
She considered her options:
Force him to reply? Impossible in his current condition.
Write generic responses in her own name? No one would accept them.
Forge his handwriting? Dangerous... but the only option.
She took a deep breath.
"If I'm discovered, I'll be executed. But if I do nothing, his secret will be exposed."
She chose to protect his secret.
Even if it cost her life.
She began reading the letters one by one.
Most were exactly as Lyomord had described:
Requests for audiences, trade proposals, belated invitations.
But some... were different.
A letter from Daniel Devon:
"Leo, my old friend, I haven't heard from you in months. Are you well? Please, reply. Even just a single word. — Daniel"
A letter from an old merchant:
"Lord Duke, the eastern shipment has arrived, but I require your signature on the documents. Please respond at your earliest convenience."
Then she stopped at a final letter.
Its seal was not ordinary.
A royal seal.
She opened it slowly.
"Duke Lyomord Ashford,
We haven't seen you at court in some time. We hope you are well. I shall visit soon to check on you personally.
Your friend,
Edward, Crown Prince."
Victoria swallowed hard.
The Crown Prince himself was attempting to reach him.
She stared at the letter for a long moment.
Then extinguished the candle and made her decision.
If Lyomord wouldn't respond...
She would.
Victoria didn't sleep that night.
She sat until dawn, meticulously replicating Lyomord's handwriting, line by painstaking line, letter after letter.
She adjusted the curves, the pressure, until even the signature at the page's end looked... dangerously convincing.
By sunrise, she had finished.
She gazed at the stack of letters, eyes weary, shoulders burdened.
"I hope this is worth it," she whispered, then sent the letters with the post.
Not even an hour had passed when Rebecca came running.
"Victoria! There's a visitor at the estate."
Victoria raised an eyebrow calmly.
"Since Mrs. Gregory hasn't informed me, there's no cause for concern."
Victoria descended with Rebecca to the third floor to fetch water.
There they found Mrs. Gregory, face ashen, confusion etched across her features.
"Mrs. Gregory, is everything all right?" Victoria asked.
The elderly woman suddenly lunged forward, gripping Victoria by the arms.
"Victoria, my dear girl... is Lord Lyomord well?!"
Victoria froze momentarily.
"Yes, he's fine. I was with him just moments ago."
Rebecca stepped forward hesitantly:
"Ma'am... is there a problem?"
Mrs. Gregory placed a hand to her temple anxiously.
"Girls... especially you, Victoria... lock the Duke's quarters. Don't allow Duke Devon entrance under any circumstances."
Victoria nodded immediately.
"Of course, ma'am. But—"
She stopped abruptly, staring past the older woman.
"Who is that man standing behind you?"
Mrs. Gregory jumped in fright.
"Sir! When did you leave the guest room?! How long have you been standing there?!"
A calm voice emerged, carrying dangerous curiosity:
"Since the moment I entered the estate gates."
The man stepped forward.
"I intercepted a letter bound for Devon Estate... and I have questions."
He looked at the two young women before him.
"Which of you is Leo's maid?"
Victoria immediately pointed at Rebecca.
At the exact same instant, Rebecca pointed at Victoria.
The man paused.
"...So both of you serve Leo?"
They pointed at each other again.
His eyebrows rose slightly.
"And which of you holds the key to his chambers?"
The same gesture repeated.
Two fingers. Opposite directions.
Heavy silence.
Then, slowly:
"And which of you... forged his handwriting?"
Victoria immediately indicated Rebecca.
Rebecca immediately indicated Victoria.
Silence reigned.
It was the kind of silence that precedes a storm...
Mrs. Gregory froze in place, shock painting her features.
"Forgery?" she said slowly, as though she'd misheard. "Forgery... here?!"
In that moment, Victoria's heart hammered so violently she feared its sound audible.
Impossible...
How did he discover it so quickly?
And how did the letter reach him at all?
Was he waiting at the gates?
Or with the postman?
Or is Duke Devon far more dangerous than I anticipated?
She raised her head slowly, maintaining composure despite the tempest battering her chest.
If he's truly exposed me... my game ends before it begins.
Terror coursed through her:
Don't tell me he read my letter to the Church...
She felt the blood drain from her face.
I'll die before I understand what's happening. And Rebecca? Will she die with me?
She glanced quickly at the other girl. Rebecca had gone completely pale, eyes wide as one awaiting final judgment.
In the midst of her spiraling thoughts, loud, confident laughter shattered the silence.
Duke Devon stood there, elegant as though he'd stepped from an oil painting—yet no painting could have captured the sheer presence of the man. He was imposing in every sense: broad-shouldered and powerfully built, the kind of physique that suggested both discipline and danger. His rich brown hair fell in careless waves that somehow appeared perfectly intentional, and when he turned his attention fully upon them, his blue eyes—sharp, intelligent, and unnervingly perceptive—seemed to strip away every pretense.
He was the sort of man who commanded a room simply by entering it. The kind whose smile could be charming or threatening depending on his mood. And right now, as that smile played across his handsome features, Victoria couldn't quite tell which it was.
His tone was playful yet cruel as he pointed to the blonde girl:
"Judging by this terrified creature's reaction, she's clearly innocent."
Then he turned to Victoria, his smile widening:
"But you, little one..."
He pointed without hesitation.
"Your reaction doesn't resemble fear. It resembles thinking... thinking: Where was my mistake?"
He stepped closer, asking with lethal calm:
"Am I correct?"
Victoria screamed inwardly, panic seizing her:
Were my expressions that transparent? I can't believe I failed to control my fear... What do I do now?
Then she clenched her fist secretly.
I'll lie. As I always do.
She answered with manufactured confidence:
"You're mistaken, Lord Devon. I didn't tamper with my lord Duke's correspondence. That is Lord Ashford's handwriting, but it appears different because he's been ill, unable to respond these past days."
A sharp, short laugh erupted.
"Hahahaha!"
He turned to Mrs. Gregory. "Madam, if I didn't know Leo personally, I might have believed this deceptive little liar."
Then he bent until his eyes met Victoria's, his voice dropping to something more dangerous:
"A commendable lie... truly. But you'll need a greater effort if you wish to convince me."
Victoria stiffened but didn't lower her gaze. Instead, she slowly directed it toward Mrs. Gregory, as though seeking explanation... or escape.
She said with deliberate calm:
"What does this honorable gentleman mean, Mrs. Gregory?"
Daniel Devon raised a single eyebrow slowly, like one watching two mice attempt escape from a cat.
"Entertaining," he said dryly, then turned to Mrs. Gregory. "Madam, are all of Leo's maids this... creative?"
Mrs. Gregory swallowed. "Lord Devon, I—"
He raised his hand gently, interrupting without cruelty.
"It's quite all right." He turned slowly toward the two young women.
His cold gray eyes examined Rebecca first.
She was pale, hands trembling slightly, eyes fixed on the floor.
Frightened. Innocent. Useless.
Then his gaze shifted to Victoria.
(Inside Victoria's mind, in less than two seconds):
His expression didn't change when I pointed at Rebecca.
Meaning: he knew the answer before he asked.
So... why did he ask?
Two possible tests:
1. He wants to see how I lie under pressure.
2. He wants to see if I'll blame the other.
I did both. Failed both tests.
No... wait.
He looked at Rebecca for one second.
He looked at me for five.
So Rebecca is safe, but I...
This is very bad... very bad indeed.
Victoria raised her chin slightly.
Daniel smiled—a small, cold smile.
"You," he said simply, pointing at Victoria.
"Yes, my lord?" Her voice remained calm, neutral.
Daniel tilted his head slightly, as though studying a rare specimen.
"Your name?"
"Victoria Marsh, my lord. A healer from the Church."
"Marsh..." He repeated the name slowly, as though testing its weight. "A family name? Or a Church epithet? A healer who forges letters?" His tone turned neutral, dangerous.
(Inside her mind: He knows. Of course he knows. So... why is he asking?)
"My lord, I was—"
For the first time, something flickered in his eyes.
Not anger.
Genuine curiosity.
He stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, the posture of a nobleman relaxed yet vigilant.
"Did the Duke die?" he said, his tone slightly lighter. "Dramatic exaggeration, Miss Marsh. Leo won't die from unanswered correspondence."
"No," Victoria agreed. "But he might die if... someone saw him..."
She stopped.
Daniel completed the thought quietly: "...A blind Duke, emaciated, refusing to leave his chambers."
She looked at him warily.
He knows. Of course he knows.
Before either girl could respond, Daniel Devon noticed both had gone rigid with tension.
He said with a brief smile:
"Now then, Miss Victoria," Daniel's tone lightened, "is your blonde colleague well? She doesn't appear so."
Victoria glanced quickly at Rebecca.
She still stood there, pale as death, hands trembling.
(Inside Victoria's mind):
Rebecca... someone shy, already terrified of Mrs. Gregory.
How much more of Duke Devon standing before her?
She's like a body without a soul now.
Victoria answered calmly:
"She'll be fine, my lord. Just... surprised."
Daniel looked at her for a moment, then nodded slowly, as though understanding more than she'd said.
"Look after her," he said simply, then turned.
Daniel ascended the stairs with confident strides, Mrs. Gregory rushing behind him, worry plain on her face.
"Sir!" she panted. "Duke Ashford refuses all visitors presently, so—"
"I'm not a visitor, madam," he interrupted without stopping, his voice audible but not harsh.
He reached Lyomord's chambers.
Paused for a moment. Drew a deep breath.
Then pushed the door open with his foot—gently—swinging it wide.