A faint patter began against the windowpanes—soft at first, then steadier, like a hush falling over the world.
Evie lifted her head from Lucas's shoulder just enough to glance toward the window. "Rain," she murmured.
Lucas followed her gaze. "It's getting colder."
Evie stood, slow and quiet, brushing at the ash marks on her skirt again. "The fireplace still works," she said. "Or… it used to."
She crossed the room, moving with more purpose now—muscle memory guiding her through each familiar turn. Down the creaky stairs, past the worn rug in the hallway, into the sitting room where the hearth still stood, dark and empty.
Lucas followed her, saying nothing. He watched as she crouched down, tugged open the firebox, and reached for the bundle of kindling kept in the woven basket beside it. The basket was singed but intact. She gave it a faint, surprised smile.
The firewood was a little damp, but still usable. She arranged it carefully—twigs first, then the smaller logs, then one of the thick, charred pieces that had somehow survived.
Lucas knelt beside her. "Need help?"
Evie shook her head, not unkindly. "No. I've got it."
Her fingers moved with quiet precision. She found the old flint in the tin box beneath the mantle, just where it always had been. One strike. Two. The third sent a spark into the kindling.
She blew on it gently, lips parted, coaxing the ember to life. It caught.
The flame grew.
Light and warmth spilled slowly into the room, curling around the faded curtains, casting gold across the wooden floorboards.
Evie leaned back on her heels, watching the fire with a tired sort of pride. "There," she said softly. "Still works."
Lucas sat beside her again, closer this time. The fire crackled between them, casting flickering shadows over their faces.
For a moment, they both just breathed—warmth returning to chilled skin, silence weaving around them like a blanket.
Evie's eyes reflected the firelight, but there was something steadier in them now. Not peace, exactly—but a beginning.
She glanced sideways at Lucas. "Thank you… for coming back with me."
He didn't answer right away. Just held her gaze for a moment before nodding. "You didn't have to ask."
She smiled faintly, then leaned forward, stretching her hands toward the flames.
"They always said fire destroys," she murmured. "But maybe… it remembers, too."
Lucas's voice was quiet, thoughtful. "Sometimes it gives back. Not what we lost, but something else. Something that helps us keep going."
Evie nodded, watching the flames dance.
Outside, the rain thickened, drumming against the roof.
Inside, the fire burned.
" Care for tea."?
Evie's voice was soft, but there was a warmth to it that hadn't been there before. She glanced toward the small kitchen area, a place where the scent of herbs and spices used to fill the air, but now stood silent and forgotten.
Lucas looked at her, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. "Tea sounds good."
Evie smiled to herself, rising slowly to her feet. She moved toward the cupboard with a familiar ease, her fingers brushing against the chipped ceramic mugs, the silver spoons long abandoned. There was a quiet rhythm to it—pouring water into the kettle, selecting the tea leaves, the rustle of the packet as she measured out a few pinches.
Lucas stayed seated, watching her. The silence between them was comfortable now, not strained as it had been before. It was like the space they shared had softened, and in the quiet, they didn't need to fill it with words.
Evie set the kettle on the stove, her gaze lingering on the fire for a moment. She let herself be absorbed by the soft crackle, by the way the light flickered in the stillness.
"You seem different," Lucas said, his voice low.
Evie glanced at him over her shoulder, meeting his eyes. She could hear the question, the weight of it, even if it wasn't fully formed.
"Different?" she repeated.
He nodded, eyes searching hers. "More... settled. Like you've found something again."
Evie tilted her head slightly, considering. The kettle began to hum, and she turned to silence it before it grew too loud.
"Maybe I have," she said, her tone thoughtful, almost tentative.
She dropped the tea leaves into the teapot and poured the hot water over them, watching the steam rise in swirls. It filled the small room with a gentle, earthy scent.
"I used to be afraid of things changing," Evie continued, her voice soft as she poured the tea. "But sometimes, things change whether we want them to or not."
Lucas's gaze softened, and he shifted slightly on the couch, the light flickering across his face in the dim room. "And sometimes, it's better that way."
Evie didn't reply at once, instead setting the teapot and two cups on the low table before sitting beside him once more. She handed him a mug, the warm ceramic a contrast to the coolness of the night air.
"Maybe," she said quietly. "Maybe it is."
They sat together in the flickering firelight, sipping their tea, the rain continuing to beat gently against the windows. Neither of them spoke much, but the quiet felt comfortable.
___________________
A week had passed in strange quiet.
Evie had stayed at Lucas Manor, though she could not quite say why. Perhaps it was the silence that held her here—or the memory of warmth on a cold, rain-slick night. The manor was too vast, too still, and Lucas was often gone. Some mornings she passed the servants in the hall, but they offered only guarded glances and thin-lipped smiles. And Lucas… he came and went like a shadow—present only in the scent of his cologne lingering in the corridor, the faint echo of boots on the marble floor.
She hadn't seen him properly in days.
The air smelled of crushed lavender and morning dew, sweet and damp as Evie knelt by the flowerbed near the eastern wall of Havethrone Manor. Her hands were soiled to the wrist, sleeves rolled up past the elbow, dark curls pinned back in a careless twist. The earth here was softer, rich and black, the kind that promised life—so unlike the whisper-thin halls behind her.
She was elbow-deep in the roots of a stubborn weed when she heard the first voice float in from the garden path.
"I swear to the grave, Clarice. If I see her humming about the lilies one more time like she owns them, I'll lose my temper."
Evie's hand froze mid-dig.
"She acts like this is her estate," another voice joined, older and sharp as a pruning shear. "Hands in the soil, all innocent like a village girl playing house with roses."
A third voice, breathless with laughter, joined the cruel chorus. "Village girl is exactly what she is. Haven't you heard? She's no one. Daughter of a nobody. Not even minor nobility. Just another pretty face with a clever tongue."
Evie stayed still. Silent. She reached for the little trowel beside her and began digging again, carefully—like the act of tending to flowers might root her to the ground.
"Still," the first maid whispered, voice heavy with envy, "Lord Thorne's never let one stay so long. Not even Lady Virelle. And she was a duchess."
The older maid snorted. "Duchess or not, even Virelle knew when to leave. She understood the kind of man he is. Polished, yes, and powerful—but cold underneath. A man like that doesn't keep company unless he means to possess it."
They paused. A branch snapped underfoot.
Evie slowly turned her head, still kneeling low.
The younger maid leaned in, voice barely a breath. "Maybe that's what she wants. To be possessed."
"Maybe she already is," came the laugh. "You saw how he looked at her when she collapsed that night. Picked her up like she was made of spun glass and blood."
The older one hummed, amused. "Or like a man cradling his latest toy."
A silence stretched too long before one of them dared add, "He's a man, isn't he? Beautiful. Powerful. Alone too long in that cold manor. Of course he'd want something warm to slip into bed with."
"She's too plain for him," the third maid scoffed, though her voice wavered. "Hair like dry bramble and those brown eyes—nothing special. She must've done something. Spelled him, maybe. Wouldn't be the first peasant girl to try witchery for a rich man's attention."
Evie's breath hitched.
Not from the insult. She had grown used to being overlooked in rooms of glittering women. But it was the venom in their voices. The certainty. They had carved out a version of her—a scheming, low-born girl who had seduced their master—and they liked it. It made her easier to hate.
"She'll be gone soon," one said with smug satisfaction. "They always are. Lord Thorne gets bored quickly. Maybe she'll leave with a necklace. Maybe with nothing."
Evie rose to her feet, her apron dusted in soil, fingers smeared with black earth like dried blood. The maids startled when they saw her standing there.
She said nothing. Didn't flinch. Her eyes swept across them with the same cool, quiet fury her grandmother used to wear like a second skin.
One of them had the decency to pale.
Evie brushed the soil from her hands, chin lifting. "You ought to be more careful with your words," she said softly. "Especially in gardens. Flowers aren't the only ones who listen."
And with that, she turned and walked away, head high, shoulders square—each step slow, deliberate. But her pulse thudded beneath her skin, raw and stinging. She didn't know which cut deeper: their cruelty or the fact that she couldn't entirely deny their assumptions.
Lucas was a man women wanted. He was too handsome, too mysterious, too unreachable not to be desired. Of course there had been others. Of course there would be more.
And she?
She had only her heart to offer—and perhaps a bit of garden soil under her nails.