My office was always warm, especially when winter winds howled outside and the window frosted over with prickly ice. Philipp would light the fireplace, throw in a stack of logs, and then leave, only to return shortly with bitter ginger tea and a plate of dry, crumbly biscuits.
This May day was different from the others because my sister and I had been up since morning, sitting at the table and flipping through the pages of the family register. Next to the inkwell sat two cups of tea and the same biscuits.
I had returned from a hunt two days ago and had refused to step outside the house ever since. Yesterday, a letter arrived from Count Wellinor in which he wrote that he would send a sack of the juiciest red apples as soon as they fully ripened — as an apology for the incident with the viscount. I didn't turn down the apples and quickly wrote a reply, already imagining the juice sliding down my throat.
The weather today was chilly. Rain had been tapping on the windows since dawn, so we decided to spend the entire day indoors doing what we usually did — paperwork.
The air smelled of rosemary from the sachets Margarita insisted on stuffing into every drawer. She sat nearby, her brow furrowed, face cradled in both hands.
"I don't understand any of this," she muttered, leaning back against her chair.
I placed my hand over the dried ink and gently traced the sweeping spider-like handwriting with my fingers.
"Here, look."
'Lady Elspeth Alder, 1489 — 1543.'
"Our great-great-grandmother. She brokered a timber trade deal with Prasnia, which saved the estate during the famine. Look at this footnote."
Margarita leaned in, her sleeve nudging the inkwell.
"Why is her husband's name crossed out?"
"He lost two vineyards. Elspeth struck him from the family line and later divorced him."
She smirked, clearly amused.
"Grandma didn't mess around."
I chuckled quietly, flipping the page. There were too many names — they even recorded the most distant relatives, including immigrants from Panum. I only paid attention to those who played a significant role in the Alder family's acquisition of the ducal title. Thankfully, memorizing surnames wasn't necessary: women kept their maiden names, and the men they married took those names. That's how the family grew to its current size.
Margarita swayed lazily in her chair, adjusting the hem of her silk robe.
"Feels like I'm looking at a graveyard," she said, pulling the plate of biscuits closer.
My lips curled into a grin. It was a fair comparison. The family register was a collection of names whose owners had long since rotted beneath headstones.
"The important part is remembering the history. What they did. It's like a chronicle. It describes the centuries-long relationships our family had with other nobles. It'd be useful if we could extract some leverage from all this."
She puffed out her cheeks and nodded, carelessly stuffing half a round biscuit into her mouth, crumbs scattering across the table. I sighed and handed her a napkin.
"Careful," I murmured, then flipped to the final pages, dated from 1703 to 1709. There were our names, along with our parents'. And everything would've been fine, except for one glaring, horrific detail: next to our names were the dates of birth and baptism, while beside Dietrich and Berenika's names — our parents — were their dates of death.
Berenika died in 1705. Endels was only four at the time, and Margarita one. Our father died in 1709 from a stomach rupture. The children were sent abroad to an aunt, while the duchy itself was temporarily managed by our elder cousin. When Endels turned eighteen, the ducal title and full ownership of the estate passed to him.
Usually, all the scenarios began at the point when I already held the title of duke — childhood remained off-screen, and I barely knew the family. But there were still portraits in the house, many portraits, and sometimes I would stop in front of them to compare. Both parents had dark hair, like Margarita. Endels, on the other hand, inherited the hair color of our grandmother: not quite white, more of a silvery gray.
But the eyes...All family members shared the same eyes, even though Berenika's had a distinct greenish tint. Our father's genes always prevailed.
I slowly tilted my head, gazing at the empty pages. One day my name would be here too, and my body would rest in the family crypt. Fortunately, my soul would be long gone by then, far from this place.
Pointing at the column with my sister's name, I continued:
"This is your page. When you marry, your husband's name will be written here. Your children — here. If you die, the date will go here." I tapped the empty space.
Margarita suddenly turned her head and looked at me with a distant expression.
"Will you be the one to write them?"
I bit my lower lip, feeling a lump rise in my throat.
"Are you stupid or something? You're younger. You'll be the one writing in your own kids' names. I don't want that kind of headache in my old age," I joked, trying to lighten the mood.
But she kept staring at me with that unusually heavy gaze. She exhaled quietly, nervously fiddling with the ties of her robe.
"Let's die on the same day."
Of course, I knew she could be overly dramatic sometimes — but this?
"Margarita, you—"
She suddenly waved her hands as if swatting at cloud of gnats, then grabbed the quill, sending ink splattering onto my collar.
"Ugh, forget it!" she barked. "What else do I need to fill in? Come on, hurry, I'm sick of sitting here."
I didn't argue and pointed to the previous page.
"Add an entry for cousin Lotte's new baby. Born three days ago."
She bit her lip, the quill hovering between her ink-stained fingers.
"His name was...Friedrich, right? Or was it Frederick?"
"Friedrich. Ends with a 'ch'," I said, watching her scrawl the letters, her sleeve constantly brushing the paper's edge. "No, the birth column, Margarita. Not the marriage one."
"Ugh, they're all the same!" She stabbed the quill into the inkwell, and a fat black blot dropped onto the page.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, then slid a clean sheet of parchment toward her.
"Practice here first. Date: May 16th, 1723. Name: Friedrich Alaric Alder. Parents: Lotte and Henrik. In the 'birth' column. Go on, write it."
Margarita leaned over and began to write, tongue poking out in concentration. Strands of dark hair fell into her face, and I brushed them aside, tying them back with a ribbon from the drawer.
The letters that emerged from the quill bled awkwardly across the page — she was using far too much ink. I let out a weary sigh.
"You're pressing way too hard. The pen is not a shovel," I said, covering her hand with mine and gently guiding her fingers. "Lightly. Let it glide."
My sister muttered something irritably.
"I don't want to do this. Fill it out yourself."
"And what if I die? Who'll keep the notes then?"
She looked at me with a confident smile.
"I'll make Philipp do it."
"And when Philipp dies?"
"I'll hire a new steward."
"Clever little thing," I said, teasingly tugging her earlobe until she grumbled. "Come on, learn. You wanted to share responsibilities with me? Well, here they are."
She stared at the ledger, then rubbed her right eye until it turned red — at that moment, she looked like a sulky, offended cat.
"I just don't like writing."
I leaned in closer to the table, stretching my legs out and rubbing my lower back. Then I pushed a bowl of dates toward her, watching how her dull eyes suddenly lit up.
"I praised you in front of the men on the hunt," I said. "Told them you're a real genius with numbers."
Margarita froze with a half-bitten date in her hand, looking at me with unexpected seriousness. Then she broke into a smile, blushed slightly, and covered her cheeks with her palm.
"Did you really say that?" she whispered.
"Of course. But you're not exactly living up to my words," I added, and when I saw her lips start to droop, I quickly patted her on the shoulder. "Alright, eat. It's easier to work on a full stomach."
I got up, stretching my stiff limbs.
"Where are you going?"
Walking to the armchair, I grabbed my jacket, smoothed out the creases, and threw it over my shoulders, turning at the sound of my sister's soft voice.
"I'll be back soon," I said. My slippers creaked over the plush red carpet, and the door hummed slightly as I cracked it open. "And you — get to work. I'll check how you wrote it later."
Margarita waved a hand vaguely in my direction and popped another date into her mouth, swallowing quickly.
"Go on, go," she muttered, distracted by the rain outside the window.
I walked toward the sitting room. Philipp was standing by the floor lamp, wiping the glass with a damp cloth to clear away the dust.
"Did you need something, Your Grace?"
"Wine."
Alcohol since this morning, Endels. What a wonderful start to the day.