The sky was pale, washed clean by the previous day's rain. The mist seemed to lift earlier than usual—a sign that spring was coming. Victor was walking slowly down the path that ran along the river, hands in the pockets of his jacket, his thoughts elsewhere.
He had left the manor before dawn, without leaving a note. He often did that, lately. The days there were long, the walls heavy with silence. He wasn't quite sure what he was looking for in town. Sometimes a book. Sometimes just a bit of motion. But that morning, he had taken the river path, where the grass was still soaked, where the town seemed further away.
A clear, familiar voice stopped him.
— "I was wondering if it was you."
He looked up. Further down, ankle-deep in the water, Emma was waving to him from a rock. Her hair was tied up hastily, her sleeves rolled to her elbows. Beside her, a small bucket. Not far away, Dennis was carefully lining up stones along the bank.
Victor slowly climbed down the damp embankment, slipping slightly on the tall grass.
— "Good morning," he said simply.
Emma raised an eyebrow, then smiled.
— "You're not much of a talker, are you?"
— "I do what I can."
He stopped a few steps away, his boots just at the edge of the water.
— "Are they biting?"
— "A bit. Not enough to sell tonight, but enough that the trip wasn't for nothing."
She pointed to the bucket, where two small trout were barely wriggling.
Dennis glanced up at Victor, then went back to his game. He seemed to have accepted him without ceremony. Victor nodded slowly.
— "Do you come here often?"
— "When I have time. Or when the pantry's too empty to ignore."
Victor watched Emma's movements—precise, economical, almost silent. She checked her line, adjusted a hook. The current brushed gently against her legs. Sunlight filtered through the branches and painted shifting flecks on the water's surface.
A moment passed.
— "I didn't see you at the market Saturday," she said, without looking at him.
— "No."
— "Avoiding Saturdays or just people?"
He gave a brief, almost invisible smile.
— "Not very good with either, to be honest."
She nodded, as if that answer made perfect sense.
A fish bit. She pulled it out with a quick flick, unhooked it without hesitation, and dropped it in the bucket. Victor crouched beside her, touched the water with the tips of his fingers.
— "It's freezing."
— "You get used to it, eventually."
Silence. The river whispered between the stones. Dennis was humming something quietly, focused on his stone kingdom.
Emma broke the silence, gently:
— "So you never go into town?"
— "Sometimes. Now and then."
— "To see someone?"
He shook his head.
— "No. I don't really have anyone to see, to be honest."
She nodded slowly. There was no irony, no pity in her gaze. Just a calm, slightly solemn look. She shifted her weight on the rock, then added:
— "I've always wondered… if it's true, about your father. What they say."
Victor looked up at her. She was still holding her fishing line, but her fingers had tensed slightly.
— "You mean, that he disappeared?"
— "Yeah."
He hesitated.
— "It's true. He left one morning—I must have been three. No letter, no news. Not even a rumor. They say he vanished. There was never a grave."
She stayed silent for a few seconds.
— "Is it worse, do you think? Not knowing?"
— "I don't know. Sometimes I think it's a kind of freedom. Sometimes I think it's a wound."
She nodded. Then:
— "I know exactly what happened to my mother. She died of fever, two years ago. In the bed where she worked. No one came."
Her words didn't waver. But Victor felt a chill colder than the river itself.
He lowered his gaze for a moment, then said quietly:
— "I'm sorry."
Emma shrugged, as if brushing off the weight of the phrase. She tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear.
— "I'd already been alone for a long time anyway. My mother wasn't… very invested in raising a daughter. Not exactly the most useful thing to do in a brothel."
Victor looked up again but said nothing. He felt like he shouldn't interrupt. Like he just needed to listen.
— "I had my brother," she said. "Robin. He was different. He looked after me. The only person who ever really… cared, I think."
She stopped, lost in thought.
Victor, gently:
— "Is he still around?"
She shook her head.
— "He left for the war when I was fifteen, down south. It was his idea. He said we'd have a real house when he came back. He never came back. He died last year. He'd be twenty-five this year."
Silence fell again, heavier this time.
Victor felt something tighten in his throat. He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. She didn't seem to need words. He knew the war in the southern provinces had been brutal. Entire villages erased. Sand turned red.
Emma spoke again, after a while, her voice lower:
— "I've tried to take his place a little. For Dennis—he barely knew him. But you can't really replace an older brother. Not like that."
Victor nodded slowly. He understood that. He didn't know why, but he did.
She looked over at him.
— "What about you? What were you doing at fifteen?"
He looked at her. A soft breeze made the river shiver.
— "I was learning to stay quiet."
She gave a faint smile.
— "Well, you mastered that one."
He smiled too. A small smile, but sincere.
She picked up her line again. The current tugged at her legs, the wind played in her hair.
They stayed there a while, side by side, without saying much. The water's gentle splashing, the faint crunch of pebbles, Dennis's soft laughter nearby—all of it formed a delicate fabric, a suspended moment. Then Emma straightened up and, without quite looking at him, asked:
— "Why do you always have a book with you?"
Victor, surprised, looked down at the volume still half-clutched against his jacket.
— "I read. It's a habit. An old servant taught me when I was little. I guess… it keeps me company sometimes."
She scrunched her nose slightly, half amused, half curious.
— "I don't know how to read."
He turned to her, openly, a little surprised.
— "I could teach you, if you want."
She pursed her lips, like she was about to refuse or make a joke. Then she shrugged casually.
— "Why not. Might come in handy."
---
They started the next day.
At first, Emma thought it was stupid. Just letters on a page, sounds to shape. She got annoyed quickly, tapped the ground with her foot when she got stuck, rolled her eyes every time she had to reread. But Victor was patient. He had that calm way of correcting, of pointing things out, of repeating without sighing. She mocked his overly proper accent, his complicated words, but she remembered. Better than he expected.
He found himself looking forward to their meetings with a kind of anticipation he'd never known before. Not just to teach her, but because she made him laugh. Because she asked unexpected questions, got mad at characters from a fairy tale read aloud, interrupted to ask what "melancholy" meant. She didn't look at him like others did—not like a noble's son, not like a fragile boy, not like a mystery. Just like Victor.
She, on her side, was getting used to his presence. He never talked too much. He listened, even when what she said seemed trivial. And when she talked about Dennis, he didn't raise his eyebrows like she was exaggerating. One day, she said without thinking:
— "Robin used to read a lot too, you know."
Victor turned his head.
— "Really?"
She nodded.
— "He always said I should learn. He'd slap me if he saw I waited for some manor boy to make me do it."
Victor smiled without answering. He wasn't making her do anything.
Over the weeks, they became friends, then confidants. Nothing was defined, nothing was said. But when he held out his hand to help her across a stream, she took it. And when he stayed longer than expected, she no longer told him to go home before dark.
Spring turned mild, then warm. The water no longer rose as much. The days grew longer. One afternoon, Victor read her poems on a rock. She interrupted him every two lines. He didn't mind. It was their routine, discreet, kept secret.
---
That morning, the sky hinted at summer.
Victor walked briskly toward the river. He knew the place now — the stones where she laid her nets, the sound she made when she emptied a bucket. But that day, there was no bucket. No fish. Just Emma, crouched at the water's edge, arms wrapped around her knees.
He hurried toward her.
"Emma? Are you okay?"
She slowly turned her head toward him. Her eyes were shadowed, her hair undone, her voice hoarse.
"It's Dennis," she whispered. "He's sick."
He felt his heart skip a beat.
"Since when?"
"Since last night. It came on suddenly. First he was cold, then burning up, then he started rambling. I couldn't keep him with me, he was moving too much. I left him with the church sisters so I could come fish. But I've caught almost nothing. Look."
She held up the net. Two skinny fish. Her hands were trembling.
"Did you see anyone? A doctor?"
She shook her head, silent. It was obvious: she couldn't afford it.
Victor straightened up. He looked at her for a moment, then nodded. His gaze had changed.
"I'm going to town."
"To do what?"
"I'll find a doctor. I'll pay for it."
She opened her mouth to protest, but he didn't give her the chance. He turned around, fists clenched, his steps firm. He didn't even look back at the book he dropped at the foot of a tree.