Chapter 6
Three days later.
The chamber was quiet save for the rustle of silk. Eleanor stood before the mirror, alone, clad in the trial gown meant for her betrothal ceremony.
Night had long fallen. As she stepped out into the corridor, a shadow fell across her path-
A rough hand clamped over her mouth and nose.
The sharp stench of chemicals flooded her senses. She struggled–but only for a heartbeat.
Then–darkness.
When she came to, everything was black.
Not the soft black of night, but the suffocating, stifling dark of a blindfold.
Her wrists were bound tight to the arms of a chair with coarse rope that bit into her skin. Her limbs refused to move. Even the air felt heavy.
Crack!
The first lash struck without warning Pain exploded down her spine.
Her body arched against the restraints, a silent scream lodged in her throat. She bit her lower lip so hard, she tasted blood–just to keep from crying out.
“You’ve made enemies you should not have crossed.”
The voice was distorted, muffled, as though echoing through a deep tunnel.
Then the whip lashed her back like a thunderstorm in hell. Each strike whistled through the air with a shrill hiss, then landed with a wet snap against her flesh.
She didn’t scream. Not once.
But her mind reeied.
Who?
Who would dare do this to her?
On and on the flogging went. Her breath came in gasps. Her thoughts fractured, scattered, spiraling into the abyss. Just when consciousness began to ebb, the punishment ceased.
Then–voices.
“It is done, Your Grace,” a man said, respectfully.
A familiar voice, deep and cool as a winter stream, answered. “Good. Return her.”
Three words, sharp as a blade,
Roland.
His command struck her like a blow. For striking Cecily once, he had ordered this–ninety–nine lashes in retribution.
Pain and cold surged through her, twin daggers piercing her core. She could hold on no longer. Darkness claimed her.
At Willowshade Court, Eleanor lay face–down on her bed, her back ablaze with pain.
Outside her chamber, maids whispered in hushed voices-
“Sir Roland is so gentle with Lady Cecily… like she’s made of glass.”
“Mm, and look at Lady Eleanor–covered in wounds, not a soul tending to her…”
Gritting her teeth, Eleanor pushed herself upright. Every motion sent fire licking down her spine. Bracing against the wall, she forced herself to walk.
She made her way to the pavilion.
And there, beneath the carved eaves and lantern glow, she saw him.
Roland sat with Cecily in his arms, holding a teacup to her lips with painstaking care.
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She murmured something, and he smiled, brushing a drop of tea from her mouth with the pad of his thumb.
So gentle. So tender, he might as well have been touching a sacred relic.
Eleanor leaned against the doorway. Her vision blurred.
She’d sworn to let go. To cut herself free. So why–why did her heart still ache like this? Why did it feel like someone was carving it out, one slice at a time?
“Don’t cry, Eleanor,” she told herself firmly. Because no one would care.
No one ever did.
It wasn’t until her wounds had nearly healed that Roland finally returned.
Their eyes met. Neither spoke.
And yet in the silence–they saw too much.
Soon after, Baldwin summoned her.
“Tomorrow is Cecily’s name day celebration,” he said, his tone brooking no refusal. “She’s been weeping to me constantly, saying all she wants is to feel like a true sister to you. I expect you to attend.”
Eleanor’s smile was cold. “I won’t.”
“You’re being childish,” he snapped. “This might be your last time together. The Wolvestons have already agreed to the marriage. Once you’re married…”
She didn’t stay to hear the rest.
Spinning on her heel, she spotted Roland standing half–shrouded in the shadows beyond the doorway.
“What say you?” she asked coldly. “Should I go?”
His jaw was tight, his profile chiseled in the lamplight. He hesitated. Then spoke low and firm, “You should.”
A bitter smile curved her lips. “Very well, as you wish.”
Cecily’s name day celebration was in full swing by the time Eleanor arrived, garbed in a gold–threaded peony gown. The drawing room was full of laughter and light. Nobles clustered in groups, bearing gifts and praise.
Cecily, adorned in crimson kirtle, moved among them like a favored star in the royal firmament.
“Eleanor!” she squealed with delight, rushing over to take her arm.
Eleanor stepped aside, dodging the contact with practiced grace.
Her gaze swept the room. Upon the velvet–draped table sat Baldwin’s gift to Cecily—a strand of St. Elara’s Rosary Beads, said to have been blessed by the Abbess herself after ninety nine days of solemn pilgrimage and prayer. A sacred relic, rarely bestowed and never lightly given.
“She’s always been my most precious daughter,” Baldwin said warmly, standing at Cecily’s side like a proud father before the court.
Just like he once stood beside her mother.
Eleanor remembered it all.
The laughter. The games. Baldwin lifting her high into the air, while her mother watched with smiling eyes.
But those days were ash in the wind.
After the feast, the guests began to drift into smaller groups, chatting in low voices.
One of Cecily’s companions whispered, “So many young heirs here tonight… Do you suppose your father is choosing your match?”
“But didn’t the betrothal to the Wolvestons already happen?” another murmured.
Cecily giggled and cast a meaningful glance across the hall–toward Eleanor.
“Oh, that arrangement? It’s long since dissolved.”
“Thank heavens!” the friend laughed, lowering her voice. “I heard the man’s half in the grave already. Who wants to marry into widowhood?”
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“Exactly,” Cecily said, cheeks pink with mock shyness. “But if I had to choose…”
The girls leaned in, breathless with curiosity.
“Well, first,” Cecily began, ticking off her fingers, “he must love me. Truly love me. The sort to carve my name across his heart.”
“Secondly, he must be brave. They say a Starbloom Rose blooms once every century on Starfall Crag. He must dare to fetch it for me.”
“And third-”
The heavy doors of the banquet hall flew open with a crash.
A herald stepped forward, his voice ringing loud and clear.
“His Grace, Prince Roland of House Thorne, comes bearing gifts! May Lady Cecily’s name day be blessed with joy and fortune!”
Chapter 6
