Chapter 46 Today was a ceremonial visit to the settlement areas of the North, where the Duke and Duchess were expected to observe the lives of the people under their rule. A symbolic gesture of connection, respect, and responsibility. Marcella stood in front of the full-length mirror in her chamber, clad in the Montclair duchess gown, ash-gray silk layered with embroidered threads of silver and storm blue. The high collar kissed the base of her throat. At her waist, a sash of dark velvet bore the Montclair crest: the crowned flame wrapped in serpents. This gown had been passed down through generations. Her hair had been gathered into a formal twist at the nape of her neck. She looked every inch a Montclair bride. The procession through the town began with the blast of horns and cheers. Townsfolk lined the cobbled streets in layers of wool and fur. Children perched on crates and shoulders, waving little flags bearing the Montclair crest. Old women tossed flower petals from balconies. "Long live the Duke and Duchess!" "Blessings on House Montclair!" Inside the carriage, Marcella leaned closer to the window, gloved fingers brushing the glass. A warm smile touched her lips, softening the usually sharp lines of her mouth. She didn't expect to feel anything, but she did. The sound of the people, their cheers. The way their eyes crinkled when they saw her. How they had adored her in her past life and how she had dismissed them all. Marcella had been too proud. She had walked these very streets in her past life with her chin high, her heart walled off, thinking adoration was just another form of control, dismissing the joy and love they had tried to offer her. Now, as she looked out into the crowd and saw a young girl clutching her mother's hand, smiling up at the carriage like it held the sun, Marcella felt something twist deep in her chest. You didn't deserve it then, she whispered. Marcella lifted her hand and sincerely waved again. On horseback beside the carriage, Berith rode with his gloved hands on the reins. The Montclair crest was stitched over his chest in deep silver thread, the wolf-fur collar of his coat catching the breeze. But he wasn't looking at the crowd. He was watching her. Marcella. For the second time in twenty-four hours, he didn't understand her. Marcella leaned into the light like someone starved of it. She had always been kept her guard up even in private and had been known for her cold demeanor and disdain for lower circles. And now... she waved at children, smiling at the strangers. Berith squinted his eyes, trying to read the map behind her eyes. Something had changed. Had the marriage softened her? Had the Flame touched her in a way it hadn't touched him? Possibly. Berith nudged his horse closer to the carriage as they rounded a bend, drawing up to her window just as she leaned out again to wave at a group of cheering children. He called, just loud enough for her to hear, "Enjoying yourself, Duchess?" Marcella turned her head, caught off guard by him so close. "Would it surprise you if I said yes?" "A little." His mouth tugged into a crooked smile. "You've never been one for parades or for people." Marcella leaned her elbow against the windowsill, one gloved finger resting at her chin. "Perhaps marriage has changed me." "I didn't think I had that kind of effect." Berith chuckled, rubbing his hair, "Please don't keep yourself on the pedestal, Your Grace." Marcella remarked with her as usual witty tone. ********* By late morning, the carriages had reached the settlements in the north - clusters of farmlands tucked between frost-covered hills, smoke trailing from squat chimneys of circular stone homes. Here, the nobles came to learn or pretend they did. The carriage came to a stop at the start of the second locality. Horses snorted, pawing the frost-bitten ground. Berith dismounted first, handing the reins to one of the guards, then turned to wait. Marcella stepped out, accepting the gloved hand offered by Berith. Children darted between muddy paths, chasing a straw-stuffed ball, their shrieks of laughter rising like birds. A woman near a loom glanced up and waved, strands of dyed wool clinging to her apron. An old man with a woven basket on his back dipped into a low bow as the pair passed. Marcella gave him a small, polite nod. "Good morning," she greeted out of instinct. They passed a well where five or six children had gathered, arguing over the ball that had landed in the snow beside it. One girl was attempting to wrap her scarf around her entire head while another was determined to tie her mittens together. Seeing them, something pricked her chest. Her fingers brushed her stomach absently. I was pregnant once with his child but I threw it away. Marcella had told no one about her pregnancy. She had summoned a healer from across the river and aborted the fetus in secret because she refused to let herself be tied to Berith - to that life. She had seen her future ruling as a Queen. Her greed for endless power made her do that. But now, watching these children... one boy with hair like Berith's. A girl whose laugh sounded like bells... Her throat tightened. What was I? The thought came fast. Ugly. So cruel. So afraid of chains that I broke my own blood. Marcella shook it off. She went to them, crouching before them, the heavy duchess gown folding around her in a neat arc. "Hmm," she studied the small group with feigned seriousness. "Now this looks like a group of champions." One of the boys blinked at her... wide-eyed and red-cheeked. "Who's the fastest runner here?" Marcella asked playfully like a general issuing a duel. The tallest boy maybe six, puffed out his chest, wiping his nose with the back of his mitten. "Me!" Marcella arched her brows. "Oh? You're sure about that?" "I am!" She leaned in a little closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. "Then prove it." The boy grinned and took off before anyone could blink. Just like that, he bolted down the path, his friends squealing and chasing after. Marcella's laugh followed them... soft at first, then full and unguarded. She turned to one of the younger girls. "And you? Are you the best jumper?" The little girl hesitated, then nodded solemnly, a tooth missing in her front row. Marcella's eyes sparkled. "Well, that's a title worth proving too, don't you think?" The girl glanced to her mother for permission. When she got it, she took two careful steps back, then jumped. It was barely a hop, but she landed on both feet and grinned up at Marcella with pride. Marcella clapped her gloved hands. "Astonishing form. Perfect height. Very controlled landing." She smiled warmly. "You might have to teach me someday." The girl giggled, face glowing red with excitement. "Do duchesses not know how to jump?" one boy asked as he returned, puffing from his sprint. "Not like that," Marcella replied, pressing a hand over her heart with exaggerated sincerity. "You'd outrun every noble in the capital." The children gathered closer around her now, confidence blooming. One offered her a stick of dried fruit, another asked if she had a crown. Marcella blinked, "Not today. Crowns get terribly heavy." A few of the girls were already tugging on the end of her velvet sash, wrapping it around their fingers like ribbon. Still, she didn't pull away. Berith remained a short distance off, arms loosely crossed over his chest, watching her. The sight of Marcella crouched in the dirt, frost clinging to the hem of her gown, laughing with children like she'd done it all her life... It didn't match any version of her he remembered. Not the girl who scorned public duties. And yet, here she was. Laughing. Present. In the meantime, a weathered man approached from a side stall, bowing deeply, hands calloused from decades of labor. "Your Grace," the man said to Berith. "Would you take a look at our dye vats? We've been having trouble with frost spoilage." Berith nodded. "Show me." He followed the man to a row of shallow wooden barrels, their rims painted with smudges of indigo and redroot. Two young women were working beside the vats, trying to warm the mixtures with slow-turning stones. "The colors aren't binding properly," the elder said. "We've tried layering linen over the barrels at night, but the wind gets under." Berith crouched beside one vat, brushing his fingers along the side of the barrel. The wood was slightly warped, weakened by exposure. He straightened and pointed to the path behind them. "Your shed's too far downhill. Relocate closer to the forge or add rock salt to the earth below the floorboards. It'll insulate better." The old man blinked. "Rock salt, Your Grace?" Berith nodded. "About a barrel's worth beneath each stand." The man scratched his head, grinning. "Never thought of that, Your Grace." Berith gave a small nod. "You'll have better luck." One of the younger girls.. maybe seventeen smiled shyly at him. "You speak like someone who's done this before, m'lord." "Let's say I've had to earn my education." And then, laughter again.. not from the dye yard, but across the path. His head turned automatically. Marcella. Now she was seated on a stone bench, letting two small girls braid the ends of the black velvet sash at her waist. Her hands outstretched as they tied a daisy ring around her wrist. One of the children whispered something to her. Marcella tilted her head, grinning. "That's a very serious question for a duchess. But I suppose I do like gingerbread more than fig cake." The girls giggled, satisfied with her answer. Berith watched, something tightening under his ribs. She looked... warm and happy. "Her Grace is a good duchess," the older dyer said, wiping his hands with a cloth. "The people already like her." Berith glanced at the man and then again back at her. Why do I feel like I'm only just starting to know you? Dojun, who married out of necessity and immediately left for a foreign country, suddenly appeared at his marital home and then at his company, without any prior notice. He brought with him several pho...