The Reverie of a Mother

The blossoms in the Edelhardt garden had begun to wither. Summer still held the air warm, but there was something brittle in the wind, something that whispered of endings. The late blooms hung heavy with dew, and the bees came less frequently now, their music fading day by day.

Lady Amalia still walked among the flowers, her shawl drawn tightly around her shoulders. She greeted the gardeners, touched the roses with reverence, and hummed old lullabies beneath her breath.

But her steps had slowed.

And the cough was no longer just in the mornings.

It came now in quiet spasms between conversations, in violent fits behind closed doors, in the moments she thought no one was watching.

Liora was always watching.

The first time she saw blood on Amalia's handkerchief, it was barely a smear, faint and pink against the lace.

The second time, it was crimson, and Amalia quickly folded it away, tucking it into her sleeve with a tired smile.

"You shouldn't worry," she said. "It's nothing I haven't seen before."

Liora didn't speak. She merely poured the tea, steady hands hiding the ache rising in her chest.

Hadrian came more often now.

He arrived unannounced, with fine carriages and gifts for the children, lockwork birds, imported sweets, polished marbles carved from obsidian. He embraced Amalia like a concerned brother, asked after her health with honeyed tones, and insisted she let him shoulder the burden of estate affairs.

"You've done more than enough, sister," he said one morning, standing in the sun-drenched parlor where Amalia rested on the chaise. "Let me take care of the accounts. The court expects a man to speak for Edelhardt. It's only practical."

"I'm not dead yet, Hadrian," she said, voice smooth but cold. "And this house still listens to me."

"Of course, of course," he said, raising his hands. "I only wish to help. The children, the estate… They deserve a strong future."

Amalia smiled at him then, a smile so thin it seemed carved into her face. "I know exactly what my children deserve."

He left soon after, but the room felt colder in his absence.

Later, Liora entered Amalia's study and found her sitting at the desk, a candle burning low, ink staining her fingertips.

"I thought you were resting," Liora said softly.

Amalia didn't look up. "There's no time for rest."

"You're not well."

"No," Amalia agreed. "I'm not."

The silence settled between them, taut as wire.

Then Amalia reached into a drawer and pulled out a leather-bound ledger.

She slid it across the desk toward Liora.

"The west orchard hasn't turned a profit in three years," she said. "The vineyard contracts are still pending renegotiation. And the tenant families on the riverbank need better irrigation before winter."

Liora stared at the book. "Why are you showing me this?"

"Because you need to know what you're defending."

Liora's throat tightened.

Amalia looked up at her then, truly looked. Her face was pale, thinner than it had been even a month ago, and her eyes held that same sharpness Liora remembered from their first meeting in the garden so many years ago.

"You've watched. Listened. Learned. Now it's time you understand how the blood flows through this house."

Liora's fingers closed around the ledger.

In the days that followed, she became a shadow in the corridors.

While tutors worked with the children, she studied old tax records, merchant contracts, and letters from barons. She learned the language of coin, of leverage, of alliances sealed not by affection but by necessity.

At night, she sat by candlelight reading Amalia's ledgers, each page a story of survival.

She found lists of tenants: who paid, who couldn't, who had lost children to illness or floods. She found quiet donations Amalia had made to widows and schools. She found coded notes about grain shortages and river patrol bribes.

It was like peeling back the skin of a body she thought she knew, only to discover bones of steel beneath it.

Hadrian returned every few days.

Each time, he came with more urgency in his voice, more silk in his smile.

"This house is too grand for a sick woman to maintain," he murmured one afternoon. "You need rest. You need relief. Let me take the reins for just a while."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Amalia said, coughing into a handkerchief.

"Everything I do is for Edelhardt."

Liora stood behind the door, unseen, unseen, but not unheard.

That night, she approached Amalia by the fireplace in the sitting room, where the lady sat curled in a shawl, the children already asleep in their rooms.

"May I ask something?"

Amalia turned to her with a tired smile. "You never ask unless it matters. Go on."

"Why do you keep letting him in?"

"Because if I shut the door completely, he'll come through the windows."

Liora hesitated. "Is he dangerous?"

"Hadrian is the storm waiting behind the hills. You can't stop him by yelling at the clouds. You have to build a shelter."

"And I'm the shelter?"

"You're the one who can finish what I started."

Liora's voice was a whisper. "I don't want to become you."

Amalia's eyes softened. "Good. Then maybe you'll survive."

The next morning, Liora woke early.

Before the sun rose, she stepped into the study and began copying records into her own notebook. She cross-referenced trade routes, flagged missing ledgers, and marked names mentioned repeatedly in the margins, especially those associated with Hadrian's visits.

She wasn't a lady.

Not yet.

But she was something else: a quiet root, stretching deeper into the soil of House Edelhardt.

And roots, even in winter, held fast.

By the week's end, Amalia no longer joined the children for breakfast.

Liora took her seat.

Michael watched her with something unreadable in his eyes.

"You don't have to do all this," he said softly after the meal.

"I know," Liora replied.

"But you're doing it anyway."

She looked out the window, where the wind tugged at the last blossoms.

"Because someone has to."