The Reverie of a Mother

A gray dawn settled over Blossomhollow as Liora arrived in the solar. The candlelight flickered dimly across the piles of ledgers and scrolls she had been studying. She read late into the night again, Amalia's letters always unfinished, contract pages bookmarked with care, notes in margins in Amalia's precise, looping hand.

Then the door opened, and Hadrian entered. He carried a ledger of his own and a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

"Good morning, niece," he said. His voice was polite, too polite. "I trust you've been reviewing the estate's rice yields?"

"I have." Liora guarded her tone. "I noticed several tenant families couldn't fulfill their payments last winter. I'll recommend adjustments to the harvest levy."

Hadrian nodded. He leaned on the thornwood desk and looked at her critically. "Ambitious. But remember, gratitude and deference go further than ambition. Many in the council find your… zeal unsettling."

Liora's heart clenched. "I volunteer only because Mother trusted me."

He lifted a thin eyebrow. "Mother is no longer here. The council needs stability, not sentiment."

He turned and placed a pen beside her, black-inked, polished. "I encourage you to channel that gratitude in quieter obedience."

Liora's fingers trembled across parchment. "I'll always respect the estate and you."

That pleased him. But just enough.

Morning in the Courtyard

The morning air was sharp when Liora stepped outside. As she walked past the hothouse, the bloom-laden vines sagged with winter's burden. She thought of the blossom tree, its petals still drifting through memory, not yet fully returned.

Hadrian's words echoed: obedience, stability, thankfulness. Echoed like a chime that resonated louder the more she tried not to hear.

She paused, watching a gardener prune a branch, and realized her fingers had gone cold holding the pen he'd given her.

Later, Annalise laughed across the library as she flipped through a book of courtly etiquette. Liora smiled at her , but her thoughts drifted back to Hadrian. Hard to believe he could suggest she was too ambitious.

Annalise shifted closer. "Ignored breakfast again?" she whispered.

Liora shook her head. "I read until the sun went down."

Annalise frowned kindly. "You look tired."

"I'm fine, Ani."

"Promise me you'll rest if things hurt."

Liora tucked Annalise's book aside softly. "Thank you."

Liora stared at the pages. the ledgers she'd memorized, the notes she'd re‑written until they made sense. Words gradually built into lifelines for the estate... lines she had laid but doubt now stained them like ink bleeding across parchment.

That evening, members of the house and a visiting noble council convened in the great hall. The long table was lit by chandeliers and candles, polished plates reflecting candlelight and worry.

Liora sat between Leopold and Mathilde. Beyond her, Hadrian occupied Raum near the center, surveying the guests.

As the meal progressed, Gordane, a countess, leaned in and whispered: "My lady, do you find Liora's recommendations for revenue, bound to linen rationing, wise? Some feel it's... generous to a fault."

Hadrian intercepted the gaze as she turned. "Generosity is what this estate was built on," he said, voice smooth. "But it needs to be tempered. Miss Liora is still learning that balance."

That phrase, still learning, echoed. The council murmured in agreement; the atmosphere tightened.

Michael, across the table, caught Liora's eye. He nodded imperceptibly and took her hand beneath the table, a gesture unspoken but full of determination.

Liora swallowed. She felt her confidence slip like ink dissolving in water. For the first time, she questioned whether her recommendations would crumble or if she would.

When the guests departed, the servants cleared plates in silence. Only a single goblet fell and broke near Hadrian's chair. The sound echoed, and conversation halted. Glass shattered, silver shards across the floor.

Liora stood. Without thinking, she knelt to sweep the pieces into her hand. Her thin skirt brushed the wood. She met Michael's eyes, full of concern.

Hadrian interrupted, voice low: "Let it be a lesson: a misstep, even small, can cost more than pride."

Liora bristled, but held back.

As she cleaned the last sliver, Michael knelt beside her. "You didn't do that."

"I know," Liora whispered.

He closed her fingers around the glass shards, then guided her hand to release them.

"You don't have to prove anything tonight."

Liora flushed with gratitude, but also sorrow. Because she realized how easily she'd wanted to, that cleaning up would fix her confidence.

Night in the Study

Later, Liora returned to the study. She opened Hadrian's gifted pen and dipped it in ink. She began drafting letters: one to Amalia, one to Father Gerwin, asking his impressions of council meetings past, and one to Michael, simply saying: We'll do what Mother started. Together.

The ink bled slightly as she wrote. She paused.

Was the pen cursed with ugliness? Or was it merely revealing what was hidden beneath her calm surface?

She looked through the window again. The sky was nearly dark, only a few petals clinging to branches. She reached out to touch cold glass. A pale petal drifted down and landed on her sleeve. She picked it, brought it inside to press between parchment and leather.

Michael found her there when he should have been asleep, studying by candlelight.

"Liora?" he whispered.

She didn't turn.

"It's late."

"I couldn't sleep."

He sat carefully beside her, arms folded across his knees. "You've done enough."

Liora swallowed hard. "I feel... unworthy. Every time he smiles, I find a new reason to doubt myself."

Michael's hand found hers in the dim light. "He wants doubt. The council respects fear."

She looked up at him. "Do they already respect him more?"

He hesitated, then said quietly: "They're already trusting his voice over ours."

She closed her eyes, tears unavoidable. "Am I failing them?"

"No." Michael's voice was steady. "You're not failing them. But some storms are brewed so slowly, you don't know it's coming until it breaks."

They sat in shared silence, candle flame flickering across her face. Outside, the blossom tree petals rustled as if someone whispered above.

Liora reached for the letter Amalia had given her, tightening her grip on it.

Dawn Resolve

When morning came, Liora rose before the estate stirred. She carried ledgers, notes, and Amalia's sealed envelope into the orchard.

She stood beneath the blossom tree, gathering the brittle petals and placing them into her pocket. The ground was frost-bitten; the petals began to crumble, but their perfume held.

A message whispered in her mind: In ink and blood, we root this house, even if the world tries to wash us away.

She opened Amalia's letter with trembling hands.

Her breath caught at only one sentence: "If they ask, you are home."

Under the gray dawn and frost-laced petals, Liora straightened. She looked toward the manor. She turned and began walking, head high, shoulder square, rooted at her core.

Ink may run. Doubt may bleed.

"But my roots remain."