Weeks blurred into months, and to Amelia's surprise, Clara did not depart.
She had anticipated the woman to grow weary, to lose interest in whatever game she was playing, and return to the capital in search of some new diversion. But no—Clara stayed at Everthorne Manor, her presence a constant bother that Amelia found herself… becoming accustomed to.
It was strange. Unnatural.
But irrefutably real.
And as much as she resented admitting it, Clara was entertaining.
Now, they sat facing each other in the drawing room, a chessboard between them, the fire burning in the hearth. The evening had grown quiet, Grace having gone to bed early, leaving Amelia and Clara to their customary pattern of snarky comments masquerading as polite conversation.
"You play well," Clara confessed, observing as Amelia advanced her knight.
Amelia smiled. "Surprised?"
Clara hummed, cocking her head. "Not at all. You're the kind of person who likes to use strategy rather than sheer force."
"And you?"
Clara smiled, advancing her queen. "Oh, I don't object to getting my hands dirty when the occasion calls for it."
Amelia's eyebrow went up, observing her adversary. "Is that why you're still here?"
Clara blinked, affecting ignorance. "Whatever do you mean?"
"You're clearly up to something," Amelia replied, reclining. "Yet, I can't quite put my finger on what it is."
Clara leaned forward, her chin against her palm. "Perhaps I just like your company."
Amelia snorted. "I doubt it."
Clara laughed. "You're right. I do have a tendency to play with dangerous things."
Amelia's hand hovered over the chessboard. "And you find me dangerous?"
Clara regarded her, the firelight from the fireplace casting a golden glow over her dark hair. "Not in the way you believe."
There was something unreadable in her eyes, something that made Amelia feel… watched.
As if Clara was still considering what to do with her.
"Check," Clara declared, moving her queen into position.
Amelia raised an eyebrow. "Bold move."
"I like boldness," Clara said under her breath, stirring the wine in her glass. "Life gets monotonous without a bit of danger."
Amelia snorted but played her countermove, moving her bishop diagonally across the board. "Checkmate."
Clara blinked. Then, to Amelia's complete astonishment, she laughed—a full, honest laugh.
"Well done, Duchess," she conceded, leaning back in her chair. "I must say, you are considerably funnier than I expected."
Amelia raised an eyebrow. "Am I supposed to be complimented?"
Clara grinned, raising her glass. "Who knows? By the time Claude gets back, we might even be friends."
Amelia snorted. "I wouldn't go that far."
Clara simply smiled, sipping her wine slowly. "Oh, but I would."
The morning was cool, the air heavy with the smell of wet soil and early autumn foliage as Amelia crossed the stone balcony. The grounds of the manor lay out before her, golden in morning light, but her gaze was not on the view.
Her hands grasped a letter.
Claude's letter.
The seal was already broken—her fingers shaking a little when she'd originally ripped through the wax. She read his words again now, the gravity bearing down on her chest.
Amelia,
The war in the South is more violent than anticipated. The enemy is merciless, their methods more inhumane than we anticipated. But we maintain the line.
I have no idea how long this campaign is going to continue, but I will stick it out. It is my responsibility.
How is everything at Everthorne? Have you—
(I began to add "Have you missed me?" but maybe that is too brash a question.)
However, I find my mind drifting back to the manor more frequently than I care to admit. I wish you good health in this letter.
Claude.
Amelia exhaled slowly, her hands clenching on the parchment.
She had read those words a dozen times, pausing over the line he had struck out, as if it was more than the rest of the letter put together.
Did he hope she would write back?
Before she could brood on the idea, a voice cut into her reverie.
"Another letter from your dear husband?"
Amelia turned to see Clara standing in the doorway, a sneering smile playing on her lips.
"Spying on me?" Amelia snapped, tucking the letter into her dress.
Clara stepped onto the balcony, folding her arms across her chest. "Hardly. You're the one standing there, looking like a tragic heroine in some horrid romance novel."
Amelia scoffed. "If you have nothing helpful to say—"
"Oh, but I do." Clara leaned against the stone railing. "Tell me, does he write sweet nothings to you? Or are his letters as stiff and dutiful as the man himself?"
Amelia bristled. "His letters are… considerate."
Clara burst out laughing, her head shaking. "Considerate. Saints help us, you truly are falling for him, aren't you?"
Amelia stood stock-still.
Clara's eyes narrowed. "Oh, you can deny it all you want, but I see it. The way you hold that letter like it's something valuable. The way you wait for them."
Amelia struggled to turn away. "You assume too much."
"And you assume too little." Clara cocked her head. "Do you even know what kind of man Claude really is?"
Amelia spun around abruptly. "I know enough."
Clara smiled, but a bitter edge lay beneath it. "Then I suppose we'll see how well 'enough' serves you when he returns."
Without another word, she walked away, leaving Amelia by herself with the burden of a letter and the reality she didn't want to face.