“So ’tis not her innocence you doubt—’tis your own worthiness. You think you’re cursed to destroy everything you touch, and you’re punishing her for making you believe otherwise.”
The brutal accuracy of it made Tristan flinch as if he’d been struck again.
“Am I wrong? Look at the evidence. Everything I’ve ever cared for has turned to ash. My mother, dead from fever. My father, disappointed unto his grave. My honor, destroyed by the man I trusted most. And now, Rachel?—”
“Now Rachel what?” Hugo interrupted with dangerous quiet. “Loved you enough to fall through time itself? Fought beside you despite knowing it would mark her as foreign and strange? Gave you the one piece of evidence that could clear your name whilst taking all the blame upon herself?”
He gestured toward the parchment still clutched in Tristan’s hands. “She solved the mystery you couldn’t solve in six months of brooding. Found proof of Guy’s treachery whilst you were busy convincing yourself you deserved disgrace. And instead of celebrating her brilliance, you’re sitting here like some tragic hero from a minstrel’s tale, convinced that loving her is a burden rather than a gift.”
The words hit like arrows finding their mark, each one more devastating than the last. Tristan looked down at Guy’s damning ledger fragment, at Rachel’s note with its careful script and devastating honesty, and a piece of his heart broke.
“She sees me,” he whispered, the admission barely audible over the sound of rain still pattering against the windows. “All of me. Knight and cook, proud and broken, everything I am instead of just what I’ve lost. She doesn’t see my disgrace as a stain to be overlooked—she sees it as part of the story that made me who I am.”
“Aye, you dolt,” Hugo said more gently, settling his bulk into a chair that groaned ominously under his weight. “She does. And more than that, she accepts it. Glories in it, even. Watches you work spices like other men work steel and looks at you like you’ve just created miracles from common ingredients.”
Tristan closed his eyes, remembering the way Rachel had looked at him in those stolen moments in the kitchens—not with pity for his fallen state or disappointment in his circumstances, but with genuine admiration for his skills. As if his passion for cooking made him more interesting rather than less worthy.
“When did I become such a coward?” he asked, the question scraping his throat raw.
“The moment you decided that protecting yourself from pain was more important than fighting for what you wanted,” Hugo replied bluntly. “The moment you chose to see her love as a burden rather than the miracle it is.”
The silence that followed was broken only by the gentle sound of rain and the crackling of dying embers in the solar’s small hearth. Tristan stared at Rachel’s note, at her careful explanations and self-recriminations, and felt shame burn through him like molten metal.
“She thinks she ruins everything,” he said finally.
“Because you let her think it,” Hugo replied without mercy. “Because instead of showing her how much joy she’s brought to this cursed pile of stones, you’ve spent days avoiding her. Because you’re so busy protecting your wounded pride that you can’t see how your doubt is destroying the woman who loves you.”
Tristan’s hands clenched into fists, crumpling the parchment slightly before he forced himself to relax. “What would you have me do? We’re exiles. Marked traitors with prices on our heads. Even with this evidence, what hope do we have of clearing our names? What future can I offer her beyond a life of running and hiding?”
“I’d have you fight,” Hugo said simply. “I’d have you stop wallowing in what you’ve lost and start working for what you want. I’d have you prove to that remarkable woman that she’s worth more than your fear, that you’d rather die trying to build something beautiful than live safely with nothing at all.”
He leaned forward, his scarred face intense with conviction. “You want to clear your name? Then stop hiding and start planning. Use that evidence she handed you, call upon what allies remain, demand justice from those with power to grant it. And more than that?—”
“More than that?” Tristan prompted when Hugo paused.
“Show her she belongs here,” Hugo said fiercely. “Not as some foreign curiosity to be tolerated, but as the woman who makes Greystone feel like home again. The woman who brings laughter to these halls and magic to your kitchens. The woman who loves you enough to sacrifice her own happiness for yours.”
Tristan looked again at Rachel’s note, at the evidence that could restore his honor, at the proof of treachery that had been staring him in the face for days while he’d been too consumed with self-pity to act on it.
“She deserves better than a disgraced knight with naught to offer but a crumbling castle and empty coffers,” he said, though the words lacked conviction now.
“She deserves a man who fights for her,” Hugo corrected firmly. “A man who sees her worth and refuses to let the world convince him otherwise. A man who would move heaven and earth to prove himself worthy of her love, not because he’s perfect, but because she makes him want to be better.”
Something shifted in Tristan’s chest at those words—a loosening of the chains he’d wrapped around his heart, a stirring of the man he’d been before disgrace had taught him that hoping was dangerous.
“The evidence,” he said slowly, studying Guy’s ledger fragment with new eyes. “These records... They’re not just proof of theft. They’re proof of ongoing operations. Current shipments, recent transactions.”
“Meaning?” Hugo prompted, though his eyes had sharpened with interest.
“Meaning Guy is still actively stealing from the crown,” Tristan said, his mind beginning to work with the focused intensity he’d once brought to military campaigns. “Still skimming profits, still covering his tracks. Which means there will be more evidence. Fresh evidence. Evidence we might be able to gather if we’re clever about it.”
He stood abruptly, moving to the window where gray dawn was beginning to creep across the sky. The storm had passed, leaving behind air that smelled clean and full of possibilities.
“I need to send word to Isolde,” he said, his voice carrying a note of decision that had been absent for days. “Her network of informants, her connections at court. If anyone can help us gather more evidence and present it to the right people, ’tis her.”
“And Rachel?” Hugo asked quietly.
Tristan turned from the window, and for the first time since Westminster, Hugo saw something in his friend’s eyes that looked like hope rather than resignation.
