Chapter One
“Please, Miss, you have to help her!”
Sybil’s head snapped up from the medicinal herbs she’d been collecting along the woodland path. A young stable boy was running toward her, his face flushed with panic, pointing frantically toward the clearing ahead.
“What’s happened?” She dropped her basket without hesitation, already moving in the direction he indicated.
“It’s Lady Rosalie! Her horse threw her something fierce. She ain’t moving right, Miss, and there’s blood?—”
Sybil broke into a run, her practical boots finding purchase on the uneven ground.Blood.The word sent ice through her veins, but she forced her mind to focus. She’d seen worse. She’ddealtwith worse.
She found the girl crumpled beside a fallen log, her riding habit torn and darkened with dirt. A magnificent bay horse stood nearby, reins dragging, sides heaving with exertion. Lady Rosalie Rothburn—she recognized her now from glimpses around town—was conscious but pale, her breathing shallow.
“Don’t try to move,” Sybil said firmly, dropping to her knees beside the girl. “Tell me where it hurts.”
“My arm,” Rosalie gasped, tears streaming down her dirt-stained cheeks. “And my head feels… strange.”
Sybil’s trained eyes took in the unnatural angle of the girl’s left arm and the gash across her forehead that was bleeding steadily but not catastrophically. She’d seen enough broken bones at the orphanage to recognize one immediately.
“Your arm is broken but cleanly so,” she said, keeping her voice calm and steady. “The head wound looks worse than it is—scalp wounds always bleed terribly, but it’s not deep.”
She began tearing strips from her own petticoat, working with practiced efficiency. Just like with little Mary when she fell from the apple tree. Just like with Sarah, when the kitchen pot fell on her wrist.
But this was different. This was the Duke of Vestiaire’s daughter.
This is his eldest. If she dies…
“Am I going to die?” Rosalie whispered, echoing Sybil’s darkest thoughts.
“Absolutely not.” Sybil’s voice carried such conviction that she almost believed it herself. “But I need you to stay very still while I tend to these wounds. Can you do that for me?”
Rosalie nodded weakly.
Sybil pressed a folded cloth against the head wound, applying firm pressure.
The bleeding was already beginning to slow, but she could see the shock setting in—Rosalie’s breathing had grown shallow and rapid, her eyes darting frantically between the blood on Sybil’s hands and the unnatural angle of her own arm.
“I cannot feel my fingers,” Rosalie whispered, her voice climbing toward panic. “Why can’t I feel my fingers? Am I going to lose my arm? Oh God, what if I can never ride again? What if?—”
“Breathe,” Sybil commanded gently but firmly, recognizing the signs of spiraling fear. She needed to redirect the girl’s thoughts before shock overcame her completely.
“Now then, tell me about your debut. It’s this Season, isn’t it?”
“I… what?” Rosalie blinked in confusion.
“You are coming out, are you not? I heard talk in the village that the Duke’s eldest would be presented at court this year.” She kept her tone conversational while she worked, cleaning the wound with water from her flask. “Are you excited?”
“Oh.” A ghost of a smile crossed Rosalie’s lips. “Yes, terribly excited. Papa thinks I’m too wild for society, but I’ve been practicing my curtsying for months.”
“I’m sure you’ll be magnificent.” Sybil began wrapping the head wound, her movements gentle but efficient. “What are you most looking forward to?”
“The dancing, I think. And the gowns! Madame Dubois is making me the most beautiful dress in pale yellow silk.” Rosalie’s voice grew stronger as she spoke. “Though Papa insists on approving every suitor who asks me to dance when the time comes.”
“Fathers can be protective creatures.” Sybil’s own father’s face flashed in her mind—cold, disapproving—that was how he’d been the last time she’d seen him.Before Emmie. Before everything fell apart.She pushed the memory away. “Especially with daughters they treasure.”
If only my own father had treasured Emmie half as much.
“He is rather intimidating,” Rosalie admitted. “I have heard that most young men are terrified of him. But he’s not truly frightening—not when you know him.”
