It hardly mattered when I was expected to depart or what state the damned estate was in. He would send the particulars soon enough—he always did, in neat little lists written by Mother’s secretary, as though I were a schoolboy being dispatched for lessons.
“Scotland,” I muttered under my breath as I strode down the corridor.
The word tasted foreign, cold, a place I had only ever seen drawn on maps.
Something fluttered beneath my chest—an odd, tightening pulse low in my ribs.
I pressed a hand to the spot, frowning. Heartburn, perhaps. Or irritation.
I refused to dwell on it.
Instead, I began mentally listing what I’d need to pack for my extended exile.
It was a punishment, that much was clear.
A sharp reminder that my father still held the purse strings—and my future—firmly in his grasp.
But exile could be opportunity.
I had watched him for years:
how he spoke to tenants, how he assessed land, how he acquired and renovated new properties with that relentless Wolverton efficiency.
He thought our cash flow was fragile.
He was wrong.
We were land-rich, asset-heavy, with commercial and residential holdings that brought in more than enough revenue.
If he meant to banish me north to teach me a lesson, then I would use the time to my advantage.
This was an opportunity.
And by God, I would prove him wrong.
Chapter 2
Euphemia
Everybody sat to eat, but I held back to scrape what was left of the porridge from the pot.
The iron cauldron still hung over the fire, swaying slightly on its chain as the peat smoke curled upward into the rafters. The thatch above was already darkened from years of the same routine—smoke rising, ash settling, another day survived.
Ever since our houses had been confiscated and we were driven from our land, we’d struggled.
The walls around us—thick stone stacked by hands older than mine—kept out the worst of the wind, but not the memories.
Back when our crops failed, we thought it was sabotage by the enemy.
My parents grew weak and eventually succumbed to illness.
But as I scraped the last clinging oats from the bottom of the pot, feeling the rough grain catch under the wooden spoon, I understood.
They’d fed us instead of themselves.
Bit by bit, bowl by bowl, they’d starved, so we would go on.
I poured water from the pitcher into my bowl, the tin cup clinking against the wooden table. I kept my eyes down. The airsmelled of damp wool, peat smoke, and the faint sweetness of porridge that wasn’t enough for all of us.
