With visible reluctance, the taller girl accepted the bow Dominic offered. She held it as one might hold a venomous snake, arms stiff and face contorted with concentration. When she attempted to draw the string, the arrow clattered to the ground at her feet.
"Oh! I—I don't know what happened," she stammered, bending to retrieve it and nearly toppling in the process.
August's expression of exaggerated encouragement was almost as entertaining as the girl's discomfort. "Never mind! The first attempt is always the most difficult."
The second attempt proved no more successful. The arrow flew wildly off course, embedding itself in the trunk of a nearby oak, causing several ladies to shriek and scuttle away.
"Perhaps a different angle," the mother suggested desperately, as if the problem were the target rather than her daughter's complete lack of skill.
The second girl's attempt was equally disastrous. Her arrow soared high over the targets, disappearing into a hedgerow where a gardener had been peacefully pruning. The man's startled cry suggested a near miss.
The girls stood mortified, their mother sputtering excuses about the unfamiliar bow and the brightness of the day. Dominic was about to offer polite reassurances when June stepped forward.
"If I may," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "Archery is as much about confidence as it is about technique."
The mother looked as though June had suggested the girls try flying. "Lady June, I hardly think?—"
"Miss Henrietta," June continued, ignoring the interruption, "might I show you something?"
The girl nodded gratefully, clearly relieved that someone was intervening in her humiliation.
With calm patience, June adjusted the girl's stance, correcting the angle of her arms and the position of her shoulders. "The bow is an extension of yourself," she explained, demonstrating the proper hold. "Not an enemy to be wrestled with."
Henrietta listened with intense focus, following June's instructions with growing confidence. When she nocked her next arrow, her hands trembled less.
"Now, don't aim for the center," June advised. "Choose any part of the target. Success comes from hitting what you aim for, not from hitting what others expect."
The girl drew a steadying breath, released the arrow, and gave a small squeal of delight when it struck the outer edge of the target.
"I did it!" she exclaimed, her previous embarrassment forgotten in the triumph of modest success.
"Splendidly done," June agreed, turning to the younger sister. "Now, Miss Penelope, shall we see what you can do?"
Dominic watched, transfixed, as June worked the same minor miracle with the second girl. Her patience never wavered, her encouragement never seemed forced or patronizing. When Penelope's arrow actually struck the middle ring of the target, June's genuine pleasure in the girl's success was as visible as the sun overhead.
She would be a remarkable mother, the thought came unbidden to Dominic's mind, followed immediately by a vision so vivid it stole his breath: June in a sunlit nursery, surrounded by children with his dark hair and her amber eyes, teaching them with the same gentle firmness she now displayed.
The longing that accompanied the image was so acute, so unexpected, that he physically stepped back as if struck. What was happening to him? This was not part of his plan—had never been part of any plan. His future was predetermined: manage his estates well, enjoy what pleasures he could, and ultimately succumb to the same disease that had claimed his father and grandfather before him. There was no room in that future for awife, for children, for the kind of happiness that would make his inevitable end all the more cruel for those left behind.
Yet as he watched June laugh at something Penelope said, saw the genuine connection she formed with these awkward girls who had been thrust into social waters too deep for their limited skills, something stirred within Dominic. A hunger for life—not merely existence, but true living—awakened like a dormant beast, stretching and yawning after a long slumber.
I want more time, he realized, the thought crystallizing with terrible clarity. Not just more years, but more moments like this—moments of unexpected joy, of connection, of meaning.
And that was the most terrifying realization of all. For a man who had spent his adult life preparing for an early death, who had carefully constructed a philosophy around the inevitability of his fate, the sudden desperate desire to live—truly live—was not just inconvenient. It was devastating.
Because wanting to live meant having something to lose. And the cruel irony of his cursed bloodline meant that loss was the only certainty.
Seven
Dominic heard her laugh first—light and melodic, carrying on the breeze like a forgotten melody.
He turned, and there she stood, June, illuminated by golden light that seemed to emanate from the very air around them. Saffron blooms stretched in every direction, a sea of yellow undulating gently under a sky painted with the fierce colors of sunset. His breath caught, not from fear or pain, but from the simple beauty of her.
"You found me," she said, her amber eyes bright with joy, her hair loose and flowing around her shoulders in a way he'd never seen before.
"I wasn't looking," he replied, though it felt like a lie. Had he not been searching for her all along?
She lifted her face to the setting sun, the golden light caressing her features, highlighting the gentle curve of her jaw, thedelicate arch of her neck. "Isn't it glorious? I've never seen anything so perfect."
