"Of course you haven't. You've never had to." Thomas wiped his hands on his leather apron. "That's the difference between your world and ours, Your Grace. You can go your whole life never thinking about where things come from, because there's always someone else to think about it for you. We don't have that luxury."
It wasn't said with bitterness; it was just a statement of fact. But it landed like a blow anyway.
"You're right," Frederick said. "I've never had to think about it. I've never had to think about any of it—where my food comes from, who makes my clothes, how the candles that light my rooms are produced. It's all just... there."
"It must be nice."
"It's comfortable. It's not the same thing as nice." Frederick began unfastening his borrowed apron. "I want to learn. Not just the forge but everything. How things work. How people live. All the things I've been too privileged to notice."
"Why?"
"Because I don't want to be useless. I don't want to be one of those people who can only function when surrounded by servants." He handed the apron back to Thomas. "And because I think Lydia deserves someone who understands her world, not just someone who's read about it in books."
Thomas was quiet for a moment.
"Come back," he said finally. "We'll make nails."
"I'll be here."
"I know you will." And for the first time, Thomas smiled. "You're not what I expected, Your Grace. I'm not sure yet if that's good or bad. But it's definitely interesting."
***
Frederick walked back to the manor through the village, and for the first time in his life, he actually saw it.
Not as scenery to be passed through. Not as the collection of tenants and tradespeople who existed to service the estate. But as a living place, full of living people, each with their own stories and struggles and small victories.
There was Mrs Thompson at her door, the candle-seller who had been so offended at the harvest fair. She looked at him as he passed; not with the deference he was used to, but with something more assessing. Calculating. As if she was trying to decide what to make of this duke who kept showing up in unexpected places.
He nodded to her. She nodded back, after a moment's hesitation. It wasn't friendship, but it wasn't hostility either.
There was Robert the carpenter, hauling lumber into his workshop. He paused in his work to watch Frederick pass, his expression unreadable. Frederick nodded to him too, and received a grunt in return, which, from Robert, was practically a warm welcome.
Children were playing in the street, who scattered as he approached and then peered out from behind their mothers' skirts, curious about this strange man who looked like a lord but was covered in soot.
"Good afternoon," he said to no one in particular.
"Good afternoon, Your Grace," someone replied, but he couldn't see who, and the words were surprised but not unfriendly.
It was different. Everything was different. A month ago, he would have walked through this village like a ghost, noticed by everyone and seen by no one. Now, people looked at him and seemed to actually register that he was there. That he was a person, not just a title.
It was unsettling. It was wonderful. It was the strangest feeling he'd ever experienced.
By the time he reached the manor, his arms were aching, his shirt was soaked with sweat, and he was fairly certain he had soot in places soot was never meant to go. Boggins took one look at him and raised an eyebrow that spoke volumes.
"I've been learning to forge metal," Frederick said, before Boggins could comment.
"Indeed, Your Grace. I can see that."
"It's harder than it looks."
"Most things are, Your Grace." Boggins began the process of helping him out of his ruined clothes. "Shall I have the laundress attempt to salvage this shirt, or is it beyond redemption?"
Frederick looked at the garment, which was streaked with soot, damp with sweat, and probably never going to be quite white again.
"Salvage it if you can. If not, keep it anyway."
"Keep it, Your Grace?"
