"Second," Lydia continued, counting on her fingers, "the executors of my aunt's will. If they stand to gain from my absence, their definition of stewardship might be more flexible than they claim."
Maximilian finally met her eyes. "Do you truly believe this is about money?"
She shrugged. "It is always about money. Or desire... but in this case, I find the former more plausible."
He almost smiled but checked himself. Lydia noted the momentary lapse.
"Or perhaps," she said, "it is not about me at all. Maybe someone seeks to harm you, Your Grace. Your reputation is formidable."
He tensed—not overtly, but in the way his hands stilled on the cup, the blue of his eyes hardening.
"I have many adversaries," he allowed. "But none would choose such an indirect approach."
They drank in silence for a few minutes, the noise of the room fading to a dull hum.
Lydia felt the pressure mounting, like a storm brewing behind her eyes. She set her cup down with a soft clink.
"You are avoiding something," she said.
He arched a brow.
"Why do I feel as if you know more than you have told me?"
The silence that followed was sharp.
Maximilian glanced around the room, then back at her, his gaze narrowing.
"I have not lied to you," he said. "But there are matters regarding the estate and your aunt that are not easily explained."
"Try," she said, her tone pointed.
He considered her, then exhaled. "I visited the estate once, at the invitation of Lady Eugenia, years ago. It was a strange visit. The place felt not just neglected but intentionally abandoned. Eugenia was not there despite her invitation and left no explanation. I spent the night in a house that felt... watched."
Lydia frowned. "By whom?"
He shook his head. "No one, and yet..."
She felt a chill along her arms. "Are you saying it is haunted?"
He let out a thin, humorless laugh. "Not in the way you mean. But I was not sorry to leave. And neither, I think, were the servants."
She absorbed this, her mind racing.
"You could have told me," she said. "I am neither a child nor an idiot."
He hesitated. "I thought it might be a trick ofmemory or an overactive imagination. But after today..."
"You think someone does not want us to reach the house," she finished.
He inclined his head. "I believe the house, or what it contains, is the key. And someone is invested in keeping you from it."
Lydia watched him, unsure whether to feel gratified by his honesty or insulted by his reticence.
"Thank you," she said, and meant it, though the words felt unfamiliar.
They finished their tea in silence. The locals gradually lost interest in them, and the fire settled into a comfortable glow. Lydia looked at her hands, fingers still trembling slightly, and decided it was her turn to share something.
"When I was twelve," she began, "my father caught me riding astride. Not sidesaddle, but like a boy. He locked me in my room for three days and would not even allow Honora to visit. By the end, I resolved never to let someone else set the limits of my freedom."
