Rowan is the youngest man ever to lead the palace guard in Acheron, and he wears the role with the same quiet confidence he brings to loving her. Watching them together is like watching something rare take root in stone.
I feel the familiar ache bloom in my chest—not envy, exactly,but a gentle grief for a future I will never know.
I look back over my shoulder at Rowan, who follows us, always keeping a watchful eye on his wife. While he wasn’t particularly happy when he heard about Aileen feeding information to the opposition, he supports her every move. He notices me watching him and winks. I smile back.
“One day soon,” I say to Aileen, “you will leave me.”
Aileen glances over, startled. “I will not.”
“You will,” I laugh softly. “Not all at once, and hopefully not entirely. But you will build something that needs you more than I do.”
She reaches for my hand, squeezes it once. “Whatever I build,” she says, “you will still be in it.”
The girls stop abruptly, demanding to know if they may remove their shoes and test the water of the stream ahead. I agree, bracing myself for cold toes and loud complaints.
As they scatter, Aileen watches them with a smile. “Do you ever think of having more?”
I don’t need to ask what she means.
“No,” I say, surprised by how easily the answer comes. “I take a potion now to prevent another pregnancy. I will not bear another child.”
Aileen studies my face, searching for regret.
“I am fine, truly. I am relieved,” I add. “Two daughters are enough. More than enough.”
“Are you worried that another child might be a boy?” she asks carefully.
I look away to where Thea is daring her sister to step further into the water.
“Charles’s sons already strain the line of succession,” I say. “I will not add another thread for them to pull at. A boy bornof me would be a threat simply by breathing.”
Aileen nods. She understands that kind of danger.
“Don’t go in too far, girls. We are quite far away from the palace, and we don’t have any spare clothes,” I call out. But it is useless, they are not listening.
After a moment, Aileen asks, “And your father?”
The question lands gently.
“He grows quieter,” I say. “Last year nearly cost him everything. The Saxon unrest drew too much attention. Now they wait.”
“And you?”
“I feed him what I can,” I admit. “Names, numbers, small details. But he is old, Aileen. And I am no longer certain that breaking Charles’s rule would mend anything.”
She does not argue.
We are rounding the bend in the path when we see them.
Tassilo stands at the edge of the meadow, hands loose at his sides, his men spread behind him in easy formation. He looks as though he belongs to the landscape—comfortable and at ease. Like one of the paintings that hang in the corridor of the palace. His commander stands slightly apart: a broad man with weathered features and scars that speak of survival.
The girls spot the horse before they see the man.
A tall gray, pale as river stone, its eyes an uncanny blue. They break from my side at once, darting ahead in breathless excitement, stopping just short of the animal’s flank to stare up at it in open wonder.
Tassilo looks genuinely startled—and then delighted. He drops to one knee so he is level with them.
“Well,” he says, solemn as a knight answering an unexpected summons, “this is a fine welcome. And who might you be?”
