A Cold Homecoming

Clarissa’s heels clicked a sharp, commanding rhythm against the pristine cobblestones as she led Rosalind through the towering wrought-iron gates of the estate. The immediate shift from the chaotic streets to the oppressive silence of the manor grounds made Rosalind’s ears ring. Clarissa stopped abruptly and turned her head toward the hovering servants waiting in the courtyard.

"Take Lady Rosalind to wash up first," Clarissa instructed, waving a manicured hand. "Afterward, bring her straight to pay respects to the Dowager Duchess."

Clarissa turned back to Rosalind. A gentle, manipulative smile stretched across her face, masking the cold calculation in her eyes. "Your grandmother is getting on in years, Rosalind. Her health is quite frail these days. She relies heavily on her daily herbal tonics just to get out of bed. When you see her, be sweet. Be respectful."

Clarissa stepped closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "And I expressly forbid you from bringing up a single detail about your time in that penal camp. It will upset her. Keep your mouth shut about it."

Rosalind gave a quiet, obedient nod. She intimately understood the truth of the situation. Eleanor had always been the one fair-minded figure in this sprawling, deceitful house, but age had worn the old woman down. She was too frail to intervene in the toxic currents running through the family anyway.

Seeing Rosalind submit without a fight, Clarissa let out a short breath of relief. She smoothed the front of her immaculate gown, testing the waters further. "You are eighteen now. That is prime marriageable age. What happened out there in that camp... we will never speak of it again. If the high society circles find out you spent the last three years trapped in a hellish garrison, surrounded by rough soldiers day and night, the gossip will ruin your prospects. It would destroy any chance of a good match."

Clarissa patted Rosalind's arm with artificial warmth. "I have already arranged a proper story. We will tell everyone you were away recuperating from a prolonged illness in the countryside. You have simply returned to us now."

Rosalind kept her face devoid of expression. "Yes," she murmured.

She turned away from her mother and followed a young maid assigned to guide her. The estate grounds were sprawling, full of winding stone paths and towering hedges. Rosalind’s memory of her childhood home remained sharp, but after a few turns down the manicured paths, her footsteps slowed.

"This is the wrong way," Rosalind said. "My quarters are in the east wing."

The maid turned around, flashing a bright, painfully ignorant smile. "Oh, no, Lady Rosalind. Lady Ophelia has been so delicate lately. The physician claimed the trees in your old courtyard were too damp. He said the moisture was hindering her fragile health."

The maid spoke with a cheerful tone, acting as if she were discussing the weather. "So, they cut all your trees down. They leveled your courtyard and absorbed the space into Lady Ophelia's territory to aid her delicate recovery. They even piped in hot spring water to build a new therapeutic bath for her right over where your bedroom used to be."

Rosalind stared at the young girl. Her existence in this home had been subjected to a brutal, physical erasure. Her sanctuary was leveled to dirt, simply because Ophelia willed it. It was as if everyone had conveniently forgotten that Rosalind was the true daughter of the Duke, while Ophelia was merely adopted.

"But do not worry!" the maid chimed. "Her Grace made sure this new space was cleaned for you before your return."

The maid pushed open a creaky wooden door, depositing Rosalind into a cramped, barren courtyard. There was no grass, no flowers, and no sunlight breaching the high stone walls. It was a lifeless, stifling box.

Two unfamiliar maids stood waiting by the meager entrance. They bowed their heads.

"I am Tessa," the one with a round face said.

"I am Celia," the taller one added, her sharp eyes assessing Rosalind's ragged state.

Rosalind surveyed them. "Where are Dina and Nell?"

Celia offered a polite smile. "They married and left the estate shortly after you went away. I hear they are living quiet lives now, raising children."

A fleeting sense of genuine relief washed over Rosalind. She closed her eyes for a brief second. Good. They escaped this toxic environment. A peaceful life was far better than serving others in this gilded cage for the rest of their days.

Inside the modest room, a table sat prepared with food. The spread featured four dishes and a bowl of soup, but the portions were pitifully small, served on fine porcelain plates the size of a clenched fist. Rosalind sat down at the table. The smell of hot pasta and roasted meat hit her nose.

Instantly, survival instincts forged in the penal camp hijacked her brain, overriding all noble etiquette.

She grabbed a fork and shoved the pasta into her mouth. She devoured the entire plate in mere seconds, barely chewing, swallowing the heavy food in rough, desperate gulps. She slammed the empty plate down onto the wood.

"More," Rosalind demanded, her voice hoarse.

Tessa froze, her eyes wide with shock. "I—yes, right away."

As Tessa scrambled away, Celia stepped closer, her brow furrowed in gentle caution. "Lady Rosalind, please slow down. If you rush like that after a long journey, you will make yourself sick."

Rosalind’s fork froze in mid-air. Her knuckles turned white gripping the silver handle. A crushing wave of reality slammed into her chest, knocking the breath from her lungs. She forced her eyes to focus on the table linens.

She reminded herself she was in the Duke's estate. This was not the penal garrison. No guard was going to kick her plate into the mud. She did not have to fight like a wild dog for these scraps. The meat on the plate was fresh bacon. She was no longer forced to eat diseased rats just to survive another night in the cold.

She let out a slow exhale, but she could not force the grace back into her movements. When Tessa returned with two more plates, Rosalind finished the fresh food rapidly, her frantic pace devoid of refinement.

Once the plates were scraped clean, Tessa and Celia hurried over to a wooden tub steaming behind a painted screen.

"Allow us to help you bathe, Lady Rosalind," Tessa offered, holding up a soft linen towel.

"No." Rosalind’s refusal was flat and unyielding. "Leave me."

The two maids exchanged a nervous glance. Celia wrung her hands, terrified of the consequences. "But... if the Duchess learns we did not serve you properly, she will punish us severely."

Rosalind did not argue. She simply shifted her gaze and locked eyes with them. She offered a calm, dead stare. There was no anger in her eyes, just a hollow, chilling emptiness that spoke of unspeakable horrors. The sheer weight of that broken, predatory look sent a shiver down Tessa’s spine.

Terrified, both maids bowed their heads, backed out of the room, and shut the door tight.

Left alone behind the privacy screen, Rosalind reached for the hem of her ragged, filthy clothes. She pulled the rough fabric over her head and let it drop to the floorboards.

She stood naked in the rising steam. Her body was a horrifying sight. A gaunt, skeletal frame stretched tightly over jutting ribs and prominent collarbones. Her once-flawless skin was mapped with layered, blackened bruises. Some were fading yellow; others were fresh, angry purple welts tracking a history of unyielding brutality.

She washed the grime from her skin with methodical, numb efficiency. The hot water stung the open scabs on her shoulders. Afterward, she reached for the fresh garments laid out on a nearby chair. The silk robes were luxurious, woven from fine threads. But as she pulled them on, the fabric hung shapeless on her starved body, draping over her bones like a burial shroud.

"Lady Rosalind," Celia called softly from the courtyard. "Her Grace and the Dowager Duchess are expecting you."

Rosalind pushed the door open and stepped out. She followed Celia down the winding stone paths toward Raven House. The grounds had shifted so much in her absence, morphed to cater to Ophelia's endless needs.

She paused near the edge of a large, dry pond. The mud at the bottom was cracked and barren.

"What happened to the lotuses?" Rosalind asked, her voice tight.

Celia glanced at the empty pit and shrugged casually. "Lady Ophelia complained. She said the water attracted too many mosquitoes during the summer months. So, Lord Benedict ordered the servants to dig them all up and destroy them."

A familiar, piercing ache struck Rosalind right in the center of her chest. She stood staring at the dry earth. She remembered the day she meticulously planted those lotus seeds. She had dug through the wet soil, dreaming of the day the flowers would bloom so she could make sweet lotus wine for Benedict.

She remembered her older brother rolling up the sleeves of his expensive shirt. The proud heir of the Duke had crouched in the mud, dirtying his own hands just to help her plant a few meager seeds. He had smiled at her, wiping a smudge of dirt from her cheek. She had felt cherished then. She had felt loved.

That memory now stood in agonizing contrast to the clear reality before her. Benedict’s past devotion had evaporated into thin air. His unquestioning subservience to Ophelia's every minor discomfort was absolute. Rosalind’s hard work, her love, her very existence in this family held less worth than a fraction of Ophelia’s passing whims.

Rosalind forced her feet to move. She turned away from the dead pond and continued the silent walk to Raven House.

She arrived at the grand entrance of Eleanor's quarters. The heavy mahogany double doors stood open. She stepped over the threshold into a spacious room crowded with the figures of her family.

The moment her foot hit the polished wooden floor, Clarissa turned her head. Her eyes locked onto Rosalind. Clarissa immediately frowned, her brow creasing in sharp displeasure. She scanned Rosalind from head to toe, wondering why the fine, expensive robe looked so dreadfully oversized on her frame.