Lucian found the elderly caretaker waiting outside the hidden room’s entrance.
She was small and precise, and she looked at him with eyes that had clearly seen a lot over a lot of years and had already made up their mind about him.
“She’s awake,” the woman said.
Not a question.
“Yeah.” He paused.
“I’m Lucian Marbas.
I’m—”
“I know who you are.” She gave him a once-over, head to toe, like she was checking a grocery list.
Whatever she decided, she didn’t look disappointed, but she didn’t look impressed either.
“She’ll need somewhere proper to go.
Not this place.”
“I have an estate.
In the Underworld.
It needs—” He thought about it.
The dusty sheets.
The sticky locks.
That stove that kept trying to kill him.
“Work.”
“I do estates,” she said.
Her name was Aoife.
Low-class devil.
She’d worked for Ingvild’s family since before the fall, back when Ingvild was just a kid, and Aoife was a young attendant who figured out pretty quickly that she was better at looking after one quiet, odd little girl than at anything else they asked her to do.
She’d known Ingvild when Ingvild still thought people were mostly decent.
She was there when the sleeping sickness hit.
And when the rest of the Underworld decided a half-blood wasn’t worth their time, Aoife didn’t go along with them.
She grabbed what she could carry and set up shop in some deep rock hideout, and kept it going for a hundred years because someone had to.
Lucian noticed she wore a little pendant.
Old Leviathan house crest, rubbed smooth from years of handling.
She touched it once when she looked at him.
Not because she cared about the name—because it reminded her of the person who used to wear it.
She packed one bag and was ready to go in under an hour.
Two days later, the manor was starting to look like people actually lived there.
Three rooms were uncovered and dusted—which he had once done via maid monsters, then was too busy to recreate them on it.
And there was food.
Actual food, not the sad nutrition blocks and toast Lucian had been surviving on for nine weeks.
Aoife had somehow produced an entire spice collection from that one tiny bag of hers.
She arranged it on the counter like she was setting up a chessboard.
The first meal she made was just soup and bread, but Lucian ate it like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.
“You eat like a man who forgot what food tastes like,” she said.
“Nine weeks,” he said, mouth half-full.
“Nine weeks of paste and toast.
I forgot what chewing felt like.”
She made a noise that might have been a laugh, but it was hard to tell with her.
Ingvild showed up the next morning.
She stood in the kitchen doorway for a long time, just looking at Aoife.
Then she walked over and took her hands.
They stood there like that for a minute.
No words.
Just holding on.
Aoife’s face went tight for a second, like she was fighting something, but she smoothed it out quickly.
Ingvild’s eyes were wet, but she didn’t cry.
Lucian figured that was their moment, so he found somewhere else to be.
The first thing Ingvild asked about, once she’d settled into her room, was the ceiling.
Not the manor itself.
Not the library or the furniture or any of that.
The ceiling of her room—the one he’d given her because it had the best light.
“It’s a tree,” she said, looking up from the bed.
“What kind?”
“Marbas family tree, I think,” he said from the doorway.
He had two cups of tea and was trying not to spill them.
“Records are a mess.
Previous generation wasn’t great at keeping things organized.”
“You’re the only one left?”
“Yeah.”
She stared at the ceiling for a bit longer.
“It’s really quiet here.”
“I know.
I’ve been—” He shrugged.
“Getting used to it.”
She turned her head to look at him.
She had this way of looking at you like she was really paying attention, not just waiting for her turn to talk.
“You’ve been here alone?”
“I had the manor.” He handed her a cup.
“And some really opinionated rings.”
She snorted.
Not a laugh, exactly—more like air escaping through her nose in surprise.
“Opinionated rings?”
“Later.
Drink your tea.
It’s actually decent today.”
She did, and he watched her take stock of herself again—that same careful checking-in she’d done in the hidden room.
Like she was making friends with her own body again.
The next morning, Lucian walked into the kitchen and almost backed out again.
The place was organized.
Like, aggressively organized.
Someone had taken inventory of all the linens and left a list on the table.
There was another list on the counter, in small, neat handwriting, titled Things The Estate Requires.
It covered two pages.
Aoife was at the stove, stirring something that smelled like actual breakfast.
“Morning,” he said carefully.
“Morning.” She didn’t turn around.
“You’re out of proper tea.”
“The tea I made yesterday—”
“Was fine,” she said, which he was learning meant it was mediocre and I’m being nice.
“I ordered better.
Comes tomorrow.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, and decided not to argue.
When he brought Ingvild her tea, she was already up, wrapped in a blanket by the window.
She looked cozy.
Content.
“Good morning,” he said.
She smiled.
“Morning.”
“Aoife’s already redecorated the kitchen.”
“Good,” she said.
“I slept for a hundred years.
I have energy to spare.”
He sat down across from her, and they just sat there for a while.
The quiet was different now—less empty, more comfortable.
“Tell me what I missed,” she said eventually.
“That’s a big question.”
“Start with something small, then.”
He thought about it.
“The war ended.
Mostly.
There’s still some fighting here and there, but nothing like before.
Everyone’s figuring out the new normal.”
“And your family?”
“Gone.
I’m the last.”
She didn’t push.
Instead: “What have you been doing here by yourself?”
“Cataloguing,” he admitted.
“Going through old papers, figuring out what’s actually in this place.
There’s a lot.
Also a room full of taxidermy that I’m not sure what to do with.”
She made a face.
“Taxidermy?”
“Someone in my family really liked preserving things.
I’ve been avoiding that room.”
“Sensible,” she said, completely serious.
He laughed, and she smiled, and something in his chest felt lighter than it had in months.
They talked about the things she missed.
Aoife came in with a tray of sandwiches and tea.
She set it down, gave Lucian a look that clearly said don’t let it go cold, and left.
“She’s something,” Ingvild said.
“She’s terrifying,” he said.
“But yeah.
Something.”
Ingvild laughed, and it was a real laugh this time—bright and surprised, like she hadn’t expected it.
Later, when the sun was higher, Ingvild asked about the garden.
Lucian admitted he hadn’t been out there in weeks.
The grounds were a mess—he had no idea what was even still alive.
“Then let’s go find out,” she said.
It wasn’t a question.
He found himself agreeing before he even thought about it.
They walked through the overgrown paths, her hand brushing his arm every now and then when she needed to steady herself.
He told her about the rings—how some of them seemed to have opinions about him, how one of them kept trying to nudge him toward decisions it thought were better.
“Which one’s your favorite?” she asked.
“The one that doesn’t judge me.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
She laughed, and birds scattered from the nearest tree, and he decided he’d keep making her laugh if he could.
When they came back inside, Aoife had fresh bread and more tea waiting.
The kitchen smelled like someone actually lived there.
Ingvild settled by the window.
Lucian sat across from her.
Aoife busied herself at the stove.
For the first time in a long time, the place didn’t feel like a museum.
It felt like home.
Ingvild looked at him across the room, and she smiled.
He smiled back.
This was just the start.
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