The knock came just after dawn, soft but insistent.
Kat had been awake for hours, sitting by the window watching the sky lighten from black to gray to the pale gold of early morning.
She hadn’t slept again after the dream—couldn’t bear to close her eyes and see that golden-haired woman falling, falling, always falling.
“Come in,” she called, her voice hoarse from disuse.
The door opened to reveal Mrs.
Hadley, one of the older housemaids.
She was a woman of perhaps fifty, with gray-streaked brown hair and kind eyes that had always looked at Kat with something approaching sympathy.
Not enough to speak up on her behalf, of course—no one in the household would risk that—but enough that her presence now felt like a small mercy.
“Good morning, Miss Katriana,” Mrs.
Hadley said quietly, carrying a pitcher of fresh water.
“I’ve come to help you dress.”
Kat stood, smoothing down her nightgown with trembling hands.
“Thank you.”
Mrs.
Hadley set the pitcher on the washstand and turned to the silver-gray dress laid out over the chair—the one Kat had chosen last night because it was the finest thing she owned, though still plain compared to Celeste’s wardrobe.
The fabric was good quality, at least, with a modest neckline and long sleeves appropriate for travel.
“Let’s get you ready, then,” Mrs.
Hadley said, and there was something gentle in her tone that made Kat’s throat tighten.
The maid helped her wash and dress with efficient, practiced movements.
The silver-gray dress fit well enough, though it hung a bit loose at the waist—Kat had always been too thin, her appetite suppressed by anxiety and the constant tension of living in this house.
Mrs.
Hadley laced up the back with careful fingers, then guided Kat to sit at the small vanity.
“Your hair, miss,” Mrs.
Hadley said softly, picking up the brush.
Kat watched in the mirror as the maid began to brush out the long red strands, working through the tangles with more gentleness than Kat had expected.
The color seemed even brighter in the morning light—like copper, like flame, like everything her family had taught her to be ashamed of.
Mrs.
Hadley worked in silence, dividing the hair into sections and beginning to braid.
Her fingers moved with practiced skill, weaving the strands into a tight plait that she then coiled into a neat bun at the nape of Kat’s neck.
It was a severe style, pulling the hair back from her face, but it was tidy and appropriate for travel.
“There now,” Mrs.
Hadley murmured, securing the bun with pins.
“That should hold for the journey.”
But she didn’t step back.
Instead, she reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a length of fabric—a veil of fine gray silk that matched the dress.
Kat’s stomach sank.
“Your brother, Master Marcus,” Mrs.
Hadley said, and there was something in her voice—disapproval?
Pity?
—”he gave me this.
To…
to cover your hair.”
Of course he did.
Even now, even as they were sending her away, they couldn’t bear the sight of her.
Couldn’t risk anyone seeing the cursed red hair, the mark of ill omen that had plagued the family for nineteen years.
“I see,” Kat whispered.
Mrs.
Hadley’s hands hesitated, the veil hanging between them like a shroud.
“Miss Katriana, I—”
“It’s all right,” Kat said, though it wasn’t.
It would never be all right.
“Please.
Put it on.”
The maid’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she obeyed.
She draped the veil over Kat’s head, arranging it carefully so that it covered her hair completely, falling past her shoulders.
The silk was soft against her skin, but it felt like a cage.
Like shame made tangible.
In the mirror, Kat barely recognized herself.
The veil muted everything—her hair, her features, even the color of her eyes seemed duller beneath the gray silk.
She looked like a ghost.
Like something already dead.
“He also gave me these,” Mrs.
Hadley said quietly, producing several more veils and scarves from her apron—some gray, some darker, all designed to hide.
“For your journey.
He said…
he said you’re to keep your hair covered.
Always.”
Even hundreds of miles away, Marcus’s cruelty would follow her.
Even in the North, where she’d hoped—foolishly, desperately hoped—that she might be allowed to simply exist without shame, she would have to hide.
“Thank you, Mrs.
Hadley,” Kat managed, her voice barely above a whisper.
The maid folded the extra veils and scarves carefully, setting them aside.
“I’ll pack these with your things, miss.”
Another knock at the door, firmer this time.
“Come in,” Kat called.
The door opened to reveal Mr.
Pemberton, the butler, carrying a breakfast tray.
His expression was as professionally neutral as always, but Kat thought she saw something soften in his eyes when he looked at her—veiled, diminished, already half-erased.
“Your breakfast, Miss Katriana,” he said, setting the tray on the small table by the window.
“I took the liberty of preparing your favorites.”
Kat’s throat tightened.
There was tea—real tea, not the weak stuff she usually got—and toast with butter and jam, and even a soft-boiled egg.
Simple fare, but more than she’d expected.
More than she usually received.
“Thank you, Mr.
Pemberton,” she said.
“That’s very kind.”
“The staff will collect your trunk shortly.
The Archduke’s representative is expected within the hour.”
Within the hour.
So soon.
Too soon.
“I understand,” Kat said.
Mr.
Pemberton hesitated, then added quietly, “I wish you well, Miss Katriana.
Truly.”
Before she could respond, he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.
Mrs.
Hadley squeezed Kat’s shoulder once—a brief, forbidden gesture of comfort—then followed the butler out, leaving Kat alone with her breakfast and her thoughts.
She ate mechanically, tasting nothing.
The tea was hot and strong, the toast perfectly buttered, but it all turned to ash in her mouth.
She had just finished the last of her tea when she heard it—the commotion from below.
Kat stood on shaking legs and moved to the window.
The sight that greeted her made her breath catch.
A carriage had pulled up to the front entrance—not the gilded, ornate sort favored by southern nobility, but something altogether different.
It was built for function rather than show, sturdy and well-made, painted a deep midnight blue with silver trim.
The wood looked thick and reinforced, designed to withstand harsh weather and rough roads.
But it was the horses that truly caught her attention.
Four massive Fjord horses stood guard around the carriage, their riders sitting tall in their saddles.
The horses themselves were magnificent—stocky and powerful, with distinctive dun coats and dark dorsal stripes running down their backs.
Their manes were kept long and flowing, cascading down their necks in thick waves—so different from the cropped, tidy manes of southern horses.
This was the northern style, wild and untamed, practical for the harsh climate where the long hair provided extra warmth.
And pulling the carriage were two more Fjords, equally impressive, their breath misting in the cool morning air, their long manes rippling in the breeze.
The riders—guards, clearly—were dressed unlike any soldiers Kat had ever seen.
They wore armor, yes, but not the polished plate of southern knights.
This was practical armor: leather reinforced with metal plates at vital points, designed for movement and protection in equal measure.
Over the armor, they wore heavy furs—wolf pelts, perhaps, or bear—that draped across their shoulders and backs.
Thick cloaks of dark blue wool completed the ensemble, fastened with silver brooches that bore the same wolf’s head insignia she’d seen on the carriage.
They looked like warriors from the old stories.
Like something out of legend.
Their hair was worn long—longer than any southern nobleman would dare—and decorated with an array of braids, feathers, beads, metal cuffs, pins, ribbons, and wraps that seemed to tell stories Kat couldn’t read.
Each warrior’s hair was different, uniquely adorned, speaking of individual achievements or clan affiliations she didn’t understand.
As Kat watched, the carriage door opened.
A man stepped out first tall and broad-shouldered, perhaps in his mid-thirties, with dark hair that fell past his shoulders, partially pulled back in intricate braids decorated with silver beads and what looked like small bones.
He wore the same practical armor and furs as the guards, but there was something in his bearing that marked him as their superior.
He moved with the confidence of a seasoned warrior, his hand resting casually on the pommel of the sword at his hip as he surveyed the manor with sharp, assessing eyes.