The following morning, Rosylin woke with an unbearable memory.
Because you look handsome when you do.
She opened her eyes.
For several seconds, she lay motionless beneath her thin blanket, staring at the cracked ceiling of her bedroom.
Then she buried her face in her pillow.
“Oh, no.”
Of all the foolish things she could have said, why had she chosen those particular words?
She could still see Sylvan’s expression.
The way his piercing blue eyes had widened ever so slightly before that dreadful, amused smile appeared on his face.
Handsome?
Rosylin groaned into her pillow.
Worse still, she had run away.
Again.
She had not even said goodnight.
She turned onto her back and pulled the blanket over her head.
Perhaps she could simply remain in her room for the next three days.
Surely a prince had more important things to do than wait beneath a tree for a girl who repeatedly embarrassed herself in his presence.
Unfortunately, she had promised him four nights.
And Sylvan Ashford did not seem like a man who forgot promises.
Rosylin lowered the blanket just enough to look toward her window.
Morning sunlight had begun creeping through the worn curtains.
Somewhere beyond her neglected little room, Valemont Mansion was already awakening.
She could hear distant footsteps, servants calling to one another and the occasional clatter of dishes.
Her stomach growled.
She sighed.
Romantic embarrassment, it seemed, did very little to satisfy hunger.
Reluctantly, she climbed out of bed and reached for her familiar black shawl.
Yet as she draped it around her shoulders, a small smile appeared on her lips.
She remembered Sylvan laughing.
And despite everything, she wanted to hear it again.
At the other end of Valemont Mansion, Sylvan Ashford was having an equally unproductive morning.
A book lay open before him.
He had been staring at the same paragraph for nearly ten minutes.
It concerned the military campaigns of an ancient emperor, a subject that ordinarily would have held his attention without difficulty.
Today, however, he could remember only one thing.
A young woman with extraordinarily long burgundy hair, blushing so fiercely that she had fled the garden without saying another word.
Sylvan turned the page.
Then frowned.
He had not read the previous one.
He turned it back.
A quiet knock interrupted him.
“Brother?”
“Come in.”
Rizel entered the library carrying Rose, the cat, in her arms.
The animal appeared considerably less interested in visiting Sylvan than his little sister did.
“Are you busy?”
“Reading.”
Rizel glanced at the book.
Then at him.
“You look happy.”
Sylvan raised an eyebrow.
“Do I?”
She nodded.
“Did something good happen?”
“No.”
Rizel continued watching him.
Sylvan returned his attention to the book.
“Why are you staring?”
“Because you smiled.”
“Am I forbidden from smiling?”
“No.
You just don’t do it very often.”
He sighed.
“Rizel.”
She immediately smiled.
“All right.
I won’t ask.”
But as she turned to leave, Rose wriggled free of her arms and leaped onto the chair beside Sylvan.
He looked down at the cat.
For a moment, he remembered a girl kneeling in a moonlit garden three years earlier, secretly feeding a small animal she had believed belonged only to her.
“Rose,” he murmured.
The cat blinked at him.
Rizel paused at the doorway.
“Yes?”
“Nothing.”
She tilted her head suspiciously.
Sylvan opened his book again.
“Close the door on your way out.”
Rizel left, thoroughly convinced that something unusual had happened to her brother.
Sylvan waited until the door clicked shut.
Then he looked toward the window.
The garden lay beyond it, washed in the pale morning sunlight.
He wondered whether Rosylin would actually come that night.
After last night, he suspected she might consider fleeing the kingdom altogether.
The thought made him smile.
By evening, Rosylin had made a decision.
She would behave normally.
She would walk into the garden, greet Sylvan politely, discuss books and absolutely refuse to acknowledge anything she had said the previous night.
It was a sensible plan.
Unfortunately, her sensible plans had a habit of falling apart whenever Sylvan Ashford was involved.
She waited until the mansion had grown quiet before leaving her room.
It’s almost twelve at mid night.
Her dress was the same faded garment she had worn the previous evening.
She had carefully repaired a loose seam that afternoon, although the old fabric still looked wrinkled and worn.
Her black shawl covered her shoulders, and she had loosely gathered part of her long burgundy hair to keep it from catching on the branches.
As she approached the garden, her footsteps slowed.
Sylvan was already there.
He sat on the familiar stone bench, dressed in a dark coat, with a book resting in one hand.
Beside him lay another book and a small covered basket.
Rosylin stopped behind a rose bush.
Perhaps she could wait a little longer.
Perhaps he would become bored and leave.
“Rosylin.”
She froze.
Sylvan did not even look up from his book.
“If you’re planning to hide behind that bush until morning, I suggest choosing one with fewer thorns.”
She emerged slowly.
“How did you know I was here?”
“You stepped on a branch.”
She glanced behind her.
There was, indeed, a broken branch beneath her shoe.
How humiliating.
Sylvan finally raised his eyes.
Rosylin lowered her head.
“Greetings.” she said.
“You’re late.”
“Only a little.”
“Seventeen minutes.”
She stared at him.
“Do you always count?”
“Only when someone repeatedly makes me wait.”
She approached the bench, carefully avoiding his gaze.
Sylvan watched her sit at the far end.
An extraordinary distance separated them.
He looked at the empty space.
“Should I move to another bench?”
Rosylin frowned.
“Why?”
“You seem concerned that sitting any closer might be dangerous.”
She immediately shifted a little toward him.
“There.
Happy?”
“Immensely.”
She gave him a suspicious look.
Sylvan returned to his book.
For several moments, they sat in silence.
Rosylin began to relax.
Perhaps he really had forgotten.
Then Sylvan spoke.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Yes.”
“No troubling dreams?”
“No.”
“No sudden recollections of anything you might have said last night?”
Rosylin closed her eyes.
Of course.
Of course he had not forgotten.
“Sylvan.”
“Hmm?”
“Please.”
He looked at her.
“Please what?”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Mention what?”
She stared at him.
He regarded her with an expression of complete innocence.
It was entirely unconvincing.
Rosylin covered her face with both hands.
“You’re doing this deliberately!”
A quiet laugh escaped him.
“Very well.
I’ll spare you.”
She cautiously lowered her hands.
“Really?”
“For tonight.”
“Sylvan!”
He smiled and reached for the second book beside him.
“Here.
I brought you something.”
Rosylin stopped complaining.
“A book?”
“Unless you would prefer another military history.”
She immediately shook her head.
“No!”
“I thought so.”
He handed it to her.
It was a collection of old legends and stories about distant kingdoms, forgotten cities and mysterious forests.
Rosylin carefully opened the cover.
Her eyes brightened.
“Where did you find this?”
“In the guest library.”
“I’ve never seen it before.”
“Then perhaps you should read it.”
She turned a few pages, already captivated.
Sylvan watched her.
For someone who had spent most of the evening threatening never to speak to him again, she seemed remarkably easy to please.
“Do you like it?”
Rosylin looked up.
“Very much.”
“Good.”
She ran her fingers carefully along the edge of a page.
“May I borrow it?”
“You may.”
“Are you certain?”
“Rosylin, I wouldn’t have brought it here otherwise.”
She smiled.
“Thank you.”
Sylvan looked away before she could notice the effect that simple smile had on him.
They spent the next hour discussing the stories in her new book.
Rosylin had opinions about nearly everything.
She disliked foolish heroines who trusted strangers without reason, despised arrogant kings and became thoroughly indignant whenever a perfectly sensible character made an obviously terrible decision.
Sylvan found her commentary considerably more entertaining than the book itself.
“You haven’t even finished the first story,” he observed.
“I don’t need to finish it to know that the prince is an idiot.”
Sylvan raised an eyebrow.
“An idiot?”
“He has an entire kingdom, yet he abandons it because someone tells him a beautiful woman lives in an enchanted forest.”
“Perhaps he fell in love.”
“He hasn’t even met her!”
“An unfortunate detail.”
Rosylin turned toward him.
“Would you abandon your kingdom for a woman you’ve never met?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I would at least meet her first.”
She stared at him.
Then burst into laughter.
Sylvan smiled faintly.
The sound was becoming dangerously familiar.
A few moments later, Rosylin noticed the basket beside him.
“What’s that?”
“Food.”
“For whom?”
Sylvan looked at her.
She looked at the basket.
Then at him again.
“Oh.”
He lifted the covering.
Inside were bread, fruit, a small portion of cheese and two pastries.
Rosylin’s stomach betrayed her immediately.
Sylvan’s eyebrow rose.
“An enthusiastic response.”
She flushed.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your stomach did.”
She gave him an offended look.
He handed her a pastry.
“Eat.”
Rosylin hesitated.
“Did anyone see you bring this?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite.” he stare at her .
She accepted the pastry.
“Thank you.”
Sylvan opened his book again while she ate.
He did not question why she was hungry so late at night.
He remembered his promise.
But as he listened to the quiet rustling of the food wrapper beside him, he found himself wondering how often she went without a proper meal.
The thought disturbed him considerably more than he wished to admit.
As the night deepened, a cool breeze moved through the rose garden.
Rosylin pulled her black shawl closer around her shoulders.
Sylvan noticed immediately.
“Cold?”
“No.”
A second gust of wind passed through the trees.
She shivered.
Sylvan looked at her.
“Another lie.”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
He began removing his coat.
Rosylin immediately shook her head.
“No!”
He paused.
“Have I offended you somehow?”
“Your coat.”
“What about it?”
“I can’t take it again.”
“Why?”
She hesitated.
Sylvan watched the sudden uncertainty appear in her expression.
Rosylin lowered her eyes.
“If someone sees me returning with it, they’ll ask questions.”
He said nothing.
She twisted the edge of her shawl between her fingers.
“And I don’t want any trouble.”
Sylvan slowly put his coat back on.
He sigh ,”Then you won’t take it.”
Rosylin looked up, surprised by how easily he accepted her refusal.
He reached for the lantern and moved it slightly closer to the bench, shielding its flame from the breeze.
“Shall we return to your foolish prince and his enchanted forest?”
She smiled.
“He’s not my prince.”
“An excellent distinction.”
Their conversation resumed.
Yet Sylvan could not entirely forget the fear he had heard in her voice.
A coat.
She was frightened of being seen with a coat.
He looked at the faded sleeves of her dress, the old black shawl she clutched so tightly and the scars that occasionally appeared when the fabric shifted.
He had promised not to ask.
For tonight, he would keep that promise.
Eventually, the moon climbed high above the garden walls.
Rosylin closed her book with a reluctant sigh.
“I should go.”
Sylvan glanced at the sky.
“It’s late.”
She nodded.
“Thank you for the book.”
“Bring it tomorrow.”
She smiled.
“So you can tease me about something else?”
“Undoubtedly.”
Rosylin stood, pulling her black shawl securely around herself.
Sylvan got up as well.
“I’ll walk you back,” he said.
“No!”
The answer came so quickly that he raised an eyebrow.
Rosylin immediately lowered her voice.
“I mean…
you don’t have to.”
“I wasn’t asking whether I had to.”
She looked anxiously toward the mansion.
“Please, Sylvan.
Someone might see us.”
He studied her for a moment.
Then he stepped aside.
“Very well.”
Relief passed across her face.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Rosylin.”
She turned and hurried along the moonlit path, holding her borrowed book against her chest.
Sylvan watched until she disappeared between the rose bushes.
Then he looked toward the distant mansion.
He had respected her wish not to be accompanied.
But he was beginning to realize how little he knew about the dangers she feared.
After a moment, he extinguished the lantern and followed at a distance.
Rosylin entered the mansion through a narrow side entrance.
She paused to listen.
The corridors were quiet.
Satisfied that no one was nearby, she began making her way toward her room.
She avoided the grand staircase and the beautifully decorated halls where the Valemont family entertained their guests.
Instead, she passed through a smaller corridor near the servants’ quarters, turned behind an old staircase and entered a neglected wing of the mansion.
She had walked this route so many times that she barely needed the candlelight.
Several steps behind her, concealed by the shadows, Sylvan stopped.
His expression changed.
He had expected her to return somewhere within the main household.
Perhaps to a servant’s room, if the story she had once told him contained even a fragment of truth.
But she continued farther into the oldest part of the mansion.
The polished floors gave way to worn wooden boards.
The elaborate paintings disappeared.
A faint smell of dust lingered in the air.
Sylvan frowned.
Why was she coming here?
Rosylin finally reached a narrow corridor with several closed doors.
Only one showed any sign of recent use.
She stopped before it.
For a moment, she looked nervously over her shoulder.
Sylvan stepped silently behind the corner.
Rosylin saw nothing.
She opened the door and slipped inside.
A faint light appeared beneath it.
Sylvan remained where he was.
He waited.
Several minutes passed before the light disappeared.
Only then did he emerge from the shadows.
He walked slowly toward the narrow wooden door and stopped a short distance away.
There was no decoration on it.
No polished brass nameplate.
No indication that anyone of importance lived beyond it.
His eyes moved along the neglected corridor.
He remembered the expensive furnishings of the guest quarters, the enormous dining hall, the magnificent library and the lavish celebration held for little Roy.
Then he looked at Rosylin’s door again.
The contrast was difficult to ignore.
Was she truly a servant?
Or was there another reason she had been hidden away in this forgotten part of the mansion?
He remembered the scars on her wrists.
Her desperate tears.
Her frightened request that he never mention her to anyone.
And the way she had refused his coat because someone might see it.
Sylvan’s jaw tightened.
For a brief moment, he considered knocking.
But he had promised not to question her.
And whatever Rosylin was hiding, he knew that frightening her into revealing it would accomplish nothing.
He stepped back.
Now he knew where she lived.
She, however, had no idea that he had followed her.
Sylvan looked at the closed door one last time.
A faint smile touched his lips as he remembered her running away from him the previous evening.
Always running away from me.
This time, he had discovered where she disappeared to.
Without making a sound, Sylvan turned and walked back toward the grand staircase.
He would meet her beneath the old tree again tomorrow night.
And until she was ready to tell him more, the secret of her little room would remain his alone.