The first step echoed louder than expected.

  Stone beneath, wood above, and silence pressing in from every side — not dead, exactly, but long undisturbed. Veltryn House had been sleeping for years, and now it stirred reluctantly, like an old cat woken by unfamiliar voices.

  Fran stood just past the threshold, boots scuffing the worn tile, her eyes adjusting to the dimness. It wasn’t dark — not truly — but the light that filtered through the grimed windows had a muted quality, thick with dust and memory. Motes swirled like slow ghosts in the air, and the smell was one of age: wood, stone, and something faintly sweet beneath it all. Lavender, maybe. Or thyme.

  She didn’t speak. Just walked forward.

  This had been her house. Once. For two short years that had stretched like a lifetime — the first years, the only ones where her mother still breathed, her father still laughed, her uncle still believed that the past could be beaten back by knowledge and vigilance alone. It was absurd to feel anything now, standing here decades later, when she could barely recall the sound of those voices — but still, something pulled at her. Not grief. Not nostalgia. Just the faint, nagging awareness that life had once moved through these halls like light through open windows.

  She passed under the central arch, hand brushing the faded mural etched above it. The crest had once been gold — bright enough to catch the sun — but time had stolen the shine and left only outlines. A circle, a tree, and a rising bird. Elarion, long before the crown had turned its gaze away.

  Gale didn’t speak either. He followed a few steps behind, unusually quiet, his eyes drifting across the walls, the beams, the thick old carpets dulled to brown. Perhaps he was letting her lead. Or perhaps the stillness had caught him too.

  “This reminds me of Waterdeep,” he said at last, voice soft. “My family’s old house. Though we never had this many wings. Or ghosts.”

  Fran glanced back. “No ghosts,” she said. “Just dust.”

  He raised a brow. “That’s what they always say. Before the walls start whispering.”

  She rolled her eyes, but didn’t argue. Instead, she stepped into the next room — a dining hall, long and narrow, with a table that could seat twenty and enough cobwebs to knit a shroud. The chairs had been draped in white cloth once, though most had slipped off or rotted through. She didn’t dare sit. Not yet.

  The kitchen came next — a low-beamed room with ancient copper pans hanging in place like soldiers awaiting inspection. The hearth was massive, blackened by years of smoke. A broken stool lay in the corner beside a basket of crumbling wicker. Fran bent to brush a finger along the counter. Dust rose instantly.

  “Well,” she murmured, “we’re not eating here tonight.”

  A few more rooms revealed themselves: a modest parlour with sagging cushions, a small chamber that must have served as a servant’s room, and a narrow hallway that disappeared into shadow.

  Fran stopped there. She looked over her shoulder at Gale, one brow arched.

  “We’ll need to clean before we explore further.”

  He nodded, still thoughtful. “Agreed. Which is why I’m going to do something uncharacteristically generous.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Oh yes.”

  She crossed her arms. “Let me guess — you’re going to charm the mop into scrubbing for us.”

  “I’m going to do better,” he said, rolling his shoulders and cracking his knuckles. “I have just the spell. Newly developed. Absolutely safe. Tested several times.”

  “Tested where?”

  He grinned. “In theory.”

  She groaned and moved past him, already heading toward the rear hallway. “I’ll find a broom. You try not to banish us into a dimension full of snow demons this time.”

  “No promises,” he called, already raising his hand and murmuring something under his breath. A warm shimmer flickered at his fingertips.

  The house was watching.

  The dust held its breath.

  The broom was precisely where a broom ought to be: forgotten, slightly warped, and sulking in a closet beside a bucket, mop, and a few rags that might once have been white. Fran stared at them for a long moment, weighing her options. The mop looked judgmental. The bucket had a crack. The broom would snap at the first vigorous sweep. Still, they were honest tools, and part of her found that comforting.

  “Just like the clinic,” she muttered, dragging the whole ensemble into the hallway with the enthusiasm of a funeral procession.

  That was when she saw it — a notebook lying on a side cabinet near the servants’ staircase. Small, leather-bound, its corners curled from time and damp. She hesitated, then reached out, brushing dust from the cover. No name. No title. Just that subtle, unmistakable air of something personal.

  She flipped it open. The handwriting was elegant and slightly slanted, the ink faded to a gentle brown. A line here, a date there — one caught her eye.

  “Tried to describe the stars to her again. Said they reminded me of her freckles. She laughed. Then kissed me to stop me talking.”

  Her fingers froze. Darin. It was Darin’s.

  She closed the notebook at once.

  Not now. Not with him in the room. Not when one of those damn lines might get quoted back to her at dinner, over potatoes. Or worse — right before he attempted something romantic.

  She tucked the notebook under her arm and continued back toward the main hall, broom in hand, only to find Gale standing dead center beneath the largest archway in the manor, fingertips aglow, face illuminated by the warm blue shimmer of unspoken power.

  Fran stopped.

  He was smiling.

  Not just smiling. Grinning. That particular brand of malevolent delight that came only when he was absolutely certain of two things: his genius, and her disapproval.

  “No,” she said, flatly.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  She glanced at the broom. Then the spell. Then back at the broom.

  “You’re going to obliterate the house.”

  “I am going to clean it.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  “You said that before teleporting an entire villa into a desert.”

  “I was younger then. Also, in love.”

  “Oh, that explains it.”

  He tilted his head, glow intensifying. “Can you open the windows and the front door, please?”

  “No,” she said again. “I like my walls intact.”

  “Fran.”

  “Fine. But if the roof comes off, I’m selling you to a Kentari circus.”

  Muttering every curse she could recall — and inventing a few new ones for good measure — Fran moved swiftly around the room, unlatching shutters and pushing windows wide open. She cracked the front door last, giving the house a cautious glance.

  It almost felt like the walls were holding their breath.

  Gale lifted his hand.

  The magic snapped into the air like a pulled thread.

  For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then—

  Wind.

  Not a breeze. A tempest. A storm of ancient dust, cobwebs, dead moths, old ash, and gods-only-knew what else erupted from every corner of the manor and surged toward the exits like an army in full retreat. Curtains flapped violently. Rugs lifted from the floor. The windows howled with the rush, and somewhere in the kitchen a pan banged twice before flying into the wall.

  And then—

  Snow.

  For five inexplicable seconds, a light flurry of snow fell inside the hall. Gale glanced up in mild surprise. So did Fran, blinking through a faceful of grime.

  Then, just as quickly, it was gone — swept away by the duststorm’s final gasp, leaving behind… cleanliness.

  Absolute, radiant, sparkling cleanliness. Every surface gleamed. The wood looked polished. The windows shone. Even the copper pans had regained their luster. It was as if the house had gone back in time and demanded its original glamour back.

  Fran stood in the center of it all, jaw clenched, hair standing slightly on end.

  And covered. Absolutely, entirely, head to toe, covered — in soot, dust, feathers, and what appeared to be the long-deceased remains of something that once nested behind a cupboard.

  Gale had shielded himself with a ward, naturally.

  She did not speak.

  She did not move.

  “Oh gods,” he whispered, slowly lowering his hands. “You’re going to kill me.”

  “I might.”

  “I can fix this—”

  “You’d better.”

  With a panicked flick of his wrist and a muttered incantation, the grime evaporated from her clothing and skin, vanishing into some harmless dimension where all bad decisions went to die. But the stare remained.

  “You are no longer allowed to smile in my presence.”

  “That feels unfair,” he said, sheepishly. “What if I’m cooking?”

  “Especially then.”

  He offered her a crooked grin. “Shall I carry your things upstairs?”

  “No. You’re going to walk me there, and pray there’s still a bathtub.”

  They ascended the old staircase, Fran in the lead, silent but not storming. That was worse, and Gale knew it. At the end of the hallway, they found a sunlit bathroom with a clean stone tub already full of warm, rose-scented water. Soap floated in a gentle foam. Steam curled toward the window like a peace offering.

  He stepped back.

  “I’ll… go check on the cats.”

  “And the horses.”

  “And the luggage.”

  “And your conscience.”

  He bowed with all the dignity of a man moments from fleeing the scene of a crime. “At your service, Your Grace.”

  “Portashaft.”

  He tripped on the way out.

  The evening had softened into stillness, warm light lingering behind the drawn curtains. Upstairs, behind a closed door and a very clear message not to be disturbed, the Duchess of Foher sat alone at the edge of a freshly made bed, wrapped in a nightgown that smelled faintly of lavender and soap.

  Her hair was damp, combed back from her face. A charm-globe hovered lazily above the nightstand, casting gentle golden light across the room—one of the few spells Gale had dared to activate that day without consulting her first.

  She hadn’t invited him back in. He hadn’t knocked.

  Good.

  …Probably.

  One of the cats—Rudy, naturally—had found his way into her room and now sprawled in arrogant luxury across her feet, purring as if he had cast the cleaning spell and deserved praise for it. Fran reached down absently, scratching his side, her mind still half in the whirlwind of the day.

  She could still taste the dust on her tongue.

  And Gale’s laughter.

  And the ridiculous snow.

  Unsufferable.

  She sighed, then glanced to the side. The notebook lay where she’d dropped it earlier, still speckled with age and old ink, its corner fraying slightly from time. Darin’s notebook. Or at least, that’s what she assumed—she hadn’t dared read more than a glance earlier, afraid to find another verse about lips like honey or breasts like silk-wrapped miracles, with Gale inevitably citing it at the worst possible moment.

  But now… the house was quiet. Her anger was settled—not forgotten, but settled—and she felt just tired enough to ignore the risk.

  She picked it up and opened gently, flipping through the pages until her thumb stopped on one that looked different. The ink was faded, the script almost rushed. A little uneven.

  She read.

  We slept together tonight. The three of us in the same bed. She wouldn’t stop staring at her mother. I wouldn’t stop staring at them both. They are beautiful. I am the happiest man in the world.

  Fran stared at the words.

  She didn’t cry. It wasn’t that kind of pain—not sharp or cruel. Just… hollow and full at once. A space she hadn’t known existed in her chest until this moment.

  She closed the notebook, resting it on her knees. The globe of light above her flickered slightly, as if the spell was watching.

  “You should’ve had more time,” she murmured.

  Rudy shifted, stretching one paw toward her shin without opening his eyes.

  She reached down, brushing his fur again, and let the quiet settle back around her. Tomorrow, maybe, she’d read more. Maybe she’d show Gale.

  …Maybe not.

  She set the notebook aside, lay back on the bed, and stared up at the plain wooden ceiling.

  The blankets were warm. Her body still ached from sleeping in a field, her skin still glowed faintly from too much smug wizard. And her thoughts drifted like dust, until she found a single, grim line of resolve:

  “Tomorrow,” she muttered, “better start with pastries.”

  It was nearly midday when Fran emerged from her room.

  Hair pinned, expression neutral, clothes practical — and a duchess’s poise held precariously in place with the help of one night’s rest and zero tolerance for further magical mishaps. She found Nymph waiting outside her door, as if the cat had taken it upon herself to stand guard. Rudy was nowhere to be seen, which usually meant trouble. Or chicken.

  The hallway smelled faintly of cinnamon.

  Suspicious.

  Fran made her way down the stairs, already preparing a scolding for a certain man whose spells had triggered both a snowstorm and a mild existential crisis. But the moment she stepped into the hall, she stopped.

  The table at the center had been cleared.

  On it now stood a large bouquet of wildflowers in chaotic, charming disorder. Not garden roses or elegant lilies — no — this was thistle, clover, lavender, and those stubborn yellow blossoms that grew defiantly through Vartis cobblestones.

  There was also heavy tray covered with delicate pastries: sweet rolls, honey cakes, nut-stuffed buns, and something that suspiciously resembled Thalyra’s favorite spiced shortbread from the palace kitchens.

  Finally, there were four books. Leather-bound. Gold-embossed. Titles too dramatic to be anything but poetry — Love in the Time of Frost, A Treatise on the Language of Touch, Verses to the Moon and Other Bodies, and a smaller one simply titled Kisses.

  And next to all of this… a note.

  She read it.

  Dearest Fran,

  I am truly, profoundly, and categorically sorry.

  In my defense, the snow was unintentional.

  In your defense, your fury was entirely justified and exceptionally graceful.

  Please accept these humble offerings from a remorseful Portashaft.

  P.S. I triple-checked the tub. It’s still clean. As am I. Should you require physical evidence, I am available in the kitchen.

  Ardently yours (and not currently ignited),

  Gale

  Fran folded the note with deliberate slowness.

  She didn’t smile.

  Not yet.

  But her hand did hover over the pastries for a suspiciously long moment before selecting a bun and taking a dignified bite.

  She chewed thoughtfully, then turned toward the kitchen.

  “I swear,” she muttered, “if you’ve enchanted the cinnamon, I’ll turn you into a radish.”

  From within the kitchen, the sound of a pot clattering. And then a voice: “Only mildly! For softness!”

  Unsufferable.

  But forgiven.

  “Did you like the pastries?” Gale peered shyly moments later from the kitchen doorway, flour still dusting his sleeves. She was biting into a sweet bun — her second one, as he noted with satisfaction from the dwindling plate on the table.

  “Explain the snow,” Fran said, without turning.

  “Well…” He cleared his throat. “The spell is designed to purge environmental contaminants, atmospheric irregularities, minor pests, grime, structural decay, and — to my surprise — seasonal residue.”

  “Seasonal residue.”

  “It seems the spell remembered winter.”

  She turned slowly and gave him a long, flat stare.

  “How is it that the Society’s brightest mage becomes disaster incarnate every time he casts a spell in front of me?”

  Gale blinked. “In my defense, I slightly miscalculated the ward spell extension — it happens when you’re focusing on removing decades-old filth. You were just three inches outside the diameter—”

  Fran scoffed.

  He held up both hands. “I’ve made pastries.”

  “I noticed.”

  “And poetry. I mean, I found poetry. I didn’t write it. I wouldn’t dare.”

  “I noticed that too.”

  A pause.

  “Are we still using our ridiculous names?” she asked at last.

  “I was hoping,” he said, “to earn back the right to call you Dove.”

  Fran plucked a dried currant from the edge of a tart, popped it in her mouth, and chewed slowly.

  “Portashaft,” she said.

  Gale groaned. Then smiled.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”