Chapter Text
The winter wood was still and quiet. Mist and fog parted in the wake of Feyre Archeron’s footsteps as she stepped with sly feet around roots and rocks, flexing her fingers to stay warm.
The sun had just started to rise, watery and pale. Feyre knew it wouldn’t be enough to cut into the chill that had already seeped into her bones. And that nothing but a small fire in the kitchen would be waiting for her on her return.
This winter had been especially wet. The deer were bedding down in secret corners, their scents and steps muffled by the wet leaves carpeting the forest floor. Hiding from her arrows and her empty table.
Feyre had already paid a visit to two local manors that were left empty by the wintering gentry families, scraping what she could from larders and unlocked rooms that wouldn’t be noticed.
But last of the deer jerky had run out yesterday, and she had black tea and a hard tack biscuit for breakfast that hadn’t even satiated her long enough to get out the door without hunger pangs.
If she didn’t find something today - well. No use thinking on it now, miles deep into a sparse winter forest. Feyre knew better than to let her desperate thoughts wander when she was all alone, and needed to focus.
A whisper. Mist swirled out of the corner of her eye.
Feyre inhaled as she twisted, an arrow quickly in her hand and nocked to the string of her bow. Quick enough to see a fluffy brown-red tail disappear through the trees and over a small hill.
The fox trotted away from her and she followed, hiding behind trees as she went, careful to step onto the soft wet leaves littering the forest floor.
He was a handsome creature, his coat dark sable flecked with the old warm red of summer.
It was a shame to take him, she thought as he rose above the fog line onto a moss-covered rock, surveying the land in front of him with his nose tilted up to the wind. There wasn’t ever much meat on them, not that she could be picky. But his pelt would fetch something small at market. Enough to risk an arrow.
At least she and her family would have one more meal, enough to buy a few hours, a day to keep her going to the next fox, or rabbit, or God willing a deer…
Feyre nocked her arrow and pulled back the bowstring across her hollow cheek.
The crack of a twig to her left had the fox curling into fog and mist, and Feyre whirled around, heart racing, bow still nocked to fire.
”Lu!”
Lucien Vanserra’s eye went wide and his hands shot up as he stared down the length of her arrow. His familiar face, one russet eye, one scarred and covered in a small woven patch. Feyre didn’t move an inch.
Slowly, a mischievous grin spread over his face.
She huffed and put down her bow.
”You just cost me lunch and ten shillings for a fox hide. I hope you’re ready to pay up.”
Unlike Feyre, her friend was dressed for the weather, a well-cut wool coat in hunter green hugging his form and skimming down to his knees, with heavy weather-stained boots coming to meet them. He had a low brown felt top hat that complimented his glistening auburn hair.
Lucien looked made for the forest, and if she didn’t know him she’d think he was a sprite come to lead her to some sort of mystical adventure. With his vibrant red hair pulled back into a low plait, and his golden skin radiating warmth in between the barren branches, he seemed a creature from her old maid’s tales.
He pulled a basket from behind him, offering it to her with a flourish. “Aunt Susan and the cousins left for a few weeks to visit Uncle Tomas in Bath. I think I can do you all better than ten shillings and invite you to dinner.”
As if on queue, her stomach rumbled. Feyre tried and failed to keep the small smile from her face.
“Got anything for breakfast first?”
• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– •
Feyre and Lucien trudged through mud and leaves as the morning sun burned away the fog. A strange pair, with Lucien’s rough-hewn looks and fine attire beside Feyre’s shabby, greying hand-me-downs.
Feyre devoured her second cheddar scone, still warm from the oven, and licked her lips as Lucien prattled on.
“So you’ll come to dinner? And invite your sisters? Your father can come too, I mean. Just, everyone’s invited.”
She smiled. “I didn’t know you were so eager to spend more time with Nesta.”
Lucien frowned and she took the opportunity to push him off the log he was balancing on and send him stumbling into the brush, not worrying for once about scaring off potential dinner.
The two of them had become somewhat inseparable since he was sent to live with his distant relatives three years ago. From the scant stories he told about his cruel father, a Baron by title, and the many brothers squabbling over the inheritance, she knew he understood a little of the vicious balance fought between her and her sisters in their cold cottage. The sacrifice and resentment that was struck as their father faded away more and more into the walls of the house.
And they forged a truce between their differing stations by simply never speaking of it. Technically, she was a lady, born to a gentleman, to Lucien’s same world of manors and servants and balls. Nesta insisted even if the money was gone, they still would always have their titles.
For all the good it did Feyre, when she fell asleep hungry at night.
She and her family weren’t above begging. But Lucien’s pernicious Aunt, who bemoaned the charity she did by taking him in every day, was not one for generosity or goodwill towards her nephew’s poor and disgraced friends.
Only when she was out of town and Lucien uncovered the pocket money his mother sent him and his aunt dutifully hid from him did he lavish any attention on the Archerons. As much as he could get away with.
The charity made her blush. But she thought sometimes her friend needed it as much as she did, alone in that loveless manor with no one but his young cousins to harass him.
She had met Lucien’s relatives only once, when he first convinced his Aunt of a formal invitation to the former society family left in their small dank cottage. She had watched Lucien’s face burn at the barrage of barely veiled insults the matriarch hurled on him, the completely unhidden looks of disdain sent down the table to Feyre and her sisters in their poorly fitting dresses from another time.
”Won’t Cook tell her if you have a house full of guests over?” Feyre asked as they crested a hill and saw the small village up ahead.
”Cook is as bored as I am, although he said we can serve ourselves our own damn dinner.”
No problem for Feyre. It had been eleven years since they left high society, bereft of their wealth and shamed by their downfall.
Being only eight years old at the time, most of her memories were of stuffy dresses and balls she wasn’t invited to. And endless, thoughtless wealth. Breakfast and lunch and tea and supper and dinner and desserts and confections all over every table.
Tables and smells and tastes that haunted her dreams, even now. Sometimes she wondered if it would have been better to have been born into her life now, to not to have to suffer knowing the tastes of wealth on the other side.
Lucien was lighter today, smiling and laughing with her as they walked. Though the manor would be quiet and empty for just him and a handful of servants left behind, she knew he would prefer it to his fastidious aunt, always disappointed, always on the watch for any invented conspiracy of Lucien’s to steal wealth and attention from her own children.
Feyre knew the stories about him, too. They may be far from society but Nesta managed somehow to stay in the know through her family letters. The seventh son of a Baron, rumors had plagued him and his mother since birth about his true parentage. Though his father’s estate was just outside London, Lucien was often sent away from any hint of good society, shunted off to relatives far and wide over his few years.
Curses ran through her head. Although his stomach was never empty like hers, her friend couldn’t hide his loneliness and disdain for his aunt’s family. Or the obvious way in which he clung to Feyre and her sisters - just as dysfunctional, but without any society airs to have reason to reject him.
Eyes followed them as they walked through the village. Feyre worked hard to maintain such a balance here - needing to trade her pelts and sometimes ill-gotten gains, needing the information and conversation from those kind enough to look her way.
But she was always wanting in some way, here and elsewhere. Not enough money or culture or manners to live up to being a lady, too many presumptions and theoretical titles to be one of the simple people of the village.
No doubt they’d be whispering about her haughtiness and her questionable morals just walking through the village with Lucien. She glared back at the pudgy shopkeeper as she collected their mail, counting the minutes until they could be on their way.
While Feyre was in the woods and occasionally slipping into houses with unlocked doors, Nesta worked hard to maintain correspondence with the few relatives across England who still deigned to acknowledge them. Whether her letters were written out of pride, delusion or sheer boredom, Feyre didn’t know. Any connections had long since stopped sending notes or offering support. But at least it kept Nesta and Elain entertained at night in front of the fire.
The shopkeeper eyed Feyre as he handed her a single fat letter, addressed to Mr. Arthur Archeron in wobbling script.
Feyre took a deep breath as they left, Lucien by her side, headed back on the path through the forest, the sun finally high overhead.
• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– •
Dread pooled in Feyre’s stomach as the drab cottage, covered in winter-dead ivy, loomed up ahead.
“You don’t have to come in.”
“I came all this way, it’s only proper to pay my respects to your father and sisters. Besides, I can formally invite them to dinner.”
Lucien was always like this, filled with notions of politeness and proper duty. One moment he was her friend helping her set traps in the forest and the next he was bowing and spouting forth poetry. Just like Nesta. The two of them could be a real pair, if they didn’t tear each other apart first.
The cottage was dark when they walked in through the large kitchen that made up the majority of the first floor. Windows filthy with dust and frost, the dirt floors clodding underfoot. A small fire was lit hopefully in the stove but there was no sign of her family beyond some abandoned cups and plates, empty as their pantries.
Feyre walked them through to the sitting room, trying not to let her face burn. Drab and empty of all but the sparsest furnishings, couches and chairs with worn fabric, tables with paint chipped away.
This was their life and Lucien knew it, even if he was too polite and she was too stubborn for them to ever talk about it. He’d been here enough times and invited them over for enough meals, brought enough gifts, for them to pretend to be on the verges of good society, as they had once occupied.
Two heads of golden-brown looked up as the pair stalked into the sitting room, Feyre’s breath still cooling into mist in the cold room.
Nesta and Elain sat huddled next to each other on the couch, buried under shawls and dressing gowns. All second-hand, all shabby, the colors blurring together into grey from harsh washing.
Their father sat quietly in a chair next to the fire, cane in hand, not even bothering or noticing their arrival to look away from the flames.
Feyre tamped down the sickness in her stomach. Their cottage was sad, and cold, and filled with so much misery it dripped from the walls. She wanted to grab Lucien and run back into the forest. Even as bleak and dead as it was in winter, there was at least the promise of life there.
It took a moment but Nesta rose, then Elain, making the formality of small curtsies to Lucien, who grinned and returned with a bow.
”Miss Archeron, Miss Elain. Apologies for calling on you so early. Please don’t bother yourselves on my behalf.”
Feyre scoffed as she moved to put another log on the fire. Nesta shot her daggers and Elain smiled gently at the polite words.
“It’s no trouble, Mr. Vanserra. I’m sorry we don’t have more to offer.” Elain was always the immaculate host, even with nothing to give, even with empty cabinets and threadbare seating.
Lucien answered amicably and offered his gift of breakfast, pulling the napkins back to reveal the hearty scones, the rasher of bacon, and a tin of tea and sugar.
Elain gasped a little. ”I’ll make tea!” And before he could protest, she was back in the kitchen.
”I’d also like to invite you all to dinner,” Lucien said loudly, so she could hear in the next room. “My family is out, so it should be a cozy affair. I think Cook is making a venison roast.”
Nesta’s eyebrow was raised but Feyre knew she would never refuse, even if she was in the mood to feel proud or stubborn. “We would be delighted, Mr. Vanserra.”
Feyre stoked the fire, coaxing warmth into the frigid room, and put a gentle hand on her father’s knee. His eyes finally moved to her, glassy and red. He gave her a small, polite smile. She didn’t know if he even recognized her.
Behind her, Nesta rustled through the basket idly, nibbling on a scone. Elain returned with a tray for tea and Lucien rushed to take it from her hands.
They sat quietly, the Archeron sisters eating hungrily, Lucien and Elain the only ones attempting to make polite conversation. Feyre was thinking about frying up the bacon and how many leftovers she might be able to wheedle out of the Beaumont’s Cook when Nesta gasped.
Her hand went to cover her mouth but the sound had already escaped. She quickly folded the letter in front of her, looking somewhat frantically at Feyre, then Elain, then at Lucien with his eyebrows raised.
Nesta’s tone was sharp, almost panicked. “Thank you for calling, Mr. Vanserra. We’ll see you at dinner tonight.”
He fumbled at her tone but Nesta was on her feet, the rest of them following behind her, and Elain took charge and saw him to the door.
When she returned, Nesta’s eyes were glowing, a look of hope and viciousness on her face that Feyre had not seen in a long time. Like the edge of a sharpened knife.
“What is it, Nesta?”
“It seems our fortunes may be changing at last.”
• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– •
Nesta elbowed Feyre as she dug into the roast, licking the sauce dripping down her spoon.
“Can you at least pretend like you have manners?”
Feyre slurped a huge bite and licked her lips, never losing eye contact with Nesta for a moment. Further down the table, Lucien laughed.
The party sat in a smaller dining room set away from the formal hall, dark but cozy with a fire crackling and candle light flickering their shadows in a merry dance. Nesta and Elain had dug out the nicest of their wool dresses, still drabby and threadbare, only a small rotation in their closet. Against Nesta’s wishes, Feyre stayed in her loose hunting trousers and tunic.
Lucien was in fine pants the color of calfskin, but had left off a jacket and the first few buttons of his blouse unbuttoned. Her friend did have a knack for traveling between all the different stations in Clopton, formal or otherwise.
“What are we going to do with you? You’re so feral.”
“Is there anything you have to do with me?” Feyre held Nesta’s glare. Not for long , the thought simmered between them.
Elain’s face lit up as if something just occurred to her. “Lucien!” Nesta placed her spoon on the table with a loud clank. “I mean, Mr. Vanserra. Weren’t you in town last season?”
Nesta’s face was full of warning but Elain saw it too late.
Lucien turned to the middle Archeron with a flourish. “I was. I was only in London a month over summer, but we spent the entire time at balls and the theater. And if my father keeps his plans to stay in his country estate, I’ll join my mother there this spring as well.”
”What was it like?”
He smiled at the memory, seeming far off. “It’s loud, and busy, and hot. There’s so many people you can wonder where they all come from. But the parties -“ he looked around, smiling at the rapt attention from all three sisters for once. “The wine is endless, and everyone competes for the most impressive entertainment - fireworks and musicians and performers. There’s finery like you’ve never dreamed; women have a new dress for every event, sometimes changing three times a day, for callers and tea and to promenade and then for the evening.” Nesta and Feyre shared a look. “Everyone parties late into the night and then spends the next week gossiping about everything that happened. I’ve heard the ladies can be especially vicious. Sometimes there’s even gossip and rumors in the penny papers.”
Feyre’s mind was reeling. Three dresses a day, jewelry, shoes, parasols, and who knew what else to keep up appearances…
“Well, if you’re in town, at least we’ll know one person.“ Elain said, quietly scraping the last of the gravy from her plate.
Lucien’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re going into town? For the season?”
”Elain -“ Nesta warned.
”Well he’s going to find out anyway. It’s not a secret, is it?”
Again, Feyre and Nesta’s eyes flickered to one another, Elain watching them nervously.
There was quiet tension at the table. “Well. It would be a delight to accompany the Archeron sisters for a season. I don’t think the ton will know what hit them.” His eyes darted to Feyre, still tucking into her roast. “And if they knew what was good for them, they’d lock their doors and empty their pockets before Feyre’s sly fingers get near them.”
Feyre kicked his shin under the table and he winced.
”We have a lot of work to do,” he said with a smile.
”What do you mean?” Nesta snapped.
Lucien’s answering grin was full of the type of mischief that made Feyre worried.
His chair scraped as he stood and he approached Feyre, extending his hand to her with an elegant flick of his wrist.
“My lady. Might I have this dance?”
Feyre’s eyes were wide as saucers. Lucien only laughed.
”I -“
”You’re supposed to say, of course my lord. I would be honored to join you. Or your grace, or your highness, if you happen to be in the presence of the nobility.”
”The prince comes to dance?” Elain’s voice had a tinge of fear.
”Maybe. The larger balls are filled with dukes and duchesses, maybe even a Marquis. You never know who is going to show up, and everyone spends their entire days speculating. Feyre?”
With a frown, she threw her napkin onto her empty plate and took his hand, feeling a conspiracy beginning to brew against her.
Lucien had one hand tucked behind his back and kept their joined hands lifted carefully between them, looking more elegant and poised than his casual, open shirt and loose riding pants had any business being. Suddenly he was transforming before her, not into her friend but into someone mannered, mysterious. Moneyed.
He led them to the open floor beside the large dining table and Feyre’s cheeks burned as she felt her sister's eyes upon them.
”A waltz, perhaps? Start with the basics?”
Feyre was frozen to the spot as he touched a gentle hand to her waist, the other held outstretched beside him, the full mischief of his lupine smile beaming down at her.
“Um -“
“It’s a count of three, traveling in a circle. Just follow my lead.” Lucien began humming a tune, deepening Feyre’s blush.
“And - one, two three, one two three -” Lucien took off with her, spinning around the room. Feyre’s feet tripped and worked against his until they stumbled, Lucien laughing and holding her up by the waist while Feyre smacked him on the chest.
“Go slower!”
“Have you never had a lesson in your life? You’re going to have to tell all your many suitors you’ve sprained your ankle the entire season. Now relax and let me lead.”
Feyre glowered at him, eliciting only more laughter. “Heaven help the man who comes to call on you. You’re just as likely to challenge him to a fight than sit down to tea.”
She pushed out of his arms. “I won’t have to dance. Elain’s the one looking for a suitor. It’s just fine with me if no one even knows my name.”
Lucien’s eyebrows raised, looking to Elain. “You’ll be out at London? Taking suitors during the season?”
Elain took a deep breath and looked to Nesta. “Maybe. We still have a lot to discuss,” she murmured.
Her friend stood up straighter, Feyre taking the momentary distraction to slip back into her seat, her cheeks burning. “In that case, Miss Elain, would you like to waltz? We can show Feyre a fine example.”
Elain bit her lip, looking again to Nesta for permission.
Surprisingly, the eldest nodded.
“Mr. Vanserra is right,” she said, reluctantly, Lucien’s lip curling at her formal tone. “We all could brush up on our manners and lessons. And if you’re willing -”
“Of course,” Lucien cut in. “If one of you plays piano, we could practice every day before dinner.”
Feyre and Nesta shared a glance. A promised daily meal, and sorely needed help from someone who had seen London more recently than eight years ago.
It would be hard for her sister to resent her friend after this.
But not impossible, knowing Nesta.
It looked like the road was opening up before them.
Nesta nodded. “I can play. Should we move to the sitting room?”
Elain sputtered, a surprisingly undignified sound from the usually composed middle sister. Her eyes were on Lucien, standing straight as a rod. “You offer too much. I feel like we’re taking advantage.”
“It would be my pleasure, Miss Elain. The manor gets so quiet when the Beaumonts are gone. You would illuminate it with your lovely face. All three of you.”
In the dark of the flickering candles, Feyre could have sworn she saw Elain blush.
The men of the ton were going to be on their knees.
Only hard calculations were going through Feyre’s mind now. Step one: manners, dancing, society.
Step two: the money.
And the things Feyre would have to do to get it.
If it were spring, Feyre could live in the forest for a week. She could build more traps, spend the coin for bait, walk to Ipswich for better prices for her pelts.
But now, in the sad and damp winter after the holidays, the forest would not get them there.
Only one option left, really.
• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– •
That night in bed, the sisters were quiet, though the air simmered with anxiety.
Although the cottage had several bedrooms, in the colder months they chose to sleep together in the largest bed, sharing warmth when the fires burned down or the firewood ran out.
Elain was the one to break the silence. “Why do you both insist that I’m the one who needs to make a match?”
Feyre bit her cheek to stop herself from laughing.
Elain was clearly the beauty of the family, she was at a perfect age to marry, and she lit up every room she ever walked into.
Nesta answered for them. “I’d consider any serious options if they want to present themselves. But people might wonder why I’m not married yet. And Feyre -”
“Has no interest in suitors.” She finished for her sister, before she could tear into her with some new insult.
They had given Elain the warm middle spot tonight, Nesta and Feyre choosing not to argue over it, sensing her discomfort with the entire plan.
“I just don’t understand why we have to lie to everybody.”
“Elain, none of us have a dowry. And the Archeron name, if anyone even remembers it, isn’t about to inspire anyone. You either have to find someone so rich they wouldn’t even concern themselves with a dowry, or someone with money who needs a gentleman’s name to get into society.”
Elain was quiet for a moment. “Or we could marry for love. Someone wouldn’t need a dowry for that.”
The fire crackled in the silence.
“Yes.” Nesta said, clipped. “Or for love.”
“Feyre, what do you think of all this?”
It was a cruel and cunning move, for Elain to pit the two against each other, hoping to find a crack in their plan that their anger would find and tear apart.
Feyre didn’t know what to think, truth be told. Had not allowed her mind to wander through the doors of that new, unknown future. All the unknowns hovered at the corner of her vision. She was afraid to turn to it, to look too closely. A cold persistent feeling settled in the middle of her chest, like a fist around her heart. Something that felt like fear.
As horrible as it was to freeze and starve and fight in their little cottage, it was all she had known most of her life. And knew what part to play in it.
Feyre despised the rich, the society gatekeepers. All those supposed important family connections, all those friends in the city who had disappeared when their father’s business went asunder. When the ships he sent to Europe for trade were seized by Napoleon’s navy, never to be heard of again.
Without money or patrons, the Archerons had quickly been shunted out of good society, and it was only their mother’s dying plea that secured them the old cottage in the middle of nowhere from a distant cousin.
A memory of being young and small and so scared, Elain sobbing beside her, as a man in a fine dark suit and top hat stood in the entryway, sighing as he checked his watch. Men were in their house, tearing their rooms apart, throwing anything of value into a pile in front of the stairs.
The man in black sneered at Nesta’s cold stare as he clipped his watch shut. Everything was stripped from them, roughly, methodically, as the sound of her and her sisters’ tears filled the hall. Not a soul was moved.
If she was going to walk among them again, she would do so as a wolf among sheep. She would lie and steal and trick them into thinking whatever was necessary, to help her sisters. To take this one opportunity to pull themselves out of a lifetime of poverty and hunger.
Nesta, she hated to admit, was right.
“I agree with Nesta.” Even from across the bed, Elain between them, Feyre felt her sister stiffen. “This could be our one chance to change things. And if it all goes wrong - well, it can’t be any worse than this.”
Not entirely true: there was always prison, execution, public floggings. With the funds needed to provide the semblance of a gentleman’s family life, her sins would add up quite quickly on a ledger.
But she wouldn’t let Elain worry. Although her burdens were heavy, Feyre was used to them by now.
Elain sighed deeply. Feyre shifted under the blankets.
“You’re going to find a dashing gentleman, Elain,” Nesta promised. “Someone handsome, who deserves you. Someone who can provide for you.”
Someone who could provide for all of them.
And it was true - Feyre did hope to see Elain happy and settled. Somewhere she could thrive. Somewhere that would value her beauty and kindness and let it blossom. A currency she hoped would get her sister, all of them, what they wanted.
A brother-in-law with a heart as kind as her middle sister’s, willing to take in the family, Or hell, shunt them away to some country manor somewhere, as long as there were books for Nesta and steady meals provided.
Living meal by meal, hour by hour had made Feyre tired and nervous. She could hardly get a breath, hardly get ahead. The only times she could sit and unclench were when they had days of food on hand, and even then it was only enough for her long buried thoughts to rise up and threaten to overtake her.
There was certainly no time for dreaming. Of thinking of what else could be, what other nineteen-year-old girls were doing elsewhere.
London did hold an allure. Feyre had wandering thoughts of pigmented paints, of paintings hung so deep on a wall you had to crane your neck up to see them all. Hazy memories filtered through her brain, more invented at this point than anything.
In the city there would be art, theater, dancing. There would be money dripping from the manors and palaces. The steady thrum of people, of the bustling city streets, so loud - she remembered - from the quiet peace of the forest.
She was afraid, but perhaps this was an opportunity for her, as well. She could dive into this life, however manufactured and strange, and wrest some small bit of pleasure and beauty from it.
And a kind brother with deep pockets - if her family was fed and housed - she could finally be free of that promise, of that curse her mother placed on her. The youngest, caring for them all, putting food on the table in whatever way she could find.
If she broke free from that promise - what would she even want? Her heart panged in pain as the vision was before her, just whispers of a life she remembered in her old tutor’s art books, in the newspapers and books that filtered their way even out in the country.
Of streets in Paris teaming with life and art and music, where no one would look twice at a woman of little means and no important parentage mingling amongst the painters and the poets.
Of blue Italian skies and winding cities carved into stone beside the ocean, where history and the long forgotten gods walked beside those looking to capture their beauty.
Somewhere far away from the sneers and hypocrisy of moneyed society.
Feyre sighed and pushed her blankets aside.
“Where are you going?”
She didn’t know why, after all this time, Nesta still insisted on asking. Either she already knew, or she didn’t want to know. She was so eager to disapprove of the way Feyre put food on their table, night after night. Even if she was too proud or stubborn to do it herself.
”I’m going to check on my traps. If they’re set for morning and we manage some rabbits we’ll have more time for our preparations.”
Feyre waited a moment, as she still did even after all these years, to see if either of her sisters would protest.
“Be safe, Feyre,” Elain whispered from the warmth of the bed.
Feyre nodded, accepting, as she pulled on her trousers.
Just as she expected.
• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– •
Feyre walked silently through the cold, quiet night. She kept off the road, just to the side, her footsteps quiet in the mud and damp leaves.
Her traps were always set, and the truth was, not many hares came close enough in this cold to be ensnared.
The silly white lies she told to give her sisters enough peace to sleep. If they even needed them at all.
The Beaumont’s manor loomed ahead, looking cold and frozen in the moonlight. The full moon tonight would guide her steps but she would have to be extra careful to move in the shadows.
When she could make out the sculptures on the grand front stairwell, Feyre cut through the forest. She moved to the tree line and made sure no lights were visible, then made for a side entrance far from the servant’s quarters.
She had only been here like this, stealing away in the night, twice before. Before Lucien had come to stay and she decided his manor was off limits.
Still, there was one piece she would not forget. A mind like hers couldn’t help but always see opportunities. And to always plan for the worst.
Feyre slipped through the darkened, cold and well-appointed hallways of the manor. Her breathing was even and her heart was calm. Although her toes were freezing in her summer slippers, it helped her steps be muffled, keeping to the worn rugs as much as possible.
If Lucien found her here - well. He would understand, she hoped. But he had never been hungry before.
The moon was streaming into the house, giving everything a light, clean quality. She felt as if it guided her way - rectangular window blocks by blocks leading her forward to her goal.
To the key to the Archeron’s new life.
A parting gift, from the Lady Beaumont.
It was the least she could do, really.
Feyre was quick but methodical as she traveled through the house and up the western stairwell. Assessing the vases and ornate clocks on hallway tables, the busts and fine but old curtains. By now, she could tell gold plating from bronze, tell steel from iron, and know what frills and colors the shopkeepers in Ipswich liked best.
A lifetime of hunting, yes, but also taking what they needed. Only when it was unavoidable.
Not that any of these manors couldn’t do with a little thinning out.
Third door down the western wing. The room was as she remembered - kept free of dust but cold, abandoned. A guest room in a house that rarely welcomed strangers.
The door closed shut on quiet, oiled hinges, a testament to the servant’s close attention. And on a little table, forgotten and unpolished, was a tarnished silver candlestick.
It hadn’t been moved since she had spotted it years ago, when Lucien had first arrived. It felt heavy in her hand, the wood underneath it dark and grimy.
An heirloom, a gift, a thoughtless decoration - whatever it was, Feyre was guessing Lady Beaumont forgot it even existed, tucked away in a spare room.
Was betting on it, really.
Feyre turned it in her hands, getting used to its weight, watching the sliver of bright moonlight cast over its marbled tarnish. A mere trinket to those in this house.
To her, it looked like an open door - frightening, new, and tinged with a small flicker of hope.