The tension in the room lingered like smoke after a fire, visible, but slowly thinning with every breath. Mina—Seraphine once more, at least in name—pressed a hand to her stomach and froze when a low, unmistakable growl rumbled through her.

“…I suppose skipping breakfast has made me… hungry,” she admitted, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips, her cheeks warming.

Isolde’s lips twitched, amusement softening her delicate features, and even Edmund’s stern expression flickered. Lucien’s eyes flicked to her, and though he said nothing, the faint curl of a smile betrayed his surprise.

“Well,” Isolde said, her voice lighter now, “we can’t have our daughter faint from hunger. Lunch, then?”

Seraphine felt a flicker of strangeness at the word daughter, but she swallowed it. It was easier to go along. They were all in the same boat.

–Thanks to a certain someone.

Even if their goals weren’t perfectly aligned, they needed each other to weather what lay ahead. Isolde had told her she could view this place as a new home. Maybe pretending to be adopted wasn’t so far-fetched. After all, where else was she supposed to go? If her fate was to be stuck here, then she was glad to be welcomed so warmly by her new parents.

She remembered that Alisea had been meant to bring her breakfast but was busy tending to the twins. The thought made her chuckle quietly, part disbelief, part resignation. She could even fool herself into believing she was part of this family. Seraphine du Fane, once again, that was her name. Perhaps… even forever. She first thought she needed time to get used to playing house, but it was easier than she thought.

–Am I maybe crazy? Or just delusional?

At least she no longer had to deceive her “parents” or Lord Lucien. They knew she wasn’t truly Seraphine, yet they had accepted her rather than casting her out. She didn’t know if it was genuine kindness or some mutual delusion, like a coping mechanism against grief. Whatever the reason, it worked in her favor. Now she could ask for guidance, aid, or information without pretense. A cheat, perhaps, but a convenient one.

This might bore whoever is out there watching. She did not want to stir up more trouble than she already had, but the thought still flickered through her mind, dry and a little smug.

She tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling as if someone might be looking down from above. Maybe no one was. Maybe someone was. She no longer knew if this was a story or simply a world that liked pretending to be one. People here breathed and hurt and hoped. They were not ink on a page, not props laid out for her sake. They lived.

Which only made it crueler that fate kept pulling their strings. For what purpose? Amusement? Balance? Some inscrutable will? She had no answers, and she had stopped caring. This place was no kinder than the world she came from.

So if something out there expected entertainment, she would give nothing of the sort. Out of spite if nothing else.

–Serves them right.

She needed a break too. Maybe part of going mad and still believing this was a story was her way of coping. After all, almost every story had a happy ending, right?

–Right?

A chill prickled the back of her neck.

–Please… don’t let this turn into a tragedy.

The thought slithered through her mind like a shadow, and for a heartbeat, the room felt a little colder. She shook herself, as if shrugging off a phantom hand.

Great. Now she had jinxed herself and would be waiting for something awful to happen.

–Enough of that. Food.

Seraphine settled into her seat across from Isolde, the polished mahogany of the long dining table gleaming in the afternoon light streaming through tall mullioned windows. She glanced instinctively toward the head of the table where Edmund ought to sit, but the chair was empty, and a faint crease of curiosity tugged at her brow.

She didn’t ask where he was. Perhaps he’d simply been delayed. Changing into proper lunch attire had taken her a little time as well. Alisea had carefully chosen a crisp, ivory shirtwaist blouse for her, delicate lace tracing the collar and cuffs, paired with a modest charcoal-gray skirt that brushed her ankles. Practical yet elegant, the outfit gave her freedom of movement while still looking perfectly presentable. She smoothed the skirt over her lap, adjusting the sleeves with a small breath of satisfaction.

Lucien sat beside Isolde, posture impeccable. His gaze flicked occasionally toward Seraphine, faint amusement glinting in his eyes at the way she was already eyeing the feast.

The table was a northern kingdom’s bounty. A steaming tureen of venison stew sent up rich, savory tendrils of steam. Root vegetables glistened with melted butter. A basket of soft, golden bread—edges crisp, centers pillowy—rested in a linen-lined bowl, still warm from the ovens.

Honey-glazed salmon, lightly smoked and brushed with a hint of dill and lemon zest, gleamed on a porcelain platter, delicate pink slices fanned like petals. Small dishes of pickled red cabbage and spiced apples lent splashes of color. The air smelled of roasted herbs and faint woodsmoke, and Seraphine’s stomach growled again.

Just as the servants withdrew, leaving them to dine privately, soft footfalls echoed. Edmund entered, his expression carefully composed, though his reddened eyes betrayed an earlier moment of grief. He paused, smoothing his sleeve unnecessarily, then cleared his throat.

“My apologies for being late,” he said, his voice steady but edged with weariness. “I should have been here on time.”

Seraphine tilted her head, puzzled. The food was only served a few minutes ago, steam still curling from the stew.

“Aren’t you just in time?” she asked quietly, genuinely confused.

Isolde reached across the table, her fingers brushing Edmund’s hand. “I’m sure you had your reasons, dear. No harm done.”

Her tone was soft but held a warmth that spoke of long familiarity. Edmund gave her a faint, grateful nod before seating himself beside her. They unfolded their napkins with graceful precision on their laps. Seraphine, oblivious, simply reached for her spoon.

She thanked them for the meal before digging in. The first spoonful of stew nearly undid her composure. The tender venison almost fell apart before her teeth met it, the vegetables yielding perfectly, the golden gravy clinging to each piece. She tore a bit of bread, its edges still crisp, dipping it into the stew to soak up every drop. The flavors were deep and earthy, yet bright with herbs.

Then came the salmon. Its honey glaze caught the light like amber, and a delicate wisp of smoke rose from the tender flesh. She lifted a piece carefully, tasting the lightly smoked flake as it melted on her tongue, the honey’s sweetness balanced by the faint tang of lemon and fresh dill. Her eyes fluttered shut for an instant.

She savored each bite slowly, noticing now the fine details of the dining room: the crystal decanters that captured sunlight in fractured rainbows, the high-backed chairs with velvet cushions, the precise arrangement of silverware on linen napkins. Somewhere beyond the walls, the muted clang of kitchen work faded.

Another spoonful, another piece of bread torn and dipped.

–Maybe this life wasn’t so bad.

This food was on an entirely different level from her usual reality—sandwiches, fast food, or simple homemade meals. Maybe instead of worrying about going home, she should bring her girlfriend here. She gasped at the thought, staring at the stew as though it had just betrayed her. Shameful. So easily swayed.

Yet as another spoonful touched her lips, a wide grin overtook her face. The cold outside was nothing compared to this warmth, and the promise of no mosquitoes didn’t hurt either. Her life here meant to be spoiled almost like a princess. Maybe gluttony and sloth were sins, but they were awfully tempting ones.

Isolde chuckled quietly, watching Seraphine with a mother’s amused affection.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying the meal,” she said gently. “Though if you plan to dine in other households, we may need to practice a little… etiquette.”

Seraphine froze mid-bite, her cheeks adorably puffed, and Lucien’s lips curved into an unguarded smile. For a heartbeat, she looked like a small hamster, blissful and unashamed, her eyes sparkling as if lit by stars.

“Etiquette, huh?” she spoke aloud after swallowing, an awkward laugh following. “I’ll do my best to learn. I don’t want to bring shame to the du Fane family, not after all this generosity.”

“Spoken like a true heir,” Edmund said with a small chuckle, pride flickering across his features. The pride faltered for an instant, a shadow of grief crossing his face, but he smoothed it away.

Lucien’s gaze lingered too long on her lips as she licked a trace of gravy away. She caught him looking, and he glanced quickly to his plate, clearing his throat and shifting in his chair. He busied himself with cutting his bread, a faint warmth brushing the tips of his ears.

Isolde noticed his awkward silence and spoke gently. “Lord Lucien, perhaps you might train Seraphine? She wishes to enter the dungeon. That is… if you are not too busy.”

Lucien blinked, surprised, then inclined his head, hand to his chest in a small, formal bow. “It would be my honor.”

“Then it’s settled,” Isolde said with a pleased clap of her hands. “Until I recover, Lord Lucien will be your teacher. Of course, your father will help when he can. Won’t you, dear?”

Edmund laughed softly, recognizing a request phrased as a command. “Of course. We cannot always depend on Lord Lucien. He has duties of his own.”

He hesitated, a word unspoken caught behind his teeth, before letting the safer ones fall. “It’s no burden. I want to find her as soon as possible. No duty will hold me back.”

Edmund’s eyes darkened at the reminder, lowering his head for a heartbeat before he straightened. “Then we must also prepare for his arrival.”

“His?” Seraphine blinked, spoon hovering.

“Prince Cassian,” Edmund said gravely. “He may already be on his way…or he will be soon. It could be tomorrow. Or next week, if he follows tradition.”

Isolde sighed, half amused, half exasperated. “You know him, Edmund. He’d rather ride here immediately than fulfill his princely duties. He’ll use any excuse to avoid paperwork.”

Maybe it was the sharp, almost careless way Isolde spoke of the prince before, but a prickling unease crept up Seraphine’s spine. She swallowed hard, her fingers tightening slightly on the edge of her napkin. What kind of man was this Cassian, to make even Isolde sigh with both annoyance and fondness in the same breath? Was he charming enough to be dangerous, or dangerous enough to be charming? The thought of facing a real prince sent a shiver through her.

How close would she need to get to him to glimpse his collection, to earn an approval to the dungeon? Would she even be able to play the role of Seraphine convincingly under a royal’s scrutiny? One wrong word, one slip of her tongue, and her fragile place in this family could crumble.

He might be the key to everything she wanted… or the very hand that would close every door in her face.