Vesa appeared at the library door, hands folded neatly. “My lady, it is time for dinner. You are expected.”

I blinked at the stack of books before me, candles burned low. So much for just one more page. My fingers twitched to keep going, but Vesa’s steady gaze said otherwise.

She led me through the halls, her steps silent, her posture exact. Two maids passed, silver trays in hand, whispering as though their words were feathers too heavy to carry.

“It’s the young miss,” one breathed. “She’s being sent to a march.”

“The eldest gets the duchy, the youngest a county with mines. But her? A barren march.”

Their eyes flicked up, startled to see me so close. They bowed too quickly and vanished.

The dining hall doors opened.

Father at the head. Mother—Isolde—beside him, face as smooth as porcelain, gaze sliding past me like I was a ghost. My two brothers further down: sharp chins, the same brown hair, mirrors of each other. Nothing in them resembled Jeanne at all.

As I walked to my chair, the youngest slid a foot into my path, grin cutting wide. Reflex guided me—weight shifted, hand pressing his arm down before he could try again. Simple. Quick. His grin faltered, color rising. He drew breath for a retort—

“Enough.” The eldest’s voice was calm, but the smirk into his cup was not. “She won’t be our problem much longer.”

I pulled out my chair, settled, smoothed my napkin. Mask in place.

Father carved into the roast. His tone was even, as though reciting law. “Your ceremony is tomorrow. You will be gifted the Baret March. Wide land, with a coast. If managed well, it can open trade. A steward, Oswin, will provide what you need. Once you arrive, you will no longer be a Dorian. You will be Jeanne Baret. You have no reason to associate with this family. Be thankful for the land I grant you—and do not disappoint me.”

I bowed my head. “Yes, Father. I will do my best.”

Inside, laughter itched at the edges of my chest. A gift, he called it. As though tossing scraps to a stray counted as generosity. Fine. Let him believe it. I’d nod, smile, and play the dutiful daughter—at least until the carriage left the gates.

My gaze slid to Isolde. She dabbed her lips with a napkin, eyes never once touching mine. Alive, yes. But less present than the dead mother I’d first assumed. In some ways, I hadn’t been wrong.

Servants glided around us, trays balanced, eyes lowered. Whispers brushed the edges of hearing, but I let them go.

No sting of hurt. No weight of shame. Instead, a strange lightness bloomed in my chest. A march by the sea. My own land. And plants I hadn’t yet imagined.

I can’t wait.