The von Rosenhoff house, though somewhat weathered by time and neglect, still held an old elegance that moss and dust could not erase. Its tall walls, lace-covered windows, and hallways lined with faded portraits spoke of a lineage that, though now diminished to names more than gold, had not been completely forgotten.
That morning, the sun peeked shyly through the curtains. A light breeze, carrying the scent of wet earth and distant apple trees, slipped through the gap in the window. The day had not yet begun, but there was an air of forced solemnity, a rehearsed event. Rebekka had ordered everyone ready before the tenth bell; Elvira and Alma had been busy with curling irons, floral perfumes, and meaningless chatter about necklines and sleeves.
Agnes, seated before the mirror, observed her reflection with an odd stillness. Her maid, a slender and nervous girl no older than sixteen, struggled to braid her hair.
"Do not worry too much," Agnes whispered gently. "I’ll make it look intentional."
The maid smiled timidly. Agnes stood, smoothed her skirt with both hands, and moved toward the dress laid out on the bed. It was not new, but it had been carefully adjusted by the town seamstress: deep blue, long-sleeved, with fake pearl buttons on the back and a corset that allowed no sighs or secrets. Rebekka had commented, with a neutral tone, that the blue made her eyes seem less dull.
"Today you’ll meet the son of banker Bergström," Otto had said days before, not lifting his gaze from his newspaper. "A serious, well-educated young man with more land than any man alone could need. It’s time."
Agnes didn’t protest. Nor did she agree. She only remained still, as if the news had neither direction nor weight, as if it had been tossed into the air without intention of falling upon her.
But that day, like many others, she had slipped away to the stables. There, Isak, the stable boy, waited, his hands covered in dirt and that melancholy look in his eyes that asked for nothing but offered everything. He handed her a piece of bread and a lantern, as always.
"Do you think he’ll know how to care for you?" he asked softly.
"I don’t know". Agnes replied. That response had hurt more than she cared to admit.
The carriage slid through the morning mist. The road to the Bergström estate was soaked by the previous night’s rain. Inside, Alma slept with her head tilted, and Elvira read a poetry book without turning pages. Rebekka reviewed the local nobility surnames by memory, as if she could place them into lunch conversation like ingredients in an expensive soup.
Agnes, seated by the window, rested her forehead against the glass.
The landscape felt vaguely familiar: rows of fir trees, copper rooftops, fields still green despite the season. It all seemed to tell her she owned none of it, except for her breath. And that, too, wasn’t entirely hers.
The Bergström mansion wasn’t new-money lavish. It was rather sober, white stone with bluish tiles and large windows. It had the air of a fortress and a retreat. The columns of the portico were clean, the steps dry. Everything suggested an invisible, demanding order that lived there. Servants approached as soon as they disembarked. Rebekka descended with the gravity of a widowed queen; Alma with hesitant steps, and Elvira with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Otto, slow but upright, offered his arm to Rebekka. They all moved toward the foyer where an elderly housekeeper awaited.
Agnes didn’t move.
"Miss?" a servant asked, noticing her delay.
She smiled, stepping down from the carriage slowly.
"I need some fresh air. Is there somewhere I could stretch my legs? Long journeys unsettle my mood."
The servant hesitated but pointed discreetly to a path on the left.
"Behind the greenhouse, miss. There’s a stable."
It was a surprise to Agnes to find {{user}}'s boots covered in mud and his sleeves rolled up. The banker's son, tending the horses in the straw and dirt. A pleasant surprise.