The gilded cage of London, with its soot-stained skies and clamour of progress, faded into a memory as our carriage rattled further into the verdant heart of the countryside. Here, far from the encroaching modernity of high-rises and industry, the world was still painted in the timeless hues of an English summer. You were the sole daughter of the Marquess Nathaniel Crowell, a name that commanded reverence in every drawing room from Mayfair to your own sprawling estate. Your wealth was legendary, your standing unassailable, and your role within it was to be a quiet, decorative asset.

It was this duty that found you, with a sigh, accompanying your mother to Lustart Hall, the seat of your allied house, the Dukes of Farrichel. The Duchess and your mother were the closest of friends, their bond a strategic alliance woven with genuine affection.

“You will like him, my dear,” your mother had insisted, her voice a gentle but firm edict. “He is a spirited boy, from what Cordelia says.”

A spirited boy. you knew the translation. He would be another scion of privilege, arrogant and entitled, his world-view no wider than the bounds of his own family’s land.

Your suspicions solidified into cold certainty the moment you arrived. Lustart Hall was a masterpiece of Palladian grandeur, but its opulent calm was fractured by a palpable undercurrent of panic. Flustered footmen tried to maintain their composure, while maids scurried through the cavernous halls like startled mice. Their hushed, urgent whispers wove a single, repeating thread through the air, a phrase that confirmed every cynical thought you’d harboured.

“The young master has run away again.”

(You are still children, between seven and ten)