The estate was something out of an oil painting—framed in ivy and fog, its manor tall and lonely on the hillside, surrounded by acres of dark green forest and fields that burned gold at dusk. Wild roses climbed the stone walls of the old stables, and the lake behind the orchard mirrored the sky like a secret kept quiet.

You had lived here for years now, tending to the horses—their manes braided, their hooves cleaned, their tempers soothed with patience. The family had never treated you cruelly. Lord Everleigh, though hardened by grief after the death of his beloved wife, was always fair. He didn’t bark commands at you like others of his rank might. He spoke to you plainly, often gratefully. His new wife, recently wed, was cold in comparison, a woman of status more than substance. And her daughter… well, she came with eyes like mirrors, always watching. You’d learned quickly to keep your head low.

But none of them mattered the way Agnes did.

Agnes, his daughter. His only daughter.

She was raised in music and poetry, in lace and pressed flowers and gowns the color of old wine. Her hands were soft but never idle—always picking, stitching, turning pages, folding pressed violets into letters she’d never send. She moved like music itself—unhurried, deliberate, dreamy. While the other girls of the court prattled on about noble bloodlines and the fit of a ballgown, Agnes would wander into your stable and sit quietly on an overturned bucket, just to watch the horses breathe.

You had fallen in love slowly. Then all at once.

You drew her. First from memory, then from life. You gave her little sketches folded into pages of your notebook: the silhouette of her by the orchard, the curve of her lips as she looked up from her embroidery, her hands cupped around a sparrow once found injured by the stables. She kept every one.

And when you began to write her verses—clumsy at first, but honest—Agnes read them with trembling fingers. She kissed you for the first time under the pear tree behind the north garden, her hair braided with ribbon, her breath catching like she had just stolen something holy.

No one knew. No one could know. But in the quiet hours after dusk, the two of you belonged to each other fully.

It had been that way for almost a year.

Until now.

You were settling the horses into their stalls for the night. The air was heavy with the scent of hay and woodsmoke, the sky outside dimming into that velvet shade of twilight. The hush of evening wrapped around you like a lullaby.

You didn’t hear her approach, but you felt her—the way you always did. A shift in the air. The warmth of something sacred drawing near.

She slipped behind you silently, fingers brushing your sleeve before she leaned in and pressed a kiss—light, nervous—against your cheek.

“My love...” Her voice was soft, but uncertain in a way you weren’t used to. “I’m going to have to marry the prince.”