“He’s the general,” Celeste said, her voice quiet again. “He is here now, but for how long?”
Rue did not press further.
A tear had slipped down Celeste’s cheek without permission. She brushed it away with her hand and forced her eyes to the book’s margins. They were safe. No heartbreak lived in footnotes.
“Soil doesn’t leave you,” she whispered. And it didn’t break one’s heart.
Shouting surged from below. The clash of iron horseshoes in the courtyard, cheers.
Rue crossed to the arched window, brushing aside the curtain.
“Hawk is atop his white horse. And the stallion’s even posing, blast him. He’s wearing his dress uniform. The dark one. I daresay he cuts a finer figure than any of those heroes you sigh over in your bard’s verses.”
Celeste pressed her lips together until they ached. Think of gardens, she ordered herself. The neat rows of lavender, the steady patience of rosemary, the honest work of soil beneath her nails. Safe thoughts. But against her will, the image burst through—Alexander astride Oberon. The stallion’s white flank flashed like lightning against the hills, mane streaming, hooves striking sparks from the ground. And upon him, her general. His dark blue coat a slash of command against all that brightness, shoulders set, jaw carved, eyes fixed on a horizon only he could see.
She willed herself back to tulips. But the thunder wouldn’t stop. It pounded in her chest, shook her ribs, rushed through her blood until she felt she was galloping too, swept away by his power.
She hated that she could not master her thoughts. To give vent to her imagination was to feel the ground crumble beneath her, and surrender to the dream once more. But she had surrendered to him too many times. She was done.
“Isn’t this what you wanted? A fairytale ending for your love story?” Rue asked.
Celeste’s throat tightened. Her fingers curled over the book’s spine. She dared a heartbeat’s hope that she might yet live in her favorite play, where misunderstandings turned into declarations and broken hearts found their menders before the curtain fell.
But her mind—the one that had lain awake for nights, her stomach hollow, her chest aching—spoke louder.
“No,” she said quietly. “The drawbridge stays closed.” It had served her well in keeping the solicitor at bay. “If people want to shout, they can go to the parapets. Please close the window. I need silence.”
Rue hesitated by the door. Her chin lowered in a rare expression of retreat. She gave a small nod, the kind that said she would obey—but not agree. Then she slipped out, boots soft against the stone.
Celeste released the breath she hadn’t meant to hold. The hush returned like an old shawl, frayed, but familiar. She dipped her pen again, eyes steady on the page. Soil didn’t leave. Soil didn’t give love away to another. And soil never asked you to pretend it hadn’t broken your heart.
While his men traded volleys of jeers with the defenders—Rue’s voice carrying above the rest, shrill as a fife—Hawk sat back in the saddle and let the noise wash over him. To them, it was sport, a sham battle of words and bravado. To him, it was a distraction, a cover for what he intended next.
He would end the siege from within. The castle had weaknesses. And he knew Stratton better than any other man alive. He could still find the hidden postern gate with his eyes shut, the one that opened on the cliff side path.
Let them bellow at the battlements. Hawk would move silently along the walls, unseen. He would breach her defenses, catch her unawares, and remind her that the general always carried the field. The thought put a hard curl in his mouth, half-grim, half-satisfied. He knew how to play this part—the conquering hero, not the man stripped bare and begging.
He brushed the wall, searching, probing, until he found the faint seam in the stone. There. He curled his hand into the ivy, ripped it back in one yank, and the green tangle tore away with a hiss. Dust and brittle leaves showered his boots.
The door revealed itself at last. With a hard pull, the iron hinges groaned open. The smell of damp earth breathed out, cool against his face. He stepped inside, and the passage swallowed him whole.
The tunnel narrowed faster than he recalled. Roots snagged at his flanks, and cobwebs brushed his nose. He had to stoop, then crouch, then curse as the ceiling dipped lower still. By the time he reached the second bend, he was on hands and knees, boots slipping on damp stone, breeches scraping against grit.
A general of cavalry, groveling like a rat through a drain. Splendid. He’d once cut through French cuirassiers with nothing but a saber and fury—now he was belly-down in the dark, grunting like a badger. If Celeste wanted her conquering hero, he prayed she wouldn’t mind the mud on his coat.
The stench of earth and mildew clung to his throat. His knees ached with each crawl forward, but the thought of her—hair aflame, eyes bright—drove him on. This was no surrender, he told himself grimly. Mere tactics.
At last, the tunnel widened, and daylight streamed through a half-rotted door. Hawk shoved it open with his shoulder and staggered out, straightening to his full height with a sharp inhale.
The world burst into bloom.
Roses blazed up trellises. Lilies and lavender spilled scent so thick it nearly choked him. After the suffocating dark, the riot of fragrance left him reeling.
A rake clattered. Hawk spun, hand flying to his saber. The gardener gaped back at him—young Freddie—his mouth working like a landed trout.
Hawk straightened, mustering what dignity a man could while dripping mud.
“Don’t move.”
