Chapter 11: Where Orchards Remember
The kitchen of House D’Claire was abuzz with activity, not because of breakfast prep, but because of something far juicier.
“He brought a woman home!”
Hissed Clara, the scullery maid, her hands still wet with dishwater as she leaned toward the huddle of staff near the bread ovens.
“I saw it with my own two eyes,” added Mira, the youngest chambermaid, wide-eyed with excitement.
“She stepped out of the carriage with him like she owned the place. Hair like violets soaked in moonlight. Boots made from shadow. I swear, the storm got quieter when she looked up.”
“That was no ordinary woman,” came the voice of old Matilda, the longest-serving linen maid, as she shuffled in carrying a basket of folded napkins.
“That was Lady Vaelira Nyx Aetherveil.”
The entire group froze.
“You mean the Aetherveil Aetherveil?”
Clara whispered.
“The very same,” Matilda said with a knowing nod.
“One of the Heirs to the estate of Aetherveil, granddaughter of the Apple Alchemist, and possibly, possibly, part bat.”
“Part bat!?”
Mira gasped.
“That is just what I heard,” Matilda said with a shrug.
“They say she sleeps upside down in the library when she is tired. One of the kitchen boys from Aetherveil fainted just catching a glimpse of her smile. They had to fan him awake with a silver tray.”
“Oh gods,” groaned Elena, one of the upstairs maids.
“Do you remember what happened to the last suitor who tried to court an Aetherveil daughter? He disappeared for three days. Came back mute. Could only communicate through interpretive dance.”
“No, that's the cousin,” Clara corrected.
“Vaelira is the one who made a merchant prince cry by just asking about his shipping logs.”
“And what about the duel?”
Piped in a footman, who was clearly eavesdropping while pretending to check the spice racks.
“Which duel?”
Asked three voices in unison.
“The one where she sliced a man’s boot laces off mid-charge. He tripped into a fountain. Publicly. In front of nobles. During a coronation.”
“Oh no…”
Mira put a hand over her mouth.
“Do you think Master Lucien knows who she is?”
“I hope he knows,” Elena said dramatically.
“Because if he goes back to his old moody self and says something snide...”
“There will be blood on the marble tiles,” Matilda finished gravely.
A long silence followed.
“I mean… she looked very serious,” Clara added.
“You could balance a tray on her posture. You think she even blinks?”
“Not unless it is tactical,” Mira said, utterly convinced.
“And her eyes! I swear, when she looked at me, I forgot where the pantry was. I have worked here for three years.”
“I am just going to avoid her entirely,” muttered a hall maid, walking past with a tray of teacups.
“I will send in the tea and run. Not taking any chances.”
“Good plan,” Matilda agreed.
“Lady Vaelira is the sort that would thank you politely… and then notice you chipped the saucer.”
The room fell quiet for a moment, conversations tapering off as every gaze drifted toward the distant hallway.
From where they sat, they could just make out the faint clinking of dishes and the low murmur of voices, Lady Aetherveil’s poised, measured tones mingling with the hesitant replies of their awkward, once-hopeless young master.
It felt almost unreal, seeing her there with him, sharing a simple breakfast as though such a thing had always been possible.
A hush of anticipation settled over the room, the kind that comes when everyone senses that something important has quietly begun.
“…Do you think it is serious?”
Mira asked finally, whispering.
“Oh honey,” Clara whispered back, “if she lets him live, then it is serious.”
***
Under the creaking porch that overlooked the battered remains of the eastern orchards, two old men sat shoulder to shoulder, Sir Richardson, the steward of the estate, and Terrin, the bent but unbowed gardener whose hands had touched nearly every tree and bush on the land.
Rain drummed like war drums on the wooden shingles above, while the fields were swallowed in grey.
The twisted apple trees stood like stoic veterans, their branches bowed but not broken.
“Damn storm,” Richardson muttered, squinting through the curtain of rain.
“Could wash away half the valley if it keeps up.”
Terrin huffed a laugh, hugging a worn shawl around his shoulders.
“Yet them old trees still stand. Rooted in spite of it all, eh?”
“Like a couple of old fools I know,” Richardson grunted, elbowing him gently.
Terrin grinned, eyes crinkling.
“We are not trees, you old dog. We are more like weeds. Too stubborn to die, too unsightly to be displayed.”
“Speak for yourself. I was quite the sight in my prime.”
“Bah!”
Terrin laughed, “You were a walking broom with boots! And worse with a sword than I was with a rake.”
They chuckled for a bit, silence trailing after them like smoke from a dying pipe.
After a while, Terrin’s voice turned thoughtful.
“But… it’s something, isn’t it?”
“What’s something?”
“The timing,” he said, eyes narrowing toward the orchard.
“That Lady Vaelira herself sets foot here, of all places… now of all times, when the young master is thinking of bringing life back to these lands.”
Richardson snorted.
“Hah! You have been out in the rain too long, old friend. That is fairy tale talk. Destiny and fate and apples blooming by moonlight.”
“Call it what you want,” Terrin said, “but can not deny the feeling in your gut, can you?”
Richardson didn’t answer at first.
He folded his hands atop his cane and watched the wind toss the trees like dancers in mourning.
“…I can’t,” he admitted.
“Doesn’t mean I believe it. But… aye, it is indeed a hell of a coincidence.”
Terrin glanced at him.
“And the two of them? Sitting in there, talking like the world ain’t crumbling outside?”
“That’s the bit that unsettles me most.”
Richardson shook his head.
“I have known Lucien since he was barely tall enough to hide in the wine barrels. Couldn’t get two words out of him on a good day. Now he’s sipping tea with a wolf in noblewoman’s clothing.”
Terrin let out a barking laugh.
“You just don’t like being surprised.”
“I don’t like getting hopeful,” Richardson corrected sharply.
“It’s dangerous. I have seen too many young lords dream up grand projects only to lose interest the moment it gets their boots muddy. This? Orchards? Trade? Sabers and cider? Sounds like a noble’s fad. A phase before the academy chews him up and spits him out like all the rest.”
Terrin turned, eyebrows raised.
“That what you really think?”
“I think the boy’s earnest,” Richardson sighed.
“But earnestness doesn’t make fruit grow. Nor does it stop creditors from coming, or vines from dying in frost.”
The gardener was quiet for a beat.
“Funny,” he said, “because I saw something in that boy’s eyes this morning.”
Richardson didn’t reply.
Terrin continued, voice a little softer.
“When he spoke about the trees, about the land, it wasn’t playacting. It was like… like someone remembering a dream they had when they were young, and daring to believe it could still come true. I have seen that look before, you know.”
Richardson cocked a brow.
“On who? Yourself?”
“No,” Terrin said, smiling faintly.
“On his mother.”
The porch creaked beneath them as the wind picked up again.
“…For what it’s worth,” Terrin added, “I will give my all for this. For him. For the soil. I have buried too many years in this land to sit by and watch it die without one more fight.”
Richardson looked over, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You are a sentimental old weed, Terrin.”
“And you are a living monument to cynicism, you stiff tree stump.”
They both chuckled, letting the rain swallow the sound of their mirth.
Their laughter was small, almost secretive, softened by the storm before it could drift far.
Water traced cold lines down their faces and soaked through their clothes, but neither cared; for a brief moment, the rain felt like a curtain drawn around them, a place where the world could not intrude.
Beyond them, the orchard stretched out in muted stillness, rows of trees standing like weary sentinels beneath the dim, damp sky.
The trunks were dark with moisture, their branches drooping under the weight of the storm.
Fallen fruit dissolved into the mud, releasing a bruised sweetness into the heavy air.
The whole place seemed exhausted, as though each tree had bowed not in surrender, but in endurance.
Wounded and waterlogged, with bark split and leaves pressed flat against trembling branches, the orchard still breathed.
Its life pulsed faintly, quiet, stubborn, impossible to extinguish.
Even in the battered soil, roots held firm, clinging to the earth with steady determination.
And for the first time in many seasons, something more than rain hung in the air: possibility.
It drifted through the rows like a whisper, gentle yet insistent, hinting that renewal, however fragile, was stirring beneath the storm.
“…Let’s see if this fool of a boy proves us wrong,” Richardson murmured.
“Aye,” Terrin said with a nod.
“Let’s see if something blooms again.”
***
