Thomas’ image and voice floated into Baby Ori’s brain. “What’s wrong, Baby Ori?”

It was getting easier to communicate on the inside, now that Baby Ori was learning the names.

Baby Ori shuddered and rested her little body against the trees. “I saw a girl who only smiles.” The feelings of that moment flowed over her again and she winced. The sick smile hovered behind her mouth. “What was her name? I used to know it.”

Thomas blanched. “Oh, you met her. Sorry…her name’s beyond the gate. You aren’t able to know it.”

Baby Ori clicked her tongue in frustration. “I feel like if I knew her name she wouldn’t be as scary!”

Thomas hesitated. “No, she’s…” he paused again. “Just keep doing your job, Baby Ori. She can’t hurt you.”

Baby Ori shifted her body uncomfortably. She felt as if the girl’s smile was in her muscles, making them too tight to use. She began climbing the mountain again, annoyed. “If she can’t hurt me, then why do I feel this way?”

Thomas sighed. “You should pity her, Baby Ori. I know you can’t because that’s not your job…”

Baby Ori huffed, cutting him off. “I’m tired of hearing about jobs. You love jobs, Thomas.”

Thomas shrugged, pursing his lips. “I’ll leave you to your mountain then, Baby Ori.”

“Oh…thank you for your help, Thomas. Sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me.” She slipped on the rotting leaves but rebalanced herself and grunted. “Talking to you makes me feel less afraid.”

Thomas smiled sadly, then chuckled, “It’s okay, Baby Ori. We’re all in this together.”

From a far corner of a separate mountain, the girl who smiles watched Baby Ori struggle. The fox-eyed grin she wore belied any feeling she may have had beneath it.

―-

Count de Foix was confused. “What do you mean, Ori? You want to move to Main Street?”

Lady Ori nodded, sipping her tea. “I’m aware that you are now considered my guardian, Uncle Foix. Therefore, I wanted to share my plans with you.”

Foix’s ears went red and he looked at Contessa de Foix.

Contessa de Foix sighed. She knew her husband too well. “Ori,” said the Contessa carefully. “Have we made you feel uncomfortable? Even if you were to tell us that you would never marry and that you wanted to stay with us forever, we would still accept you.”

Lady Ori set her teacup down and stared at it. “I believe you, Aunt Foix. I appreciate the sentiment, and I am deeply grateful to you both.” She flicked her eyes up and met her Aunt’s gaze. “However, I am leaving. This is not goodbye. Living in your home has been…”

Lady Ori trailed off, feeling the strings of emotion slip around her throat. At first, it had been hard to live among people who loved and trusted so easily. “Living in the Foix estate has been filled with affection. I want to stay in touch.”

Contessa de Foix softened, and she reached for her husband’s hand.

Count de Foix was already sniffling. “That’s what we want too! Of course!”

Contessa de Foix nodded. “Then, you’ve already found a flat? We shall purchase it for you and send you an allowance.”

Foix nodded enthusiastically. “We shall take care of your dowry as well, so you may marry your sweetheart when you like.”

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Lady Ori shook her head, feeling awkward. She could not be more different than these hopelessly wholesome people. “Did mother…not prepare a dowry for me?”

Count de Foix stiffened. He glanced at his wife. “She…”

Contessa de Foix interrupted him. “She did not.” Rage flittered across her face. “There was no dowry allocated to you. My awful sister...” She narrowed her eyes, “perhaps she never intended to give you to Broglie.”

Lady Ori leaned back and sighed. “Yes, I think she intended to kill me before that.”

Foix made a strangled noise. “Oh, Ori…”

Next to him, Contessa de Foix was gripping his hand, tears threatening to spill over.

Lady Ori sighed heavily. She had already killed her mother. There was no reason for her Aunt and Uncle to continue crying over it. Revenge was had; it was over. Time to move on.

Still, she had hoped to use her dowry to repaint the interior of the building on Main Street.

Foix cleared his throat. “We…will never leave you all alone again, Ori.”

“Ah…” said Lady Ori, feeling the weight of his words stab at a lonely place in her heart. “Even if you do, I would understand.” She swallowed, feeling guilty.

The Count and Contessa continued to heap promises of devotion onto her. Lady Ori did not believe them but took pains to hide it.

Once her Aunt and Uncle found out what she was planning on Main Street, they might never even look at her again, let alone love her.

Lady Ori left the sitting room feeling nauseous. Being cared for by other people was nice, but repellant. What was the point? They would only bury her under their values. If you gave people an inch into your heart, they’d find a way to stab it.

Lady Ori refused to dwell on her nervous guilt.

Affection was fleeting, love even more so. There was only one thing that appealed to Lady Ori: complete control over the direction of her own life. She had been ready to throw the Foix family away the minute she had signed on the building. Why be confused now?

Happiness was control, control was power, and power was ownership. She must own herself at all costs.

―-

Vellim sat across from his father, dumbfounded. “What are you saying, father?”

Count de Broglie sighed and puffed deeply on his pipe. He blew it out to the side, careful to avoid his second son’s face. “Vellim, this is hard for me to say as well.” He sighed again. “I know you’re infatuated with the Rohan girl. This is my fault for encouraging you to marry her.”

Broglie looked up into his son’s eyes and saw an expression there that he’d never seen before.

Vellim was glowering at his father. “I do not wish to hear anything else about your future daughter-in-law, father. Let’s end this talk right here.”

Broglie blinked, blowing smoke. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in appreciation. Both of his sons were so shy and easy-going that he often worried about them. “Vellim, do you think I don’t know what you’re doing at the Foix estate?”

Vellim turned a deep, tomato red. His mouth went dry.

Broglie waved away his son’s shame, gesturing with his hand, “I’m not admonishing you. One of my boys needs an heir; I don’t care how it happens. But even still, think of your reputation.”

“Father,” Vellim growled, ears still red. He could not look his father in the eyes. “She is my fiancée. As you said, we are doing nothing wrong.”

Broglie set his pipe down. “I have talked with your mother, and we no longer approve of Lady Ori. Did you know? The late Contessa de Rohan never even prepared a dowry. She was only using our name as a connection.”

“Hah.” Spat Vellim, feeling his blood boil and his heart sink.

Broglie leaned forward and placed his hand on his son’s broad shoulder. “Vellim,” he lowered his voice, “Even if the King declared her blameless, Lady Ori admitted her sin to the entire Court. The social season is nearing. You will be tarnished if you continue this way.” Broglie leaned back, away from his son’s glare. “Don’t look at me like that Vellim; like you hate me.”

Vellim looked down at his feet. “Hate? That small feeling?” he choked, “No, more than hate, I feel betrayed.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I didn’t realize that my father was such a small man.”

“Vellim!” Broglie shouted, dismayed. “How dare you say such a thing!”

Vellim clenched his fists, “I love Lady Ori. Ours will be a marriage of love, and your grandchildren will be heirs born of that love.”

Broglie picked up his pipe again, clenching his jaw. “Should I feel happy that my second son is finally talking back to me?” He puffed his pipe incredulously. “A woman who can slash her own mother’s throat―that’s the love of your life?”

Vellim shot out of his chair before he could think. He stood over his father, gripped by a self-righteous fury.

Broglie looked up into his son’s face, unimpressed. “You’re too old for tantrums, Vellim. You are blinded by lovesick passion―like a schoolboy.”

Vellim had never heard such harsh words from his father before. He knew him as a man who doted on his children, took great care of his lands, and respected his wife. Who was this awful man in front of him? Surly not his father?

Vellim turned to leave, “I think I would rather be a lovesick schoolboy than an unsympathetic old man.”

Broglie scoffed and watched his son stomp away. He caught a maid’s eye, “Call my attendant, I need a letter written to Foix.”