The baker describes them to the best of his memory. Amalia could feel how intensely Henrick listens, and so she stops wandering off and listens to the man. Whatever this is may not be the scope of her responsibilities anymore, and she is sure Henrick is capable, but who knows if he'll ask for her help later?
Henrick thanks the baker after he is done, and then promises to guard his establishment and his home for as long as the case is unresolved. Amalia keeps quiet the whole ordeal, only listening to what was talked about and following the duke out of the premises after.
"Your dress is soiled," the duke says as they stepped out. Amalia follows Henrick's stare and her eyes land at the hem of her skirt, now caked with mud. It must be from when she interrogated the baker.
"A little bit of dirt would not hurt me," she replies, but the duke still took his time staring at it.
"I think it's time for you to head back," he says after a moment. Amalia turns to him, brows stitched together.
"Why?"
"It could be dangerous for you," he replies in all seriousness that Amalia couldn't help but scoff. "This is not the time to laugh, duchess."
"Well, you don't have to worry about me. I won't die," she replies.
Sometimes, it feels liberating when one already knows how she will die. Amalia could sometimes catch herself acting recklessly, and allowed herself to move forth with it, because she knew nothing would cause her serious harm more than her own husband—the one who stands before her now.
"How could you be so certain?" he asks, sighing. "Not that it matters. I am not asking. I am commanding you to head back home. None of this concerns you, anyway."
"Alright, then," Amalia replies, frowning as she immediately turns to her heel. His words hurt, but she ignores it. It is true that she has been partial in doing her duties as duchess, as she thought and still thinks that it is not her right to do so.
She is about to ride her carriage when she sees Damien loitering beside it, his face turning grim when he sees her.
"Are you heading back?"
"Yes," she replies. "What is it?"
"Eve told me there is someone who is looking for you. A woman with red hair and gray eyes and a girl about eight, with golden eyes and silver hair." Damien tells her abruptly. "The redhead said the girl is a Frealwood."
"A Frealwood?"
"Yes, milady."
Amalia purses her lips. As far as she knows, the living Frealwoods aside from the duke of Adendiff are the Marquess Morden—who lost his wife a few years ago and had no daughters, his sons, and the Dowager Marchioness. One of his three sons is studying abroad, and the other is participating in guarding the borders. The last son is about four, and then there is the Dowager Marchioness Gwenevieve, who Amalia met briefly during her time in Frealwood.
As far as she knows, all of the Frealwoods have red eyes, aside from Henrick, who Amalia deduces he didn't inherit from his mother. And so, Amalia is out of her wits of who these people truly could be.
"What do they want?"
Damien shrugs. "Who knows? The redhead said she will only talk to the owner of the establishment."
"Then I shall hear what she will say," Amalia takes a horse a guard had used and told Damien to get ready.
"Are you sure it is fine to leave without the duke knowing?" he asks hesitantly. Amalia purses her lips.
"You only hesitate when you make some sense, Damien," she perks up to see Damien shaking his head. "Get a guard to tell His Grace that I won't be returning home until tonight, and then follow me."
***
The windows of the store were already shut when Amalia and Damien reached it. The sign by the door that says Closed is hard to ignore, but Amalia only sighs at the sight of it as she waits for Damien to unlock it.
Seafrost is not as big as Amalia had wanted it, just a store akin to a house with seven rooms, a drawing room, a small dining hall and a kitchen, all renovated as storage rooms. Still, it serves its purpose, helping both nobles and ordinary citizens that surround it, and Amalia is definitely profiting from it.
"Lady Amalia," Eve greets.
Eve is a petite woman with large, gray eyes and auburn hair. She is shorter than her too, so Amalia needs to look down to talk to her. She looks weak, but Eve is the most talented mercenary and one of the most loyal people she knew, enough to let her manage the store on her behalf.
"Eve, is everything alright?" Amalia asks as Eve locks the door behind them.
"She just wouldn't speak, my lady," she replies and walks her way down the hall and into the small parlor that serves as the business' place of reception.
The windows are down in the parlor, and only the flicker of candles placed in lamps are the ones lighting up the place. Eve shows where the lady is staying, and Amalia then sits on one of the chairs across from her, who still wears her hood like an armor.
The woman looks at her through her hood before taking it off. The girl beside her giggles, and that is the first time she sees her. She cannot be sure that she is a Frealwood, with those golden eyes.
"Duchess Adendiff," she greets, smiling as if Amalia's presence is expected. "I am Rosentine of the Horan clan, and with me is Lady Ingrid of Frealwood."
Amalia blinks. No one knew about her ownership of the store, but how come Rosentine acts as if she knew, and she specifically called for her?
And that name… there was a dream about her.
"And… how can I help you?" Amalia asks. Her gut tells her to listen to whatever this lady will tell her, and so she leans in unconsciously at Rosentine.
"Before that, can I speak with you alone?"
"Know your station, lady," Amalia hears Damien state, as well as the threat of his sword out of its scabbard. Amalia looks at him and then at Eve, who stands beside him, before nodding. Rosentine waits for them to be out of earshot before continuing.
"I know this store only keeps things at a price, but I am here to ask a favor." Amalia looks at her as if urging Rosentine, and the lady continues, her gray eyes becoming more serious than before, "I need help in keeping Ingrid somewhere far. Where no one knows her or her family."
Amalia looks at the four year old girl. There is something about those eyes that makes her want to help, but she considers her in-laws and this lady before her. Why would Rosentine need her help in hiding Ingrid? If she is really a Frealwood, her in-law might accuse her of kidnapping a child, and if not, should she report to her in-laws that someone is using their name fraudulently?
"Your Grace," Rosentine calls, and Amalia almost jumps to her seat.
"What?"
"The Marquess of Frealwood doesn't know of her existence. No one knows aside from us, and now you and those two people who just exited the premises."
Well, Amalia thinks, that should be a given considering they are here, but who is us? "Us…?"
"The house of Horan, Your Grace. I am sure you at least read about us."
Amalia racks her brain, remembering all those history books she was forced to read. Nothing really comes to mind, as those books noted the Horan as a dead family. Although, there is one conversation she accidentally heard—the emperor telling her father about subduing a Horan boy they discovered in the woods.
"The Horans must remain dead," she remembers the emperor saying.
"I… don't know anything about the Horan clan," Amalia says, "and I don't know why you need me."
Her dream of Ingrid is as vague as any other dream anyway, and them being close in the future does not mean she gets to help them now. She might be helping Ingrid, but how about Rosentine, who she doesn't know is a friend or foe?
"I need someone who is close to Frealwoods and can see the future, my lady," Rosentine says with a small smile. "And I know that someone is you."
"What?" How does she know my family's secret?