"Beatrice Cornwell greets His Grace, The Earl. "
The Earl looked back, acknowledging her presence, "Young Lady Cornwell."
"I hope I have not interrupted your evening, Your Grace." Beatrice took confident steps ahead towards the railing. She did not look at him immediately — her eyes went to the gardens below, the last amber light catching the edge of everything.
"Not at all, Miss Beatrice. I had hoped to drink in silence. And I had just heard that sunsets from the Hodgson's Mansion were rather worth the journey." Verdante Everleigh took a sip of his wine and set his glass down on the table beside him.
He turned to face her and bowed — a small, deliberate thing, one hand pressed to his chest.
"Miss Beatrice, forgive my absence at your parents' funeral. I offer my deepest condolences — the Count and Countess were among the few people in this world I considered true friends. That I could not see them off is something I will not easily make peace with."
Beatrice was quiet for a moment, her eyes still on the gardens below.
"There is nothing to forgive, Your Grace. My parents would have understood — they always did." A pause, brief and controlled. "They spoke of you often. With a great deal of respect."
She turned to look at him then, directly, for the first time since stepping onto the balcony.
"I had hoped, one day, to understand why."
The Earl looked up at her. She had her mother's face — the same quiet composure in it, the same stillness. But the dark fuchsia hair and the deep green eyes were Lucas' entirely. Standing here in the fading light, she was an odd and precise combination of both of them.
"I was childhood friends with the Young Lady's parents." He turned back to the gardens, his hands settling on the railing. "We grew up in the same county. Your grandfather and mine were close — the kind of close that makes children into siblings whether they intend it or not."
A brief pause.
"Lucas was the most stubborn person I have ever known." The faintest trace of something crossed his face — not quite a smile, not quite grief. "And Rebecca was the only person he ever listened to."
He said nothing further. The last of the amber light had slipped below the tree line, leaving the sky a deep, cooling blue.
"They were still like that, the last I saw them."
The Earl caught something in her voice — not quite grief, not quite anything he could name cleanly. It was there and then it wasn't.
He had heard the details. Lucas, stubborn as ever, insisting on the hunt that day. Rebecca going with him, as she always had. The news had reached him in Ezenberg like a blow he hadn't braced for — and yet even now, standing here, some part of him had not fully accepted it. The weight of permanent absence had a way of arriving long after the fact.
Beatrice noticed his silence. She felt guilty, but rationalised it anyway. She had hoped the Earl would offer his condolences — that she could make use of whatever sympathy he extended. But she had not expected this. The guilt on his face was plain, even if he hadn't voiced a word of it.
What she found odd was that her parents had never once mentioned they were childhood friends with him, only ever spoken of him with quiet regard. Perhaps they never got the chance.
Whatever the reason, it didn't change what she had to do. Verdante Everleigh was a seasoned diplomat — he would already know what had brought her out here. What mattered was not that he knew. What mattered was how she handled it from here.
"Your Grace, my late parents would not have wanted this for you. Matters of the Empire always come first — that is what they taught me. His Grace's duty could not wait."
She paused, as if weighing whether to continue.
"I may be overstepping my position. But I believe I understand, at least in part, what His Grace must be feeling. Even now, I have not truly accepted their absence. I was furious as well — why that day, why that hunt, why was my father so adamant." A breath. "But I have come to understand that nothing can change what has already happened."
The Earl listened to her intently.
"You have grown into someone your parents would be proud of, Miss Beatrice. Your strength is admirable." He looked solemn as he said it. Most people, at this point, would have offered something — comfort, assistance, reassurance. The Earl offered nothing further.
Beatrice was patient. "I am still undeserving of such words, Your Grace. But I thank you nonetheless." She finally lifted her champagne glass and took a sip.
The silence that followed was deliberate on both sides. He was waiting for her to speak. She already knew he wasn't going to make it easy.
"Your Grace," she started, "I really want to take forward the legacy of my parents that they left behind so suddenly. And so does my brother." She looked at him with determination in her eyes.
"We both have been educated as Cornwell heirs. Rather than twisting my own words, I wish to say it clearly. I intend to inherit the Cornwell title. Not because my brother is undeserving — but because I am the one who is prepared to carry it." She held his gaze steadily. "I am not here to ask for your sympathy, Your Grace. I am here because the Cornwell county's interests and yours are not as separate as they may appear. I believe you already know that."
Verdante wasn't surprised. His face betrayed nothing.
"I see, Miss Beatrice." A brief pause. "Though I am not entirely certain how our concerns align. Would you care to explain?"
A quiet chill ran up her spine.
It was a simple enough question. And yet the Earl's presence had shifted in a way she couldn't quite account for — not in his posture, not in his tone. It was his eyes. They held the particular stillness of someone who already knew the answer and was waiting to see what version of it she would offer.
She could not read him at all.
For the first time since stepping onto this balcony, Beatrice felt the full weight of who she was standing in front of.
The air on the balcony had gone very still.
Beatrice became aware of it gradually — the evening breeze that had been moving through the gardens below had simply stopped. The loose tendrils at her face didn't stir. The fabric of her skirt didn't shift. Nothing moved at all.
She did not know if he had done it consciously.
Earl Everleigh regarded her with the same quiet patience, his eyes neither warm nor cold, waiting.
Beatrice held his gaze, her expression composed, her hands still at her sides.
And then she began to speak.