Chapter 1
**Unseen Shadows of Spring** Becoming a widow at fifteen is a pain that few can truly understand—Isabella Whitaker knows this well. Her in-laws, wary of her youth and potential restlessness, shackled her in the back yard like some worn-out servant, forcing her to toil day in and day out. The truth? She would never learn that her husband, who supposedly drowned while traveling to take an important exam, was alive and well. He had risen in social standing, marrying the daughter of Lord Geoffrey Lancaster, and now basked in the glory of being a top scholar, with life laid out ahead of him in golden trappings. And here she remained, a mere child bride, a forgotten footnote in his ambition. It felt like a fitting punishment for being an obstacle in his meteoric rise. Perhaps it was destiny to have been pushed into that well by her in-laws, drowning in a bitter twist of fate, while he danced into a new life with a noblewoman. Isabella's heart ached as memories of her past life dripped like blood into her consciousness. “Lazy girl!” The sharp voice of Eleanor Lloyd sliced through Isabella’s thoughts like a knife. With a heavy sigh, Isabella attempted to rise, the iron chain clanking ominously around her ankles. Eleanor barged in without waiting for a response. “Get up! The old lady and young miss will wake any moment! Chop chop—water and food, now!” Before Isabella could protest, Eleanor yanked her to her feet. Off balance, Isabella stumbled slightly, the chain scraping against the floor with a dull thud. “What are you doing?” she gasped as Eleanor yanked her again, practically pulling her from her thoughts. “This is for your own good. We’ve been decent enough to you. Don’t end up like those loose women who spread their legs for any man that struts by!” Isabella felt heat rise to her cheeks, blinding fury making her see red. Who truly disrespected whom here? She had lived with innocence in both her lifetimes—yet, there William Hale was, undoubtedly wrapped around the waist of a noblewoman, while the likes of Eleanor dared to judge her. “Look at you!” Eleanor pressed, her voice a mix of irritation and accusation. Taking a deep breath, Isabella didn’t even flinch. “Some in our courtyard are less than respectable. Just last night, while returning from the Great Kitchen, I believe I saw Arnold Hale sneaking out the side gate.” Eleanor froze, her face draining of color. She recalled that the mistress had gone to bed unusually early, which left Arnold on his own, perhaps yielding to temptation in the absence of prying eyes. Isabella kept her voice smooth, feigning indifference. In truth, she found herself catered to by the mansion’s cruel politics, and knowing the dark truths surrounding Eleanor was her only path to survival. A little warning now might buy her some peace later. Eleanor, unsettled, finally snapped back into her authoritative role, “Stop thinking devious thoughts and be grateful Charles isn’t throwing you out!” She slammed the door behind her, leaving Isabella alone once more. Isabella stood at the window, feeling a well of resentment bubbling over. She flung open the casement. “Go to hell with your widow’s lament—you’re all the ones who should wallow in your petty grief!” But the moment the curse left her lips, laughter echoed from nearby. “Who was that?” she turned, startled, and spotted a boy sitting on the steps of a weathered little study opposite her—a lighthearted young man with an enigmatic smile, bemusedly watching her. Edward Hale. Her brother-in-law, born from the shadows and whispers of Hales. A child of the streets, he was often scorned by the likes of Margaret Hale, his very identity as “the bastard” a topic of ridicule amongst the family. But Isabella knew he was destined for greatness. Though they viewed him as nothing but trash now, it wouldn’t be long before the world saw him rise—at just seventeen, he would become the youngest top scholar since the founding of their kingdom. His heart, however, was darker than her bleakest thoughts. He would crawl his way into power, turning the corridors of Eastgate into a hunting ground where he'd be the predator. She recalled the horrors she had witnessed: Edward, laughing as he wielded a blade, tearing through the family he’d known, leaving a trail of blood. Even the noble figures met their end in his merciless grasp. Shivering, Isabella glanced back at Edward. Had he heard her curse? His eyes twinkled with a mix of interest and mischief. “Good day, sister-in-law.” “I—uh, good day to you too,” she mumbled, unable to meet his gaze. Nervously, her fingers danced across the windowsill, then steeling herself, she asked, “Did you... Did you hear me just now?” Edward leaned back casually, a hint of amusement playing on his lips. “I only heard the wind passing by.” Relief surged through her until his voice turned innocent yet pointed, “I also heard a lamenting female sparrow, dying without its mate, full of bitterness. Sister-in-law, I am a simple man, and they did not teach us ‘go to hell’ at the King’s Academy. Perhaps you could enlighten me?”
Chapter 2
**The Unwanted Widow** Isabella Whitaker's heart felt like it was going to burst. He heard me. William Hale tilted his head, a sly smile creeping across his lips. His widow-sister-in-law was young, and in his opinion, rather dull and tiresome. Ever since she moved into the room across from him, her window had remained stubbornly shut. The only time he was reminded she existed was when the dim glow of her lamp cast shadows over her as she undressed each night, a graceful silhouette revealing just enough to tease his mind. He had assumed she would spend the rest of her days like a ghost in this house, but today had sparked something different—she was shouting back at him. How intriguing. Amused, he noted how she gripped the window frame as if it were her lifeline. The woman who surely would turn into a cruel tyrant one day was just a naive girl now. Hadn’t she lived long enough to tackle a mere child? As these thoughts streaked through her mind, Isabella felt sudden tears welling up in her eyes. “Forgive me if I’m being foolish, but I truly can’t go on like this. I’m at my wit's end and spoke out in desperation... If you tell Eleanor Lloyd, I don’t think there’ll be a place for me in this house anymore. Are you trying to drive me to my grave?” She let her long, damp eyelashes droop and used her handkerchief to wipe the tears that stained her cheeks, hoping her heartbreak would soften his little boy's heart just a fraction. William narrowed his eyes, pondering. He remembered the day the little widow was brought to Hale Manor—a mere child, sobbing uncontrollably as she stepped through the threshold. Years of being treated ruthlessly by Catherine Gray had rendered her timid and frail. Just a few words from him, and she trembled like a delicate flower, ready to wither away. He half-smirked. If he pushed her any further, she might just consider taking her life. The residents of this house had their dark sides; they looked down at him, the illegitimate son who's nothing but a source of shame, wishing for his demise. Yet this widow was different; she treated him like a person. Every time their paths crossed, her sweet voice would inquire, “How are you doing, little brother?” William didn’t want the widow to die, but he also wasn’t about to offer her aid without something in return. “Dear sister-in-law,” he drawled lazily, “I’d love some fish.” Isabella paused, taken aback. Who had time to prepare fish this early in the day? She had little interest in serving anyone anymore. But with his grip on her weakness, she had no choice but to relent. “Of course, it's no trouble at all. I’ll head to the kitchen right away,” she replied, wiping the remnants of her tears. As she disappeared down the twisting hallway, William leaned back with a smirk, thoughts of her drifting away. Winter was finally loosening its grip; the southern winds carried the fragrant promise of spring, lifting the hem of her dress and tracing her slender figure. Once she was out of sight, he muttered to himself, “The unwanted widow.” --- In the kitchen, Isabella prepared a beautifully braised fish before she started on some porridge. Frederick Hale had been out on business for days, leaving only Eleanor Lloyd and her sister-in-law, Charlotte Hale, at home. Eleanor cast an appraising glance over the dining table laden with food. “Another day of congee? Is this how we eat? Come on, Isabella—it looks like you’ve been sitting on your hands. Looks to me like you’re either too lazy to cook or simply can’t.” She scoffed, “If word gets out, they'll brand you as cruel to your mother-in-law. You might find yourself at the bottom of a pond, you know.” Isabella served her quietly, noting how Eleanor’s critiques always felt pointed. Firstly, she’d say the rice was too hard; now it was the porridge being unacceptable. Ironically, Eleanor devoured more than anyone else at the table. She pressed her handkerchief to her face and sobbed, “Oh, mother, I dreamt of my husband last night. It was so tragic. If he hadn’t been reincarnated, he’d surely haunt the waters as a vengeful spirit. My heart is heavy, and how can I find the joy to cook?” Her tears flowed, making a spectacle of her grief. Eleanor seethed. Her son was a high-ranking official in Eastgate City and married to a lady of high standing. How could she dare dream of haunting? This girl was bringing bad luck; what a bummer it was to wake up to such a display of sadness. Yet she couldn’t reveal her opinions outright and just simmered in silence over her bowl of porridge. Charlotte Hale narrowed her gaze at Isabella, her dislike for her unmistakable. Linton’s lands were rough; no beauty to be found there, and the folks were as plain as the stones they walked upon. Yet somehow, Isabella—dressed in nothing more than rough fabric—still managed to outshine them all effortlessly. It grated on Charlotte. With a forced smile, she said, “I’m having some friends over today for a little flower-gazing gathering. Evelyn Bennett, the Governor’s daughter, will be here too. She’s so refined—especially with spicy food. Just be sure to heap the chili onto every dish you prepare, would you? Wouldn’t want her to go away unhappy.” Isabella couldn't help a small smirk. She recalled a time when Evelyn Bennett really couldn’t handle heat. Yet Charlotte had insisted on piling on the spices, provoking a massive meltdown on Evelyn’s part—an explosive temper that left Isabella humiliated and Caroline Baxter smacking her for it. Isabella knew Charlotte didn’t care for her, a sentiment which she reciprocated fiercely. She clasped her brass charm necklace, still the symbolic anchor from when she had been taken away—a trinket she once believed was worthless. But it turned out there was gold hidden within. Once she'd barely been able to escape, only to have Eleanor swoop in and steal it, claiming her rightful identity from Duke Edmund Lancaster’s family, while Isabella was left to contend with a family that pushed her into despair. She was done being the pariah in this family; if they thought she would let that go, they had another thing coming. With a clever smile, she met Charlotte's gaze. “More chili? Consider it done, sister.” With that, Isabella returned to the kitchen, seeing the beautiful braised fish had vanished—leaving behind only a skeletal reminder. Relief washed over her. William had eaten, so perhaps, she thought, he wouldn’t torment her any longer. Tying her apron on with renewed determination, she started cooking, tossing heap after heap of chili into each dish as Charlotte had commanded.
Chapter 3
**The Garden Gathering** In the enclosed garden, a cluster of young women encircled Evelyn Bennett, their laughter mingling with the gentle breeze. Charlotte Hale dutifully peeled nuts for Evelyn, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Evelyn, I heard your brother aced the last Academy exam—first in his class! Impressive! Speaking of which, isn't Charles Bennett getting to the age for courtship?" Evelyn shot her a disinterested glance. "Mother says we should wait for him to build a name for himself before we start arranging matches. You all know Thomas Reid? He’s heading back to Linton soon to honor the dead. My mother has this plan for my brother to run into Thomas at Cloudridge Abbey, hoping he’ll take him on as a pupil. With Thomas Reid as a mentor, what could he possibly worry about regarding his future?” She paused, casting a pointed look at Charlotte. “Therefore, girls from humble backgrounds don’t really get a say in my family affairs.” Charlotte choked back her frustration and tightened her grip on her handkerchief. So what if she was merely Arthur’s daughter? Why should that matter? Sure, her brother was now a respected addition to Lord Geoffrey Lancaster's household, complete with a title and position. And what of it? She didn’t flaunt it. Not wanting to openly cross Evelyn, she plastered on a smile to redirect the topic. “It’s almost lunchtime! We should eat. My sister-in-law is quite the chef! She heard you were coming and is preparing a feast.” Before long, Isabella Whitaker entered, flanked by two Eleanors, balancing platters filled with food. Charlotte strained to peer at the spread, noting each dish was generously sprinkled with bright red chili peppers. Evelyn’s expression shifted, a storm brewing on the horizon, filling Charlotte with glee. Evelyn, the peacock in this gathering, strutted with an air of superiority. Any slight against her would surely incur her wrath, and with Isabella bear hugging the spice today, Charlotte couldn’t wait to witness the fallout. As the dishes settled on the table, Isabella swept a graceful bow. “Thank you, dear sisters, for bringing your lovely company to our home. I apologize if my hospitality falls short.” Evelyn was already simmering. She stared at the mountain of peppers, slamming her teacup onto the table. “Charlotte Hale, what was your sister-in-law thinking? Did you forget to tell her I can’t handle spicy food? Or is this some kind of joke?” Charlotte feigned panic, standing up hurriedly. “Sister-in-law, I mentioned this morning that Evelyn can’t take spicy well! Why in the world did you add so many chili peppers?” Turning back to Evelyn, she expressed false concern. “I’m so sorry, Evelyn. I think my sister-in-law must’ve misunderstood. I’m sure she didn’t mean to go overboard. Odd, though, I told her so many times… Perhaps she’s just exhausted from all the preparations.” Evelyn snorted. “If she didn’t hear me after all that, she must be deaf. Honestly, this has to be personal. I’m a Governor’s daughter; disrespect toward me is disrespect toward my father, and that boils over to the whole Imperial Court. Someone, gag her!” Charlotte’s face lit up at the thought. Gagging mere hands? No, smashing Isabella’s face would be much sweeter. She was on the precipice of anticipating chaos when Isabella stepped forward, a smile playing on her lips. Delicately, she picked up her chopsticks, plucked a piece of pepper, and popped it in her mouth. After chewing thoughtfully, she smiled. “Oliver, dear, these peppers look fiery, but they’re actually quite sweet. Just a new variety that’s made its way from Eastgate City to Linton. They add a nice visual flair without the heat, and they’re even good for your skin.” She chewed a few more bites, her complexion intact, her demeanor as serene as ever. The other girls exchanged curious glances and tasted the bizarre red gems. “You’re right! It’s more sweet than spicy. Evelyn, you should try one!” Evelyn hesitated, but curiosity got the best of her. Cautiously, she took a bite, eyebrows raised in surprise. “How odd—it’s not spicy at all…” Finding the flavor surprisingly pleasant, she directed her attention back to Isabella. “I took my anger out on you, didn’t I?” Isabella, still smiling, took note of the disparity in their situations. These girls were mostly from wealth, daughters of comfort, while Charlotte, the brat, seemed far less refined, her face flushed as if painted by rage. With a sage’s patience, Isabella approached Charlotte, dusting her shoulder with a handkerchief while adopting a gentle tone. “You have guests, Charlotte. It’s good manners to treat them with the best hospitality.” Seething, Charlotte shoved her away and hissed, “Do you have any idea of your place? I’m a lady in the grandest sense; you’re merely a sister-in-law. I can and will call my mother to put you in your place.” Unfazed, Isabella glanced back at the other girls with a light chuckle. “Oh, don’t mind Charlotte; she’s just young and still figuring things out. You all enjoy yourselves! I’ve got treats prepared for you to take home.” The girls thanked her and admired her poise, some feeling sorry for Isabella, who deserved far better than the chaotic atmosphere Charlotte brewed. It was glaringly obvious: regardless of their ages, Isabella carried herself with quiet dignity, while Charlotte wallowed in a pit of stupidity and vanity. Feeling stung by their pity, Charlotte felt the heat of their scrutiny. When did it switch from sympathy for her to sympathy for the other woman? Slumping down at the table, she dropped the façade of the gracious host. Charlotte didn’t bother to entertain her commiserating guests, hopelessly letting tears trickle down her face. In their eyes, she looked like a child who couldn’t handle her emotions. With the drama heating up around her, the tension cracked the air, draining the fun from the gathering. As they signaled to leave, Isabella graciously escorted them, gathering treats from Eleanor Lloyd’s hands and distributing them carefully. When she reached Evelyn, she raised an eyebrow, her tone curious. “Evelyn, is there some kind of issue between you and Charlotte?” Evelyn halted, her confusion evident. “What on earth are you implying?” “Earlier, Charlotte did ask me to add a little extra chili,” Isabella replied delicately, clutching her handkerchief thoughtfully. “I assumed young girls often play pranks on one another, but perhaps it went too far. I just thought maybe there’s more to this?” Evelyn’s expression twisted. “Charlotte? That spoiled brat wished she could be my friend. Now that she’s upset, she’s hiding behind childish machinations?” Isabella chuckled softly. “Perhaps I misinterpreted.” Evelyn’s gaze darkened, fixated on Hale Manor’s door. “Oh, Charlotte Hale, you better watch out tomorrow at school.” Isabella waved goodbye as Evelyn stormed off in a huff. These schemes unveiled something else entirely within her that evening. The sun dipped low as she returned to the kitchen. While preparing dinner, Isabella recalled how Edward Hale adored fish. It struck her—he seemed to despise his family, and surely that didn’t bode well for him. Enemies of enemies become allies… Suddenly, Isabella saw a way: Edward Hale could become a valuable ally. Unlike the typical Hale, he was brilliant and striking, a young tycoon, dominant over the Imperial Court’s financial strands. Isabella saw opportunity lingering—she needed wealth to break free from Hale Manor. Cultivating a connection with Edward could pave the way for fortunes untold. Determined, she took her net and headed for the pond. After all, they say the God of Wealth has a particular fondness for fish.
Chapter 4
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow across the sky, Isabella Whitaker entered The Scholar's Nook, balancing a plate of sweet and sour fish. “I didn’t know my little brother liked fish! If I’d known, I would have made him some sooner. Look at this beauty I caught just for—” Her words caught in her throat. The Scholar’s Nook was a chaotic mess, old tomes and stray socks littering the floor. The walls, plastered with pin-up posters, made Isabella flush deep crimson as she glanced around. What was it with boys this age that they found such things appealing? William Hale was cross-legged on the floor, hurling darts at a makeshift target. He caught sight of her and, without missing a beat, flicked his wrist, sending a dart whirling straight into her hair bun. Isabella was at a loss for words. She swallowed hard, holding out the porcelain plate. “Fish.” He gestured for her to place it on the low table. Without washing his hands, he snatched a pair of chopsticks and eagerly started picking apart the fish’s bones. Isabella lingered for a moment, then bent down, tidying the disorder surrounding him. She casually remarked, “I heard that on Qingming, Thomas Reid will be at Cloudridge Abbey to pay his respects. They say he’s quite the scholar with connections in Eastgate. I bet a lot of young hopefuls will be vying for his attention. You should go and see if luck’s on your side.” She recalled that nearly every young noble in Linton was there to pay their respects the last time. Unfortunately, when Thomas Reid returned to Eastgate, he picked up Henry Hale— the slick fraud—as his protégé. Henry Hale had climbed the ranks fast, bolstered by Thomas Reid's patronage. She dropped the hint hoping that William might outmaneuver Henry one day, tipping the scales in his favor in the cutthroat world of politics. As William focused on his fish, his gaze flickered to Isabella, who was now on her knees, organizing books into neat stacks. Dressed in a jade-green robe, her white skirt trailed behind her, and a rare white jasmine flower adorned her dark hair. William felt an odd mix of appreciation and foreboding. She seemed revived, a stark contrast to the image of a broken girl he remembered, weeping alone by the window on long nights. A wave of nostalgia washed over him, and he recalled when Isabella had first been brought to Hale Manor, just a tiny girl of five. She had arrived battered and confused, her memory erased from pain. With two little buns in her hair, clad in a red coat and round collar, she had cowered behind a tree, her delicate features stained with tears, her big dark eyes filled with unshed sorrow. Catherine Gray, irritated by her silence, had whipped her with a stick. Isabella, stinging and tearful, had waddled out, performing a little curtsy. “I... I don’t remember my parents. I don’t know where home is.” Twelve-year-old Henry Hale had been enraptured, tugging at Catherine Gray’s sleeve, “Let’s keep her. Please!” Ten silver coins later, she was theirs. Once the kidnappers disappeared, the family soon realized that Isabella was fragile and prone to tears. Henry lost interest quickly, embarking on youthful escapades with his sister Charlotte Hale, leaving Isabella under the merciless reign of Catherine Gray. At such a young age, she learned to scrub clothes, sort vegetables, and sweep floors, her once delicate demeanor battered down with every chore. Deep down, she knew one day she was supposed to marry Henry Hale. In her fleeting moments of free time, she shadowed him. Her doe-like eyes, the color of rich chestnuts, seemed forever fixated on him. This made William uneasy. Why wasn’t it him she gazed at? So, one afternoon, while the family was out, he had lured Isabella away, hired a carriage, and dumped her thirty miles from home in Blackwood Forest. Catherine had thought the girl had run away, frantically mobilizing every villager in search of her for days on end. Meanwhile, William remained unbothered at Hale Manor. The burden of her weeping presence was lifted, and he savored the solitude, believing she deserved it for not recognizing him. Yet when night fell, and sleep eluded him, bloodshot eyes fixated on the ceiling, he couldn’t shake those thoughts of her, tiny and frightened in the wilderness. Would she be taken by wolves? Would she cry herself to sleep alone? After two sleepless nights, he trudged back into the woods. Under a sprawling abandoned banyan tree, he found her, clinging to wild berries, her clothes damp with tears, eyes swollen as if she had sobbed for days. When she spotted him, her eyes lit up. “William!” In that moment, she looked only at him. William felt a swell of satisfaction. He handed her a piece of candy and hoisted her onto his back, making their way home. As warmth wrapped around them in that dusky hour, he quietly muttered, “Henry Hale is a fool. He's clumsy, ugly. Why can’t you see me instead?” Isabella, half-asleep, clung to him, exhaustion pulling at her little frame. “William, I’m looking at you.” She said this, but as time pressed on, those moments faded, and the boy she looked at became, impossibly, her elder brother-in-law. “Liar,” he muttered, barely above a whisper. Isabella shuffled through the wrinkled pages of books, glancing back over her shoulder, puzzled. “I didn’t lie. If you don’t believe me, go ask around. I just want what’s best for you.” William started on his fish, keeping his feelings about Thomas Reid’s apprentice conversation to himself. His gaze remained on her as she arranged the books, realizing she had never been educated and couldn’t read. Yet there she was, sorting books by genre and era. “Looks like you can read after all,” he said, breaking the silence. Isabella paused in her task, her movements stalling. She recalled her hopes of studying alongside Charlotte Hale, but Catherine would have none of it, mocking her desire to read as inappropriate for a widow. Later, when Henry returned in glory, he’d brought her to Eastgate, but her lack of education became a source of embarrassment for him. When she sought help from the servants to learn, all she received were derisive glances. With her back turned to him, William noticed the flicker of despair in her eyes. “Oh, I’m just a simple woman,” she said, laughter tinged with bitterness. “Just a nobody who never even went to school.” “If you want to learn, I can teach you,” he offered, surprising even himself with the suggestion.
Chapter 5
Isabella Whitaker was taken aback. “Really?” she turned her head in surprise. Without a trace of makeup, her skin glowed pale and smooth, and the most striking feature of her face was her peach blossom-like eyes. They gleamed a rich chestnut brown, and when she smiled, little dimples added an irresistible charm. But until today, she always kept her gaze downcast, shy and cautious of the world. Now, with her eyes lifted, a hint of allure radiated from her that was completely unexpected. William Hale felt as if the quiet widow had transformed into a clever little fox, and even he couldn’t quite figure her out. “Absolutely,” he replied. With an opportunity for growth before her, Isabella wasn’t about to let it slip away. She had learned to read and write long ago but wouldn’t mind soaking up the lessons all over again. “I remember when your brother was alive,” she said, her voice laced with gratitude, “he always told me I was slow and couldn’t learn anything. That’s why he never taught me. Now with you here, I wouldn’t want to be a nuisance. Do you really have time and patience for this?” She looked so fragile and meek. A wave of protectiveness stirred within William Hale. “Don’t worry about it. I promise I’ll teach you,” he asserted firmly. “Then please, teach me how to write my name first.” In the Scholar's Nook, the tools for writing were readily available. William Hale picked up the brush: “.” “Isabella Whitaker,” she corrected lightly, her eyes twinkling. “I’m not, I’m Isabella Whitaker.” Isabella Whitaker, Isabella Whitaker... He scribbled her name on the rice paper. “Isabella Whitaker is the name of a peony, the queen among flowers. Your name is truly beautiful.” It was the first time in this life or the next that anyone had complimented her name so genuinely. Isabella bit back a smile, dipping the brush just as deftly. “Thank you.” She admired his calligraphy, the strokes bold and sharp, like a resilient pine clinging to a cliff. Although she wasn’t an expert on characters, she sensed that it surpassed the elegance of her late husband’s writing. Watching her graceful movements as she wrote, William squinted. “You’ve written before.” Isabella’s hand faltered for a fraction of a second. Then, determined not to reveal too much, she created wobbly lines on the page. “I’ve merely watched your brother’s practice and picked up a trick or two about holding the brush.” William propped his chin in his hand, observing her closely. She was lying. Her awkward facade betrayed raw talent beneath. After a moment, he suddenly pulled a book from the nearby chest. “Are you really unable to read?” Isabella didn’t even glance up. “Why would I deceive you?” “If you can read this entire book without flinching, then I’ll believe you,” he challenged. Curious, Isabella took the book, but her gaze fell on the opening line and abruptly froze. What was this crude piece of literature doing here? The content was scandalous and vulgar. William tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Why aren’t you reading on?” Isabella fought to maintain her composure. So what if it was a risqué romance? Beneath her polished surface, she contained the wild spirit of a twenty-year-old woman who had experienced the throes of love and loss. What was embarrassing about that? She forced herself to read further, deliberately blurring her vision to avoid focusing on the words, but the scandalous phrases jumped off the page, and within just a few lines, her cheeks were flushed with warmth. William struggled to suppress a laugh. “If you can’t read, why is your face turning red?” Isabella bit her lip, fighting the shame swirling inside her. As the elder, didn’t she have the authority? How had she allowed him to pin her down like this? She glanced at the book, then her expression hardened as she threw it back into William’s arms. “You’re too young to be reading this nonsense. I’ll be taking this away from you!” William burst into laughter. “Something tells me you’d keep it for yourself and sneak peeks.” “Just you wait—” The room was filled with an intoxicating light. Isabella felt a tide of embarrassment washing over her, her porcelain-like face brightening a vibrant shade of crimson. Even her eyelids seemed to bloom like flowers, no makeup needed to enhance her natural beauty. She had always cried easily—all those years of sorrow had led to tears. Being teased or humiliated had her weeping as well, because this was how she had known to cope. Now, William’s teasing pushed her to cover her face, her sobs bubbling to the surface. “You're bullying me!” At that moment, William thought she finally resembled the girl she truly was. She had only lost a husband selected for her in an arranged marriage, a man with whom she shared no true connection. So why should she feel chained to that sorrow forever? After the laughter faded, he caught sight of Isabella, stomping her foot as she prepared to leave. He quickly grabbed her sleeve, stopping her. “Don’t cry. I’ll burn it tomorrow, I promise.” With her cheeks still flushed, she choked out, “Then... will you still teach me how to write?” “Of course,” he replied without hesitation, his tone softening as if coaxing a child. At this, Isabella finally cheered up, the corners of her mouth lifting into a smile. Resuming her seat, she caught a glimpse of William out of the corner of her eye. He was strikingly handsome, like any boy his age, enamored by beautiful faces, sometimes skipping classes just to chase down pretty sights, hiding away risqué novels under his desk. He was full of life, a stark contrast to so many here in the house who lacked warmth. She found herself wondering what conflicts brewed within him to mold him into the person he'd become, the one capable of committing unspeakable acts... In that moment, curiosity piqued, and pity welled within Isabella. Sitting taller, she adopted an older sister’s tone. “I haven’t given up on myself, so you can’t give up on yourself either. You must go to Cloudridge Abbey for your studies, Thomas Reid is a man worth learning from—a beacon guiding you to the right path. Don’t miss this chance.” William sneered, shaking his head. His widow sister had been pushed into a corner, and yet here she was, urging it upon him to be good. But if he hadn’t resorted to thievery and trickery these last few years, he might’ve starved to death long ago. Facing her hopeful gaze, he muttered, “Fine, I’ll go.” Just before Isabella departed, William handed her a set of writing supplies, including a manuscript he had written: “Keep this hidden. Don't let anyone find it.” Isabella's room was tucked away at Whitaker Boudoir, far from prying eyes, safe from interruptions at night. Returning to her chamber, she lit two more candles, setting up the ink, brush, and paper on her desk. Carefully, she laid delicate parchment atop his manuscript, softly tracing the bold strokes. In the Scholar's Nook, William took his time building a small fire and skewering fresh meat. Meanwhile, he tore page after page from the scandalous book Isabella had mistakenly thought he wouldn’t find out about, throwing them into the flames. As he savored the grilled fish, he glanced towards Isabella’s room. Through the flickering light, her silhouette was fragile, almost like a vine with no branches to cling to. Outside, the gentle spring rain danced upon the garden, a soft patter that echoed the chill in the air. She wrapped herself in a blanket at her desk, meticulously practicing her strokes. As dawn teased the horizon, she wrote through the night. The next morning, as sunlight streamed into the house, William lay sprawled asleep, unaware of Isabella entering his room. “William,” she called softly, a hint of mischief in her voice.
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