Joanna Nyle stared into the Manor's predawn gloom, sleep a memory scoured away by luxury. The Lilywater chamber's roaring fire mocked her—too warm, too solid after three winters shuddering under drafts. The featherbed? A suffocating cloud. Reality felt as thin as ice over deep water.
Only when weak winter sunlight gilded the dusty sill did she truly grasp it: she was back. Trapped.
Viola's "gift" arrived at dawn: a hastily procured wool gown from the village draper's. The sleeves, blessedly, swallowed the ruin of her forearms whole. She fled to the one anchor left.
The Dowager Vane knelt in her private chapel, the soft click of ivory prayer beads the only sound. Yet her head turned as Joanna paused at the threshold. Ancient eyes, fierce with unshed tears, met hers across the space.
"Child." One word, cracked with a world's weariness.
Joanna crossed the flagstones and sank to her knees. "Granddaughter Joanna… returns." The prayer beads clattered forgotten as the Dowager turned fully, trembling fingers reaching.
"Let me see."
Joanna knelt close, submitting to the arthritic hands tracing her jaw. "So thin," the Dowager breathed. A tremor ran through the fragile touch. The last restraint dissolved. Joanna buried her face in the worn silk robes smelling faintly of rosemary and beeswax, a scent that had never abandoned her memory. "Grandmother," escaped her, muffled and broken, unleashing a torrent she'd believed dried within the Steamworks' walls. Even her lady-in-waiting dabbed at her eyes.
Hers had been the sole loyalty in that den of snakes when Joanna was cast out. The Dowager had faced the Princess's venomous courtiers for Joanna's sake. Fury had cost Joanna dearly—she'd beaten those jeering maids bloody, nearly earning the Matron's killing lash. Worth every stripe. Silence had reigned about the Dowager after that.
"It's home now, storm-petrel," the Dowager murmured into her hair later, nestled close on a window seat overlooking the frost-rimed gardens. "My wing shields you henceforth."
Where Viola's vow felt hollow air, this cracked voice wielded anchors. Ice thawed, drop by precious drop, in Joanna's core. She leaned closer. "Then Grandmother must live forever."
A soft, teary laugh answered. "So I shall. Just to spite the Reaper."
——
The fragile peace shattered with Viola and Elena's arrival. They found Joanna and the Dowager intertwined like gnarled roots against the winter window.
Viola's smile faltered seeing their closeness. Yet she pressed on, her voice gratingly bright. "Mother, Joanna's return blesses Silverwood! Perhaps… General Thorne's formal proposal might now proceed?"
Proposal? Joanna Thorne? Cold dread trickled down Joanna's spine. She kept her gaze fixed on a robin bobbing outside, expression schooled to stillness.
The Dowager patted Joanna's hand gently. "Well, little storm-petrel? Does Silas Thorne still hold your heart?"
Joanna flinched internally. Her gaze flickered unwillingly to Elena. The girl stood rigidly beside Viola, lips pressed tight, knuckles white on Viola's sleeve. Viola, instinctively, angled her body, a shield against Joanna's perceived threat.
An old wound split open—Viola's protective mantle had once enfolded her.
Irrelevant. She smothered the ache. This was their equation: Elena threatened, Joanna sacrificed. Always.
Joanna turned back to the Dowager, summoning a ghost of serenity. "General Thorne holds nothing of mine, Grandmother."
A sharp intake of breath echoed near the doorway. Unseen.
"Child, the flame you bore him once—" the Dowager began gently.
"—Was a girl's fancy," Joanna interrupted, soft but absolute. "And the Thorne-Vane betrothal scrolls, Grandmother, name Vane blood." She squeezed the Dowager's frail hand. "I am Joanna Nyle."
The Dowager swallowed hard, nodding even as grief shimmered in her eyes. "Nyle… Yes… My brave, true storm-petrel remains."
Footsteps announced arrivals. Lord Cedric entered, his face granite beneath courtly manners. Behind him… General Silas Thorne. Cedric bowed stiffly. "Grandmother."
His glare burned Joanna instantly. "The Manor records remain unchanged! You bear the Vane crest, not this cobbled Nyle pretension!"
"Cedric!" Viola hissed, dismayed by his harshness.
Joanna's voice cut the tension, cool as chapel stone. "Then the Earl committed treason against the Crown." Every eye snapped to her. "His Lordship publicly renounced my claim to Vane blood three winters past. Before His Majesty. Are Manor records above Royal decree?"
Silence slammed down, thick and choking. Viola turned pale. Elena stared at the floor, posture rigid. Thorne watched Joanna, an unreadable intensity beneath his glacial mask. Cedric looked as though he'd been struck across the mouth.
The Dowager gripped Joanna's hand tighter, not in rebuke, but shared defiance. "My records," she stated, her frail voice resonating with unexpected steel, "name whom I choose. And this is my granddaughter." Her weathered hand clasped Joanna's scarred one. "Joanna."
The winter sun, weak through the glass, suddenly felt colder than the stones of the Royal Steamworks. The battle lines, invisible but razor-sharp, were finally drawn. Within the gilded cage, the true storm had only just begun.