Chapter 1Mercy in Disguise

The day the Grand Army returned victorious, I cradled Silas and joined the bustling crowds.

Silas pointed at the general on horseback, who held a young child in his arms, and asked me, "Mama," he chirped, "that man looks just like the papa in the painting!"

My grip on Silas tightened, knuckles whitening. "Nonsense," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "That's not him."

He once was, perhaps. But now, he wasn't. And he never would be again. He had ascended to the heights of ambition, and I, a mere mortal, couldn't have tethered him even if I’d dared.

* * *

Ten years ago, a orphaned, destitute waif, I offered myself for indenture to bury my parents. It was Aunt Eleanor Miller, the kind but stern baker, who bought my freedom with the meager coins earned from her daily bread.

She handed me a pouch of silver, urging me to buy coffins and lay my parents to rest. Then, with a gruff but decisive air, she formally adopted me into her household, giving me a home and a future.

After burying my beloved mother and father, I arrived at Aunt Eleanor’s humble cottage, a small bundle of belongings clutched in my hand.

Aunt Eleanor was fierce, her gaze cutting enough to remind you that her home was no sanctuary for idlers.

"I took you in," she declared, her voice firm. "You are now part of this family, and you'll pull your weight. Tomorrow, you'll rise with the sun, and I’ll teach you to grind the grain for baking. And during the day, you'll learn your letters with Alistair. A woman, child, needs to read, lest she be easily deceived."

At barely five years old, I nodded furiously, my head bobbing like a dizzy bird.

Aunt Eleanor settled me in the small lean-to beside her own room. It was barely large enough for a cot. That night, my pillow grew damp with silent tears.

The next morning, at the first crow of the rooster, Aunt Eleanor called me to help her prepare the dough. Seeing my swollen eyes, she scoffed, "What's with the dramatics at dawn? Wallowing in self-pity? Without a skill, you're merely a pawn to be bought and sold. A person needs a craft, child, something to anchor them against the tide of hunger. You think your life is hard? You haven't known hardship until you've walked in my shoes. Orphaned young, then widowed with Owen barely out of swaddling clothes. But you, child, you have me. You have the Millers."

I kept my head bowed low, daring not to utter a word of dissent.

After her lecture, Aunt Eleanor began teaching me the baker's craft. During the day, she and Ethan, her eldest, would carry baskets of fresh bread to sell in the market square. I would stay home, tidying the cottage. In the evenings, Alistair would return from his studies and teach me to read.

This quiet routine continued for ten years.

When I was fifteen, Ethan, who daily carried our bread to the county market, returned one evening with unsettling news. Whispers of war in the Northern Reaches had reached his ears. He dropped his heavy baskets, his face grim, and strode straight into Aunt Eleanor's room.

"Mother," he declared, "I'm joining the army."

Aunt Eleanor refused outright.

But Ethan was resolute. He refused to eat, to sell bread, or to speak, a silent protest that finally wore down his mother's resolve. What mother could truly deny her son? Aunt Eleanor eventually relented.

"You may join," she said, her voice heavy with resignation, "but you must leave an heir."

Ethan's mouth dropped open. "Mother, you jest! I'd leave a woman to a life of perpetual widowhood?"

Aunt Eleanor glared at him. "If you understand that, then you shouldn't be joining the army! You should be here, selling bread. Didn't you once speak fondly of Violet, the scholar's daughter? I have some savings. If you're truly earnest, I'll send for a matchmaker. If she agrees to marry you, I'll use every coin I have for her dowry."

Ethan rejected the offer immediately. "Mother, I cannot ask her to live a life of solitary despair. Besides, if all our silver goes to my marriage, what about Alistair's studies?"

Aunt Eleanor's face hardened. "If you can't bear to leave her, then find another. No wife, no war. It's final."

Ethan retreated to his room and didn't emerge for the rest of the day.

Later, when Aunt Eleanor and Owen had gone to sell bread, Ethan came to find me.

"Willow," he asked, his voice hesitant, "would you… would you consider marrying me?"

"Why me?" The words tasted bitter, even as they formed. It was the question I most needed answered.

Ethan didn't try to hide the truth. "How much can Mother truly earn from her bakery? To drain her life's savings for my dowry… I couldn't bear the thought. Violet… she's the woman I love. I couldn't condemn her to a life of widowhood and despair. And you know Mother's temper; she can't abide idlers. Violet, she's been delicately raised. If I brought her home, Mother would find fault. But you, Willow, you're different. You grew up here, you know our ways. No dowry, no awkwardness between you and Mother. It's… practical. Besides, the family's coin is needed for Alistair's education. You wouldn't want to see his future squandered, would you?"

My blood, which moments before had surged with a foolish hope, slowly cooled, chilled by Ethan’s blunt honesty. He laid it all out, so starkly, so rationally, that I had no rebuttal. Aunt Eleanor had taken me in. I was, in essence, bound to the Miller family. For the eldest son to propose marriage? It was, by all accounts, a stroke of immense fortune for a girl like me.

"Very well," I agreed to marry the eldest Miller son.

When Aunt Eleanor and Owen returned, Ethan took my hand and led me to them. "Mother," he announced, "I will marry Willow."

The coin purse Aunt Eleanor clutched in her hand slipped, scattering silver coins across the floor with a metallic clatter. She stumbled backward, then grabbed a broom, wielding it like a weapon as she advanced on Ethan.

"I told you to find a wife, not to ruin Willow's life!" she shrieked, swatting him. "I raised Willow as my own daughter! And you, you dare to exploit our kindness, twist it into some twisted sense of obligation?"

Owen, meanwhile, quietly pried Ethan’s hand from mine.

As Aunt Eleanor thrashed Ethan, Owen chimed in, "It must be Big Brother coercing her, Mother! Willow would never be so forward!"

Amidst the ensuing chaos, Aunt Eleanor finally tired. Panting, she lowered the broom and turned to me. "Willow, are you truly willing to marry Ethan?"

I smiled and nodded. Ethan was right. I couldn't bear the thought of Aunt Eleanor’s hard-earned savings, accumulated through years of early mornings and late nights at the bakery, all handed over as a dowry. The Miller family had so many needs for their coin. Ethan would need funds for his campaign. Alistair, with his sharp mind, would need substantial money for his Imperial Exams. We couldn't let the lack of an heir doom his academic path. And Owen, with his passion for culinary arts, would need funds for his own shop.

Aunt Eleanor sighed. "You don't have to sacrifice your entire life."

I quickly shook my head. "Aunt Eleanor, I am willing."

She said nothing more. A mother’s desperate wish for an heir, and the girl she had paid for and raised – Aunt Eleanor knew which was more important in the eyes of society.

A modest feast with a few neighbors was all it took. Ethan and I were wed.

On our wedding night, Ethan’s rough, calloused hands gently traced my cheek. His touch was surprisingly tender. "My dear wife," he murmured, "I must ask you to honor my memory while I am away."

Then, his movements became crude, and I almost fainted from the pain. He spoke of treating me like a sister, yet showed no mercy. Ethan labored until the early hours of the morning before finally ceasing.

I was utterly exhausted and did not stir until the sun was high. When I finally opened the door, Owen informed me that Ethan had packed his bags and departed at dawn.

A month later, I began to vomit uncontrollably. Aunt Eleanor sighed again, then took me to the village healer.

I was with child.