Julian descended the stairs to the lower levels, where the air was thick with the scent of roasting venison and rosemary. At the center of the frantic kitchen stood Nanny Martha. She was peeling apples with an almost frightening precision, her sharp eyes darting around to ensure the maids didnāt miss a single beat of their work.
āShe still didnāt like Julian. To her, he was an intruder who had shattered the stagnant, safe grief of the manor. But Martha was the only one who truly knew the "Jaguar" before heād grown his claws.
āShe had been one of the few maids who had taken care of Alaric after his mother passed away.
He was just four back then.
She and a few other maids had raised him in the shadow of a father who didnāt care and a world that wanted him broken just because he had his motherās color.
In her mind, the Dukeās legendary stoicism wasnāt a flawāit was a masterpiece she had helped craft. Her methods were cold because the world sheād survived was colder.
And then, when Alaric had found happiness and came to the North, she followed him. She shared in his gladness and knew that this was the result of living with a hard hand from the start.
Only for that happiness to be snatched away with the birth of a child.
She saw the boyās existence not as a blessing, but as the physical manifestation of the torment that had finally crushed Alaricās spirit.
But it was okay.
She believed that by hardening the child through silence and distance, she was preparing him for the same āstrengthā his father now possessed.
That was why she had isolated Lucius.
āBut there was one thing her bitterness blinded her to.
āShe remembered the Dukeās lonely childhood, but she forgot that even in those dark days, Alaric hadnāt been entirely alone.
Heād had a brother who played with him, a brother who gave him everything he could ask for, whether it was through tooth or nail. Aurelian was always there.
āAlaric had known warmth once; Lucius had been given none. Only the embrace of the cold winds of the North.
āMartha laid her knife down as Julian approached, her gaze as sharp as the blade.
ā"The Young Lord is napping, Master Julian," she snapped. "I assume your evening classes do not start for another hour and a half."
āJulian didnāt flinch at her spiky tone, and he said, "Itās not about Lucius." he stepped closer and sat on the wooden bench opposite her. He ignored her scoff. "Itās about the Duke. Itās about Lucien."
That made her stop. She laid the knife down and finally looked at him, her eyes narrowed and suspicious.
"And what could a scholar from the Capital possibly need to know about my Lord that he hasnāt already told you in the dark of night?"
Julian flinched at the bluntness, but he didnāt look away.
"Prince Zane..." his breath got caught, but he continued regardless. "He asked me today what I have ever done for Lucien. He asked me how I have proven my love to a man who gives me everything while I... I give so little in return."
The Nannyās expression shifted. The hostility didnāt vanish, but a flicker of something elseāperhaps a reluctant respect for his honestyāappeared. She picked up a new apple.
"The Prince of the South is a fool who thinks love is a performance," she muttered. "But he isnāt wrong about one thing. My Lord has spent seven years starving in his heart. Heās fed everyone else, but no one has ever
fed
him."
Julian could tell it was not the normal type of feeding. It didnāt have to do with food. But then again, he didnāt know what being fed entailed.
Julian leaned in, his interest fixed on the nanny.
Around them, the maids had their ears peeled up. There was no way they would miss the gossip of the century.
Martha noticed this and scolded them.
"If I see you dwaddling, youāre cleaning this place alone." She yelled, and they all fixed their attention on their respective positions.
Nanny Martha huffed and then turned back to her peeling when Julian asked,
"How do I feed him, Martha? How do I give him the peace he gives me?"
Martha stopped peeling again. She looked toward the heavy door that led to the courtyard where Alaric was still training.
"He hates the dark at night," she whispered, so low Julian almost missed it. "Since his wife died, he sleeps with the fire high, but you probably already know that since you share a bed."
Julian looked away. Ah, he didnāt really notice.
He was equally scared of the dark, so he only assumed that the Duke had kept the fire burning heavily for his sake.
It seems like because he always kept his own fire on, he didnāt catch the Dukeās own fear.
This made his brows knit together.
Does this make him selfish?
But how was he supposed to know?
Martha watched him wallow and sighed. She did not have time to watch his pity play since she had to get back to making dinner.
There were just too many guests to feed.
"If you want to prove your love, Master Julian, then you need to show him that heās allowed to be the one who leans, not just the wall that others lean on. You need to give him a reason to take off the armor, not just the leather, but the spirit of it."
She shoved a bowl of sliced apples toward him.
"How much you love the Duke, that is of your concern, but without sincerity, nothing can be done."
Julian looked at the apples. He was sincere. He knew it.
"Tonight is the Eve of the First Frost," she added, her voice returning to its usual gruff tone. "In the North, we donāt give gold. We give āThe Hearth-Gift.ā Itās something made by hand, something that carries the warmth of the giver. If youāre as clever as they say you are, youāll figure it out."
Julian looked at the Nanny with a newfound admiration. He still didnāt fully like her for isolating Lucius, but she had words of wisdom that he appreciated.
And he was by no means an ungrateful person.
"Thank you, Martha."
"Donāt thank me," she grumbled, going back to her work. "I just donāt want a grumpy Duke stomping around my kitchen because his scholar is moping."
Julian left the kitchen with a spark of an idea.
A āHearth-Giftā. Something made by hand.