Sapphire stared blankly at the wall, the weight in her chest growing heavier by the second.
What was she even doing? Her son was still out there, torn from her arms, and here she was… walking on threads, clashing with a man who could crush her with a word. What was she trying to prove?
A nobody. That's what she was now.
A bitter laugh escaped her lips, sharp and hollow. Her heart ached, deep and unrelenting. The signs had always been there, even back when she was with Albert. The bastard had never cared. He used her. For his ambitions, for his image. And like a fool, she had craved his attention… love.
Her inner voice sneered. Look at where that got us.
No child. No home. And now trying to solve a nation's plague with nothing but hope.
But for her son's sake… she had to get her head back. She couldn't afford weakness.
From now on, she'd keep her head low. Avoid the Lord as much as possible. Find a cure if a cure even existed. And save as many as she could along the way.
With that fire forging her steps, she rose and left the room to find Eugene.
She found Eugene near the west wing, his sleeves rolled and brows furrowed as he corrected a maid, his voice sharp but not loud.
"That window still has streaks," he said coldly, pointing with a gloved finger. "Do it again."
The maid gave a nervous curtsy and scurried away, flustered. Before Sapphire could get too close, Eugene turned toward her as if he'd sensed her coming.
"Are you done arranging the Lord's study?" he asked, eyes narrowed and tone unreadable.
She hesitated, then stepped closer. "Has the maid shown up? the one who couldn't conceive?"
Eugene's brows raised slightly, but he said nothing yet.
"I need to speak with her," Sapphire added, her voice firmer now, the edge of urgency clear.
Eugene studied her quietly for a moment, then gave a short nod.
"You need to test your theory," he said flatly, already turning on his heel. "Follow me."
Sapphire kept pace as they walked briskly through the manor's stone corridors. He led her to the laundry courtyard where the scent of lye and damp cloth filled the air. A few maids were bent over washbasins, scrubbing linen with practiced hands.
Eugene's gaze scanned them until it settled on one woman, slim, her sleeves rolled up, hands deep in soapy water.
"Sarah," he called, his voice crisp.
The woman looked up instantly. "Sir Eugene?"
He gestured her over without further explanation.
"Come."
Sarah Wiped her hands on her apron, eyes flitting curiously between the two of them as she approached. Sapphire's heart picked up, this was it. A small but crucial piece of her research, standing right in front of her.
Eugene gestured for Sarah to follow them as they made their way to Sapphire's chamber. The soft click of the heavy wooden door closing behind them was the only sound for a moment.
Once inside, Eugene turned to Sarah, his tone measured but firm. "The Lady wishes to understand the nature of your condition, specifically the cause of your infertility. This is important for her research into the illness afflicting the kingdom."
Sarah's eyes widened slightly but she nodded.
"Please, My lady, grant me this chance. My husband took another wife after many years of barrenness. Yet, even she cannot conceive. I fear there is something wrong beyond simple misfortune."
Sapphire regarded her thoughtfully, then spoke softly,
"Infertility can stem from many causes, genetic factors, hormonal imbalances, infections. I intend to observe and test, to find patterns that might help not only you but others."
Eugene nodded. "We will begin with basic observations and questions, then proceed to physical examinations and sample collections very necessary. All with your consent."
Sarah swallowed nervously but gave a resolute nod.
"I will help however I can."
Sapphire felt the weight of responsibility settle on her shoulders but also a flicker of hope. Science was her path forward—no longer just prayers or guesses. With diligence, perhaps a cure could be found.
***
Back in Creedom:
As the months passed, Rosella's belly began to swell, small, but undeniable. She was pregnant. And though this should have brought joy, a quiet fear nestled in her chest. Albert hadn't spoken much of the baby, nor of the future beyond their upcoming wedding. She didn't know if either of them was truly ready. Especially him.
Still, society had begun to soften its glare. With Albert officially sending the betrothal gifts to her family, the whispers had dulled. She could now walk the streets with her head slightly higher. And today, she'd convinced Albert, after some resistance—to accompany her to Madame Ferya's, a renowned seamstress known for dressing nobility in art woven with thread.
The servants ushered them into the waiting room, plush velvet chairs lining the walls. Albert sank lazily into one, legs stretched, already helping himself to the sugared biscuits laid out. He didn't even glance at her when she adjusted her gloves nervously.
When Madame Ferya appeared, her sharp eyes sparkled with practiced kindness. She greeted Rosella warmly, her gaze flicking curiously to her midsection.
"Come, dear. Let's get you measured," she said, leading her behind a curtain.
As the tape wrapped around her waist, the bump was harder to ignore. Madame Ferya's brows lifted slightly, but she didn't comment directly. Instead, with a quiet smile, she said,
"He must be lucky to have you."
Rosella's eyes flicked toward the curtain, where Albert sat beyond, licking crumbs from his fingers with disinterest. Her hand came to rest protectively over her small bump.
"He must," she murmured, but the words tasted bitter on her tongue.
Noticing the tension in her shoulders, Madame Ferya gave a thoughtful nod and went to retrieve a gown she believed would flatter Rosella's changing figure, a flowing piece in cream silk with delicate lacework at the shoulders.
"Try this. It can be adjusted with ease later."
Rosella changed slowly, the fabric cool against her skin. She studied her reflection briefly, smoothing the gown over her stomach before stepping out into the waiting room.
She cleared her throat softly.
Albert didn't look up.
She coughed again—just a little louder.
Finally, he glanced over, eyes scanning her for the briefest second.
His frown came fast and sharp.
"You look fat in that dress," he said, carelessly, already reaching for another biscuit.
The words sliced clean through her. Rosella froze, lips parting slightly as her hands instinctively dropped to her sides. The room seemed to still. Even Madame Ferya, standing quietly in the background, seemed to stiffen.
Rosella's throat tightened. Her cheeks burned. That moment, when she thought he might see her, truly see her, crumbled like the biscuit in his hand.
But she smiled anyway. A small, tight one.
Because what else could she do?
She turned back toward the changing room, holding the gown carefully so her trembling fingers wouldn't wrinkle it.