The walls of the house trembled with the evening wind. I sat reading by the window, feet propped on the table and a stolen book from my father's shelf in hand. Medicine, of course. I barely understood half of it, but pretending otherwise gave me pleasure.
"Straighten that posture," my father grumbled behind me, using the same tone he reserved for chasing pigs from the stables. "We have guests."
"Another debt collector," I thought. But then I heard:
"Álvaro, my old friend!"
The voice carried the scent of must and the hiss of ambition. It was Lord Valente, a minor noble who lived off favors and barely washed his own clothes. And with him, a girl. About my age. Simple dress, watchful eyes, face that gave nothing away.
She wasn't pretty. She wasn't ugly. She was... loud in her silence.
"This is my daughter, Amélia," the old man said, proud as if offering me a thoroughbred horse.
My father nodded and pushed me forward. "This is Peterson. Don't mind his face, it's the brain that's worth anything."
"Hm," I muttered.
"Hm," she replied. No friendship would bloom here.
"I came to discuss that matter we spoke of," Valente said, rubbing his hands. "The union of our families. Your land. My lineage. Both sides win. The daughter for the property, naturally..."
My stomach turned. My father poured wine.
"We're still considering," Álvaro said, too polite for his nature.
"Considering?" Valente arched an eyebrow. "Come now, Álvaro, the boy's going to Coimbra, isn't he? Nothing better than leaving him with a home and alliance ready."
"A home? More like a stable," I thought. Amélia crossed her arms, her gaze burning into the back of my neck.
"Could you leave us?" she said.
Her father huffed but obeyed. Álvaro, by some miracle, did too.
My father cleared his throat like he might spit iron. "Let them talk alone awhile," he said. And before I could protest, the door closed behind them.
She stepped forward. Firm foot, neutral face. A purple dress, frayed at the edges but neatly kept. "I wanted it to be yellow," she said, not looking at me.
"Good thing it's not. Purple's ugly enough as it is."
She laughed. "You have terrible taste."
"And you lack reading," I shot back. "Why are you here?"
"My father wants to gift me to your family. Like a mourning mule."
"So that's it," I murmured. "A marriage between two people who'd rather burn alive."
She approached the table and eyed the book. "What's this?"
"'Corpus et Morbus.' Medicine. In Latin."
"Ah." She touched the page, trying to hide the confusion in her eyes.
"You can't read?" I asked, surprised.
She snatched her hand back, chin high. "Of course not. But I know when someone looks down on me for it."
"Not for that. For everything else."
She turned away. "You're truly Álvaro's son. Arrogant, scrawny, and full of yourself."
"And you're the daughter of a desperate man. Sent you in funeral purple and called it a proposal."
"I'd rather join a convent."
"I'd rather you did too. Yet here we are."
The door creaked open. My father entered with Valente in tow, both smiling like pigs after a feast.
"Well?" Álvaro asked, staring straight at me.
"I'm still thinking," I said.
"So am I," Amélia said without hesitation.
Her father looked offended. Mine just raised an eyebrow.
"Either way," he said, "the boy might not even go to Coimbra anymore. Costs more than he's worth."
"Of course," I retorted. "Better to sell me than educate me."
"Better still if you grew up, Peterson."
He left with stiff shoulders. The purple girl followed.
When the door slammed, I breathed deep. The taste in my mouth was rust and half-baked futures.
She couldn't read. But she could speak. And she knew where it hurt.
And that was the first day I thought that maybe... just maybe... I wouldn't hate marrying Amélia Valente so much after all.
But night fell. And so did the deal.
I was still peering through the grimy parlor curtain when I heard:
"This is a waste of time, Álvaro," Valente's voice came thicker now, without its sugar coating. "The boy's nose is too high to see opportunity."
"His nose is high because he takes after his mother," my father said flatly. "And still sees more than many a burgher."
"You'd refuse land for a healthy girl?"
"I'd refuse half a fief to avoid feeding another mouth."
A strange silence fell. The kind that breaks old friendships.
Valente huffed. "So that's it?"
"That's it. For now."
"Know there won't be an 'after,' Álvaro." "Good."
The sharp sound of heavy boots on wood. Amélia passed through the door moments later, purple dress wrinkled, mouth trembling between anger and humiliation.
She said nothing. But she looked at me. Just for a second. Long enough to sting.
"Come, daughter," her father grunted. "No future for us here."
And they left.
No door slammed. Just the echo of hooves in the damp courtyard.
I stood alone with the smell of cheap wine and wounded pride. And thought again:
"Maybe I wouldn't hate marrying Amélia Valente so much..."
But the world, it seemed, had other plans.
The next day, she appeared again.
Perched on the fountain's edge by the gate, eating an apple like the world owed her something. Same purple dress—now with a fresh patch on the sleeve.
"Your mother sew for you?" I asked, leaning against the wall.
"No. The maid. But I could ask her to sew your mouth shut."
"She must be too busy teaching you to read."
She rolled her eyes and bit the apple angrily. "I came because I lost my way home."
"How fortunate. Right here, at my gate."
"You think I'm stupid?"
"No. I think you came to finish our conversation from yesterday."
She fell silent. Then rose and walked slowly toward me. "Why do you want to be a physician?"
I looked at the forgotten apple on the ground. "Because once I almost died. And no one cared."
She studied me for several seconds. "You're strange, you know?"
"I've been called worse."
"I almost died once too. Fell from a horse. Broke my arm."
"And?"
"My father said it made me more 'valuable.' Less fragile."
"He has a way with words."
Silence. The comfortable kind.
She pointed to the book under my arm. "Will you teach me?"
"To fall off horses?"
She smiled. "To read, idiot."
I sighed. "Maybe. Someday."
She turned away. "I hope that day comes before I'm wedding fodder again."
"And I hope next time you wear yellow."
She stopped. Didn't turn. Just raised her hand, flipping me off in a most un-medieval gesture.
And that was how "maybe" became "certainty."