The warning note haunted them. For days it lay folded upon the clergyman's desk, its words stark in their brevity: "A friend betrays you. Trust not all who smile." Each time the beloved glanced upon it, suspicion gnawed deeper into his heart. Each time the girl saw it, sorrow clouded her gaze.
The village, once a place of refuge, had become a labyrinth of doubt. Every greeting carried a question; every kindness a shadow of uncertainty. Yet life could not pause for fear. The cattle still needed tending, the water drawn, the bread baked. And so they moved among the people, hearts heavy, eyes watchful, never knowing which face concealed the hand that sought their ruin.
---
It was on a bitter evening, the snow crunching beneath their boots, that truth first began to show itself. Thomas the smith beckoned the beloved aside, his voice low, his eyes troubled.
"There is talk again in the tavern," he murmured. "Lady Ashbourne's steward has been seen with one from among us. They say coin passed from his hand into another's. I know not who—but if rumour speaks true, then she has bought herself a traitor."
The beloved's chest tightened, but he forced his voice to remain steady. "Did you see aught with your own eyes?"
Thomas shook his head. "Nay. But I would not keep it from you. Be on your guard."
That night, the beloved told the girl, and together they lay awake upon their narrow bed, their whispers low and trembling. "Who would sell us?" she asked, her eyes wide in the fire's dim glow. "Who among them could betray so cruelly?"
He could give no answer, for none would suffice.
---
The truth came three nights later.
The beloved, restless with unease, left the cottage after dusk to walk the silent lanes. Snow lay deep upon the ground, muffling his steps. The air was sharp, the stars veiled by heavy clouds. He moved quietly, hoping to clear his thoughts, when he heard voices by the edge of the field.
He halted, heart pounding, and pressed himself against the hedgerow. There, in the pale wash of lantern light, he saw two figures. One was the steward, his hawk's nose gleaming sharp in profile. The other—oh God, the other—was Matthew, the miller's son, a lad the beloved had once broken bread with, a friend in the first days of refuge.
The beloved strained to hear, and though the wind carried most words away, he caught enough.
"—their hiding place," Matthew was saying, his voice hushed yet urgent. "The clergyman's cottage. They dwell there each night, and if you come by dawn, you shall find them together."
The steward pressed a purse into the young man's hand, the jingle of coin clear in the stillness. "See that your tongue does not wag elsewhere. My lady rewards loyalty, but punishes treachery most severely."
Matthew nodded eagerly, tucking the purse beneath his cloak. Then, with a glance over his shoulder, he slipped away into the dark.
---
The beloved's blood ran cold. His hands shook as he turned from the sight, slipping back through the snow like a hunted beast. Each step felt heavier than the last. Matthew—one who had laughed with them, shared their bread, spoken words of sympathy—now a dagger in the dark.
He returned to the cottage pale and trembling. The girl, seeing his face, sprang up in alarm. "What has happened?"
With halting words he told her, each syllable like a stone upon his tongue. When he finished, she sank into her chair, her hands covering her mouth, tears spilling unbidden down her cheeks.
"Matthew," she whispered, voice breaking. "How could he? We trusted him. I—I spoke to him of hope, of love. And all the while—"
The clergyman, silent until then, bowed his head as though beneath a great weight. "It is ever thus," he said softly. "When tyrants cannot win by fear, they win by greed. She has bought his silence, his treachery, with a purse of silver."
The beloved clenched his fists, anger and anguish burning within. "Then we cannot remain here. At dawn they will come, and we shall be bound like cattle."
The girl rose, her tears wiped away though her face was pale as the snow outside. "Where, then, can we go? If not here, if not among those we thought friends—where is safety left to us?"
---
The clergyman lifted his gaze, weary but resolute. "Safety lies not in walls nor in men, but in Providence. Yet we must act. I know of an old shepherd's hut, long abandoned, upon the moors. Few tread there in winter, for the winds are fierce and the snow deep. It is no home, but it may hide you until this storm passes."
The beloved looked at the girl, fear and sorrow mirrored in her eyes. "Would you endure such hardship for me?" he whispered.
She reached for his hand, her grip fierce despite its tremor. "I would endure the very grave itself, so long as I do not face it without you."
---
That night they made ready, hearts heavy with betrayal. The girl gathered what little food could be spared, the beloved wrapped their cloaks tightly against the bitter cold, and the clergyman whispered prayers over them.
Before dawn they slipped from the village, leaving behind the warmth of hearth and the fragile trust of friends. Behind them, the snow bore only fleeting footprints—soon to vanish beneath the storm that rose across the moors.
Yet as they went, the beloved could not help but glance once more toward the mill. Matthew's window glowed faintly with firelight, its warmth mocking the chill in his soul.
---
The girl pressed close to him as they trudged into the dark, her voice soft but steady. "We have lost a friend, but not each other. And so long as we remain, hope remains also."
He tightened his arm about her, the bitterness of betrayal warring with the strength of her love. And though the night closed in about them, though the snow swallowed their path, a single truth burned in his heart: that even treachery, cruel and cutting, could not sever the bond that bound them.