Marcus Vale had faced storms at sea and rivals across the negotiation table, but nothing made his heart pound like this. The Hartwells' garden lay hushed beneath the late summer sun, the air warm and thick with the scent of roses. Gold light pooled on the hedges and glimmered in Emily's hair as she walked beside him, her skirts whispering over the grass.
Every step felt rehearsed and perilous all at once. For days since his return, Marcus had turned over the words in his mind — at sea, in restless dreams, even mid-conversation — yet now, with her laughter still echoing softly, they seemed suddenly impossible.
"Emily," he began, his voice low, steadying himself, "there is something I must ask you."
She turned toward him, the sunlight catching in her eyes. "Yes?"
He drew a slow breath. "When I was away, I thought of you every day — your voice, your smile, the way the air changed when you entered a room. I realized that nothing I build, no voyage I take, will mean anything if you are not beside me." His words faltered for a heartbeat. "Tell me, do you feel the same?"
Emily's lips parted, her composure trembling for once. "Marcus…" she whispered. "Each day you were gone, I felt the absence of you. It frightened me, how much."
Something eased in his chest. He reached for her hands, his own calloused from work, hers soft and cool beneath his touch. "Then, Emily Hartwell," he said, voice firm with quiet resolve, "will you marry me? Will you walk beside me through all that is to come?"
A blush rose to her cheeks. She lowered her gaze, then met his eyes again with a luminous smile.
"Yes," she breathed, "if my father approves."
Marcus exhaled a laugh, light with disbelief and joy, and kissed her hands. "Then let us go to him."
Mr. Hartwell was not a man of ceremony. They found him seated on the terrace, two hounds sprawled lazily at his feet, his gaze fixed on the distant fields. He looked up as they approached, expression unreadable beneath the bristle of his grey beard.
"Father," Emily said softly, her hand still in Marcus's, "Marcus has asked for my hand."
The old man studied Marcus for a long moment, then scratched absently at one of the dogs' ears. "You'll be taking her from this house, then," he said at last, his tone even but weighty. "See that you bring her no cause for regret."
"I will not," Marcus said, his sincerity unguarded. "She is my heart, sir. My only wish is to protect her happiness."
Hartwell's gaze lingered another beat before he gave a short nod. "Then you have my blessing. A quiet life suits me, but Emily deserves a future brighter than these walls. Give her that, and you'll have done enough."
Emily's fingers tightened around Marcus's hand. Tears shimmered at the corners of her eyes — not from uncertainty, but from the overwhelming simplicity of joy.
Across the city, the evening deepened to amber and grey. Adrian Vale stood before Charlotte Wilson's townhouse, a neatly wrapped parcel tucked beneath his arm. It was no foreign treasure, but a gift chosen with care — a silk shawl from Marcus's warehouse, embroidered with fine silver thread that shimmered like moonlight on water.
Charlotte answered the door herself. Surprise flickered across her face, swiftly replaced by a warmth that made Adrian's heart steady. "Adrian," she said, smiling. "Please, come in."
He followed her into the parlor. The lamps glowed softly, their light reflecting in the crystal decanters. He handed her the parcel, his composure giving way to an almost boyish awkwardness.
"A small token," he said. "Something I hoped might suit you."
She unfolded the paper, her breath catching as the silk unfurled, delicate as mist. "It's beautiful," she whispered. "You shouldn't have—"
"I should," Adrian interrupted gently. "Because you deserve more than words."
Charlotte looked up, startled by the depth in his tone. He stepped closer, still holding her gaze.
"For nearly two years, I've mourned Evelyn," he said quietly. "But in that time, you've been my strength — my counsel, my companion. You are not her replacement, Charlotte. You are yourself. And that is why I love you. Will you marry me?"
Her eyes widened, her breath faltering. She clutched the shawl to her chest, her heart thundering. For a moment, she could not find words.
Then, softly: "If my father approves, Adrian. Ask him — and then we shall see."
Adrian's lips curved into a smile, not disappointed but grateful for her caution. "Then I will go to him at once."
Within the week, both men had secured the blessings they sought. Mr. Wilson, more exacting than Mr. Hartwell, had subjected Adrian to an hour of quiet interrogation about his finances, his future, and his intentions. Adrian answered each question with calm conviction, never flinching.
When at last the older man rose, he said, "My daughter has known grief enough. If you mean to love her for herself, not as a ghost's echo, then you have my blessing."
Adrian bowed his head. "I do, sir. Entirely."
When the announcements came, New Albion received them with delight. The Vale cousins — Marcus to Emily Hartwell, Adrian to Charlotte Wilson — were to be wed within the same season. Bells rang, invitations multiplied, and the city buzzed with anticipation.
In drawing rooms and parlors, people spoke of the Vales as men blessed by fortune — cousins whose names stood for industry and integrity, their futures shining like the harbor under sunlight.
And yet, beyond the shimmer of celebration, the shadows were lengthening.
In the narrow lanes by the docks, a messenger delivered a folded note to a man waiting in a carriage. Sebastian Crowne broke the seal and read the news of both engagements in silence.
For a moment, he simply stared at the neat lines of ink. Then his mouth curved — not in surprise, but in quiet satisfaction.
"Two vows," he murmured, folding the paper with deliberate care. "Two foundations. The higher they build, the sweeter the fall."
The note burned quickly when he held it to the carriage lamp. Outside, the city's bells kept ringing.