The bells tolled low across the frost-hardened fields, a solemn knell that rolled through the valley like a mourning shroud. Mourners gathered in somber silence beneath a slate-grey sky, the air brittle with cold and reverence.

Lord Jasper Finch stood a few paces from the open graves, his shoulders square, his jaw tight, the weight of his title settling upon him like iron. Duke of Winterset. A name he had never desired to wear so soon—certainly not like this. Not borne from the wreckage of a splintered carriage and the unthinkable loss of both his parents.

To his right, his childhood friend Lord Philip Browning stood in respectful silence, his expression drawn but steady, a quiet pillar amid the grief. Jasper was dimly aware of Philip's father, the Duke of Everly, and the Duchess nearby. Their presence—constant friends to his late parents—was a balm he could not quite acknowledge yet. Too much was required of him already. Too many decisions, too many condolences. Too many eyes.

A few paces ahead, beneath the fluttering edge of a black veil, sat his sister, Charlotte. Six and ten, just returned from Madame Bellamy's Seminary for Young Ladies, she had arrived that very morning—ripped from her studies to stand before a pair of coffins. Between moments of weeping, she complained loudly about the weather, bristled at the attention of the other mourners, and snapped at the maid who tried to adjust her bonnet.

Jasper's gaze lingered on her. Charlotte had always been willful, quick of wit, and quicker to wound—even as a child. He feared how this grief would shape her—or harden her further. Yet, beside her sat Abigail Browning, Philip's younger sister, also freshly returned from the seminary. Abigail's gloved hand rested quietly atop Charlotte's, her manner composed, her countenance serene. She handed his sister a lace handkerchief when Charlotte abruptly shoved out her hand, waiting.