Page 9 of On Broken Bonds

He glances over, his pale blue eyes bright with amusement. “And why not?”

“Because the Dowers are dreadful,” I say at once, earning a bark of laughter from him. “And because they could have their pick of servants from half the holdings in this region.”

“Well, now you wound me.” He presses a hand dramatically to his chest. “Here I thought my carriage driving alone made me irresistible.”

Despite everything weighing on me, a small laugh escapes.

It is true enough. Ivor had once been one of the finest carriage men in the county. Even now, with his shoulders bent by age and his hair gone nearly white, he still carries himself with a certain sharpness that hints at the capable young man he must have once been. But there is no carriage left for him to drive. Selling ours had been one of the first desperate measures after my parents died, and part of the reason we now walk this long road instead of making the journey in comfort.

His smile softens. “Truthfully, it’s Hilda’s bread pudding they want. Mrs. Dower had it at your mother’s Solmara feast years ago and has been trying to lure her away ever since.”

I study him, unable to quite understand. “Then why stay?”

Once I speak the question aloud, I can’t stop considering it.

I know how little we can offer them now. A room. Simple meals. A house that grows colder and barer with each passing season. They could live more comfortably elsewhere, with proper wages and fewer worries. There are days I think the kindest thing I could do would be to release them from us entirely.

Ivor slows, then steps into my path so I am forced to stop.

The breeze stirs the edges of his coat, carrying with it the familiar sharp scent of spearmint soap and fresh earth. It’s a smell I’ve associated with safety since childhood, since scraped knees and thunderstorms and all the moments he was there to quietly set things right.

“Because,” he says, fixing me with a look so earnest it makes my throat tighten, “your parents were good people. You and your sister are good people. Hilda and I would rather spend what years we have left beside people of character than serving spoiled little lords who have never suffered enough to learn gratitude.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he raises a hand.

“No, let me finish. Your family name still means something. Do not mistake hardship for disgrace, Lady Nyx. There is a reason Valtor cursed your house.” His voice lowers, as though even here the god might overhear us. “A curse from that creature is no mark of shame. It is proof your mother stood for something worth punishing.”

I know he’s right. My mother’s refusal had been brave. Noble.

“Always something brewing in that head of yours,” Ivor murmurs, tapping the center of my forehead with one finger.

I swat his hand away, and this time my laugh comes easier.

“You know the crop yields have been worse this year,” I say, the humor fading. “Even if we had secured the loan, what then? We couldn’t repay it. The eastern fields barely produced enough barley to fill half the granary. The lower orchards gave almost nothing. If the autumn harvest is as poor as summer’s was…”

I don’t finish.

I don’t need to.

Ivor’s expression turns solemn. He looks out across the rolling fields stretching beyond the road, all green from a distance. Healthy enough to fool anyone who doesn’t know better.

“I know,” he says quietly. “The farmers know too.”

That startles me. “They do?”

He nods. “They aren’t blind, child. They see what the land gives. They know what your family has already sacrificed to keep food in their homes. Not one of them believes you’ve failed them.”

A lump rises in my throat.

I think of the tenant families scattered across our lands. The children who once played in our gardens during festivals. The men and women who danced in our ballroom during Pantheora. The faces that had filled our home with laughter before grief hollowed it out.

“As the heir, it is my responsibility to keep them fed,” I whisper.

“And you’re trying.” Ivor’s voice is firm enough to stop my spiraling thoughts. “That’s what matters. No one expects miracles from you, Nyx. They expect honesty, effort, and heart. You have all three.”

We continue on for a while in silence. Me, wishing to be as hopeful as he is, but having too much knowledge to do so. The path ahead bends, cresting the familiar hill before the manor.

I draw a slow breath, trying to let his certainty steady me. There has to be another answer. Some solution hidden in my mother’s journals, or buried in old records, waiting to be uncovered.