Chapter 18
Dawn came with an overcast sky, pale and solemn like parchment left in the rain. October stood in the quiet hush of the corridor outside her father’s study, hands folded neatly in front of her, waiting to be summoned.
She’d sent a note earlier that morning: May I request an audience, Father? Regarding Scheuer’s departure.
It wasn’t entirely a lie. But neither was it the truth.
When the door finally opened and the steward waved her in, she stepped through with the kind of grace she had learned at far too high a cost. Duke Theodore Windsor stood at the window, facing the courtyard. He didn’t turn to greet her.
“You’ve heard Scheuer is leaving,” he said.
without preamble.
“I have.”
“She didn’t ask for permission.”
“She rarely does,” October replied softly.
There was a moment’s pause, and then he turned, his cool eyes settling on her. “And you?”
“I would like to go with her.”
That earned a raised brow. “To the North.”
“Yes.”
A long silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the rustle of leaves outside.
“Why?” he asked finally. “You seek refuge… or purpose?”
October met his gaze steadily. “I seek the strength to return on my own terms.”
He studied her, as if weighing the truth against her posture, her words, the light in her eyes.
“You’ve changed,” he said at last, not with warmth, but not with disapproval either.
She inclined her head. “I had to.”
He walked past her to his desk, opened a drawer, and removed a folded piece of parchment. His signet ring pressed into the wax as he sealed it again. “You’ll need this to cross the borders without suspicion. Scheuer’s appointment protects her, but not you.”
She took it with careful hands. “Thank you.”
His next words were quieter. “Don’t look back unless you’re ready to fight what’s behind you.”
October held the envelope against her chest for a heartbeat. “I don’t plan to look back at all.”
\---
Scheuer was hunched over a packing list when October found him in the east wing, his room in mild disarray. Tunics folded with surgical precision, medicinal vials in a leather case, boots that looked far sturdier than anything one wore at court.
October leaned against the doorframe. “You didn’t think to ask if I wanted to come?”
Scheuer looked up. “I didn’t think you would.”
“I’m going,” she said, entering. “The Duke gave his permission.”
He stared at her for a long beat. “Why?”
October smirked faintly. “Because I asked.”
“No,” Scheuer said, setting down the list. “Why do you want to come?”
Her reply came more slowly. “Because this place no longer feels like mine. And because I want to see what becomes of me when I’m no longer drowning in everyone else’s expectations.”
He didn’t speak right away. Then, “This isn’t a holiday, October. It’s cold. Brutal. They won’t bow just because you wear fine dresses.”
“I’ve packed warmer ones.”
“You’ll be tested.”
“I hope so.”
Scheuer’s eyes narrowed with reluctant admiration. “You’re serious.”
“I’m tired of being the kind of woman people talk about like she’s a ghost.” She met his gaze. “In the North, I’ll be nobody. And I’d rather be nobody by choice than somebody by pity.”
His mouth twitched—something almost like a smile. “You’ll regret it when your boots freeze solid.”
October grinned. “You can lend me yours.”
\---
Elina cornered her in the conservatory later that afternoon, eyes wide and mouth drawn into a tight, trembling line.
“You’re going with him?”
October nodded.
Elina clutched a pillow to her chest. “You didn’t tell me.”
“You weren’t supposed to worry.”
“I’m your sister. Worrying is what I do.”
October came forward and took Elina’s hands in hers. “I need this, Lina. I need to leave before I start to rot in these halls.”
“But it’s so far.” Elina’s voice was small. “And you just came back.”
“I’ll write to you.” She kissed her sister’s forehead. “And one day, I’ll come back stronger. Smarter.”
Elina sniffled. “Will you wear wolf furs and carry daggers?”
“If I must.”
“I’ll draw you with ice in your hair,” Elina whispered. “And no one will mock you ever again.”
October squeezed her hand. “Draw me as I am—learning how to be dangerous.”
\---
Packing took less time than she thought.
October stood in her room surrounded by neatly folded coats, a pair of boots with lined insoles, and a trunk already half-filled with books. She placed each item with deliberation, her fingers brushing fabrics and paper with equal reverence.
Near the bottom, she slipped in a small cloth bundle—inside, a bead from an old abacus October once carried during her commoner days, a folded page from a fictional contract she’d once drafted in her apartment for fun, and her favorite pen. Tiny things. Sharp things.
Proof that she remembered who she had been, and what she might still become.
A soft knock at the door startled her.
It was the courier. Northern seal. He bowed silently and handed her the missive meant for Scheuer.
She took it with trembling fingers.
The wax was black. The symbol: an eagle perched on a mountain.
She didn’t break it, though the urge sang through her. Instead, she turned it over, brushing her thumb across the back where someone—perhaps hastily—had written in a different hand:
> "Do not arrive alone."
A warning? An invitation?
Her heart thudded. Whatever it meant, her presence was expected.
\---
That evening, a maid lingered by her door longer than necessary. As October stepped into the hallway, the woman curtsied low.
“Pardon, my lady,” she said, her voice low. “But the North is no place for soft southern ladies.”
October paused. “Luckily, I’m not very soft.”
The maid gave a small, knowing nod. “Then may the frost be kind to you.”
October continued down the hall, her footsteps quiet, her spine unshaken.
\---
Night fell like ink.
She stood by her window again, the glass cold against her fingertips. Her eyes traced the winding streets of the capital—familiar shadows and golden lights blinking through fog.
She whispered into the silence, “I promise I’ll return with something more than survival.”
The stars above remained silent. Watching.
\---
The next morning, October rose before the sun. Dressed in a warm traveling cloak and a modest gown stitched with silver thread, she stepped into the courtyard where two carriages waited.
Snow flurried lightly in the air—soft, uncommitted, a tease of the winter to come.
Scheuer stood already beside his carriage, checking straps with soldier-like efficiency. When he saw her approach, he held the door open without a word.
Elina ran up, throwing her arms around October in one last, breathless hug. “Write every week.
Or I’ll send someone to drag you home.”
October smiled, smoothing back her sister’s hair. “You’ll have to catch me first.”
Duke Theodore emerged only briefly, his arms crossed as he watched from the steps.
He gave her a small nod. “Make it worth the frostbite.”
October dipped into a graceful curtsy. “I intend to.”
With her gloved hand wrapped around the carriage handle, she paused just once—glancing back at the manor, the spires, the familiar prison dressed like a palace.
Then she climbed in.
The door shut with a solid thud.
As the carriage began to roll forward, October pulled aside the curtain and looked toward the mountains that rose in the distance like teeth of some great beast.
A thrill passed through her.
“Freedom is a cold wind,” she thought, lips curving into a smile, “and I’ve never been more eager to feel it.”