Sam entered the front vestibule, amazed at how little it had changed since she had run away. It hadn’t been that long, really—just shy of a month—yet she’d expected Castle Haywood to show the signs of her absence. But the room looked as though time had frozen: everything remained the same down to the wax-coated chandelier that was still missing two candles and the splotch of burgundy on the blue area rug where a guest had spilled his wine.

“This place is almost as over the top as the Center,” Braeden said under his breath, his nose wrinkling.

Sam turned to Braeden in surprise. Castle Haywood, over the top? All she could see were the off-kilter curtain rods and the dull hardwood floors in desperate need of a good polish. It must have been different viewing Haywood through an outsider’s eyes.

“Have you been inside Castle Haywood before, Sam?” Tristan asked. He tugged at the formal hunter green doublet he must have packed just for this occasion and smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle.

“Aye, once or twice,” she said, pretending fascination with a nearby painting. She blinked as the painting came into focus. It was a watercolor of a lilac, one she’d painted herself five years ago. The duke must have moved it from her bedroom after she left. She swallowed down a lump that had formed at the back of her throat. Now was not the time to get sentimental.

Sam felt a warm hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright?” Braeden asked quietly.

“I’m fine,” she said with more surety than she felt, turning around to face him. She tried to smile, but the scabs on her lips stretched painfully and her attempt turned into more of a grimace.

“You still look like you, you know,” Braeden said, his expression unreadable beneath the low brim of his new hat.

“He won’t recognize me, I’m sure of it,” she said. Her eyes darted back to the lilac watercolor.

“I’ve heard he’s clever, the Duke of Haywood,” said Braeden.

“He is clever. Just not…observant.”

“Hmph.”

“Come on, Tristan’s going to think we’re conspiring against him if we keep to the corner like this.” Sam moved to join Tristan in the center of the room.

Braeden grabbed her wrist, halting her in her tracks. “I can help you, if you’ll let me. If something happens.”

Sam laughed mirthlessly. “If the duke recognizes me, it’s over. Trust me on that.”

“I can help,” Braeden insisted, his grip on her wrist tightening. “I can make him forget you’re even in the room.”

Sam raised her hand to touch Braeden’s cheek, but stopped halfway when she felt Tristan’s eyes on them. “You’re a good friend, Braeden,” she said, letting her hand drop to her side.

Two circles of red bloomed beneath his high cheekbones. “We’re friends?”

“Aren’t we?”

Braeden’s lips curved into a rare smile. “Friends,” he agreed.

Sam felt something shift between them, but a new voice, once she hadn’t heard in months, interrupted her thoughts before she had the chance to think too deeply on it.

“Paladin Lyons, Masters Braeden and Sam,” the voice called with an affected accent – Gillain, her father’s steward. Now there was one person she hadn’t missed, and no doubt the feeling was mutual. Gillain was a pompous, arrogant man who lorded his stewardship over the other servants with a misplaced sense of entitlement. Some of the servants were Sam’s friends, and she’d borne witness to more than one of Gillain’s infamous set downs. She was also convinced that his dignified accent was fake.

“His Grace will see you now. If you’ll follow me,” Gillain said importantly, his eyes skimming over their party, weighing and measuring. Sam flinched as the steward’s eyes met hers, and for a horrible second, she thought he saw through the pounds of cosmetics and swollen features. But he stared far longer at Braeden than he did at her, and apart from the pinched disapproval of his mouth, he made no reaction.

Sam released air in her lungs she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She’d all but forgotten she needed to fool the castle servants as well as her father. Only her lady-in-waiting was privy to her secret, and even the servants who had been her friends would have a hard time holding their wagging tongues if they recognized her. And then there were the servants like Gillain, who would view her downfall as a personal triumph.

As she walked out behind Gillain, Sam felt the tangle of nerves at the pit of her stomach wrap around her chest, all but strangling her heart and throat. The duke, her father, the only parent she had ever known, would be waiting in the Great Hall, waiting to meet the first Paladin trainee from Haywood in a century. But would he see Sam of Haywood or Samantha?

The Duke of Haywood reclined against a canopied chair on the stone dais at the back of the hall. He was as self-possessed as ever, one leg casually draped over the other, a goblet of wine in hand. He wore his hair to his shoulders and his full beard cropped close, as was the style. He looked the same as she remembered, though when the light glinted on the chestnut of his hair, Sam saw streaks of gray that she’d never noticed before. In profile, the similarities between his features and hers were obvious—at least, when her features weren’t swollen beyond recognition. The prominent nose that was slightly overlarge in her thin face was regal in her father’s. The Haywood nose. All his bastard sons had it. As did his legitimate daughter.

“Your Grace,” said Tristan, bowing deeply. Sam almost dipped into a curtsy out of sheer habit, but managed a clumsy bow.

“Paladin Lyons…Tristan, my boy, it has been far too long,” the duke said genially. Sam gaped at the familiarity—and warmth—in the duke’s greeting. In her eighteen years, she couldn’t recall a time her father had spoken to her with such affection. “We have much to discuss, you and I. But first, bring your companions to the dais. I am eager to make your trainees’ acquaintance.”

Tristan’s hand burned into the small of her back as he guided her and Braeden down the long hall. She heard nothing but the beat of her heart, drumming loudly in her ears. She only realized Tristan was talking to her when she felt his hot breath against her neck.

“Introduce yourself to the duke, you idiot,” he hissed behind bared teeth. “Go!” Tristan gave her a small shove, and she almost tumbled into the duke’s lap.

“S-sorry, your Grace,” she stammered. She bowed, lower than society dictated, until her nose nearly touched the ground. “Sam of Haywood. It’s an honor.”

The duke grabbed her by the chin, dragging her head upwards until they were face to face. His fingers pressed into the sensitive skin around her jaw, and she thought she might pass out from the pain. “Sam of Haywood,” he murmured.

Sam stared into vivid green eyes identical to her own. Her body tensed as she waited for those intelligent eyes to fill with recognition, for the anger that coursed through him like a river to bubble up and crash down on her in waves. She waited for him to tell her she was ten kinds of foolish, that she had brought dishonor to him, and more importantly, to Haywood. She waited for him to expose her as the woman that even heavy bruising, men’s garb and seven years of practice couldn’t hide. She waited for him to ruin the tenuous friendships she’d formed with her companions as they learned she had lied to them a thousand times over.

But the words didn’t come.

“Sam of Haywood, you bring honor to your family and to Haywood,” the duke said officiously. “Our first trainee in a hundred years. I can hardly credit it.”

She could have been knocked over with a feather.

“I’m done with you, boy. Tristan, let’s meet the other one, shall we?” her father said, all but shoving her out of the way. Sam watched stupidly as he greeted Braeden in kind.

That was it? She’d dreaded this meeting all night, and he was done with her in under a minute? A feeling suspiciously like rage boiled up inside her. He was her father, gods damn it! Mentally, she berated herself for her illogic. But she just couldn’t countenance that the duke had stared directly into her eyes and saw nothing of his own daughter. She’d always questioned their relationship; here was the damning proof that she was nothing more than an afterthought.

“Let’s eat, shall we?” the duke said after all the pleasantries had been exchanged. He gestured for Tristan to sit at the seat of honor beside him.

She and Braeden were relegated to dine on the benches with the lesser nobles and knights, a novel experience for Sam. As Lady Samantha, she had a permanent place of residency by her father’s side on the dais. Even when he didn’t join his people for meals—which was fairly often—Sam would sit at the raised platform, eating by herself, or occasionally with the visiting lord or lady she was meant to entertain. It was a lonely existence, being the daughter of a duke.

Sam and Braeden sat shoulder-to-shoulder, across from a young knight who looked to be about Tristan’s age, and a portly noble Sam didn’t know. They nodded at one another, staring a little longer than necessary at Braeden. He kept his eyes downcast and yanked at his hat self-consciously.

Sam elbowed him gently. “Stop worrying about it. They know you have my fa—the duke’s approval.”

Braeden pushed back the brim so he could look at her. “You were right. He didn’t recognize you.”

Sam felt a sharp pang in her chest. “I know. I didn’t think he would.”

“I’m sorry.”

Her heart constricted. “Thanks, Braeden.”

Sam’s woes were temporarily forgotten once the servants and pages came round with the first course. She moaned in ecstasy at the interplay of sweet onion, scallop and garlic sauce on her tongue.

“Um,” said Braeden, taken aback at her enthusiasm.

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly, “it’s just that this is my favorite dish. I haven’t had scallop in months.”

Braeden looked at her crosswise. “You ate awfully fine food, for the bastard of a duke.”

Her eyes bulged as he repeated her lie. “Hush! What if someone heard you?”

“No one’s paying attention to us.”

“Well, be careful,” she said stiffly.

Her gaze wandered over to her father and Tristan at the dais. Lord Haywood gripped Tristan by the elbows, talking in low, intent tones. Every now and again, Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose like he was wont to do whenever he was frustrated or upset.

Sam asked, “What do you think Tristan’s talking about with the duke? They look so serious.”

Braeden shrugged. “If it has something to do with us, I’m sure he’ll tell us.”

“Aren’t you at all curious?”

“Not really, no.”

She sighed. “You’re no fun.”

“I just mind my own business.”

“And I repeat, no fun.”

Braeden glared at her. “Why don’t you ask him? Look, he’s headed over our way now.”

Sure enough, Tristan strode towards them in long, angry steps. His handsome face was dark and closed off. “On your feet. We’re leaving,” he ordered, and without waiting for them to respond, marched off towards the Great Hall’s main entrance. Braeden and Sam looked at each other and then hastily pushed back from their bench at the dining table.

“Tristan,” said Sam once they stood alone outside the confines of the castle. “Is everything okay?”

Clouded, mercurial eyes met with hers and then shifted away. “No, it’s not,” Tristan said. He stared off into the distance, looking vulnerable and alone.

She wanted to fold her arms around him, to comfort him as she wanted to be comforted, but men didn’t do such things. Instead, she asked “Do you want to talk about it?”

Tristan paused before answering. “A woman of great importance to me is dead."

Sam felt her mouth go dry. “Who was she?” she whispered hoarsely.

“Lady Samantha, the daughter of the Duke of Haywood,” Tristan said. “And if she were still alive, she would have been my bride."



A/N Drawing of Sam by @Living_Free