Of Silk and Silence

"Thank you, Martha," Viera said softly as she tucked the last piece of clothing into her bundle.

Martha, her middle-aged maid, nodded grimly in response. The tightness in her features didn’t go unnoticed. Viera realized, for the first time, that she wasn’t the only one unhappy with this arrangement.

Martha had been with her since girlhood—maid, companion, and the only friend Viera had ever known. Her father never allowed her to form bonds outside their rigid social circle. He believed such things were beneath them. A wealthy merchant with pride as towering as his fortune, he only spoke to people who served a purpose.

Viera moved to her bedside table and drew out a small, golden brooch. She traced the delicate metal with trembling fingers before offering it to Martha.

"Here. For you."

Her voice faltered slightly.

"It’s one of my favourites. Please... take it as a farewell gift."

Martha blinked rapidly, her eyes shining with something unspoken. After a beat, she accepted the brooch and gave a crooked smile.

"So... are you going to have a new maid of your own there too? Right?" she teased, gently nudging at the tension.

Viera offered a weak smile.

"That’s up to him, Martha. I’m not the one making decisions anymore. You know that well enough."

Martha did know. Viera didn’t even know where she was being taken.

Her father hadn’t always been like this. For most of her life, they'd never had to worry about money. But this summer, a sudden and mysterious debt threw everything into disarray. Tensions rose, arguments flared—especially the one that morning between her parents. Her mother had found out the truth, and her father's pride had shattered into cruel words.

Still, Viera tried to understand him. He’d never spoken to her mother like that before.

"You’ll be fine, Miss Viera. You’ve got the sweetness of honey in your nature, and with that, you can turn anyone to your side. Remember how you turned me?"

Martha’s tone was warm as she arched a brow at her.

Viera gave a hollow laugh. Martha had once mistaken her for just like her father—cold, arrogant. But in time, she’d been proven wrong.

"That was just a misunderstanding, Martha. We’re friends now. It doesn’t matter."

But deep down, Viera had no idea what ‘sweetness’ the woman was referring to. She felt empty.

"Everything will be all right by winter. After this journey..."

She muttered it more to herself than anyone else, trying to settle the fluttering in her chest.

Martha left the room as her mother called for her.

her maid was talking about.

"Everything would get right this winter, after this journey" Viera muttered to herself to calm her nerves as Martha was called by her mother.

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The train cut through the dark like a blade, its wheels shrieking every now and then as it curved along the mountainside. Inside the carriage, lit dimly by a swaying lantern, Viera sat motionless, spine too straight, hands clasped tightly in her lap as though the weight of decorum alone would keep her from falling apart.

The countryside outside was unrecognisable. Black silhouettes of trees clawed at the night, their branches bare and reaching. The moon was high and pale, casting a ghostly sheen on the rolling hills. It looked nothing like home. But then, home had stopped feeling like home that morning.

Her fingers twitched. She hadn’t wept. Not since the shouting started.

Her father sat across from her, unmoved by the cold or the silence. He had always been a still man—more stone than flesh. Even now, as the train groaned and trembled beneath them, he simply stared ahead, his expression unreadable, like the mask of some Roman statue worn by years and war and pride.

Viera’s thoughts wandered backward, tracing the day like one might run a finger along a jagged scar. Morning light had barely entered her room when the shouting began. Her mother’s voice, usually soft, had broken through the walls like thunder.

“Is this what we’ve come to, Aldric? Trading her like grain? To him?”

Her father's voice, low and stern, had followed. “You’ve no place to question me.”

She had stayed in her room, bare feet curled beneath her as she sat on the cold floor, clutching her knees and wishing the house would fall quiet again. But it hadn’t. It had cracked apart.

She didn’t remember packing. She didn’t remember walking down the grand staircase or the long, silent ride to the station. Only the grip of her father’s hand around her wrist, tight and unrelenting. Only the numb, hollow ache that began in her chest and hadn’t let go since.

Now, hours later, the ache throbbed in time with the train’s rhythm. She watched the scenery blur past—dark pines, jagged rocks, the occasional flicker of light from some far-off cottage—and imagined the moment her life had unstitched itself. A girl born to softness, raised in pretty rooms with gilded mirrors and warm bread and the scent of lavender… now being sent away like a secret too shameful to keep.

They were bound for Northern England, to a land colder than anything she'd known. She’d seen it on a map—a stark coastline and a house nestled somewhere between the cliffs and mist. That was where her husband lived. Her husband. A man whose name alone turned servants pale.

Alistair Deverell.

She mouthed the name without sound, as if afraid it might summon him.

She knew only what her father had allowed her to overhear. A man of wealth—new money, they whispered—but power built not by trade, but by blood. An officer, once. Or something worse. A man exiled from the comfort of titles but too dangerous to be discarded completely. And now, her betrothed.

Viera lowered her eyes to her hands. They were trembling.

She had been chosen for her beauty. For the softness in her voice and the silk of her hair. For the money she no longer had but would bring through this marriage.

She was not brave. She did not pretend to be.

The train howled as it entered a tunnel, the lantern flickering above. For a moment, the world vanished into black.

Viera did not flinch. She only closed her eyes.

And prayed—silently, shamefully—for something to go wrong. For the train to break. For the tracks to vanish. For the marriage to never happen.

But when she opened them again, the world remained unchanged. Steady. Ruthless.

Like the man waiting for her at the end of the line.

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See you guys in the next chapter

----Erika.🫶🏻