For three days it continued to rain. The Duke and the new Baron spent time idly chatting, playing cards, and enjoying both Scottish whiskey and authentic Russian vodka. There wasn't much else to do.

Their mother-in-law had emerged on the second day, her trembling hands somehow precise enough to work a needle into an intricate embroidery pattern she'd begun for her first grandchild. Her presence was quickly forgotten, as she kept rigidly to herself in silence.

When the clouds parted on the fourth day, trails of sunlight glittering through the mist and reflecting off of every dewdrop, Vaughan knew they ought to leave. He'd woken when the thick stormy air had dissipated; it had so suddenly become much easier to breathe.

Though the castle at Lekenbourgh wasn't small, it was not all that large either. The Duke had always known where his wife had been, though he'd respected her sanctuary. When Lecia had left him, she had gone to the library, which was where Vaughan had expected to find her. Instead, he came upon scattered books, a cold hearth, and settled emptiness. For a moment he lost his breath again, but it was easy to know where she'd have gone. He should have expected that first.

Henry told him where the Baron had been buried. There was a good chance he'd have gotten lost if there hadn't been such heavy rain. Lecia had left the most distinct path in her wake, though Vaughan believed she must have walked until he saw the tracks. When Henry rented the coach and horses, he'd requested just the one saddle on the off chance he might need it, and that was the very saddle Vaughan was sitting in... He began second-guessing whether he was following his wife or a wild beast, but the hoof prints were left by a horse that'd been shod and it seemed unlikely that a nomadic equine would wear shoes, even in the majestic abandon of Lekenbourgh.

From the top of a rocky hill, Vaughan beheld the inconsequential graveyard. Vasyl Harper was buried under a solitary whitebeam on the edge of a thickening copse. He was marked only by the freshly turned earth that entombed him and that single tree. His daughter had ridden forty minutes due north to kneel on sodden ground and weep. A single mourner for a single ghost.

Vaughan's warm-blooded bay ambled down the slippery mound of grass and gravel without pause, and they arrived silently to the hallowed sight. The Duke slid from his hearty mount and took his place at Lecia's side. She'd laid wildflowers over her father's grave, and crafted a cross marker out of twigs and horsehair.

She had fallen to her back before he'd arrived. Her body was aligned with her father's, their heads at the base of the spindly tree; her arms were at her sides, hands filthy with dirt. It was sunny, but it was not warm. Vaughan didn't think it was ever warm in the north, but he'd never been there long enough to know for sure. The scent of forest had been thick through the moist air, and the rising sun awakened the dew and dirt. She looked content here. Sad, of course, but contented nonetheless by familiar odors and the comfort of a corpse.

Feeling out of place, Vaughan merely sat, the damp soil soaking through every layer he'd put on. For a brief amount of time he watched the horses; half of a completely identical set of four Yorkshire Coach Horses. They were sturdy, yet still elegantly understated. He might just have to make an offer on them. He'd wanted Lecia to have a herd, and his Hackney's were sometimes a bit much for less extravagant events... Eyeing the pair, the Duke remembered that his wife had come without a saddle. Her horse was plainly bare, and he supposed it would have been easy enough for a horseman of her skill to comfortably sit for so long without stirrups or cushioning. Though, his ride had been fairly smooth, so it might not have been so very hard at all.

Regardless, he had a new appreciation for his companion, and she never stopped surprising him, it seemed. He looked at her again and became very aware that she hadn't worn a riding habit. Not that one would have accommodated her mode of travel anyway.

Lecia had dressed herself in unsightly breeches—a pair that fit her astonishingly well, though they were quite ancient in style and patched in numerous places and now sported stains of grass at the knees—and a fitted shirt her husband recognized as a garment for young boys. It was curious that the ensemble existed at all, as he was quite certain the Harpers hadn't any sons. Moreover, the fact that the apparel seemed to fit Lecia was even stranger. In the time that he'd known her, she had never made any indication that she disliked her extravagant dresses. In fact, she rather appeared to adore them. But while the Duke was interested in the whys of her disarray, there were more pressing matters at hand.

Like the very distinct curve of her calves in the supple, black riding boots she wore, or determining whether her shirt was the only fabric shielding her from the sun...

"Mae hi wedi cachi arna I," Vaughan scolded himself.

Her eyes opened, fluttering lashes revealing a set of eyes so fraught from the corruption of fantasy that they now glistened with grief. He met her gaze and noticed that it was not the one he was used to. Most often her eyes were reminiscent of an Old Persian tapestry his Aunt Catherine used to own, other days he was subdued by a gentle and comforting cerulean, but in that moment she peered up at him through eyes of glazed celadon. Nearly four months of marriage and he'd only just learned that her eyes were as indecisive in color as Lecia was about him.

"You truly are some sort of enchantress, aren't you?" he muttered.

She did nothing to deny it.

His tattered hand found hers as if they were drawn together in design.

He had eventually collapsed beside her, and contemplated the lissome twists of the long branches and leaves. The restful respiration of Dôn renewed both of their spirits, if only a little. Her freshening breaths wicked away the weight of August heat, and the pirouetting of her every entity was choreographed to a hushed sonata. Vaughan felt entirely at peace in this place, and knew then why Vasyl had chosen it.

"We should leave here soon," he mused after awhile. Lecia shifted her head to look at him. "Would you like to invite your mother to stay with us?" he asked before turning to look back at her.

She did not respond, but closed her eyes once more in an act Vaughan recognized as trust.

In the tender silence, he knew the answer.

So maybe it's not all that long, but it's a start.