In my room, I take the sleeping medicine and stare at the chat with Geon-woo until my fingers hover over the keyboard like the decision matters more than it should.

I type: “Going to bed, Sleep well.”

Erase. Too intimate for five words.

Finally, I settle on: “Going to bed. Night.” Simple. Neutral. Normal.

His reply comes almost immediately.

“Good. Don’t fall from your bed.”

I snort—quietly, into my blanket—because of course he replies like he’s been waiting. And in the darkness, the day’s normal noises settle around me: distant laughter in the hallway, the hum of someone’s fan, the soft click of a door. I should feel calm.

Sunlight finds me first. The air smells of damp stone and early spring—wet earth, faint moss, the clean bite of water moving past old walls. Servants cross the room in quiet choreography: chocolate poured with steady hands, fruit arranged into obedient beauty, a crease smoothed from a cushion as if the cushion might be offended by disorder. Even the silence is trained. 

Lady Marguerite sits with her embroidery stretched tight in a hoop, her posture immaculate, her attention sharper than the needle. 

Lord Guillaume stands at the open doors with his hands clasped behind him, calm in a way that only means he is holding weight quietly. 

Near the balustrade, Richard and Étienne wait with the river at their backs, shadows long on pale stone. Richard looks carved from duty. Étienne looks like he learned to charm the world so it wouldn’t bite him. 

When I enter, my father’s eyes soften.

“Annabel,” he says. “Walk with us.” His voice is kind, but kindness here feels… controlled. Like a candle behind glass.

The name lands like a foot finding a familiar stair. I take it, because there is nowhere else to put my feet. Because in this body, in this life, refusing is a kind of language too—and I don’t know the grammar of it yet.

We step onto the terrace. The garden below is geometry and perfume—box hedges clipped into obedience, roses trained to bloom where they’re told, gravel paths raked until even footsteps feel like rules. The river beyond moves slow and patient.

Lady Marguerite doesn’t waste breath.

“A letter from de Montclaire arrived the other day.”

The name falls like a coin into deep water. The ripple is felt, not seen. Even the servants seem to move a fraction quieter, like that name has edges.

My father’s voice stays careful. “Lord Adrien will attend the next supper at court. He asks the honor of our company.” A pause, subtle as a blade. “Especially yours, Annabel.”

Adrien. Polite syllables. A name that sounds like clean boots and unwrinkled linen. I have no idea who Lord Adrien de Montclaire is, and yet the way the air tightens makes it feel like I’m meant to. Like there are rules already written about him, and I’m behind on my reading.

“My company?” I ask, smooth as cream, because my mouth knows how to behave even when my mind doesn’t.

My mother’s gaze flicks to my face—quick, sharp. “He asks it most of all.”

Étienne rests his forearms on the stone rail, watching swans stitch white lines through the river. “From what I have seen, he is respectable.”

Richard adds, without looking away, “And useful.”

“To whom?” The words escape before I can fold them into something ladylike. “Wait—what are you saying?” My voice is steady, but my pulse isn’t. It kicks hard against the corset like it wants out.

Silence has weight here. It settles around us, pressing softly but firmly, like a hand on the back of your neck. The river keeps moving. The swans keep drifting. Only I am suddenly too loud, too alive, too… inconvenient.

Lady Marguerite’s embroidery hoop stills. My father’s gaze holds mine with a gentleness that somehow makes it worse. Because gentleness can still be a cage if it’s the only option you’re given.

“To you,” my mother says, voice velvet over steel. “To the family. To the crown, perhaps.” Her eyes measure me like she is taking my future’s exact dimensions. “You are nearly nineteen. You know how this is done.”

Nineteen.

In my real life, eighteen still feels like a borrowed jacket—too big in the shoulders, still smelling like someone else’s expectations. Here, nineteen is a door closing. Here, it sounds like time running out.

And the worst part is that my body reacts to it like it understands. Like Annabel has been trained for this conversation since she learned to hold a spoon correctly. Like she has rehearsed the smile that says yes even when her ribs scream no.

“Adrien is a good man,” my father says, quieter. “There is kindness in him.”

“I’m sure there is,” I answer, and my tone is too modern—too blunt, too awake. “Kindness doesn’t mean I should belong to him.” The word belong tastes wrong. Like I swallowed a pebble.

“Annabel,” my mother warns, one soft word with a sharpened edge.

I lower my eyes because my body knows to. Inside, my thoughts are loud and furious and confused.

I want to say: Why are you talking about marriage like it’s real?

Why does it feel like one decision could trap me? Why does it feel like this isn’t only a dream—like it’s a life that keeps going even when I wake?

Lady Marguerite inhales once—composing the world back into order. “We will consider the invitation. Meanwhile, there are courtesies to polish. Steps to learn.”

Richard’s gaze shifts toward the garden, toward the invisible eyes beyond it. “And appearances to keep.”

Appearances are armor.

I swallow.

“May I go to the garden?” I ask, already craving air—already craving escape.

“You may,” my father says. “Do not forget to take a maid.”

I curtsy. Perfect. Porcelain. Obedient. My body performs obedience the way my Seoul body performs sarcasm—automatic, practiced, and a little bit deadly.

And the moment I’m out of their sight, my obedience evaporates like mist.

I don’t go to the garden.

I go straight to the stables—the one place that never feels like it belongs to rules. Or maybe it belongs to different ones: honest ones. Animal ones. Ones you can feel in your hands.

The moment I step into the yard, the smell hits me: hay, leather, animal warmth, honest sweat. It’s grounding in a way silk and stone never are. Horses snort clouds into the air, their hooves thudding against packed earth like steady heartbeats. A stable cat slides between bales with the swagger of a creature that answers to no one.

“Hello,” I whisper, like she’s the only honest thing in this entire place. Her eyes are dark and calm, the kind that don’t care who your family is. The kind that only care if you’re true.

A stable boy—young, freckled, terrified—straightens so fast he nearly topples over his broom. “Mademoiselle!”

His bow is clumsy but sincere.

“I would like a saddle,” I say, and the words are fluent treason. “For the chestnut mare. The one with the star.”

He goes pale. “Mademoiselle, I—Lady Annabel does not—”

“She does today,” I say, smiling like a problem. “It will be our secret.” And the smile feels too easy, like Annabel has been hiding this side of herself for years and is relieved to let it breathe.

His eyes dart toward the manor as if it might sprout legs and come running. “The master of horses—”

“Will thank you when I return alive,” I say, far too sweet to be reasonable. “Quickly.”

He bolts.

While he’s gone, my hands find a bridle on instinct. Buckle. Check. The leather feels familiar against my fingers. My movements are too sure for someone who is supposedly only visiting this world in sleep. My body remembers in quiet flashes: a tug, a pressure, a rhythm. Like riding is a language I’ve spoken longer than I’ve spoken fear.

A memory flickers—France, countryside air, my mother laughing as if horses were the most natural thing in the world and I was born knowing how to hold the reins. It’s so vivid I almost look over my shoulder, expecting her to be there.

The boy returns with a side-saddle.

“That one,” I say, pointing to a proper saddle.

“Mademoiselle!” he squeaks. “It is not… proper.”

“Neither is boredom,” I murmur, and I haul the heavier saddle up like it owes me money.

The boy’s hands tremble. “If the Count and Countess learn—”

“If anyone asks,” I say, “tell them I went to pray.”

He blinks. “Pray?”

“For patience.”

Before he can run for help, I gather my skirts, set my boot in the stirrup, and swing up—astride, not side-saddle, scandal disguised as a seat. The corset bites, offended. I grin anyway.

For one bright second, balance is a shout. The mare flicks her ears back, listening to my heartbeat.

“Good girl,” I whisper. “Let’s be badly behaved.” Let’s be honest.

We move—out of the yard, past the cat’s judgment, through the gate and onto the lane between low stone walls crusted with lichen. Wind pulls at my hair. The ribbon at my waist considers mutiny. The mare’s stride becomes a metronome under me, and my body sinks into it like it’s remembering who I am when no one is watching. Like I am finally shaped correctly. Not porcelain. Not polite. Just alive.

Behind us, shouts.

Not close yet, but real.

Hoofbeats, not ours.

I press my heel to the mare’s side. She lengthens into a canter, smooth and powerful, as if she’s been waiting for permission I’m not interested in giving. My laugh tears out of me, startled and bright, stolen from somewhere I didn’t know was still inside.

The hoofbeats close.

We crest a rise, and he arrives like an answer.

A dark horse surges up beside us, all muscle and control. The rider sits as if he was born in the saddle: broad shoulders under worn leather, posture steady as a blade. A white scar marks his jaw like a signature. His hair is the color of old oak. His eyes strip lies down to bone. He doesn’t ride like a man chasing a girl. He rides like a man intercepting a problem before it becomes a story.

“Rein in, Mademoiselle de Vervaux.” he says.

My heart does something stupid.

Not fear.

Something worse—something bright and reckless, like my body is thrilled to be seen. Like my bloodstream recognizes him before my mind has time to argue.

“Why?” I call back, breathless. “I have full control. I’m not on fire.”

“You are,” he says, dry as flint. “You simply cannot see it yet. Stop your horse, and return.”

He draws closer. Close enough that I can see the small nick on his lower lip, the darker fringe of lashes that shouldn’t belong to a man wearing a sword. Close enough that my mare flicks an ear toward him like she knows him, too.

“This is not how Mademoiselle de Vervaux behaves,” he says, voice pitched low—private. “Astride. Alone. Without escort. Without permission.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m misbehaving today,” I throw back, and my French slips into something too casual, too me. “Isn’t it more interesting this way?” I expect anger. I get something sharper: attention.

His gaze sharpens.

“Vous,” he corrects, quiet as a blade. “You will not tutor a man of my station in the lane.”

Heat climbs my neck. I didn’t mean to be rude. I meant to be free. Those are not the same thing here.

“Pardonnez-moi, Chevalier,” I say, forcing the words into proper shape. It costs me. I feel the cost immediately—like swallowing my own teeth.

He makes a sound that might be amusement if it weren’t so controlled. “You intended to run,” he says. “You simply did not intend consequences.”

We slow—because I’m not suicidal, and there’s a cart ahead and a child staring at us with an apple halfway to his mouth.

Without touching me, the chevalier reaches across and steadies the reins near my mare’s bit. The mare sighs into a calmer pace like she respects him. Like she trusts him to keep order. Like she trusts me to break it.

“Back to the stables,” he says. “Your parents will be worried.”

“About riding?” I scoff. “That isn’t a crime.”

“It is not the riding,” he answers. A beat. “It is the story it becomes.”

Armor, I think. And suddenly I understand: from the books I’d read, a story can kill a lady without spilling blood.

We reach the courtyard stones and the stables erupt into contained panic—master of horses red-faced, a maid wringing her apron, servants glancing upward where curtains shift like the house itself is watching. Eyes everywhere. Rules everywhere. And yet, somehow, I’m still breathing.

The chevalier brings his stallion to a perfect, unshowy halt. He dismounts in one fluid motion, takes my mare’s head, and looks up at me.

“For what it is worth,” he says, quieter now, “you ride well.”

Praise slides under my skin like heat. I hate that it does. I love that it does. Like I’ve been starving and didn’t know it until he fed me one sentence.

“Thank you,” I say, formal and careful. “And you… appeared when unneeded.” My mouth keeps choosing trouble. My mouth has always chosen trouble.

His mouth twitches, nearly a smile. “That is my duty.”

“What do I call the duty?” I ask, because curiosity has never been my obedient trait. “Monsieur…?”

He hesitates—just long enough for me to notice.

Not vanity.

Caution.

“Jean de Clairmont,” he says at last. “Chevalier, in service to Lord de Vervaux.”

Jean.

The sound hits oddly, like my brain wants to translate it into something else. A ridiculous modern echo—Shawn—floats through my head like a mistake.

I don’t know why.

I smile anyway, because I am still me even here. “Chevalier de Clairmont,” I say, polite as velvet hiding a blade. “Thank you for rescuing me, Shawn.”

His eyes lock on mine.

Something unreadable tightens in his face—surprise, irritation, perhaps the smallest edge of amusement. Or something else I don’t have a name for yet. Something that makes the air between us feel too narrow.

“My name is Jean,” he says flatly. “And you will call me Chevalier.”

“I have a problem with proper,” I say, laughter slipping out as I push hair back from my face. My braid is messy now—alive. “Didn’t you just see me riding astride?”

He turns as if to leave, then pauses like a man reconsidering whether to give advice to a storm.

“If you truly wish to ride,” he says without looking back, “ask permission. Or learn to move quietly enough not to alarm the entire household.”

I blink. “Are you giving me advice?”

“I am warning you,” he replies. And for the first time, there is a thread of something human in his tone—something that isn’t only duty. “The world you play in is not made for your kind of freedom.”

My pulse stutters.

“My kind?”

He looks at me then—just once, fully.

And for a heartbeat, I feel seen. Not as porcelain. Not as a lady. As the restless thing inside her. As if he can hear the part of me that keeps refusing to sit still.

“the kind who laughs at rude men,” he says. “The kind that runs to the stables like it is the most natural thing in the world.” The kind that doesn’t know she’s dangerous.

Then he’s gone—swallowed by corridors and rules and whatever keeps men like him from saying too much.

I slide down from the saddle on legs that are not entirely reliable. My hands tremble, not from fear—never fear—but from the way my blood is still racing like I stole something. Like I did. Adrenaline is a flavor. It tastes like the beginning of a problem I intend to have again.