Marcus Rosenthal sat in the hired carriage, which swayed rhythmically over the potholes of the road to Greyholds. In his fist, he clenched a heavy pouch of gold. This was the fruit of five years of hard labor by him and Elena. Their dream of a quiet house with a workshop, which they had planned to build after buying back the old Rosenthal estate. Now, these coins were meant to buy freedom for the girl he had found in a snowdrift, the one who reminded him so much of Jane.

For the hundredth time, he adjusted the collar of his finest doublet. The fabric smelled of lavender and home, but inside, Marcus’s entire being writhed with disgust at the role he was about to play.

He closed his eyes, rehearsing the speech he would deliver to his wife upon his return.

“Forgive me, my soul, that I had to defile your name with these words. Forgive me for making you out to be an abandoned wife, and myself a fool chasing after youth. You know that in the whole wide world, there is no one for me but you...”

Marcus sighed heavily. For Albert, that petty, greedy worm, to believe him, Marcus had to look utterly convincing. He had to play a man who saw Azalea not as an exhausted orphan, but as a “profitable investment” and an object of passion, for whose sake he was willing to cast aside his lawful spouse.

Marcus folded his hands in prayer once more.

“Great Lumisphena, bless my venture. I wish to return to my dear Elena and Azalea with good news as soon as possible.”

It was strange, but he felt as if the Goddess had actually answered his call.

The carriage pulled up outside the garrison headquarters. Marcus deliberately took his time stepping out, giving the passing soldiers ample opportunity to notice the expensive trim of the carriage and the crest emblazoned on the door. In places like Greyholds, status was the only language understood faster than the ring of steel. Even if that status was mere pretense.

Stepping into the frosty air, Marcus winced with distaste, covering his nose with a scented handkerchief. The gesture had been rehearsed to the point of automatism.

“Lieutenant,” he tossed carelessly to the very first sentry on duty, without so much as looking at him. “I need Albert von Berge. Immediately. Inform him that Marcus Rosenthal has arrived on a matter concerning his... property.”

Ten minutes later, he was shown into the office. Albert did not look like a grief-stricken widower. On the contrary, he appeared to be a man who had finally shrugged a heavy sack of stones off his shoulders. His uniform coat was unbuttoned at the top, and a plate with the remnants of a good pie sat on the desk.

“Mr. Rosenthal?” Albert rose, confusion evident in his eyes. The surname was familiar to him, but he couldn't quite place where he had heard it. “To what do I owe the honor? Are you here regarding the supplies for the garrison?”

Marcus walked into the center of the room and, without waiting for an invitation, seated himself on a chair, resting his hands on the pommel of his cane.

“I am here regarding your wife,” he said dryly.

Albert froze. A shadow of fear or irritation flickered across his face.

“My wife? Azalea? Sir, the thing is... She went missing in the storm, and I couldn’t find her. It’s been more than two weeks already.” Albert omitted the fact that he hadn't even looked for her. He scratched the back of his neck. “The blizzard... no one survives in such weather. I filed a preliminary casualty report. Just last week.”

“Oh, so you’ve already buried her in your thoughts?” Marcus allowed a thin, venomous smile to touch his lips. “I must disappoint you. Or perhaps make you glad. My people picked her up on the old road. She was barely alive, Mr. von Berge. Right now, she is under the care of my spouse at our estate.”

Albert turned pale. He didn't rush to ask how she was, nor did he ask when he could fetch her. He simply sank heavily back into his chair.

“Alive...” he breathed, and there was so much disappointment in that single word that Marcus felt a sudden urge to strike him with his cane, his hand involuntarily tightening around it. “But how is that possible? Two weeks...”

“Magic, chance, the will of the gods. Call it what you like,” Marcus said, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “She is gravely ill. Fever, delirium. We barely managed to discern who she was and where she came from.”

Albert tugged nervously at his collar.

“Listen, Mr. Rosenthal. This is... a miracle, of course. But I am a man of the service. I have... circumstances here. I’ve already reported her passing to the capital. A resurrection will cause a great deal of trouble. For me, and for her father.”

Marcus smiled inwardly. The fish had taken the bait. Albert was no longer thinking about his wife, but about the “trouble” her return would cause him.

“It is precisely these ‘circumstances’ that I have come to discuss.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let us discuss this without prying ears,” Marcus said, scanning the empty room as if suspecting spies behind the walls. “I am offering you a deal that will benefit your career, your... personal life, and, of course, your purse.”

Marcus saw Albert's eyes gleam at the mention of a purse. The rehearsal in the carriage had not been in vain. He knew exactly which string to pull to make this man eager to sell his own life.

Marcus followed Albert, deliberately treading along the cleared path as though every step upon this earth defiled his expensive boots of fine leather. He kept his handkerchief to his nose, displaying the utmost revulsion for the smells of cheap coal and burnt fat that saturated the air near the house.

When the door swung open, Marcus was greeted not by comfort, but by chaos.

“Marie! We have a guest! Bring some tea!” Albert shouted, without looking at the woman.

In the center of the room, cradled in the arms of a disheveled Marie, an infant was throwing a screaming fit. Tristan was wailing so shrilly that Marcus’s ears rang. Marie herself looked pitiful. Stains from baby food marred her light dress, her hair had escaped from beneath her bonnet, and deep shadows lay under her eyes. She was clearly failing to cope. Without the silent labor of Azalea, who had previously carried the entire household on her shoulders, the home was rapidly turning into a junkyard.

Marcus paused on the threshold, surveying the room with a look of undisguised arrogance. His gaze lingered on a pile of dirty diapers in the corner, and then on Marie herself. Although he felt a pang of pity for her, he remembered why he had come.

“Gods, what a... specific reception,” Marcus drawled through his teeth, winced barely perceptibly. “I presumed I was entering the home of an officer, not a tavern near the train station.”

Marie looked up in fright, pressing the wailing child closer to herself, and backed into the kitchen. She looked exhausted and intimidated by the gleam of the gold embroidery on the stranger’s doublet.

“My apologies, Mr. Rosenthal,” Albert said busily, tossing a shawl off a chair and pushing it toward his guest. “The child... he's teething, you understand. Do sit down. Marie will bring everything in a moment.”

Marcus drew a clean silk handkerchief from his pocket, ostentatiously spread it across the seat of the chair, and only then sat down, keeping his back perfectly straight. He placed his cane in front of him, leaning on it with both hands.

“Sitting down here is already a feat, von Berge,” Marcus remarked coldly, looking at Albert as if he were an annoying insect. “But the matter for which I have come requires quiet. Silence this... noise. Or we shall move our conversation to my carriage, where one can at least breathe.”

Albert flushed red with shame but remained silent. He hissed at Marie, and she, nearly weeping from exhaustion, vanished into the depths of the house along with the crying Tristan. When the door closed behind them, the room finally grew quieter, save for the howling of the wind in the chimney.

“Now then,” Marcus slowly removed one glove, finger by finger. “As I have said, your wife is alive. But looking at your... idyll, I begin to doubt that her return is part of your plans for this Christmas. Am I right?”

He narrowed his eyes, watching Albert nervously clasp his fingers together.