Chapter 1

The door to Rose Browning's home suddenly burst open, and a boy who was a friend of her brother's appeared with a bloody gash on the back of his neck, his hand pressing on it. It happened so swiftly that Rose thought she had dreamt it all a long time ago and was now only remembering that dream.

"Please," he said with apprehension, his lower lip trembling as he spoke. That was enough to pull her back into the present moment and remind her of what she needed to do. "I need some help."

"Goodness me!" She got up from her seat, dropping the clothes she was just holding in her hands that had been brought for mending. She had broken out of the frozen state she found himself at the moment he burst in through the door. "What on earth happened?"

"Sit down, lad," Cora Roberts, Rose's aunt, addressed the boy, pointing at a nearby chair. She took control of the situation, as always. "I'll fetch the basin of water and some clean cloths. Take a look at the wound, Rose."

Rose did as she was told, expecting something far more severe, so she was relieved to see that it was just a surface scratch. Working together, Rose and her aunt proceeded to clean the wound, murmuring reassuring words to keep the boy calm.

"Take deep breaths," Rose said soothingly, as her aunt was preparing a poultice with herbs known for their healing properties. That was always the most unpleasant part, putting the poultice on, although that was also the most helpful part. "It's going to be all right. It is just a minor scratch."

"I barely feel it at all," the boy said, although Rose could see him flinching and blinking during the process. Of course, a boy his age would never admit that he was in pain, even if his life depended on it. That was at least how Rose's own brother was. Protective and loyal, he would rather cut off one of his own fingers than have Rose miss a single hair off her head. Being the older one, she considered herself the protector, but as he grew older, he was slowly starting to take on that role without even asking her what she thought of it.

Rose smiled. "I know you are a brave young man. My brother has always told me so when he spoke of you." She made sure not to use the word boy. Her brother didn't like it, so she was certain that his friends didn't like it either.

The boy's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Indeed," Rose assured him. "He'd always say that Timothy is one of my bravest friends."

The boy seemed to ponder those words for a few moments, then he smiled. "I am the fastest one. I'm not sure about being the bravest, though."

At that moment, Rose's aunt approached with the poultice, which they placed gently on the wound, bandaging it securely.

"There we go," Rose smiled. "All done."

"Too bad our work has only begun," Cora frowned, returning the remainder of the poultice to the shelf in the corner of the room. Without any further words, she returned to the clothes that had been brought for mending and started to separate them into piles.

Rose decided to stay with Timothy for the time being and see what happened that resulted in such a nasty gash in such an unfortunate place.

"So, do you want to tell me what happened?" Rose wondered, as she went to the stove and poured some hot milk for the boy, without even asking him if he wanted any.

Her younger brother, Henry, loved warm milk. When he was upset over something, she would make it for him and watch his nervousness dissipate. She could only hope that it would have the same effect on Timothy. With her back turned to him while she poured the warm liquid, she didn't hear him say anything. A part of her knew it would be so. Usually, getting hurt meant that the boys were doing something they weren't supposed to have been doing. In other words, causing mischief. And she didn't want her brother causing mischief. They already had enough troubles as it was.

She turned to him with a reassuring smile, offering him the cup. His eyes glanced at the cup, then at her. A moment later, he grabbed it, bringing it to his lips and taking several small, satisfying sips. Rose listened to him click his lips with pleasure, then she asked again.

"Where were you when you got hurt?" she wondered softly. She didn't want to frighten him or to make I'm think that he was in any sort of trouble. That would only make him clam up on her, and she would never find out what happened and whether Henry was involved.

"In the village," Timothy replied, hiding most of his face from her gaze behind the cup, but his eyes stared at her with that same apprehension. He knew that the truth would get him in trouble.

"Where in the village?" she inquired.

"Around," he replied evasively.

She sighed, looking at him. "You know, I can't help you if you don't tell me the truth." She paused for a moment, then she continued. "When your mother asks me what happened, and you know she will, I will have to tell her that I don't know, that you refused to tell me the truth and that will only make things even worse. But if you tell me the truth, then I can reassure her. I am on your side here, Timothy, just like I'm on Henry's. Because he was with you when this happened, wasn't he?"

Timothy swallowed heavily, placing the cup on the table before him.

"Yes," he acquiesced.

"And you weren't in the village, were you?" she asked again.

"No," he admitted.

"Where were you then?"

He hesitated, but then realized that she was right. Withholding the truth would only make things worse, as she had been trying to teach Henry, but without much success. She reminded herself that he was just a boy still, only fourteen years of age, even though he liked to think himself a man already.

While it was true that the tragic death of their parents five years prior had made them both grow up prematurely, she still felt as if he were just a little boy who didn't know anything of the world yet, and she had to protect him. Now, at one and twenty, she felt as if she were at least twice as old as that, but only her mind showed that maturity.

"We were at… Montford Manor."

Rose shuddered at the name as she locked gazes with her aunt. Neither of them said anything, so the boy continued.

"There were a few of us there, Henry, too," he spoke slowly, reminiscing. "We were just playing around, having a look at the grounds, since there's almost never anyone around," he explained.

Rose could understand the fascination. After all, the stories that circulated about that place were three quarters of legend and only one quarter of the truth. For boys Henry's age, such forbidden places were like magnet.

"Then suddenly, that scary duke appeared in one of the windows, shouting at us, yelling for us to get away," he divulged. "He… he threw rocks at us," he added, gently patting the back of his neck where the aftermath of their encounter with the duke lay. "And one of them hit me."

"The duke threw rocks at you?" Rose gasped incredulously.

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. How could a grown man try to harm children over mere curiosity? It was unheard of.

"Well, they do say he's a monster," Timothy reminded her.

"There are no such things as monsters," she corrected him.

However, Timothy was right. Everyone in the village had used that term at least once to describe that man, and the children had simply accepted the literal meaning of the word. She did not know the man nor seen him since his return from the war.

The villagers who had the opportunity said that he was horribly disfigured, that the entire right side of his face was terribly scarred. So that, in combination with the fact that he had fired more than half of the staff in his mansion upon his return, had earned him the nickname monster.

Still, this was ridiculous. Throwing rocks at boys? Someone needed to go over there and speak to him before someone got badly hurt.

"Timothy, listen to me now," she said tenderly, but with complete determination in her voice. "You and the boys are not to return there; do you hear me? It is not safe. Until someone from the village goes over there and talks to that man, you shouldn't even go near his property."

Cora suddenly added. "Not that I am making excuses for the man, but I also wouldn't want a bunch of lads trampling my grounds whenever they feel like it. That gate is there for a reason."

Rose turned to her aunt. While her aunt was right, it still didn't give the man an excuse to throw rocks. "That is a good point, Aunt," Rose acknowledged. "But you know how boys are."

"I know," her aunt frowned. "They need more discipline."

Rose turned to Timothy. "Run along now. And tell Henry I expect him home on time today."

"I will… and thank you," Timothy nodded, getting up from his chair. He hesitated before asking. "You won't tell my mother I was there?"

Rose inhaled deeply, as if that brought her actual physical pain. "A promise is a promise. But I won't be on your side anymore if I find out that you boys went there again."

"We won't," he hastily shook his head. "Promise."

"All right then," Rose said, gesturing at him to go.

"Goodbye," he waved, closing the door behind him.

Rose walked over to her aunt, joining her in sorting out the clothes. She was thinking with some exasperation that she had to speak to her brother about following his even sillier friends into dangerous situations.

"Can you imagine that?" Rose asked, still incredulous at what she had just heard. "Throwing stones, as if the boys were a pack of wild dogs."

"Some boys are wild dogs, Rose," her aunt said, "especially at that age. And even older." She stopped sorting, tilting her head a little. "Speaking of which, when are you going to acknowledge that nice young man from Willow's Peak who has been bringing his clothes all the way here, to a different village, when I'm sure there are perfectly decent seamstresses over there?"

Rose chuckled. "I'm sure I don't know who you mean, Aunt."

"Oh, you most certainly do," her aunt chuckled. "Because he is certainly not coming here for me."

"Why not?" Rose teased. "Just look at you, still as lovely as ever."

"Hardly!" her aunt exclaimed playfully, although it made both women chuckle.

The truth was that her aunt, despite the passage of time, still exuded a certain grace and beauty that only seemed to enhance with age. Her silver-streaked hair, once a radiant chestnut, cascaded in gentle waves around her face, framing features softened by years of wisdom and the right to say exactly what was on her mind.

Sometimes, she would sprinkle some kindness in there, but when one was truthful, kindness had to suffer at the hands of the truth. Deep laugh lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes, a testament to a life that might not have been filled with only joy and laughter, but she still chose them over crying. In her presence, Rose always felt an air of tranquility and wisdom, and there was always a spark of vitality and curiosity that belied her aunt's age, a reminder that the spirit did not age. Only the body did.

"No, Aunt," Rose smiled. "I have no interest in such matters, at least not until Henry is all grown up and doesn't need me as much."

"But Henry is already fourteen, my dear," her aunt reminded her. "Besides, he has me to take care of him."

"I know, and we are both so grateful for everything you did for us," Rose said lovingly. "I honestly don't know what we would have done if you hadn't taken us in after Mother and Father died."

"We are family, Rose," her aunt beamed. "Family looks out for each other, always. And that is why I am telling you that I will be there for Henry. You, on the other hand, need to think more about yourself. You are a beautiful young woman who has hidden herself away from the world."

"And that is exactly how I like it, Aunt," Rose replied with a smile, continuing to sort out the clothes. "Now, how about we finish this pile and start with the sewing? Today is going to be a long day, it would seem."