Chapter 17:
A Sprig of Loyalty Interlude — Clara
The house smelled of rosemary and fresh bread, but Clara barely noticed. She sat at the edge of her bed, still in her simple blue morning dress, hands folded tightly in her lap, staring at the golden hairpin lying on her pillow. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever owned. A silver rose, its petals delicately curled, with a small pink gem at its center, no larger than a raindrop. Grace had bought it for her. Paid for it herself, smiling so brightly when she pinned it into Clara’s hair in the shop. “What are friends for?” Grace had said, her voice soft and warm.
Clara’s cheeks flushed just thinking about it. She picked up the hairpin carefully, holding it in both hands like a fragile treasure, and for a long moment, she simply sat there, letting the memories tumble through her mind like falling petals. Yesterday had been… perfect. Even with the scary moment in the boutique. No—especially because of it. She had seen what Grace was really like. Not just a noble daughter. Not just the Duchess’s heir. But someone strong. Someone kind. Someone who would stand in front of the world, unflinching, and smile like nothing could ever hurt her.
Clara had cried. She remembered the shame, the sting of her own weakness, the trembling in her hands. And Grace had held her. Had wrapped her arms around her so gently, so easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’re my friend,” Grace had said. And Clara’s dream had come true.
Clara’s mansion wasn’t large by noble standards. Not compared to Ashford’s towering halls or the endless corridors where whispers curled like smoke. But to Clara, it was vast. Two floors, eight rooms, a modest stable, and a little orchard behind the kitchen wing where the last winter apples clung stubbornly to the trees. Her new home stood just beyond the Ashford estate’s outer gardens; its pale stone walls dusted in the morning frost. It had once belonged to a retired knight of House Ashford. Now, it belonged to her family. To her.
It had been a week since Clara moved in. A full, dizzying week since she left behind the familiar hills of Bellgrave, the small city and scattered villages where she had spent all her life until now. She hadn’t cried when she left. She had stood straight, packed her favorite books and ribbons herself, and ridden north with her steward, because this was her new place. Her parents had arranged it proudly: their little girl, attending lessons with the Duchess’s daughter herself. Becoming part of a world greater than anything she had known.
Today was Sunday. Her first Sunday truly alone. Well, not alone alone. The house still bustled in its quiet way. A steward counting ledgers. Maids airing the linens. Two guards walking slow, sleepy circuits around the perimeter. But no one hovered over her shoulder. No one rushed her. No one told her where to sit or stand or what to say. She was the little lady of the house now, in truth if not yet in title. And she wasn’t afraid anymore.
Her parents had visited just yesterday for the great banquet at the Ashford estate. They had arrived in their finest clothes, proud and bright, and had introduced her to the other guests with smiles so wide it made her cheeks burn. And today, just after breakfast, they had kissed her cheeks and ridden south again, leaving her in charge. Clara had hugged them tightly—maybe for a moment too long—but when she stepped back, her chin had been high, and her smile had been steady. “I’ll take care of everything while you’re gone,” she had promised.
Her father had chuckled, ruffling her curls the way he always did. “We know you will, little hawk.”
Now, the morning sun streamed through the pale curtains of her bedroom, catching on the rose-shaped hairpin lying atop her pillow—the one Grace had given her. A silver flower with a small pink gem at its heart, no larger than a raindrop, gleaming like a captured star. Clara stood carefully, brushing her hair with slow, deliberate strokes, tying the cream ribbon just right. When she slid the pin into place above her ear, she felt taller. Braver. Closer to the version of herself that she imagined Grace might see when she smiled.
Today would be perfect. And the world—at last—was beginning to open before her.
Clara smoothed her dress once more, hands fluttering nervously over the soft brown fabric, and glanced back at her pillow where the golden hairpin still caught the morning light. It gleamed like a little piece of the sun itself, delicate and beautiful, far too grand for someone like her. Grace had given it so easily. As if it were natural. As if Clara had deserved it.
A tight, warm feeling blossomed in her chest. She had to do something. She had to return the favor.
Not because she was expected to. Not because anyone had told her to. Because it was right.
Clara stood quickly and began pacing her room, bare feet muffled by the carpet. Her mind buzzed with ideas — a poem? A charm? Maybe she could give Grace her favorite book, the one about the knight who saved the moon? But no… Grace probably had far better stories in her library. Maybe a flower? A real one. The kind you could press between pages and remember forever.
Her eyes lit up. “Yes,” she whispered. “A gift. Something beautiful. Just for her.”
It couldn’t be something bought with coins. That would be too easy. Too cold.
With determined purpose, she left her room and slipped down the halls like a small, serious storm in silk and slippers. The steward gave her a polite nod as she passed through the main parlor, but she didn’t stop. She had a mission now. Her heart beat fast. Not with nerves, but with importance.
She began in the drawing room, rifling through the display cases and polished shelves with gentle hands and sharp eyes. There were painted fans, old family portraits, dusty crystal perfume bottles. They all looked fancy, but none of them felt right. They weren’t her. And they wouldn’t be from her.
She tried the music room next. Opened an old cabinet near the harp. Inside she found a cracked locket, silver, shaped like a heart. She ran her fingers over the tiny hinge and wondered what it would look like polished and mended. Could she give it to Grace? A secret heart, hidden in silver?
But no. It wasn’t hers to give. Not truly. And even if it was… Grace didn’t need someone else’s broken heart.
Clara closed the cabinet softly and took a deep breath.
She climbed to the attic. Her slippers tapped softly on the stairs as she passed old tapestries and forgotten trunks. Sunlight slanted through a high, dusty window, lighting the air like floating silk. She rummaged with care, sorting through boxes of yellowed scrolls and discarded riding boots. In one corner she found a child’s forgotten dollhouse, still intact, with tiny furniture and paper curtains faded by time. She stared at it for a long moment, smiling faintly.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Then she shook her head. No. Nothing here either.
Back in her room, Clara sat on the edge of her bed, fingers wrapped around her skirt, brows furrowed in deep thought. She had searched everywhere. Searched with all her might. But she still hadn’t found anything worthy.
Grace had given her something perfect. Something beautiful and valuable. And what did Clara have? A few books. Some old toys. A ribbon collection. Her heart stung — not from jealousy, but from something worse. Inadequacy.
She wanted to be equal. Not in title or blood. But in kindness. In meaning.
So, she looked again at her window. The frost had melted back from the panes, and a shaft of winter sunlight kissed the corner of her little desk. Beyond the orchard wall, the branches swayed gently in the cold wind. Clara stood.
She would go to the orchard. Maybe the world would give her something. Something real.
She wrapped herself in her cloak and ventured into the cold. The air smelled like mint and apples and frozen stone. Her boots crunched across the ground as she made her way between the trees, scanning the roots and branches for a sign. For a gift.
She passed old nests, dry leaves, a hollow knot in the trunk of the oldest tree.
And then… she saw it.
Nestled between two roots was a tiny sprig of wintermint. Its leaves were a soft, deep green, dusted with pale silver, alive and vivid despite the season. Clara crouched down and stared.
It wasn’t gold. It wasn’t rare. It wouldn’t shine in a ballroom or sparkle like a gem.
But it was stubborn. It had survived the frost. And it was beautiful in its own quiet way.
She reached out and plucked it with care, whispering something to the air as she did.
“Please let this be enough.”
Back in the house, Clara rummaged through her drawers until she found her best ribbon, cream-colored, with gold thread running through it. She wrapped the mint with gentle fingers, tying a soft little bow just below the stem.
She sat at her desk, pulled out her nicest parchment, and after a few failed drafts, wrote slowly:
For Lady Grace of Ashford,
In friendship and loyalty.
From Clara of Bellgrave.
She folded the parchment, sealed it with a bit of wax melted from her candle, and tucked the ribbon-wrapped sprig inside. Then she placed the whole thing carefully in her jewelry box, right beside the golden hairpin.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was hers.
As dusk gathered over the orchard, Clara sat by the window with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, gazing at the soft glow of her candle and the stars just beginning to peek from the heavens. Her hands rested on the closed lid of her jewelry box, and her heart swelled with quiet pride.
Tomorrow, she would give Grace her gift. Not with a speech. Not with a ceremony. Just with a smile.
The kind that meant thank you. The kind that meant I will follow you anywhere.
And as she drifted toward sleep that night, her dreams were filled with soft light and quiet gardens… and Grace, smiling, as she tucked the little sprig of mint into her braid like it was a crown of silver leaves.
--::--
The next morning arrived wrapped in quiet frost. The sky above Ashford shimmered pale grey, like the inside of a pearl. Clara sat perfectly still in the carriage, her satchel clutched tightly to her chest, her hands damp with nerves. Inside the satchel, nestled between her books and writing slate, was the little bundle she had folded and tied the night before. The wintermint, still green, wrapped in cream ribbon, pressed carefully into parchment. It wasn’t a noble gift. Not in the way Grace was used to. But it was hers. And that had to count for something.
She had barely eaten breakfast. Her steward had told her to wear gloves. She had forgotten them. All morning, her mind had been repeating one sentence like a hymn: Please let her like it.
When she was led into the lesson chamber, Grace was already there, seated at her usual place by the tall arched window, sunlight catching in the edges of her curls like spun gold. She looked calm, composed, her expression unreadable, until she turned her head.
“Good morning, Clara,” Grace said, her voice smooth and light.
Clara curtsied so fast she nearly lost her balance. “G-good morning, Lady Grace.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly in amusement. “You seem... excited today.”
“I—” Clara hesitated, then forced her shoulders back. This was it. Now or never. “I brought something for you. If you would… permit me.”
Grace tilted her head, just a fraction, and gave a soft nod. “Of course.”
Clara stepped forward and pulled the bundle from her satchel with trembling fingers. She placed it gently on Grace’s desk — a folded sheet of parchment tied with pale ribbon, small and simple, but handled with ceremonial care.
“To thank you,” she said softly. “For the hairpin. And… for being my friend.”
For a breathless moment, Grace didn’t move. Then her hand, as delicate as always, reached forward and loosened the ribbon with slow precision. The parchment unfolded with a quiet sigh. And the little sprig of wintermint slid gently into view.
She didn’t speak.
Clara watched, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure it echoed in the stone walls. What if it was wrong? What if it was childish? She should have picked something grander, something brighter—
But Grace lifted the mint in both hands, cupping it with the same reverence one might hold a holy relic. Her fingers traced the curve of the stem. Her eyes, always sharp, softened just slightly, the way glass softens over flame.
“Thank you, Clara,” she said at last, her voice quieter than expected. “It’s beautiful.”
Clara blinked, stunned. “You… you really like it?”
Grace looked up. Her smile wasn’t practiced this time. It wasn’t one of the perfect little courtly masks she wore so easily. It was smaller. Stranger. Real.
“It’s the first gift I’ve ever received that wasn’t given out of duty,” she said.
She didn’t say anything else. Just gently slipped the sprig between two pages of her notebook, sliding it into place like a secret tucked beneath her skin. Her fingers rested there for a moment too long. Then she looked up again.
“I’ll keep it always.”
Clara didn’t know what to say. Her throat was tight. Her eyes stung — not from tears, but from something so bright inside her that it almost hurt.
The lesson began. Runes, glyphs, noble posture, the kind of dry theory that usually made Clara fidget. But not today. Today, she sat straight, silent, and impossibly proud. Her parchment was perfectly aligned. Her ink did not smudge. And every few moments, her eyes flicked toward Grace — not because she needed approval, but because she wanted to remember this moment forever.
Grace had kept her gift. Had truly, deeply liked it.
And somewhere inside Clara Bellgrave — six years old, new to Ashford, small in a vast world — something settled. Something grew.
She had given a gift from the heart.
And Grace had seen her.
--::--
Grace watched Clara scribble notes with furious determination, her brow furrowed in adorable concentration, and kept her own face still. Serene. Untouchable.
Inside, she wasn’t smiling.
What a piece of trash, she thought lazily, her gaze flicking once to the pressed wintermint tucked neatly inside her book. She really thinks this is appropriate? A twig wrapped in string?
Her fingers tapped once, lightly, against the parchment. It had been sticky with nervous energy when Clara handed it over. All trembling hope and breathless adoration.
Pathetic.
And yet.
Her eyes drifted back to Clara’s small figure, hunched earnestly over her work, hair ribbon askew from her hurried curtsey.
The sight made something unpleasant coil behind Grace’s ribs.
Her little smile fucks me up.
The thought was sharp, unwelcome. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like anything she couldn’t control.
The mint was worthless. Clara’s loyalty was inevitable. A foregone conclusion.
And yet when the girl looked at her — eyes shining with trust, with devotion — it stirred something that Grace couldn’t quite crush.
Not yet.
Grace turned back to her own notes, lips curling ever so slightly into a faint, perfect smile. A liar’s smile.
I’ll keep it anyway.