“I’d sooner walk on water than count on the kitchen staff keeping a secret,” Bertrand replied.

“Would you care to try?” Marc countered. “The water is shallow here, you may not even get your feet wet.”

“Are you being smart with me?” Bertrand retorted in a raised voice.

Marc picked up on the threat behind those words, but the twinkle in those eyes told him otherwise. He had the choice of backing down or fully committing to the cause.

He dropped the reins, backed up five paces and ran towards the stream. Upon reaching the edge he jumped, soaring over the water until both his feet landed on the opposing shore.

“The kitchen staff and the echo through the halls,” Marc whispered.

He rarely came across the Countess, even at meal times. His father would offer up a plethora of excuses, but that stopped when he quit asking altogether. 

The few times they did cross paths, Marc would always feel an icy chill run down his back. The woman possessed a stare that could chill the mood at any festival. He also suspected the worst of it was reserved for him. For being the fruit of her loins, Marc had spent many a night crying into a pillow, struggling to find why his own mother rejected him.

“I’d sooner walk on water than count on the kitchen staff keeping a secret,” Bertrand replied.

“Your mother didn’t raise a fool,” Bertrand replied. “How did you find out?”

They came across a stream, almost entirely concealed by shade. Bertrand dismounted and led his horse to the water, and Marc did the same. 

There was something about what Bertrand said that shed light in the dark recesses of his mind. Old memories that never fit the narrative, or things that kitchen staff whispered to one another when they thought they were alone. 

“The kitchen staff and the echo through the halls,” Marc whispered.

They carried on for another five or so minutes, by that point the woods had swallowed them up entirely. Neither feared threading through the wilds, but it was humbling to realise that the little more than thin filaments of light filtered in through the canopy of leaves.

“What do you know about your governess?” Bertrand asked.

“Death walks in her shadow,” Marc replied.

Bertrand’s head snapped back, which could have easily been explained away by studying himself on his mount. However, Marc knew better, there were few who could rival his abilities as a horseman.

“Your mother didn’t raise a fool,” Bertrand replied. “How did you find out?”

“I’ll fetch us some horses,” Bertrand added. “Now get a move on.”

Marc sprung up from off of the rocky terrain no worse for wear. After taking ten strides, he turned around while continuing to move towards the keep.

“Meet you in the courtyard?” Marc asked.

“Were you thinking the horse would jump over the wall?” Bertrand teased.

“Beat you there!” Marc exclaimed before turning around in a single bound and ran off towards his quarters.

Bertand knelt down and reached for the sword a couple of feet away from his student. Marc watched on in anticipation, his dark brown eyes wide and aglow. 

“Fetch your horn and pistol,” Bertrand said. “Be quick about it.”

Upon hearing the two words in the same sentence, Marc’s grin transitioned to a toothy smile. Normally the Comtesse forbade firearms training within the keep, claiming it rattled her nerves. It seemed like Bertrand was willing to incur her wrath to his benefit.

“Really?” Marc asked, that word overflowing with hope and joy.

“I’ll fetch us some horses,” Bertrand added. “Now go on swiftly.”

In spite of the dim light filtering through the window, it felt as though Death was lurking about. His governess, Jeanne had a lingering cough for years, which sometimes brought up blood.

In the past month, her health has deteriorated. First came the night sweats, followed by fever and significant weight loss. While his father said it was nothing, Marc could tell there was something wrong.

“No,” Marc replied before adopting a wry grin. “It’s not like you to make it easy for me.”

Bertrand looked behind him and understood precisely where his student’s eyes had been focused. For a moment it appeared as though he was about to say something, but thought better of it. There were limits to what staff could get away with, even as trusted advisors.

“If you only knew…” Bertrand replied. “Well, I’ve had enough of swords.”

“Correct, Marc,” Bertrand said with a warm smile. “Had enough for today?”

After taking a beating like that Marc would normally be chomping at the bit to head back. This time the contents of his stomach soured and his sunburnt skin lost a shade or two of colour right before Bertrand’s eyes.. 

Behind Bertrand there was the main keep that connected three towers. His eyes focused on a particular window, nearest to him, but furthest from the courtyard and quarters for the count and countess.

In spite of the dim light filtering through the window, it felt as though Death was lurking about.