By the time Marcella returned to the manor, the morning sunlight had spilled across the manicured gardens.
Verona rushed to usher her inside, casting nervous glances over her shoulder, as though even the flowers could turn traitor and gossip about Marcella's reckless escapade.
Her bare feet padded against the polished stone floors of the entrance hall. But before Marcella could even catch her breath, the heavy oak doors of the drawing room swung open with a suddenness that matched the sharpness of the voice that followed.
"Ah, there she is," came Lady Agnes's voice—sharp, cold and clipped.
Marcella halted in her tracks. Her eyes snapped to the woman standing at the center of the room, her gaze narrowing in anticipation.
Lady Agnes, her mother was the embodiment of aristocratic perfection: red hair swept into an intricate braided bun, not a strand out of place. A string of pearls adorned her slender neck, and her gown—an emerald-green silk masterpiece—fit her tall, regal frame with perfection. She held a delicate porcelain teacup in one hand, her nails painted a soft pink, and the other rested lightly on the edge of the tea table.
Marcella's elder sister, Rachel, sat beside her. Rachel's golden-blonde hair, the very image of their father's, fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and her powder-blue morning dress enhanced the delicate fairness of her skin. Her lips curved into a faint, smug smile as her sharp blue eyes landed on Marcella.
Behind them, three maids stood in a neat line, hands clasped demurely in front of them
Lady Agnes's frown deepened as she set her teacup down with a sharp clink against the saucer. Her eyes narrowed as they took in Marcella's appearance—wild, unruly curls, damp from the morning dew, her nightgown clinging to her like a vestige of a world she no longer wished to belong to. "Look at you now. You're the daughter of the High Priest, yet you look like a wayward peasant girl."
Marcella's chest tightened, but she met her mother's gaze, lifting her chin defiantly. The sting of her mother's words was familiar, but it no longer held the power it once had. Her lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. She knew what was coming—and she was ready for it.
"Mother," Marcella began, her voice light and almost playful, "you've started your lecture before I've even had a chance to sit down. Shall I fetch a quill so I can take notes this time?"
Rachel let out a soft, tinkling laugh behind her hand, but Lady Agnes's eyes flashed with fury.
"Don't you dare try to make light of this, Marcella," Agnes snapped, pointing an accusing finger at her youngest daughter. "How could you dress like this and run outside? You regularly disregard your elders and ignore family rules. Fine, I can bear that, but this?" Her voice rose, each word dripping with scorn. "Running through the streets of the capital in your nightgown? Have you lost all sense of propriety? Do you have any idea what people will say? The disgrace this will bring upon our family?"
Marcella stepped fully into the room, meeting her mother's glare head-on. "Oh, I'm sure people will talk, Mother," she replied smoothly, folding her arms across her chest. "They always do. But I imagine they'll be far more interested in what you'll do to cover it up. Perhaps you'll say it was an imposter, running through the streets. People do love a good scandal, after all."
Lady Agnes's jaw tightened. "Enough of your insolence, Marcella!" she barked, slamming her hand against the table. ""You've embarrassed this family time and time again. I must teach you a lesson this time."
Her smirk faltered, her shoulders stiffening as Agnes turned to one of the maids.
"Fetch the stick," Agnes ordered sharply. "She needs to understand the consequences of her actions."
Her mother's fury was familiar, but the threat of punishment was a different thing altogether. She braced herself for it. But before she could react, a figure darted past her.
"Milady, please!" It was Verona, her maid. She dropped to her knees before Lady Agnes, bowing so low that her forehead touched the floor. "Please forgive Milady this time. She's still a child, and I assure you she will never repeat this again."
"Verona," Marcella called out. She could feel the raw emotion in her throat, but she would not let it break her.
"Stand aside, Verona," Lady Agnes commanded coldly, not even sparing the kneeling woman a glance. "She has been coddled enough. It's time she learned her place."
Verona didn't move. She remained kneeling, her voice trembling as she said, "Please, My Lady, I beg you. Punish me instead if you must, but spare Milady."
The words were like a physical blow, and Marcella's heart twisted painfully at the sight of the woman who had raised her with such care and love, now so vulnerable before her cruel mother.
She remembered how she had belittled Verona, shouted at her, treated her as little more than a servant despite the woman's unyielding loyalty.
And now, Verona was here, once again throwing herself into harm's way for someone who had never deserved her devotion.
The head maid returned with the stick—a thin, flexible stick meant for discipline.
Agnes spoke without hesitation, her eyes narrowing. "Very well," she said coolly. "If you insist on shielding her, then you can take her punishment."
Verona 's shoulders stiffened, but she didn't flinch as the first strike came down across her back.
"Stop it!" Marcella shouted, stepping forward as if to block the next blow. But Verona turned her head sharply, her eyes meeting Marcella's with a silent plea.
"Milady, please," Verona whispered. "Let it be. I can endure this."
Her blood boiled as the second strike came down, the sound sharp and sickening in the air. Her hands curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms.
No. Not this time.
With a sharp inhale, Marcella lunged forward and snatched the stick from the head maid's hand. The room fell into stunned silence.
"You dare?" Lady Agnes hissed.
Marcella turned to the head maid who had delivered the blows, her dark eyes flashing with fury. "Since you enjoy flogging so much," she said coldly, "let's see how you like being on the receiving end."
Before anyone could stop her, Marcella brought the stick down against the maid's arm—not hard enough to leave a serious mark, but enough to make her cry out in shock.
"Marcella!" Agnes's voice was a shrill crack of fury.
"Mother, calm down. Your health is the most important." Rachel stood from her seat and tried consoling her mother.
Marcella tossed the stick to the floor, her head snapping up to meet her mother's furious gaze. "Don't you dare touch Verona again," she warned. "If you have a problem with me, Mother, then deal with me directly. Don't punish the one person in this house who actually has a heart."
Agnes stared at her; her lips pressed into a thin line. Her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the table.
Marcella stepped back, her eyes softening as they moved to Verona, who was still kneeling on the floor. She extended her hand, her voice now tender.
"Get up, Verona," she said softly. "We're leaving."
"Milady…" Verona's voice trembled, but Marcella gently helped her to her feet.
"I'm fine," Marcella replied, though her hands were still trembling with the aftershock of what had just happened. "Let's go."
Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode out of the room, leaving the stick lying abandoned on the floor behind her.