LUCAS’S POV
The range attendant led us to a small washroom adjacent to the stables, bowing repeatedly as he held the door open.
“My lord, I’m so sorry again. I’ve never seen the horse act like that. If there’s anything I can do..”
“Stop apologizing,” I said curtly. “It wasn’t your fault. The horse spooked.”
“But my lord, the shirt…”
“I said stop.” My voice carried enough authority that the boy flinched. “You’re dismissed.”
He bowed one more time and practically fled from the room.
The door closed behind him, and the space went quiet.
I stood there, staring down at the ruined shirt, and felt the familiar tight feeling in my chest that this particular garment always brought.
Marianne had sewn it herself. She had stitched every thread with those careful, precise hands of hers during
