ClinkClink
The gentle sounds of plates and utensils echoed through the castle’s dining room as Francesca and Miller ate dinner together.
“This roasted chicken tastes wonderful!” Francesca commented, thoroughly enjoying the well-done, perfectly spiced meat.
“I am glad you like it. I specifically had the kitchen staff prepare it for you,” Miller replied with a warm smile, taking a bite of his own. “Your strategy worked flawlessly. Spreading those absurd details instead of trying to rebuke the former employees' rumors completely ruined their plans... so consider this a small celebration.”
“Even so... isn't chicken expensive here in Ironwood?” Francesca questioned, pausing to take a sip of her wine. “Or do they actually survive well at high altitudes?”
“Who said they didn't?” Miller asked, looking confused as he stopped mid-bite. After swallowing, he explained, “Chickens are actually much more altitude-tolerant than most people assume. The real issue is the biting cold, not the altitude itself.”
“I see... So how do the citizens manage it?” Francesca asked curiously.
Miller smiled, eager to share. “The citizens of the Ironwood territory have been using a traditional method called the 'Julian Coop' for generations, long before I became the Lord.”
“The Julian Coop?” Francesca tilted her head, taking another bite of her food.
Miller nodded, brushing a stray lock of red hair out of his eyes. “Long ago, a local named Julian designed a unique style of coop. It features a small, separate stone chamber built into one of the walls to act as a firebox, which vents safely away from the birds. The fire never burns inside the actual bird space; it simply heats the thick stone dividing wall, turning the structure itself into a safe heater.”
“Hmm, but how do they maintain a steady temperature? Couldn't it easily become too hot for the birds?” Francesca questioned, her eyes tracking the way Miller’s unruly hair kept falling back into his face.
“I found that fascinating as well,” Miller said, finishing his meal and wiping his mouth with a napkin. “They use a specific, measured bundle of firewood called 'Nestfuel.' The size and wood composition were optimized over generations to burn for exactly an hour and a half, which sustains the stone wall's heat for about four hours. A family member or a designated local 'nestfuel man' is always on duty to replenish it every four hours.”
“Wow... that is incredibly efficient. It keeps firewood costs low while maintaining just the right amount of heat,” Francesca mused. Deep in thought, she picked up her cane and slowly stood up from her chair. She walked over to Miller's side of the table.
“Francesca...?” Miller murmured, watching her approach.
Francesca reached out, intending to tuck his hair behind his ear, but balancing with the cane in her other hand made the gesture awkward. Realizing she needed both hands, she set her cane aside and boldly sat right down on his lap.
Gently grasping his soft, crimson hair to hold it back, she looked into his eyes. “Your hair has grown quite a lot. Perhaps you will let me cut it for you?”
Miller’s cheeks instantly flushed a deep crimson, and Francesca felt a sudden wave of heat rush to her own face as well.
“Sure...” he replied softly.
Francesca didn't move away. Instead, she stayed right there on his lap, her fingers gently threading through his red hair as a comfortable, warm silence settled over them.
Crackle crackle
The sound of the logs shifting in the fireplace echoed softly through the room, eventually breaking the quiet spell.
“Um... Francesca...” Miller murmured.
Looking directly into his eyes, she replied softly, “Yes...?”
“I don’t know if this might be weird to ask now, especially after being married for three months already, but...” Miller began, trailing off nervously. “Before our wedding, we had only ever exchanged letters twice. I understood your circumstances back then, and I remember what you said during our carriage ride.. that you wished for us to have a good relationship, even though we were forced to marry due to politics...”
“Hmm...” Francesca hummed, encouraging him to go on as she continued to listen.
“So... what I am trying to say is... you seem to be making a genuine effort for us to get closer. Even though there isn't really a grand reason for us to be affectionate... I’m not saying it’s a bad thing! Or that I don’t want to... Ah... what I mean is...”
“It’s my ambition,” Francesca interjected, cutting through his nervous ramblings. She understood exactly what he was trying to ask.
“Ambition?” Miller asked, his eyebrow raising in confusion.
Francesca smiled, a poignant mixture of somberness and genuine warmth crossing her features. “I have always been neglected or abused simply for having a disability. My father and brother would discard me every chance they got. That coldness was the only type of family dynamic and 'affection' I had ever known.”
Stroking his hair, she looked down at him. “So... I suppose you could say it’s my ambition to build a loving family and a peaceful, happy life. Just to prove to myself, I guess, that I am capable of being loved.” She paused, her expression shifting to one of concern and sudden guilt.
In both my lives it has been my goal I wanted..
“I am sorry... The affection I have been showing you wasn't born out of purely selfless intentions, but from a greed of my own,” she admitted, holding onto him a little tighter. “If... if that makes you feel disappointed or offended, then I—”
With a heavy heart, she reached out to grab her cane, preparing to stand up and give him space.
But before she could move, Miller caught her, gently holding her down on his lap. He forced her to look him in the eyes, parting the stray locks of red hair that were obscuring his vision. There was an intense, raw emotion burning in his gaze as he replied, “I... I am not offended!”
His hands trembled slightly as he held her close. “I... I just feel like I am not worthy of something as precious as your affection, Francesca.”
As she looked at him with questioning eyes, he reached up, his fingers gently stroking her shimmering silver hair.
“I... I liked it,” he confessed, his voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper. “I liked killing others on the battlefield. Every time an enemy fell by my blade, it brought me an immense sense of achievement. It made me believe that I might truly be a bloodthirsty beast, just like my father.”
He swallowed hard, looking away for a fraction of a second. “Someone who enjoys taking lives and feels a rush of victory over it... a monster like that shouldn't dare to desire love and affection. That is what my aunt drilled into me, even before I ever went to war.” Miller's voice cracked slightly, the painful memories surfacing. “I... I don’t understand what it is. I don’t even know what love is, so...”
He looked back up at her, his gaze steadying. “It doesn’t matter what your reasoning is for wanting to grow closer. Neither of us truly knows what love is yet.”
Taking one last, deep breath to steady his racing heart, Miller finished, “So... can't we just define it however we want?”