The Seventh Season

3. Prologue

Miranda felt as though she was always hungry. Cold, too, through the long winter months. Her governess told her that this was good for her that it built character. At ten years of age, Miranda didn’t care about character. She wanted to be warm and well fed.

Since she and her governess retired early, apparently another character building practice, Miranda often sneaked into the kitchen at night. She ate the food she found and sometimes even slept by the warmth of the fire rather than return to her cold bedroom. She suspected that Cook knew and approved of her visits for there was often food available and never any fuss made about anything missing. The servants, with the exception of Miss Glover, were fond of her.

At first, leaving her room in the murky night and making her way downstairs through long halls that looked very different during the day, frightened her. Portraits of ancestors appeared to gaze at her with disdain as if they reviled her for not submitting to privation. Shadows had loomed in every corner like a predator ready to spring. Gradually; however, she’d come to enjoy her night-time forages. The path had become as familiar in the dark as in the light, her ancestors had become friends and the quiet grew peaceful and calm.

She saw nothing unusual as she crept down for her nightly snack nor did she hear anything suspicious. Some rolls resided near the banked fire and a quick search found a jar of honey nearby. Even a few slices of chicken were under a towel on the worn pine table. Miranda gathered the items and settled by the fire with her back to the wall. The food tasted delicious, far better than the watery gruel she’d been served in the nursery. Savoring the sweetness of the honey, she licked her fingers to rid them of the stickiness and munched on the chicken, relishing the strength it offered her.

If only her parents would return home. She knew they would be appalled at how her governess treated her, but they preferred to spend most of their time in London and her brother had gone off to school. Her governess had been harsh when he lived at home, maintaining a strict schedule and never hesitant to use her switch, but it wasn’t until Michael left that she began restricting Miranda’s food and not allowing a fire to be built in the nursery. Many of the servants disapproved of Miss Glover’s ways, but only a skeleton staff remained at the abbey when the earl and countess were not in residence. The housekeeper, the only one that might have had any clout, didn’t want to be bothered with the matter. The other servants were too afraid to intervene.

Growing drowsy with the warmth and food, Miranda curled up beside the fire. Having carried her favorite blanket down with her, she pulled it over her body and dozed. She feared sleeping too deeply, the threat of being caught by her governess all too horrifying. Once she’d awakened to the sound of the kitchen maids coming down to start breakfast, but ever since then she’d been more careful.

She couldn’t have been sleeping long when she heard something. A sound so slight, it took a moment for her to realize it was out of place. Once she did, however, sleep fled, and she lay quietly, trying not to even breathe, as she focused on listening.

There it was again, a soft footfall. Someone stealthily approached. For a moment Miranda clung to the theory it was a servant hoping to steal food from the kitchen or perhaps a maid returning from a late night rendezvous, but this hope was short lived. The fearsome form of her governess soon filled the entrance to the kitchen.

“So this is where you go,” she said. “Rummaging for crumbs and getting fat and weak.”

“I was cold, so I came down to the fire,” Miranda said. She expected Miss Glover to slap her or even get out her switch, but the woman seemed uncannily still. She stayed in the entrance, her features in shadow.

“If you want fire, then you shall have it,” she said after a long moment of silence. She stepped within the doorway then, heading straight towards the coals that smoldered in the kitchen grate. Grabbing the poker, she pulled them out onto the floor.

“Miss Glover, what are you doing? You’ll catch the house on fire,” Miranda said. She ran to the sink to fill a pot with water. The blow came from behind and knocked her to the stone flags. Miranda lay there for a moment, stunned with pain. Then she scrambled to her feet and turned to face her attacker. Miss Glover still held the poker in her hand, brandishing it as if it were a sword.

Miranda’s back throbbed where she had been struck, but keeping tabs on her governess, she inched closer to the sink. “Get away from me,” she said. “My parents will dismiss you without a character for this.”

“Only if they find out,” she said. She raised the poker and although Miranda shielded her head with her arms, the heavy metal knocked her unconscious.

When Miranda regained her senses, the kitchen had filled with smoke. Miss Glover must have dragged furniture in from another room for otherwise there was little to burn beyond the heavy preparation table. Coughing, Miranda crawled towards the door, but the heat and flames kept her back. She pulled herself to her feet, planning to make a run for it, but as she did so, something within the conflagration exploded, raining bits of flaming wood upon her. Her sleeve caught fire and she screamed, the sound barely piercing the roar of the greedy blaze. Crazed with pain, she stumbled to the sink and pumped water from the pipe, dousing her clothes. She choked on the heavy smoke and sank to her knees in despair. There was no way out. Scrambling backwards, she slipped into the larder and closed the heavy door, hoping it would protect her from the growing inferno. She curled up in a ball as blackness swamped her once more. Miranda was barely aware when the door swung open, bringing with it crushing heat and blistering embers, but also rescue. Strong arms reached for her, pulling her from the space and cradling her against a firm chest. Her head swam, but she felt him rush her past the still glowing flames as servants armed with buckets dumped gallons of water into the pyre. When they reached the relative safety of the hall, Miranda peered over her rescuer’s shoulder at the horrifying scene. The servants were winning, by a slight margin, but someone cried out as a runaway tendril of flame snaked up the wall. Miranda tried to scream, but her throat was raw and she was whisked away to the drawing room where her rescuer dropped her upon the settee and doubled over coughing.

When he raised his head, all Miranda could see for a moment were his vivid green eyes glowing in a face blackened with smoke. She recognized her neighbor, Jason Elliott, Lord Beaumont, a youth about her brother’s age with whom she had not exchanged two words in the past.

“You saved me,” she said, though she could barely speak. Even such a small effort set her choking again, but Jason waited until she could draw air once more.

“It’s not every day I get to rescue a princess,” he said, a handsome grin lighting his face.

Miranda might have giggled if her throat hadn’t been raw, but his words resonated deep inside. He was her knight and he had rescued her from the fire-breathing dragon. From that day on, she knew she was his.