The attic was colder than the rest of the manor.
Nora pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she lifted the trunk lid. The hinges groaned like they hadn't been moved in decades. Dust danced in the filtered light. Mice had gotten to the edges of some linens, but underneath, wrapped in brittle lace and forgotten silk, something hard and leather-bound caught her eye.
A journal.
It was her mother's.
The first page still held her handwriting, loopy and bold:
In case the truth outlives the telling.
Nora sat on the floor, heart pounding, and began to read.
It started simply musings on Elmbrook's smallness, on art, on marriage. But slowly, the tone darkened.
Mentions of arguments with Nora's grandfather. Words like control and legacy scratched into margins. A half-finished sketch of the manor's east wing sat beside a blot of ink, smeared like a tear.
Then the names began to appear.
Ashford.
Again and again. Tied to business disputes. To "a betrayal of contracts." To something called the Haverly agreement, a deal her grandfather had broken, leaving the Ashfords ruined and her family in power.
"He said the Ashfords should've known better than to trust a Whitmore with a handshake," one line read.
Nora's breath caught.
So it hadn't just been rumors. The feud had been real. Calculated. Her family had buried it, buried the people it hurt. People like James's father. His grandfather.
She closed the journal gently, like it might shatter.
---
At the forge, James was deep in the bones of another job when Eli burst in, wild-eyed.
"Problem," Eli said. "Big one."
James wiped sweat from his brow. "What now?"
"The council's meeting early. Old man Whitby is stirring up complaints. Says you're favoring Whitmore money over local loyalty."
James's face darkened. "It's a carriage, Eli. Wood, nails, and wheels."
"It's not about the wood," Eli said. "It's her name. People are talking."
James cursed under his breath.
Eli hesitated, then said, "They might try to block your supply line from Carrow. You lose that, you'll be bleeding coin."
James slammed the wrench onto the table. "Let them try."
Eli gave him a long, uncertain look. "Just… don't do anything stupid, alright? This town doesn't forgive easily. And it never forgets."
---
That night, Nora sat in her mother's old studio. Dusty light from a single candle illuminated the desk where the journal lay open, pages splayed like wounds.
She dipped a pen into fresh ink, hesitated, and began to write.
To understand the present, one must first make peace with the past.
She didn't know yet what it meant. Only that something inside her had shifted. And it would not be silenced again.
The past hadn't died in the fire.
It had been waiting in the ashes.