Later that afternoon, the sun rose higher and its golden light spilled through the trees, dappled and warm on the stone path that was around our home.
Sir Ivar returned as he had promised, a black leather-bound book tucked under one arm and a single white lily in his hand.
"For you," he said simply, offering me the flower. I hesitated before taking it, brushing my fingers lightly over the petals. It smelled faintly of spring and something unplaceable maybe rain, maybe even hope.
"Thank you," I said softly.
"Shall we take a walk?"
I nodded, and together we stepped past the little garden gate, where the mint and rosemary grew wild among the stones.
We walked in companionable silence at first, listening to the crunch of gravel beneath our boots and the lazy buzzing of bees. I clutched the lily gently, unsure what to say, and unsure if he expected anything at all from me.
"Do you enjoy reading?" he asked finally, gesturing to the book he carried.
"Very much," I replied. "Though most of what we have is old poetry and my father's farming almanacs."
He chuckled lightly. "This is a book of tales from the East, some of it truth and some myths. I thought perhaps you might enjoy it. If not, I'll bring you another tomorrow."
I took it from him reverently, surprised by the gesture. "I would like that very much. Thank you."
There was a kindness to his smile but something else lingered there too. A weariness, or perhaps... sadness. As though he carried a burden he did not wish to speak of.
"Why me?" I asked before I could stop myself. "Why come for me?"
He paused and looked out at the fields beyond the trees, where the sky touched the earth in a hazy, endless stretch of blue.
"Because when I asked your father about you, he said you had more heart than anyone he had ever known. I've had enough of quiet, empty halls and cold seasons. I wanted a wife who remembered the scent of mint in summer and the colour of her mother's ribbons."
My breath caught.
"And because," he added more gently, "you do not look at me with fear. Only with questions."
We reached the edge of the meadow, where the wildflowers grew in unruly patches and the air was sweeter. He stopped and looked at me with a strange kind of patience, like a man waiting for a tide that would one day come in.
"I cannot promise you a fairytale world, Rose," he said. "But I can promise honesty, protection, and that I will never force your heart to do what it does not want to do."
I looked down at the lily in my hand. Its stem was still green and strong.
"Then let us start with truth, Sir Ivar," I said. "Tell me something real."
He thought for a long moment, then spoke. "The woman I was once meant to marry died before I could bring her home."
I blinked. The breeze tugged gently at my hair.
I looked at him, waiting. He had offered truth. I wanted to know the shape it held.
"What was her name?" I asked quietly.
He exhaled slowly, his gaze returning to the field as though he could see her there, somewhere far beyond the waving grass and time.
"Her name was Elaine," he said. "She was the daughter of a scholar from the southern provinces, sharp as frostbite and just as beautiful. She used to write letters to me in verse."
There was a small smile on his lips, but it faded quickly.
"She had a laugh like windchimes. Not delicate, really just… clear and tinkling. Clean. Like it belonged outdoors."
I didn't speak. I simply held the moment open for him.
"We were to marry at midsummer, beneath the old ash tree on my family's estate. She insisted we wear no shoes. Said she wanted to feel the earth beneath her feet as we took our vows." He paused, brow furrowing. "But there was a fever that swept through the villages that spring. She caught it visiting a sick child."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"She refused to leave the child's side. When the fever took the boy, it took her too, three days later. I was still on the road returning home when the letter reached me."
Silence stretched between us, full of all the things I couldn't say and all the grief he no longer had tears left for.
"I'm sorry," I said, not because I didn't mean it, but because it felt like the only thing that wasn't a trespass into painful memories.
He nodded. "So am I. Not for remembering her, but for what never had the chance to be."
We stood in the hush of the meadow, the air stirred only by wind and birdsong. The sunlight kissed his hair, turning it briefly gold.
"I do not ask you to take her place," he said after a long moment, his voice softer now. "Only that you let me try again. To build something with someone who has a future of her own."
"I think she would have liked you, Rose."
I looked down at the lily still in my hand. I wasn't sure if I believed him but I wanted to.
"Then I hope I will like me, too. The woman I will become by your side."
He looked at me then not as a stranger or a promise to be fulfilled but as someone he might come to know in good time.
And maybe even someone he might one day trust with all that sorrow and secrets he carried like a hidden blade.
We walked back without saying more and yet, something between us had shifted like the cracking of frost before spring breaks through.
When we returned, the sky had begun to turn the soft orange of evening. My mother waited at the gate, her apron dusted with flour. Father stood beside her, one hand resting gently on her back.
"Did you enjoy the walk?" she asked me, curiosity in her eyes.
I nodded, still holding the book in one hand, the lily in the other.
"Yes, Mama," I said quietly.
"I think I might come to like him." I replied giving her a soft smile.