II

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

If she hadn't been peering down the length of the arrow she had notched and primed, despite the ever-present trembling of her hands, Lillian Adams would not have seen the faeborn male ambling along the gravel road away from her family's estate.

The hare she had been spying some ten yards away near the slight dip at the fringe of the road twitched at the heavy crunch of the male's boots against the dirt and rubble, its ears twisting towards the intrusive sound, and then it darted into the undergrowth of the forest with haste.

It was no matter- Lillian's aim was poor thanks to the uncontrollable way her fingers shook. She had hoped that by regularly strengthening her hold through use of her bow and arrow that the tremors would lessen, yet they had not. To boot, it was not as if her ducal seat was want for food that spoke of the need to see the heir partake in hunting rabbits about the estate.

She unnotched her arrow and tucked it silently back into the quiver that hung at her hip, slinging her bow over her shoulder, and crouched low into the shadows of the pine she had been standing behind, her senses honed towards the presence of the Other moving across her line of sight. Her gaze tracked the loping gait of the male warily, hoping he would pass without noticing her amongst the foliage and trees that flanked the road to either side of him, abhorring the way her skin prickled with the ever-present reminders that fear prevailed and coordinated her every action since she had returned to this world.

Even though outwardly he appeared human in appearance, Lillian knew enough of the fae having resided amongst them in their world for four long years only recently to identify the tells that signified otherwise. The fluidity and grace of his long limbs as he loped by, confident and measured in his pace as his legs stretched before him; the inky depths of his silken hair that hung haphazardly in a flyaway mess atop his head, locks that seemed to glisten with the light of entrapped stars. She may be several yards from him, but she had no doubt in her mind that if he were to turn to face her, she would behold one of the most beautiful males she had ever seen. A faint trickle of awareness of him as a man skittered over the nerves that were reacting in trepidation and she mused over it for but a moment, curious that dormant stirrings of attraction were occurring now, then and there, when Lillian Adams held no such hopes to ever feel anything for a man, but it was largely overridden and quelled entirely by the dominant trepidations afflicting her consciousness.

Her fear and wariness of their kind had transferred from their world to this one with her, and Lillian quickly took stock of the wind and her subsequent position instinctively, confirming that she was indeed downwind.

It did not bode well for humanity's survival as a species that the faeborn not only held magical abilities, but they were generally faster and stronger than them, and their finely honed senses far surpassed that of any above-average person of non-magical ability. If the male hadn't seen her in the shadows, he could have most likely scented her were her positioning any different.

It was not entirely irrational that she felt such unease around the fae that lingered at her sister's behest upon the estate, knowing full well that their loyalty to Millie was steadfast and true, that they would never harm her or her sister in any way. Yet Lillian felt her hand tremors increase tenfold until the sensation reverberated through her limbs and over her entire body, a cold sweat breaking out along the curve of her spine, as the unknown male passed her along the road. A prickle of tension made its way under her skin and her breath pulled tight within her lungs, compelling her to quicken her exhalation to a soft pant.

The male was further away now, his figure disappearing and reappearing behind the imposing trunks of the trees as he walked, and Lillian allowed her shoulders to sink into the back of the tree she hid behind. She compelled her heart to calm, her breathing to soothe and slow, her fingers to ease their maddening trembles by splaying her hands flat to either side of her, the abrasive bark pressing into the skin of her palms.

It was some time before she could move again, before her limbs were steady enough to straighten and push away from the protective shadows of the leaves and boughs surrounding her. With one last glance in the direction the male had disappeared to be certain that he did not loom nearby, or perhaps decide to turnabout back towards the estate impulsively, she made her way in the opposite direction to him, skirting close to the foliage and dense trees she had been hiding in that flanked either side of the road until Ravensfield house was almost upon her.

She had not traversed far that day, but the urge to avoid the persistent matchmaker that haunted the halls and rooms of the house of late had guided Lillian's footsteps out the front entrance- even though she had agreed to Mrs Addilyn Holt's services since it was her duty to inherit the Ravensfield title considering her father had passed a little more than a month prior.

Lillian grimaced inwardly thinking about the doggedly determined woman that Addilyn Holt was... small in stature, huge in gumption.

Mercifully, Ravensfield was vast and Lillian had four years under her belt as practise- practise being prey. It was easy enough to elude Addilyn's clutches.

She had conditioned herself to move quietly, light-footed and deft, across even the most obstacle ridden path while simultaneously silencing her innermost functioning so that she was only attuned to that of her surroundings. A subtle snap of a twig, a hush of breath, a rustle of fabric- these are the sorts of sounds that would alert her to normalcy or something unusual within her surroundings and she would take heed.

It had been easy to outright avoid Addilyn Holt.

She moved through the estate like a hurricane, and Lillian simply did not.

Not that she was averse to taking a husband- she was not, and she knew she was bound by duty to do so. Her sister had endured too much during her years of unprecedented absence and Lillian knew that duty compelled her to act accordingly, and she would- unquestioningly. It was marriage to the Other that awakened her anxiety, that made her skirt the inevitable and avoid glancing at the tablet that held all her potential matches on a single sheet of enchanted parchment. Oh, she knew Millie would never force her to marry and happily endure fulfilling her older sister's duties in the interim, but Lillian was conditioned to behave in accordance with her duty- duty to her family, her title, her father's memory- and she meant to see it through.

As soon as she was able to quell the urge to run the other way whenever she heard Mrs Holt approach.

Lillian was quiet, authoritatively silent. Her years being hunted and tormented had not changed the fact that she was the eldest daughter to a duke and set to inherit her father's title, groomed to do just that. It was ingrained within her- her pride, her astuteness at reading individuals, at handling conflict and mediating disputes. But she had never expected to return to her home, to England. She had long ago resolved herself to her fate- that she was to die amongst the people that loathed her very flesh.

However, miraculously, she had returned- and so did her responsibilities.

As suddenly as she was thrust upon the Otherworld, she was hurled back into this one with nary a warning, inclination or clue. And when she had returned, her home- and its people- had been turned upside down, perhaps even more confusing and astounding than the one she had left and spent four years of her life trying to adapt to.

Her father had perished mere weeks before her return and her sister, once her closest confidante, had taken a faeborn male as her husband- a people who would torment her nightmares and memories for the rest of Lillian's life. The death of their father had been difficult to process, but she had grieved the loss of her family during her years in the Otherworld, sure that she was never to see Millie or her father again. Regardless, his death, and the timing of it, had ensured she spent many waking hours on Ravensfield by his grave site atop a gentle knoll at the southern end of the property.

Derrick had been a stern yet loving father, and though many of his lessons he instilled upon his daughters could be construed as cruel, Lillian knew that he meant only to protect them from the harshness of the society in which they lived. She had loved and adored him, readily seeking him out for council on any problem pertaining to the estate, and he had received her eagerly.

She had missed him during her time in another world; she longed for him upon her return to this one.

Around her, the trees thinned until the looming, enormous spectre that was Ravensfield Manor met her gaze. It was vast, an elaborate stone-faced structure of import and wealth that stretched to either side in an expansive array of Venetian windows and Baroque architecture. She strode steadily towards it, her limbs easing of their tension slightly. Soon her boots were crunching upon the gravel and she had been ushered inside the grand foyer.

A faeborn male by the name of Grish assisted her with her quiver and bow, gently extricating the items from her person with a tentativeness she appreciated. At first, Lillian had been alarmed by Millie's decision to employ the fae among their staff and allocate them stations normally reserved solely for humans. She had gone outright to avoid interacting with them until it inevitably became apparent that, as the soon-to-be future duchess of Ravensfield, Lillian would need to address those under her employ directly. However, she had been astounded by their reactions to her, their deference and respect- which was wholly at odds with her encounters in the Otherworld.

"Thank you, Grish," she told the male with a politely aloof smile.

He inclined his chin slightly at her words, the feathery tufts of hair that reminded her of cattails shifting eerily with the movement. "Allow me to send your waistcoat for mending. I'll have Dast tend to it at once and returned to your chambers before the evening meal."

Lillian frowned in confusion before glancing down at the leather utility garment she chose to wear on a daily basis. Having returned from a world where she had acclimated to having everything she could possibly need on her person at all times- weapons, sewing materials, flint, twine, tools- because her fate held so many uncertainties each moment, it was a hard adjustment to endure life with merely a reticule to hold her necessities. Even if Lillian did not need to sew her own buttons on her clothes anymore, she preferred having them close to her person regardless.

For her own peace of mind.

The waistcoat had been torn, a seam of a pocket along her flank peeling away from the bodice that clung snugly to the curve of her waist. "Oh." She hesitated a moment before shrugging out of the garment and handing it Grish, self-consciously pulling her long braid over her left shoulder and effectively covering the visible scars that marred the skin of her neck. "Thank you, that will be fine."

The faeborn nodded again and wordlessly disappeared through a hallway to the left.

She considered him a moment, fiddling with the cufflink of one of her sleeves, when she became aware of the tremors.

Ever present, sometimes she was able to ignore their existence entirely, but more often than not she was brutally cognisant of the way she was unable to quell them. The foyer was silent and empty, and Lillian held out her fingers before her, glaring at the manner in which they shook slightly. Perhaps it was the gesture that pulled her attention to the scars that littered the left side of her body like jagged strikes of lightning, but Lillian felt her flesh tighten and grow warm around those constant reminders of what she had endured and survived. She flexed her knuckles and gave them a quick shake-

"Low blood sugar, stress, a traumatic brain injury, liver disease," a voice sounded from behind her and Lillian's soul left her body.

Pivoting, a half-grunt, half-squeal frozen on her lips, she spun towards the intruder who had spoken the words, her heart a wild beast that threatened to pound from her very chest. "What in the sweet hell!" Lillian exclaimed. Her gaze collided with that of a humongous set of eyes, exaggerated behind the bifocal lenses of a pair of spectacles perched atop a button nose.

Miss Tiffany Cotton looked entirely unperturbed at the fact that she had almost been the sole cause of the demise of a future duchess.

Annoyed, Lillian wheezed while she clutched her chest, "Miss Cotton... you startled me."

The young woman cocked her head to the side as if she found the notion somewhat fascinating. "Clearly." She blinked owlishly, slowly.

She was, Lillian thought peevishly, quite an odd sort. Tiffany Cotton, another one of Millie's esteemed guests lingering on at Ravensfield, was rather nondescript in appearance with mousey brown hair and skin that could do with a bit of sunlight, and she largely went unnoticed most days- appearing most suddenly around mealtimes as any indication that she stayed on the estate at all.

Lillian expelled a tremulous breath, her heartrate beginning to regulate and she lowered her hands to her sides, fisting her fingers self-consciously to keep the tremors unnoticeable. "Where the devil did you come from?" she asked incredulously.

At that, Miss Cotton's brow puckered in confusion. "I come from Dorset, if that's what you are asking," she mused slowly. "Though if you mean right now, I have come from my chambers to adjoin for some tea and biscuits."

Lord. "I mean... never mind." She recalled the words that had rendered her terrified and considered the other woman shrewdly for a moment. "Miss Cotton, what was it you were saying at first?"

"Low blood sugar, stress-"

"Yes, yes. I'm not sure what-"

Tiffany Cotton pointed quite boldly at one of the fists that Lillian had clenched against her thigh, her brows raising above the wire rims of her large spectacles. "The probable causes of shaking hands," she said matter-of-factly.

Lillian shook her head slightly. "It does not matter, I do not believe any of those causes apply to me."

"What cause do you believe applies to you then?" the other woman asked- again, rather forwardly, and Lillian endeavoured not to find affront with her mannerisms. Miss Cotton was peculiar indeed but rather harmless- merely forming part of the menagerie of individuals that Millie was so inclined to surround herself with at all times.

It was something that Millie was able to do effortlessly- attract people to her. There was a natural pull to her younger sister, apparent in her outgoing and tempestuous demeanour, her astute engagement and love of those she held close to her. Their father had tried to quell Millie's intrinsic trustfulness, honing her circles of friendships and acquaintances until both sisters only knew to trust each other and their father for fear of being taken advantage of. Unfortunately, these lessons had stemmed from being proven right... time and time again.

Millie hardly knew her effect on people, yet Lillian had always been aware of it. She knew that her sister thrived in company, especially company that adored her. But where Millie had needed social companionship to thrive, Lillian did not.

She thrived in isolation- her years in the Otherworld testament to just that. People unnerved her, made her wary and cautious, and she supposed she had her late pater to thank for that. Derrick had been rigorous in his lessons to ensure that his Ravensfield daughters would never be manipulated by another being.

Dragging her thoughts back to Miss Cotton, Lillian averted her gaze to the cufflink she was fidgeting with before unclasping the fine silver adornment and rolling her sleeves up to her elbows. "A lost one," she told the other woman flatly.

She politely began to take her leave of Miss Cotton, nodding amiably in her direction with an aloof smile, before moving off down the passage to the left of the entrance foyer, intending to seek an audience with Millie. Miss Tiffany Cotton, however, had other ideas and doggedly began to follow in Lillian's wake.

It was unusually quiet in Ravensfield that afternoon. Normally the hallways would be teeming with activities- throngs of creatures skirting along the ceiling or carpets, human guests twittering excitedly as they passed on their way to whatever assignation was transpiring under the ducal roof. Hardly a day went by that there wasn't something occurring in Lillian's country home and she longed for a respite, a reprieve- already tensing with anxiety at the mere prospect of enduring an audience with a host of faeborn and human alike, especially what was soon to become one of the biggest farces in the history of their family.

Her impending courtship and subsequent marriage.

Simply thinking about it brought forth waves of foreboding that arrested her stomach with nerves at the prospect of encountering a stranger or faeborn, so Lillian shoved it aside and refused to consider it... for now. It was probably a good thing then that Miss Cotton proved a suitable, albeit mildly annoying, distraction.

"Some people who suffer from tremors, such as yourself, have purportedly seen improvements with added wrist weights," Miss Cotton informed Lillian- unwelcomingly. "There are also reports that removing coffee and alcohol from one's diet could improve hand tremors as well."

Irked, Lillian glanced at her askance. "Pray tell, how does a country miss have such a wealth of knowledge on my insignificant ailment?"

Miss Cotton seemed nonplussed at the remark, cocking her head to the side once more. "I just... happen to know things," she muttered, almost distractedly. "A lot of things."

Lillian's steps faltered, her ears straining for the sounds of heavy, purposeful footsteps originating from an adjacent hall nearby. She turned to Tiffany Cotton as the notion crossed her mind that the other woman would not retain such private knowledge about the Ravensfield heir and Lillian couldn't risk such information becoming public. "I trust you will keep these matters between us, and only us?" she asked, a note of pleading injected into her voice.

"A secret." The mouse-ish woman's eyes positively gleamed with intrigue. "I've never been privy to a secret before. I'd be honoured."

Lillian smiled tautly. "You'll be forever in my debt," Lillian said earnestly. "Now, if you'll excuse me-"

She pivoted, retreated the way in which she began for a few paces before sliding into a narrow alcove which would shield her from the view of the two males who had only just turned into the same hallway she occupied with Miss Cotton. What the other woman would think of her sudden and rather odd disappearance, Lillian didn't know nor did she mind at that point.

Lillian held no desire to make conversation with anybody right then, least of all the two Draëllian males making their way towards her. Rogane To'ran and Caëlhon C'lainn formed part of her sister's most trusted circle. Once known as the beastkeepers, they had spent their days tending to the survival of all fae creatures in this world- protecting them from extinction entirely. Each man was ethereally beautiful, yet so very different from humans that Lillian