The carriage rolled into the Weston farmstead like something out of a storybook, its polished wheels crunching over the dirt road. The horses were white as fresh-bleached linens, their manes so perfectly groomed that they gleamed even under the muted light of the overcast sky.
Q sat stiffly on the velvet seat, her hands clamped tight in her lap, her heart hammering louder with every jolt of the wheels. The grandeur of RAPS had already overwhelmed her, but bringing a piece of it here, to her farm, made her stomach twist with a shame she didn't quite know how to swallow.
The carriage slowed to a stop near the edge of the pigpen, where the faint, sour tang of manure mingled with the crisp air. The contrast was stark and jarring, like setting a diamond in a lump of coal. She could already see heads poking out from behind doorways and curtains in the nearby cottages, their neighbors craning for a better look. The click of the horses' hooves had stirred up the kind of buzz that only a rare spectacle could manage in the quiet monotony of farm life.
Q's chest tightened when the driver hopped down and, without a word, unfolded a spotless mat before the carriage door. He stood at attention, a figure of polished efficiency, his gloved hands poised to open the door with reverent care.
All this for me? Q wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, but the lump in her throat wouldn't budge.
The door swung open with a quiet creak, and the driver bowed slightly, stepping aside just as Professor Ligarius descended. He was a picture of calm authority, his long coat sweeping behind him as his boots touched the ground with a deliberate grace. The murmurs around them grew louder, punctuated by the faint creak of hinges as more doors inched open.
"Good afternoon." Ligarius said, his voice carrying just enough to reach the gawking crowd without seeming to strain. It was a simple greeting, but the effect was immediate. The nearest neighbors stepped forward, their expressions flickering between curiosity and awe.
"Oh, good sir, what fine horses you have!" Mrs. Harlowe chirped, her hands fluttering like nervous sparrows. "And what an elegant coat! Might I interest you in fresh eggs? The finest in the county!"
"I've got fresh corn!" shouted another voice from the cluster that had gathered near the gate. More offers followed in a rush: honey, cheese, fresh-picked herbs, each merchant angling for Ligarius's attention. But even as they jostled closer, they kept a careful distance, their eyes wide and wary as if they weren't quite sure how close they were allowed to come.
Q sank lower in her seat, wishing for all the world that the carriage might just roll away and take her with it. But Ligarius turned before she could so much as think about bolting. His sharp gaze softened, just slightly, as he extended his hand back toward the open door.
"Miss Q," he said, his voice even. "Shall we?"
Heat flared in Q's cheeks as every pair of eyes seemed to snap in her direction. Her mouth went dry. She felt the weight of her own dirt-streaked clothes more acutely than ever—the frayed edges of her apron, the threadbare patches on her skirt, the way her sleeves clung to her arms where sweat and grime had gathered during the long ride. Her boots, caked in muck from the farm's unkempt paths, suddenly felt like anchors, dragging her further into the earth.
She hesitated, clutching the seat beneath her as if letting go might send her tumbling into the crowd. But Ligarius didn't withdraw his hand, his steady patience unwavering. The driver cleared his throat softly, his gaze flicking between her and the professor.
Swallowing hard, Q reached out, her fingers brushing against Ligarius's gloved palm. His grip was firm and unflinching as he helped her down, his movements deliberate and without judgment. The moment her boots touched the mat, the sheer absurdity of it all hit her again: the spotless cloth beneath her mud-soaked soles, the pristine carriage parked in front of a sagging barn, the white horses standing stark against the dusty backdrop of her life.
The crowd, once focused on Ligarius, now shifted their attention to her. The sudden scrutiny made her skin crawl. She felt exposed, like a frog under glass, every inch of her flaws magnified tenfold.
She ducked her head, avoiding their eyes, but not before catching the expressions of her neighbors around her.
The whispers started before Q had taken more than a few steps from the carriage, and they weren't the kind of whispers that stayed under wraps. They rolled through the gathering crowd like the wind, each thread of gossip snagging louder, bolder voices until it was impossible not to hear.
"Probably broke somethin' fancy up at the estate."
"Nah," another voice piped up, "Bet she took somethin'. Look at that carriage. No way it's here for anything good."
"Her folks'll have to sell the cows for sure," someone else added, a snicker following close behind. "Poor fools can't even pay off last year's seed debt."
The words hit Q like stones, each one harder to bear than the last. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground, her fingers curling tight around the edges of her skirt as though gripping the fabric might keep her from crumbling entirely. She could feel her pulse pounding in her throat, the ache of humiliation rising sharp and fast.
She swallowed it back, her teeth clenched tight, but the lump in her throat wouldn't budge. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill as the weight of their judgment pressed down like heavy hands. It wasn't the first time they'd talked like this. She'd heard it all before: That Weston girl's no good. A troublemaker. More work than she's worth. But hearing it now, with Professor Ligarius at her side, made it sting sharper than ever.
Q risked a glance up at him, unsure what she'd find. Would he look disappointed? Disgusted? She braced herself for something cutting, something cold. Instead, she found his steady gray eyes fixed on her, sharp and unreadable as ever. Without a word, he tilted his head slightly, gesturing with an almost imperceptible motion. Hold your head up, it said, as clear as if he'd spoken the words aloud.
When she hesitated, his fingers brushed lightly under her chin, pushing it upward with quiet insistence. She blinked at him, startled, but he offered no explanation. His gaze said enough: You are more than their words. Stand tall.
Her chest tightened, the ache twisting into something harder, something that didn't break so easily. Slowly, she lifted her head, straightening her shoulders even as the whispers buzzed louder around her. Her steps felt heavier, but she made herself take them, her boots scuffing the dirt path as they crossed into the yard.
The ranch came into view just as the air shifted, thick with the sour-sweet smell of hay and livestock. Her mother was hunched over the old milking stool, her movements sharp and jerky as she worked at the cow's udders. A low murmur of grumbling followed her motions, punctuated by the creak of the wooden stool as it rocked under her weight. Nearby, her father worked the rake through the muck-streaked ground, dragging dead leaves and clumps of mud into uneven piles. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up past his elbows, his skin darkened and roughened by years of sun and labor.
They spotted her first, her mother's head snapping up at the sound of boots crunching against the gravel. Her father straightened from his work, his hands gripping the rake tight as his eyes darted between Q and the figure beside her. Their gazes widened as Professor Ligarius came into full view, his tall, commanding frame casting a long shadow over the yard.
Before Q could open her mouth to say anything, her mother was already moving, wiping her hands hastily on her apron as she dropped into a quick curtsy. Her father followed suit, his bow low and stiff, the rake still clutched in one hand.
"We're sorry, sir," her mother said, her voice hurried and trembling. "We're so sorry. Whatever she's done, we'll make it right. Please, have mercy."
Q's stomach twisted. "Ma—"
"Hush, girl," her father snapped, his head still bowed. "You don't speak unless spoken to."
"She's just a foolish girl, sir," her mother continued, her words tumbling over each other in their rush to reach him. "She don't think half the time, always off dreamin' or gettin' herself into trouble. But we're poor folk, sir. If she broke somethin', we can't pay it back. I beg you, please don't hold it against us."
"It ain't like that, Ma. I didn't—"
Her mother shot her a glare that could've stopped a charging bull. "Quiet, Queenie! You'll make it worse."
"I doubt she could." Ligarius said then, his voice cutting through the air with quiet authority.
Q's parents froze, their gazes darting upward for a brief, startled moment before they lowered them again. Her father cleared his throat nervously, shifting his weight.
"We—we're at your mercy, sir," he said, his voice gruff but laced with unease. "Whatever the damage, we'll do what we can to repay it. Just tell us what you need."
Ligarius regarded them for a moment longer before stepping forward. His presence seemed to fill the yard, making everything else—Q included—feel small in comparison. He moved with the same deliberate grace as always, his long coat sweeping the ground behind him.
"There has been no damage," he said at last, his words slow and deliberate. "No crime, no wrongdoing. I am here to discuss an opportunity for your daughter—a chance for her to grow beyond what this place can offer."
Both her parents stiffened, their confusion plain as they glanced at each other. Her mother's lips parted, a question hovering just on the edge of being spoken, but she hesitated, unsure if she should press further.
"May we speak somewhere private?" Ligarius asked, his tone calm but firm.
Her father nodded quickly, stepping aside and motioning toward the small, sagging house.
"Of course, sir. Right this way."