The old man's words echoed in Rosalind's ear. As she sat at the kitchen table, the maids scurried around washing dishes and planning the next meal. Rosalind stuck her spoon in her porridge, tried to balance it in the middle of the small beige mound, then let go. The clinking of the spoon hitting the bowl caused one of the maids to turn and glance at her.

"Is your food not to your liking, mi'lady?" Rue's brows knit together.

By the sink, Clairie and Esther looked concerned. Rosalind managed a small smile for their sake. "It is fine, thank you."

"Does something ail you?" Clairie wiped her hands on her apron and walked over.

Rosalind shook her head. She could not tell them of the beautiful thing she had shared with Troy nor of the peculiar statement, the drunken old man had told her. Inside, turmoil raged. "Perhaps I just need a few days of calm just to sit and read."

"Well, if you have read all the books in the study, your father keeps some of your mother's old trunks in the attic. I know she loved to read, as you do. You may find some new books there," Clairie said.

Nodding, Rosalind thanked the maid and looked down at her uneaten breakfast.

"Your father will blame us if you become skin and bones." Gently, Clairie set a bowl of sugar by the porridge. "Please try and eat some." The other two maids nodded at their mistress.

Wanting to take the focus off herself, Rosalind agreed. "I will need some nourishment to focus on a new book, will I not?"

When the three maids nodded and smiled, Rosalind scooped up some sugar and swirled it in the bowl. She ate enough to keep them satisfied then excused herself and headed to the latrine to vomit.

Around noon, she found herself wandering towards the East Wing of the Hershel's home. It was an area rarely used. Once, her mother's private library was there but after her passing, her father stayed away. Heather Hershel's ghost still lingered in the Eastern air. It still caused Harlan pain as he remembered his beloved wife sitting in her favourite settee reading her red-leather books whilst drinking sweet red wine. The maids kept the room immaculate yet Rosalind had not entered the library since she was a child.

Heather Hershel's books sat on the mahogany bookcases and for an instant, they reminded Rosalind of the lord's own private room. The case was nearly floor to ceiling, a similar style. But what made her pause was a large number of tomes bound in the same red leather as Caspian's. Rosalind found herself thinking of him and her heartbeat quickened. Feeling short of breath, she leaned against one of the shelves and touched the tips of her fingers to a book. The poetry in Bellua sang in her head. When she closed her eyes, she felt Caspian's lips on hers and the way his tongue had slid into her mouth electrifying her. She touched her forehead to the wooden structure and breathed the books in. "I still want you," she whispered and wondered if he could hear her. Not even those glorious moments of passion with Troy had been able to erase the dark lord from the marrow of her. He had left a permanent stain, one she would either have to wear like a scarlet letter or a badge of honor.

Sliding her fingers over the books, she made her way through the library. Being the only way to get to the attic, she tiptoed through the room as though not to wake any phantoms that may still reside inside.

But soon, Ivar's words smashed through her brain, turning her tender thoughts of Caspian to something bitter. "You. The Van Voreen girl. The promised one. You have come to save us from the beast."

Rosalind clasped her hands over her ears and ran up to the sanctuary of the attic.