THE LATE DUKE’S WILL

At seven o’clock, the great hall of Aldenburg blazed with hundreds of candles set in bronze holders.

The scent of beeswax mingled with the smell of old wine rising from the oak barrels displayed as decoration along the corridor — a symbol of an entire domain that lived and breathed off its vineyards.

I walked in, immediately feeling the eyes of more than twenty council members turn toward me — not welcoming eyes, but the eyes of people who already knew how tonight’s script was supposed to go, waiting to see how I would react.

Count Friedrich stood at the head of the table, his manner as composed as ever, one hand smoothing the front of his robe.

“Isabelle. I know last night was a shock for you. No one in this room wants to see you in pain.” He paused, glancing around, drawing nods of agreement from several of the older council members.

“But it’s precisely because I care for you that I must say what’s hard to hear. A duchess who cannot even hold together her own engagement — can she truly be trusted to hold together a domain that a thousand people depend on?”

Murmurs spread through the room.

I took a breath, letting the part of me long accustomed to sitting through hundreds of board meetings take hold.

“Before the council votes,” I said, my voice slow and clear, “I’d like to ask Uncle Friedrich something. Last year’s grape harvest brought in four hundred thousand florins — a figure I took directly from the vineyard steward’s own records, a man who has worked for this family for thirty years. So why does the report you presented to the council this spring only show two hundred sixty thousand?”

Friedrich laughed, a short, almost fond laugh.

“My dear girl, estate accounting is far more complicated than you realize. There are cask maintenance costs, payments to middlemen, reserves set aside for next year’s harvest — you’re looking at a raw figure and mistaking it for net profit, an easy mistake for someone who’s never touched this kind of work before.” He turned to the council, his voice growing lighter.

“I think this is simply a small misunderstanding, not worth interrupting such an important meeting tonight.”

Several council members nodded along, a few even smiling faintly — the kind of smile reserved for a child who has just asked an amusingly naive question.

“I’ve already subtracted every item you just listed, Uncle,” I answered, not backing down.

“Cask maintenance, the usual fifteen percent reserve, exactly as every year before. There is still a gap of one hundred forty thousand florins with no explanation anywhere in the report you filed.”

The smile on Friedrich’s face faded.

“Isabelle. I understand you went through a terrible shock last night. The man you meant to spend your life with said cruel things to you. In a state like that, it’s hard to think clearly enough to judge right from wrong — there’s no shame in that.” He stepped closer, his voice softening like a father comforting a child.

“I raised you since you were fifteen, since the day your father closed his eyes for the last time. I know you better than anyone. You’re looking for something to hold onto right now, something that makes you feel like you still have control over some part of your life — I understand that. But don’t turn that pain into a baseless accusation against the one person who has always stood by you.”

The room fell silent in an entirely different way this time — sympathy was drifting back toward Friedrich.

An older noblewoman sighed softly, looking at me with open pity.

I felt something tighten in my chest — the instinctive part of this body, long accustomed to trusting this man for thirteen years, long accustomed to seeing him as her only anchor after her father’s death.

For one very brief moment, my hand trembled, my mouth almost opened to say, “Perhaps you’re right, Uncle.”

But I gripped the edge of the table beneath my hand and let that tremor stop right there.

No.

A truly innocent man doesn’t need to use his dead brother’s daughter’s grief to dodge a question about numbers.

“Thank you for raising me these thirteen years, Uncle,” I said, my voice still steady despite the tightness in my chest, “and it’s precisely because I trust you that I wanted to verify this myself, so that no one could ever say the things you just said again. If the books are clean, this comparison will only take a few minutes, Uncle.”