Jeremy von Neuschwanstein stood at the edge of the forest where they'd found her body, his hands clenched so tightly his nails drew blood. Eight months had passed since Shuri died alone among the trees, and still he couldn't walk these paths without the guilt threatening to drown him.
He'd been awful to her. Not in any single catastrophic way, but in a thousand small cruelties. He'd sided with Elias' sneering remarks about her "foreign ways," the cold shoulder he'd given her at every dinner, the distance he'd maintained as if her very presence contaminated his mother's memory. She'd tried, God how she'd tried, with her careful attempts to understand their family dynamics and her quiet support when Father wasn't watching. He'd mistaken her kindness for political maneuvering, her care for schemes to secure her position.
But the truth was so much worse than he'd ever imagined.
The letter had been found in her chambers after her death, a half-written thing she'd never finished, addressed to no one. In it, she'd laid bare the suffocating loneliness of her position, the way she'd felt like an intruder in a house that would never accept her, the exhaustion of trying to be a mother to children who looked at her with contempt, a wife to a man who saw only duty in their union. She wrote of the Neuschwanstein estate feeling like a beautiful prison, and how perhaps a faraway place might offer her the peace she could never find here.
"I cannot continue as Marchioness Neuschwanstein," she'd written in her elegant script. "Perhaps by leaving, I might finally find a place where I belong, where my presence brings comfort rather than resentment. The children would be happier without the constant reminder that I am not their mother. They would be free to find someone they could truly accept. And I... I might finally stop feeling like I'm slowly disappearing."
The letter had been dated three days before her death.
She'd been running away not from responsibility or scandal, but from them. From him. And she'd chosen the forest route because it was faster, more discreet. Because she'd been so desperate to escape that she'd risked everything for a few hours' head start before anyone noticed she was gone.
Jeremy had learned from the surviving maid that Shuri had left before dawn, taking only a small bag and wearing a simple traveling cloak. She'd left behind all her jewelry, all the markers of her station. She'd even removed her wedding ring, placing it carefully on her dressing table beside a white camellia.
The bandits had found her around midday. They'd been the usual desperate men from the mountain passes, but Jeremy couldn't bring himself to care about their circumstances. They'd killed the guards she'd brought, and then they'd turned on her.
By the time Jeremy discovered she was missing, it was already late. When the maid confessed where Shuri had gone, panic had seized him.
They'd found her as the sun was setting, painting the forest in shades of red that matched the blood on her torn cloak. She was crumpled at the base of an old oak, her traveling bag a few feet away, its contents scattered. Her eyes were open, staring at nothing, and there was an expression on her face that Jeremy would never forget. Not even fear nor pain, but something like resignation. As if she'd expected this. As if she'd known that even escape would be denied to her.
Jeremy had fallen to his knees beside her, had gathered her head into his arms though rigor mortis was already beginning to set in. He'd screamed her name until his voice broke, had begged her forgiveness until his father's men had to physically pull him away.
Elias had grown quieter, something guilty lurking behind his usual bravado. Even Rachel, young as she was, seemed to understand that something irreplaceable had been lost. The estate felt emptier now, colder, as if Shuri's absence had taken all the warmth with it.
Jeremy had read her unfinished letter so many times the paper had grown soft with handling. Each word was a knife in his chest, each line a testament to his cruelty. She was only young when she was thrust into a marriage of convenience with a man who grieved his first love, expected to mother four children who despised her.
And she'd tried. God, she'd tried so hard.
He remembered now with agonizing clarity, all the small gestures he'd dismissed. The way she'd learned each of their favorite foods and ensured the kitchen prepared them. How she'd quietly settled disputes between the servants to keep the household running smoothly. The books she'd left in the library—histories and philosophies she thought might interest him, never mentioned, just placed where he might find them. The time she'd stayed up all night nursing Rachel through a fever, though the girl had cried for her real mother the entire time.
Shuri von Ighofer had given everything to a family that gave her nothing back, and when she'd finally broken under the weight of it, she'd tried to slip away quietly, without fuss, as if even her departure should inconvenience no one.
Instead, she'd died alone and terrified in a forest, bleeding out on frozen ground, her last thoughts probably of a convent she'd never reach.
Now Jeremy walked the forest path daily, retracing her final journey. He brought white camellias to the spot where she'd fallen. It was the flower she'd loved, the flower that meant "you're adorable" in the language of flowers, though no one had ever given them to her while she lived. He read aloud from the books she'd studied, trying to understand the woman he'd refused to know.
The worst part was the small details he kept discovering. The maid mentioned that Shuri had been learning to embroider because she'd wanted to make each of them something personal for Yule. The housekeeper revealed that Shuri had been using her own allowance to fund repairs on the servants' quarters, asking that it be kept quiet. The estate steward admitted that she'd been studying the account books late at night, trying to find ways to make the lands more profitable without raising tenant rents.
She'd been so much more than he'd ever bothered to see. And he'd driven her to such despair that death in a bandit-infested forest had seemed preferable to another day as Marchioness Neuschwanstein.
The young lord who'd been so certain she was a scheming outsider had died with her in those woods, leaving behind a man who understood, too late, that she'd been the best of them all. That her only crime had been trying to love a family determined to hate her.
Jeremy von Neuschwanstein would carry that weight until his own death. And he knew, with bitter certainty, that it was exactly what he deserved.
The ballroom of the Imperial Palace glittered with a thousand candles, their light reflecting off crystal chandeliers and gilded mirrors. Jeremy von Neuschwanstein stood at the edge of the crowd, a glass of wine in hand, watching the dancers with the detached interest of someone fulfilling an obligation rather than seeking pleasure.
His father had insisted the family maintain their social presence this season. "The Neuschwansteins have never hidden from society," the Marquess had said, though there was no warmth in his voice. So here Jeremy was, at seventeen, playing the part of an eligible young lord while finding the entire affair tedious.
He was contemplating an early escape when he noticed her.
She stood near one of the tall windows overlooking the palace gardens, slightly apart from the clusters of young ladies engaged in their careful social warfare. Her dress was elegant but without the excessive ornamentation that marked the others as desperate for attention. What caught his eye, though, was her expression: analytical, almost amused, as if she were watching a play rather than participating in one.
Something about her self-possessed stillness drew him across the ballroom.
"You look as though you're studying a particularly complex political landscape," he said as he approached, offering a slight bow.
She turned, and her eyes were startlingly intelligent, assessing him in a single glance before her expression warmed into a smile that seemed genuine rather than practiced. "Is it so obvious? I was thinking that these gatherings reveal more about power structures than a hundred diplomatic meetings."
"How so?" Jeremy found himself genuinely curious.
"Watch." She gestured subtly toward the dance floor. "See how the Duke of Westerling's daughter seeks partners from families with military connections? Her father's trying to secure his position after last year's border disputes. And there, the Countess Amelie dancing with Baron Richter's son. A match that would merge their territories and create a voting bloc in the House of Lords. Every dance is a negotiation, every conversation a chess move.
Jeremy blinked, impressed despite himself. Most young ladies he'd met could discuss fashion and gossip, little else. "You have a strategic mind."
"My father insisted I receive a thorough education," she said, a hint of dry amusement in her tone. "He said ignorance in a daughter was a liability, not a virtue. Though I suspect that makes me odd by current standards."
"Jeremy von Neuschwanstein," he said, offering his hand properly.
"Shuri von Ighofer," she replied, accepting it with a graceful curtsy. Her grip was firm, confident. "The Marquess's eldest son. Your father's land reforms have been quite progressive. The reduction in tenant obligations while maintaining productivity through crop rotation, it's elegant policy."
Jeremy stared at her. "You follow parliamentary proceedings?"
"I read the transcripts," she said simply. "Politics shapes everything, doesn't it? Seems foolish not to understand the forces that govern one's life."
They talked for an hour, then another, drifting from the window to the terrace where conversation came easier away from prying eyes. She had opinions on everything—the economic implications of the new trade treaties, the philosophical tensions between traditional authority and emerging republican thought, the delicate balance required to modernize without destroying social stability.
But she also laughed when he made a sardonic comment about the absurdity of measuring a family's worth by the height of their wigs. She listened when he spoke, truly listened, asking follow-up questions that showed she was engaging with his ideas rather than simply waiting for her turn to talk.
"Your mother was the late Marchioness Alice von Neuschwanstein," Shuri said at one point, her tone careful. "I was very young when she passed, but my father spoke highly of her charity work. He said she actually cared about the people she helped, rather than using them for social advancement."
Something in Jeremy's chest tightened. "You knew of her?"
"Only by reputation," Shuri said gently. "But reputations built on genuine kindness are rare enough to be noteworthy. You must miss her terribly."
The sympathy in her voice was real, without a trace of the calculating pity he'd learned to recognize in others who saw his grief as an opening. "Every day," he admitted, surprising himself with the honesty.
She didn't push, didn't probe. Just nodded with understanding and changed the subject to something lighter like a humorous observation about the orchestra's conductor, who seemed more interested in impressing the soprano than keeping proper time.
When she finally excused herself to return to her father's side—"He worries if I'm gone too long, thinks I'll say something undiplomatic"—Jeremy found himself reluctant to let her go.
"Might I call on you?" he asked, then caught himself. "Properly, I mean. If that would be acceptable."
She studied him for a long moment. He had the distinct impression he was being evaluated, weighed against some internal standard. Finally, she smiled. A real smile that transformed her entire face, lighting it from within.
"I'd like that, Lord Jeremy. Very much."
"Just Jeremy, please," he said. "When we're speaking privately."
"Then you must call me Shuri." She extended her hand once more, and when he bowed over it, she added quietly, "Fair warning: I'm told I can be rather intense. I ask too many questions and have too many opinions. It's driven off more than one suitor."
"Good," Jeremy said, meeting her eyes. "I prefer intensity to vapidity. And opinions to empty-headed agreement."
Her smile widened. "Then we shall get along splendidly or argue constantly. Either seems preferable to boredom."
Riding home that night through lamplit streets, Jeremy couldn't stop replaying their conversation. The way she'd tilted her head when considering his arguments, the quick flash of intelligence in her eyes, the complete absence of simpering or false modesty. For the first time in his twenty-two years, he'd met someone who felt like an equal, someone who could challenge him, surprise him, make him want to be better than he was.
He called on her three days later, bringing books on economic theory he thought she might enjoy. They spent two hours in her father's library debating the merits of various approaches to land management. She disagreed with him on at least half his points, and he found himself exhilarated rather than offended.
Over the following weeks, he visited regularly. They walked in gardens, attended concerts, debated philosophy over tea.
He introduced her to his siblings, watching carefully for their reactions. His younger brother Elias was suspicious at first—fourteen and protective of their mother's memory—but Shuri won him over by asking intelligent questions about his fencing lessons and treating his opinions seriously. Rachel and Leon only eight, were shyer, but warmed when Shuri didn't talk down to her or try to mother her too quickly.
Six months after their first meeting, Jeremy asked her father for permission to court her formally. The elder von Ighofer had studied him with the same measuring intelligence as his daughter.
"My daughter is not a ornament to grace your household," he'd said bluntly. "She has a mind and will of her own. If you seek a decorative wife who'll smile and stay silent, look elsewhere."
"If I wanted that, I wouldn't be here," Jeremy had replied. "Your daughter challenges me. Makes me think. I don't want her despite her intelligence. I want her because of it."
The old man had smiled then. "Good answer, young Neuschwanstein. You have my blessing. Whether you have hers is another matter."
But he did. Shuri accepted his proposal in the same garden where they'd first debated philosophy, and when he slipped the ring onto her finger, she'd looked at him with such open affection that his chest had ached.
"I'll try to make you happy," he'd promised.
"Just see me," she'd replied, cupping his face in her hands. "That's all I ask. See me as I am, not as what you wish me to be or fear I might become. And I'll do the same for you."
It seemed such a simple thing.
They married in spring, when the cherry blossoms were blooming. His father gave his blessing, seeming to recognize that this match was different from the political calculation of his own second marriage. Elias served as his groomsman. Rachel and Leon scattered flower petals with solemn concentration.
And when Shuri von Ighofer became Shuri von Neuschwanstein, when she smiled at him across the altar with joy and hope and trust in her eyes, Jeremy made a silent vow: he would spend the rest of his life ensuring she never regretted choosing him. That she would never feel alone or unwanted in his house. That she would always, always be seen.
This time, this blessed time, he knew what he had before it was too late. And he would guard it with everything he was.
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