"The potatoes are rot. We need flour. We need butter. We need meat that doesn't require a hammer to eat. We need salt."
Arthur closed his eyes. The tremor in his left hand worsened. "I have no coin."
"You have an estate," Beatrice countered flatly. "You have silver. You have art."
"Everything of value was sold two years ago!" he snapped, his voice a sudden, sharp whip crack of anger. He finally looked at her, his eyes hollow and furious. "The silver is gone. The paintings are gone. The horses are gone. Do you think I sit here in the cold for the sheer aesthetic pleasure of it? Harrow Gate is bankrupt. I am bankrupt."
Beatrice didn't flinch. She had grown up avoiding the fists of drunkards and the sharp knives of debt collectors. Arthur's temper was a tired, blunt thing compared to what she had survived.
"Then find something," she said quietly. "Or we starve by Thursday."
She turned and left him. She went back to the kitchen and began scrubbing the wooden tables with sand, waiting.
An hour later, Arthur appeared in the doorway. He wore a heavy wool overcoat, its lapels worn thin, his boots pulled over his trousers. In his bandaged hand, he held a small leather pouch. It clinked softly as he shifted his weight.
"Get your coat," he said, staring at the floor.
The walk to the village of Oak Haven took nearly an hour. The road was a rutted mess of frozen mud and deep puddles. They walked in silence, keeping a foot of space between them. The wind whipped across the open moors, biting through Beatrice's thin wool coat. Arthur kept his head down, the collar of his coat turned up against the cold.
Oak Haven was a small, tight-knit village. It smelled of coal smoke and wet sheep. As they walked down the main thoroughfare, the effect was immediate: conversation stopped; women scrubbing steps paused, brushes hovering in midair; a blacksmith's hammer ceased its ringing strike. Eyes tracked them: the mad duke had come down from his rotting hill, and he had a woman with him.
Arthur's posture changed instantly. He went completely rigid. His shoulders drew up, his jaw clenching so tight Beatrice could see the muscle jumping under his skin. He stopped walking with a heavy, dragging step and instead moved with a stiff, unnatural haughtiness. He was putting on his armor. He looked straight ahead, ignoring the stares, his face a mask of supreme aristocratic indifference.
But Beatrice saw the sweat bead on his temple. She saw his bandaged hands curl into tight fists inside his pockets. He was terrified. He was a man flayed open, marching through a gauntlet of people who had watched his father rule and now watched him ruin.