Amelia was sitting at the edge of my bed, hunched over, tongue caught between her teeth, clutching the parchment as if it were gunpowder.
"Is this an 'A'?" she asked for the third time.
"If that's an 'A,' then I'm a priest," I muttered, rubbing my eyes. "That looks more like a broken chair trying to escape the gallows."
She threw the quill to the floor.
"Your patience is as small as your charm."
"And your handwriting's as small as your sense."
She huffed. "Then teach me properly."
"I'm trying. But you hold the quill like it's a dagger. Light, see? Here." I leaned closer, guiding her hand. Warm. Tense.
She glanced at me too fast, like someone hiding a tremor in their chest.
"Shaking, doctor?"
"Not used to having the living in my room."
"And I'm not used to men who know more about herbs than about kissing."
Silence. She smirked from the corner of her mouth, provoking.
"Let's get back to the 'A,'" I said, before my face turned redder than an inflamed liver.
"Coward."
"Scholar."
She tried again. Stroke, curve, stroke.
Better. Still ugly, but at least legible.
"There!" she announced, showing off the letter like a masterpiece. "A for Amelia. A for awe. A for apology."
"A for accident." I tapped my forehead. "The very one I had when I met you."
She tilted her head.
"You really gonna teach me to read?"
"I will. Even if it kills me."
"And why?"
I breathed deep.
Looked at her, sprawled across my blanket like she owned the world.
"Because when you learn to read… you'll understand what I've written about you."
She froze. Just stared.
Then she looked away, clearing her throat.
"You write anything good?"
"No."
She laughed.
"Better that way. I'm at my best when I'm unbearable."
"That's when you're perfect."
She stood, walked over with slow steps.
"One day… you'll hate me for real, you know?"
"And even then, I'll remember you learned to write your own name in my bed."
She lingered too close.
And for the first time, said nothing.
Just breathed.
Stayed.
And learned the "B."
The "B" was still crooked on the parchment when the door creaked too loudly.
"Is that a B or an asthmatic worm?" I asked, leaning on her shoulder.
"It's a B!" Amelia bit her lip, clutching the parchment. "I think…"
"Looks more like it's begging for mercy," I laughed. "That thing won't heal anyone—it'll kill them from shock."
She jabbed her elbow into my ribs.
"Laugh one more time and I'll drown you in this inkpot."
"Promises, promises…"
We sat on the floor of my room, sunlight filtered through the window, the smell of old parchment mixing with sweat and fresh ink. The book lay open between us, hand-drawn letters, the air filled with scribbles, sighs, and teasing.
She dipped the quill again. Botched it. Cursed. Cursed again, more creative this time.
"Give me that," I said, snatching the parchment.
"No!" She tugged, but I lifted my arm away.
"You wrote 'Bile' with two L's and an S backward—"
"It was artistic!"
"It was criminal."
She lunged at me, trying to grab it back. The quill slipped from my hand, streaking my cheek with a blue scar like a clown's.
"Congratulations, doctor," I drawled. "You've infected me with ink."
"Quiet, patient. This is experimental treatment."
She dipped her fingers in the inkpot and smeared my chin. I grabbed the bottle.
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
The first splash hit her neck. The second, her violet dress—now a battlefield map.
"YOU ANIMAL!" she shouted, laughing. "YOU MONSTER!"
She tried to escape, slipped on the bedframe, and we both tumbled. Tangled, stained, breathless, laughing. Ink streaked her face like tears.
For a heartbeat, everything was light.
I brushed my hand through her hair, dark with ink.
"You're getting pretty," I murmured.
Her eyes met mine.
"And you're getting sentimental, doctor."
Silence.
The good kind.
"Fine… let's go back. Show me the M again," she said, sitting cross-legged.
"Already forgot?"
"Maybe I just want you to touch my hand again, weirdo."
I smiled.
Took the quill.
She held out her hand.
The "M" came out crooked, but not as bad.
"Better," I praised.
"Because you're a good teacher."
"And you're a messy student."
"Your room will need an exorcism."
"So will you."
She threw the quill at me.
That's when we heard it.
The creak of the doorknob.
The door opening slow.
And the voice, sharp with venom only those who know too much can wield:
"Hope I'm not interrupting anything…"
The inkpot was still wobbling on the floor when the door slammed open.
I nearly slipped as I scrambled up. Amelia swallowed her gasp, tugging the clean edge of her dress to hide the stains.
And there he was.
Valente.
Carrying his eternal stench of sour wine, brow furrowed, contempt dressed as courtesy.
"Your father's looking for you, Amelia," he said, leaning on the doorframe like he owned the house. "And I doubt he'd enjoy finding you… like this."
She didn't answer. But the blush reached her ears.
"Do you always enter rooms without knocking?" I asked, cold.
"Do you always sit alone with betrothed women?" he shot back, iron smile in place. "Don't preach to me, albino."
My fists clenched. But before I could answer, another shadow filled the doorway.
Álvaro.
"Valente…" my father rasped, his eyes scanning the room, weighing each inkstain like blood. "The offer still stands?"
Silence.
Cold.
Like someone had opened the wrong door in Hell.
Amelia stepped back.
Valente raised an eyebrow.
"It does. As agreed—your land joins my line. A marriage settles debts, secures respect, and… prevents gossip."
Álvaro didn't reply at once. Just crossed his arms. Thought. Laughed, dry and brittle.
"Good ink, Peres. It'll make a fine memory of this… rehearsal."
He turned his back.
Valente seized Amelia's arm with a butcher's grace.
"Come, girl. You've played wise long enough."
She resisted. Just a little.
Looked at me.
Eye to eye.
Nothing spoken. Everything said.
And then she was gone.
The quill slipped from my foot, spinning across the floor, leaving a blue scar on the wood.
And that was how I learned ink dries faster than promises.
I went downstairs, ink still on my hands, head burning.
The slam of the front door was enough to slice me inside.
I found my father waiting in the hall, as if nothing had happened.
"What are you trying to do, old man?" I spat, voice dry, chest tight.
He turned slowly.
His smile was thin. But his eyes…
His eyes were full of calculations.
"Well… didn't you want more time with her?"
"This isn't a game." I stepped closer. "It's her life. Mine. You want to buy her?"
"Would you rather someone else does? Or have Valente throw her in a convent?"
"This isn't about her. It's about you. You're handing me a toy and pretending it's a gift."
He laughed.
A short, grating sound.
"Love. Freedom. Choice… How poetic." He walked to the fireplace. "But poetry doesn't pay debts. And you still want to go back to Coimbra, don't you?"
"Not like this."
"Then how? The way everything falls from heaven? The way you love without paying the price?"
I stayed silent.
He stepped closer, voice lower now, almost gentle.
"She likes you. You like her. And neither of you has the power to choose anything."
I exhaled hard.
"And this offer is… what?"
He lifted his chin.
"A vast land on the other side of the country. In exchange for a marriage."
My stomach turned.
"You can't have done this…" I whispered, voice breaking.
"Already did. Valente agreed. The union is sealed: your life for the land, hers for the lineage."
My chest burned.
"She's not mine," I said, firm. "And never will be."
He gave a crooked, humorless chuckle.
"Too late, boy. One day, you'll thank me."
And he left me there, hands stained with ink…
…soul stained with shame.