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Amaris de Montoya had a secret.
Of course, she never had any plans to make a fuss; she was simply a fresh-faced young maid at the Bermellon estate. The halls still needed tidying during the holidays, after all, so it was just common sense to admit new staff for the winter.
Amaris had been working since the snowfall. Perhaps it was a new and miraculous coating of snow, an erasure of her dull and laborious life, that had graced Amaris. Levanthia rarely ever faced such a brittle winter before, yet she'd heard once in her life that the harshest storms give way to blooms of flowers.
An opportunity like this didn't come often.
The young Lord Bermellon was a charismatic man. Born from an esteemed noble family such as the Bermellon's, the young man enjoyed all the pleasures of his youth---things that will surely be taken away from him with just a little more maturity. He was well-loved by all his peers and rightfully earned the envy of his rivals, and perhaps this spectacled life encouraged a bit of his hedonism. After all, even the esteemed and well-bred Lord Bermellon could not hide behind a mask all his life.
The fact that his bride could not satisfy him lingered like an old stain among the staff.
That was fine, however. Amaris reasoned to herself that Lady Bermellon could hardly care about him even if she knew. They were married through the interests of their parents, so it was natural for them to simply get along on a surface level. There was no love involved in that arrangement.
Amaris de Montoya had a secret.
It started out as a simple greeting in the hallways. Lord Bermellon had stumbled a bit when recalling her face, and after a few laughs shared between them, Amaris had given him her name.
Miguel, he told her. His name was Miguel Santiago de Bermellon, yet he insisted that she was young and pretty enough to refer to him as an equal. He confided in her his annoyance of being merely referred to by his family name and expressed frank relief that there was somebody as courageous as her. With a wistful sigh, Miguel bid her goodbye, yet not for the last time.
Their brief conversations turned to subtle glances. Servants were disregarded by the noble family and seen as no more than distant furniture, but Amaris noticed how his eyes would always fall towards her. As he entertained guests along the open hallways that characterized their opulence, a guiding hand on the arm of Lady Bermellon, Amaris felt bold enough to glance up from the handle of her broom and set her eyes on his cheek. He praised her for her courage, after all. It would be a waste not to use it.
They hardly ever acknowledged each other in the presence of others. All Lord Bermellon would permit was a passing glance, but she saw how his eyes burned as Miguel. It was merely a heartbeat until he brought his attention back to his guests and walked away, with not a beat missed in the geniality of his voice.
This was dangerous, she thought. No matter their feelings towards each other, both Lady and Lord Bermellon were wedded by the Church. She had no place in this arrangement; in fact, it was quite presumptuous of her to assume she had any semblance of a chance, but perhaps...
And yet like a moth drawn to a flame, Amaris could not help her budding feelings.
Their trysts grew ever more scandalous. In the hallways of his home, Lord Bermellon was of a station that demanded subservience. Behind closed doors, however, he was Miguel--- her Miguel---who praised her of her beauty, her strength, her devotion, through whispers against her hair. Whatever warnings she'd told herself had been lost to the kisses on her shoulder and his comforting words.
