She was a child again.

Not sixteen, but six — barefoot in the orchard, her laughter tumbling through the air like silver bells.

​

She had once been a child of privilege, cradled in warmth and legacy.

Her father, Lord Jan Novák, was young then and strong, his laughter echoing across the courtyards like a spring bell. Her mother, Lady Ludmila Nováková, was the hearth’s steady flame — gentle, graceful, smelling of rosemary and freshly baked bread, her arms the safest place in the world.

​

She remembered the Novák Manor rising bright on the vineyard slope above Valtice, its white-washed stone glowing beneath crimson-and-gold banners that snapped in the mountain wind. She could still see the balustrades carved with vines where the swallows nested, the orchard in bloom, the sun-warmed grass brushing her ankles as she chased butterflies between apple trees heavy with blossom.

​

There were winters by the tiled hearth, listening to her father’s stories of kings and crusades; summer evenings stealing sweet rolls from the kitchen girls, who adored her for her kindness. At the harvest feast she had sat at her father’s right hand on a little carved stool, ribbons in her hair, gazing wide-eyed at the minstrels beneath the amber glow of beeswax candles. The whole hall had smelled of woodsmoke, honey, and spiced wine — the first cathedral of her memory.

​

Even the house had seemed alive with music: the ring of her father’s sword at dawn, the clatter of copper pots, the flutter of doves at the eaves. She used to believe the manor itself loved her; often she whispered her secrets into the old oak doors as if they would keep them safe.

​

Her world had been golden — sun-dappled, perfumed, alive with promise —
until it cracked beneath the boots of the king’s men.

​​​