After My Family Cast Me Out, I Married My Sister's Ghost Fiancé

Alara Thornwood was born able to see the souls of the dead. Her terrified parents called her cursed and poured all their love into Seraphina, the orphan they took in. Seraphina became the pampered jewel of the house, charming her way into a betrothal with Lord Lucien Orielius, heir of the realm's most ancient ducal house. A fortnight before the wedding, Lucien fell from his horse and never woke. The court healers called it soul sleep. His body breathed, but his spirit was gone. When House Orielius came to hold Seraphina to her vow, she laughed. Nurse a living corpse? She would rather die.

Lucien's furious soul stood in the corner of the great hall, eyes burning. He vowed aloud: whoever stayed to care for him would receive a fortune, an estate, gold, freedom—anything, just to spite the viper who abandoned him. Alara heard. She lifted a trembling hand and said she would marry him. She did not care for the title. She wanted the gold. Seraphina shoved her forward, sneering that wiping filth suited her. Their parents called Alara worthless, born for nothing but meager service. She bowed her head and let them sneer. Every word carried her closer to freedom.

In the chamber of recovery, Lucien was wasted thin, kept alive by tinctures dripped between his lips. Duchess Cassandra explained that a sleeping soul needed constant company, a voice at his ear day upon day. The ghost drifted nearby, grey and bitter, certain Seraphina had frozen his heart for good. Alara made her promise: she would read dispatches, fill the room with music, bring scents, do the washing and turning herself. By the next morning, Cassandra stopped in the doorway and stared. Alara had shaved his hollow cheeks smooth. Spiced fruit steeped on the table. She sat reading house accounts aloud in a clear voice, a narrow cot built in the corner so she need never leave his side. The ghost's coldness eased into something like wonder.

Alara began to study him. He muttered about despising apples and craving blue-veined cheese from the west cellar. She fetched it herself, unwrapping the pungent wheel at his bedside. The ghost's eyes lit up. The blessed water in the healer's basin stirred with one faint, climbing ripple. Alara broke a piece and ate it where he could see. It was the first fine thing she had ever tasted. At home, she was given the bruised apples and rotten pears. The ghost went still. His eyes reddened at the rims. He swore her family would answer for it. Four months passed. One afternoon, his thin fingers twitched on their own. The ghost stared, stunned. The curse was unraveling.

Seraphina swept back when the news spread. She cracked a palm across Alara's cheek and hissed that when Lucien woke, she would tell him she had tended him all along. He loved her. He would marry her. She summoned scribes and nobles to the castle gate, announcing that under her devoted care, her beloved lord was waking. The whole realm came to believe it. Then the duchess drew Alara aside, her face heavy with apology. If she said it was Seraphina, it spared the house a scandal. She would compensate Alara richly—only hold her tongue. Alara wanted to fight, but she had been beaten down her entire life. No name, no power, no one at her back. The ghost raged, then swore he would remember the truth on his own. He prayed not to forget her kindness, not to mistake the snake for his savior. Then came the morning the corner of the room was empty. No grey figure. No drifting voice. Beneath a hundred breathless eyes, Lord Lucien slowly opened his eyes.