The one from the bookshop?
Rain blurred his lashes. He blinked hard.
Impossible.
And yet—the ache in his chest stirred. The same ache that never truly left. The one that whispered:what if?
He said nothing more. But the questions clung to him, heavier than the rain sliding down his coat.
*
Maisie’s temples throbbed,each beat sharp, hammering against her skull.
The drawing room pressed in on her—too warm, too full. Laughter drifted down the corridor, ribbons of sound that tangled and thickened until they cloyed in the air. Silver gleamed, skirts rustled over polished floors, and the scent of roast duck wound itself with peonies. An elegant tableau. It should have soothed.
Instead, it smothered.
She slipped closer to the French doors, her fingers biting into the delicate clasp of her reticule. Beyond the glass, the garden glowed, gilded by lantern light. Beauty. Safety. She should have drawn comfort from it. She should have smiled.
But her chest refused. Her lungs caught on the air.
A breath snagged, slight, invisible to anyone else—but her body knew. A warning, sharp and sure, before her mind would admit it.
Where was Deena?
The voices around her blurred, every word oddly rehearsed, brittle as porcelain. As if she’d wandered into a play where the script itself hummed with menace.
Her eyes darted to the front door. The one that led to the street.
Out. She had to get out.
“Deena?” Her voice carried a low, too-taut tone. “Are you ready to depart?”
Her shoulders ached with tension. She turned back, caught her reflection in a polished wall sconce. Her cheeks were drained of color, her lashes trembling like she was waiting—
Waiting for something.
Or someone.
Foolishness.
She was safe here. Rachel’s house. The Pearlers’ warmth. Safety.Yet still, her breath came shallow, her chest tightening with every tick of the clock.
And then—a sound. Deena’s giggle, bright and careless, spilled down the hall. Relief and irritation tangled in Maisie’s throat.
Deena came toward her, radiant in blue satin, arms full of cards and wrapped sweets. “Oh, hullo,” she called, cheerfully. “You wouldn’t believe the pantry in this place—it’s twice the size of ours.”
Maisie didn’t return the smile. She reached for her sister’s hand, her grip firm. “Let’s go.”
Deena blinked, startled. “What? Now?”
Rachel appeared from the corner, a wineglass in hand, her expression warm but puzzled. “Oh no, my dear, are you quite certain you won’t stay for supper?”
Maisie shook her head. “No. I—” Her fan slipped in her damp palm, fingers slick. A chill traced her spine, cold against the heat at her temples. “I need air.”
Rachel moved closer, concern softening her brow. “You look flushed. Shall I fetch you a cordial? Or some tea?”
“No,” Maisie whispered. “Thank you, but no. Only… my nerves.”
