Twenty faces turned toward her—some expectant, some wary, some with that mischievous glint that suggested she would need every ounce of firmness she possessed.
“Today we shall continue our lessons in etiquette,” she announced. “Your posture, your manner of entering a room, your deportment in company—these things speak before you utter a word.”
Several girls straightened at once; others exchanged despairing glances. Elise hid her amusement. She had once believed, before life had taught her otherwise, that calm authority was something easily learned. Now she knew it was a discipline—one she had cultivated out of necessity, and which these girls would desperately need if they were to step into the wider world with confidence.
“Elbows tucked in, shoulders back. Miss Jones, kindly do not look as though someone has placed a weight upon your head. Imagine, instead, a ribbon drawing you upward—yes, like that. Much better.”
A ripple of improvement ran through the room. Elise paced slowly among them, adjusting a posture here, correcting a chin there, smoothing the anxieties of those who tried too hard and curbing the pride of those who did not try at all.
In the midst of this gentle chaos, she heard the faintest scrape of the door at the far end of the hall. A moment later, young Sophie, one of the kitchen girls, slipped inside with the stealth of a child trying not to be seen. She held a tray, though the way she clutched it made clear that the tray was merely a disguise.
“A note has come for you, Mrs. Larkin,” Sophie whispered.
Elise frowned. A note—here? During lessons? And delivered by Sophie rather than the post? That alone made her pulse quicken.
“Thank you,” she murmured, taking the folded paper and dismissing the girl with a nod.
The moment Sophie had gone, Elise returned her attention to the girls, willing her heartbeat to settle, but the weight of that note burned against her palm like a warning. The paper was smudged with damp from sea mist, the edges slightly frayed. It bore no name, no direction—only a certain fold done in a manner she recognized at once.
Her stomach clenched, though she did not allow her expression to betray it.
“Ladies,” she said in a calm voice that felt borrowed from some wiser, steadier woman, “continue practising your curtsies for a moment. Miss Adderley, lead them, please.”
There was a chorus of murmuring, a shuffling of slippers, but no one objected. Elise slipped toward the opposite door with deliberate ease and stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind her before her composure could crack.
Once alone, she unfolded the note.
At first glance, the writing appeared merely untidy—an uneducated hand, the lines wavering like those of a man unused to pen and ink. Elise did not read the words, however; she read the way they were formed. A slant meant danger. A blot meant urgency. A particular misspelling meant code for a location, a symbol for a time of day. The letter spoke in a language few knew.
She read the contents quickly.
Something is about to happen.Protect yourself at all costs. Don’t come to me— B
Blake—
She folded the note and pressed it to her chest. Then she composed herself, smoothed her skirts, and returned to the classroom. The girls continued their imperfect curtsies with admirable determination, though Miss Jones leaned rather too far to the left.
“Ladies,” Elise said, being calm but brisk, “I must speak with Miss Archer immediately. Please continue practising until I return. When Miss Adderley is satisfied, you may make a turn about the garden until it is time for watercolour painting.”
There were protests, questions, a few disappointed sighs. Elise ignored them with gentle firmness and departed before her thoughts could betray her too openly.
Miss Archer listened to her excuse—about visiting a sick friend—without suspicion and sent her on her way. Elise collected her cloak from the boot room, winding its familiar warmth about her shoulders, and stepped out into the brisk morning, the wind tugging at the hem. If Blake thought she could simply ignore him, he was mistaken in her resolve. Hopefully, he had not rowed away directly or she would have to go through circuitous routes to get a message back to him. Only vaguely did she know where he lodged.
The path toward the coast was narrow and uneven, and she kept her pace steady so as not to slip. From time to time she looked behind her, but no one else was about.
She reached the abandoned net-menders’ hut, a place she and Blake had used countless times when messages had needed passing. The door hung half open, creaking faintly on its hinges.
“Blake?” she whispered.
There was no answer.
A moment later she heard it, a low groan. Elise’s breath caught. She pushed the door fully open and stepped inside.
On the floor, half-lifted against the wall, lay Blake. His shirt was bloodied, his breath shallow, his skin waxen beneath the grime and stubble. His leg had been roughly bandaged with what looked like the remains of a torn sailcloth—and poorly bandaged at that.
“Oh, Blake,” she breathed, dropping to her knees beside him. “What have they done?”
He forced his eyes open, squinting against the dim light. “You… should not be here…”
