Beatrice gave a small, sad smile. “It is a place. And it is immediate. Mrs. Channing wishes to fill the position at once.”
Charlotte stared at the flickering candle. She had never worked. Never been in service. She had been raised to marry, to host, to manage a household of her own—not to earn her bread beneath another’s roof.
But she had no dowry. No home. No time.
Three days.
She drew a slow breath. “Write to her,” she said at last.
Beatrice’s eyes softened. “Are you certain?”
Charlotte nodded, though her hands shook. “There is nothing left for me here.”
And with that, the last door closed behind her.
***
Charlotte woke with the uneasy sensation that she had been called back into her body too soon.
For a moment, she did not know where she was. The room was dim and cold, the pale light of early morning barely touching the edges of the bed.
Her chest felt hollow, as though something vital had been scooped out during the night and not yet returned. She lay still, staring at the ceiling, waiting for grief to crash over her again.
It did not.
Instead, there was only numbness.
Her limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, as if she were moving through water.
The warmth she remembered—her natural cheer, her quick smile, her instinct to meet the world head-on—seemed distant, belonging to another version of herself. A Charlotte who had existed before funerals, ledgers, and words likeruin.
She pushed herself upright and drew the covers closer, though she could not feel the chill that crept along the floorboards.
The house was too quiet. Even the familiar creaks and groans felt subdued, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Charlotte crossed the room and paused before the looking glass.
The reflection that stared back unsettled her. Her face was pale, her eyes too large, her hair loose and unbrushed around her shoulders. She looked—she thought with a dull sort of surprise—like a ghost. Someone half-present, already fading.
Perhaps that would be easier, she thought. To vanish.
A knock sounded on the door.
Charlotte startled, her heart giving an unnecessary leap. A moment later, Mrs. Ellison’s voice floated through the wood, apologetic and subdued.
“There is a letter for you, miss.”
A letter.
Charlotte turned slowly. Letters had once filled her days. They had been a promise. A certainty.
She opened the door and accepted the envelope with numb fingers, murmuring her thanks before closing herself back inside. The paper was heavier than she expected, the seal unbroken. Her name was written in a precise, unfamiliar hand.
She broke the seal and unfolded the page.
The words swam at first, then sharpened into sense.
Miss Westbrook,
