Cassandra played beautifully.
George knew this already. He had heard her once, truly heard her, and the memory had not left him. What unfolded now was no different in quality. Her technique was precise, her phrasing careful, her attention absolute.
And yet it was once again a disaster.
The cousins accompanied her poorly, rushing where she held back, faltering where she carried the melody. They drowned her out, and the audience shifted, uncertain, some clearly mistaking the chaos for her fault.
George felt his jaw tighten.
He looked at his sister. Philippa had been watching the scene unfold with wide eyes, her posture stiff, her hands clenched in her lap. When she caught his gaze, something passed between them.
She understood immediately.
Philippa drew in a breath, then she slumped sideways in her chair. A collective gasp filled the room.
“Philippa?” their grandmother asked.
“Fetch water.”
“Is she unwell?”
Chairs scraped. Guests surged forward. The Dowager was on her feet at once, her attention snapping away from Cassandra entirely.
The music stopped. Cassandra froze in place. George crossed the room quickly, already calling for air, for space, for someone to open a window. Philippa lay perfectly limp, lashes fluttering just enough to convince anyone watching that this was genuine.
Everyone’s attention was where it belonged. Only when Cassandra looked up at him did George allow himself the smallest exhale of relief. The performance was over, and for once, his grandmother’s game had not ended the way she intended. George had been expecting her to do it.
He also expected Cassandra to visit him later that day.
Not in the practical sense, of course. He had not been listening for footsteps, nor had he ordered the servants away, but since the incident in the drawing room, since the church, since the kiss he had already categorized as a mistake he could not afford to repeat, he had known she would come.
He was seated at his desk when the knock came.
“Come in,” he said.
Cassandra stepped inside, wrapped in a shawl, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looked nothing like the composed young woman who endured his grandmother’s scrutiny with such careful control. She looked determined, unsettled, and very much awake.
“You should not be here,” he said.
“I know,” she replied. “But I cannot sleep.”
He stood slowly, already aware that this was a poor idea. The room felt smaller with her in it, the air heavier, charged with all the questions she had been holding back.
“You kissed me,” she said without preamble. “Why?”
He did not answer.
“Why did you do it?” she repeated, more quietly this time. “Why, if it was a mistake?”
The word hung between them. George folded his arms, forcing himself to keep his distance.
“You are asking questions you already know the answers to.”
“No,” Cassandra said. “I am asking because I do not.”
He shook his head.
“That kiss should not have happened.”
