“Very well, what should I be in want of?”
“Being chosen.”
“We ladies are always chosen.”
“Not like that! Being noticed is pleasant, and being selected for convenience is practical, but being chosen because someone cannot imagine the room without you in it… that is different.”
Margaret’s pulse shifted faintly.
“You believe that exists,” she said.
“Yes.”
“For everyone?”
“I hope so. Life would be rather miserable if it did not, do you not think?”
Margaret studied her sister’s face. There was no calculation there, no awareness of ledgers or unpaid accounts, only a belief that love was real and tangible, something that she could reach out and take for herself. She envied her sister for that. She wished that she could still cling to the fragile naivety that Poppy possessed.
“And if it does not?” Margaret asked quietly.
“Then I should like to marry kindly. If not a love match, I will marry my greatest friend.”
Margaret rose and crossed toward the window, drawing the curtain back slightly. The street outside lay in shadow.
“You speak as though you expect such fortune.”
“I do,” Poppy said simply.
“Why?”
“Because you are proving it is possible.”
The words caught her off guard.
“I am proving nothing.”
“You are,” Poppy insisted. “He is powerful, and he is admired. He could choose anyone, and yet he has chosen you. That has to mean something, and that something is already more than most will ever know.”
Poppy rose from the bed and crossed the room, standing beside her at the window.
“I hope,” Poppy said softly, “that when my turn comes, it will feel like that.”
Margaret looked at her.
“Like what?”
“Like I am truly wanted, and not a mere convenience.”
The simplicity of it pierced her more cleanly than any dramatic declaration could have. Had she been given such a luxury, it was what Margaret would have wanted for herself, but it was not meant for her.
“You will be chosen, just as you wish to be,” Margaret said firmly.
“How can you possibly know?”
“Because I will not allow it to be any other way.”
Poppy smiled at that.
