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Sofia gave an undignified snort of amusement. “Chickens named after Shakespeare’s characters and goats named after food rubbish.”

“My mama,” Zach said by way of explanation.

“I met her yesterday.” She made the statement without inflection, but the young man, apparently accustomed to having to defend his mother’s eccentricities, bristled. His mouth opened, but after a moment of obvious indignation, his jaw clamped shut and he turned away. Sofia watched the way his fingertips gripped the railing as though struggling with his words. He brought to mind a volcano with no opening, the lava bubbling and burning him from inside with no means of escape.

“I liked her very much,” Sofia murmured.

His anger appeared to be aimed at himself as much as Sofia, and despite her reassurance, it took substantially longer to recede than it had to ignite. Counting her breaths as the seconds ticked by, her earlier conversation with the duchess rose up in her mind. Not the words so much as the emotion behind them. Violet’s love for Zachariah was so profound that it had rendered Sofia’s own objectives and apprehensions silent.

The duchess had looked at Sofia and seen a person who could make a difference in her son’s life. Sofia wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe that, no matter the brevity of her stay, she could make these days count for something.

“I’m told you like to draw,” Sofia said conversationally. “If you were to draw a portrait of me, where would you begin?” She paused, giving him an opening to join the conversation. When he didn’t, she continued. “My head I suppose. When I attempt a stick figure, that's where I start, but I always misjudge the proportions. No doubt, as an artist, you can see the end result before you even take up your pencil. You imagine the precise point on the parchment to begin, anticipate the space you will need for every line and curve that follows, envision the pressure required to make that first mark, feel the texture of the pencil in your hand, notice the brightness of the sun reflecting off the surface of your parchment … if such a thing as an English sun existed, of course.”

She chanced a quick peek at Zachariah through lowered lashes and watched his body relax, a far off look in his eyes taking the place of his unwieldy anger as he grew subdued by talk of the artistic process.

Sofia let the silence carry on undisturbed.

“I would start with your eyes,” Zach said quietly. His gaze flicked up, then away again like the leap of a grasshopper.

Sofia offered a tentative smile. “I always just draw circles with a little dot in the centre for the eyes.”

For a time, he gave no reaction at all. Then, as if he’d discerned her intention to set him at ease only after holding and examining her sentence in his mind for long minutes, Zach returned her smile.

Sofia’s stomach took that moment to remind her it was empty, and she covered it with a grimace. “I guess I have somewhere else I need to be. But it was very nice meeting you, Zachariah, and I look forward to my English lessons. I will try very hard to be an exemplary pupil. Buon pomeriggio, professore!”

Since the kitchens appeared to be in a near-constant state of raucous activity, Sofia hoped that she would be able to slip in and out unnoticed. That hope was immediately extinguished as some forty pairs of eyes turned in her direction the moment she stepped through the door. Sofia had assumed that in a house as large as Northam Hall, the servants would take their meals in shifts. Instead, what must have been the majority of the staff was present and congregated around two long rectangular tables. Sofia shifted in place, her palms beginning to sweat.

“Can someone pass me the potatoes, please? I’m close to gnawing my own arm off over here.” The gruff request seemed to shake the masses free of their conspicuous gawking, and the room fell back into conversation.

Sofia let out a breath, her gaze unconsciously settling upon her rescuer. Mr Keene, of course. He sat quietly, watching her. Waiting for her eyes to connect with his. He didn’t look like the outlandish troublemaker who had goaded her into broomstick fencing and smuggled expensive fruit trees into her room. He looked steady. Safe and quiet and dependable. Wholesome and comfortable, with his rumpled hair and soft grey eyes. Before she could stop herself, the corners of her mouth tipped up. His entire face bloomed with bright, unconcealed joy. Apparently, England did have a sun. His name was Christopher Keene. Sofia was suddenly desperate for a cloud to hide behind, but for once, the bloody English sky held only blue.

The meal was boisterous and overwhelming, with food disappearing at an alarming rate. Savouring the flavour of a buttery roasted potato, Sofia closed her eyes, her busy mind lulled by the sea of diverse accents swirling around her at the wide oak tables. Many were similar, likely native to southern England, but she also heard Irish accents and one she recognised as Yorkshire. Others were distinct and unique, but unidentifiable given her limited knowledge of the regional dialects.

It was like an intricate sprawling ecosystem within a larger more obvious biome. The exterior appearance of the aristocratic manor, with its elegant symmetry and intimidating Corinthian columns, was all most visitors to Northam Hall would notice. They would see a fitting home for a peer of the realm. But just down the stairs, tucked away from view, an entirely separate world existed, packed with people no less fascinating, no less caught up in their own lives, and with no fewer dreams and complex dynamics within their makeshift family.

Sofia was content to listen to the bits of conversation occurring nearby. While some related to the speakers’ daily tasks, most had nothing at all to do with the estate or the family who employed them. That there was no talk of the duke and duchess, and no gossip about the private conversations their servants had overheard, told Sofia much about the staff’s loyalty to their employers.

Given the cacophony of noise, one would think the servants too busy laughing and telling stories to chew and swallow, but somehow they managed. They ate and were quick to vacate the room once their plates were cleared. She couldn’t put off speaking with Keene, but Sofia’s chest tightened uncomfortably every time she pictured speaking with the cold viciousness that would be required to deter this man’s friendship. He would see anything less as an invitation to continue. He cannot continue.

In the best possible scenario she could conjure in her mind, Sofia would depart Northam Hall in three-months’ time with thirty pounds in her pocket and a brother who had begrudgingly conceded to her wisdom. But she was neither optimistic nor naive enough to believe in the best-case scenario. More likely, Oliver would grow tired of her avoidance and bully her into playing her part. Or he would find a different way to obtain the papers, cutting her out entirely. In this more likely scenario, lives would be changed. The Ansons’s. Hers. Oliver’s, though he did not seem to know that yet. Like a tangle of webs, her deceit would stretch in every direction.

A hard knot formed in her stomach at the thought of dowsing the earnest expression from Christopher’s face, and so she just stood there, paralysed by indecision. He experienced no such uncertainty—of course he didn’t—and a moment later, he was beside her, casually propped against the wall.

“You smell like pears. Every beautiful woman should smell like pears.” His silky baritone arrested her thoughts.

She took a step away, increasing the buffer of safe space between them. “Nonsense. I’ve been in the woods all day. I smell like sweat and the stagnant creek I used to rinse myself.” Despite knowing that her description was incontrovertibly true, she took one subtle sniff to see if any trace of the delectable fruit still lingered on her skin, then scowled at the foolishness his charming words had incited.

A knowing smile pulled at his mouth, and Sofia suddenly had the urge to jab him with her index finger in his deeply rutted dimple. The way he provoked and teased her, drawing her ever closer to the cusp of irrepressible mirth, made her feel light and buoyant. Made her feel as if she could bend just a little. Being with Christopher made her feel that something more than survival might be possible. He reminded her of the joy that had been missing from her life for far too long. But any more of that joy would make it too hard to walk away.

“I won’t waste time dancing around the issue with small talk, Mr Keene.”

“No. We wouldn’t want anything light-hearted to sneak into our conversations.”

She frowned. “It’s clear that you are determined for us to be on favourable terms, so consider it so.”

“Favourable terms? When one neighbour agrees not to make dinner out of the other neighbour’s cow should it accidentally wander onto their land, that’s ‘favourable terms.’ Hardly a declaration of friendship.” He gestured toward a secluded table in the corner of the scullery. “Would you care for tea? It is the sort of thing one friend might offer another.”

“No thank you, Mr Keene.” The room had cleared out with the exception of Mrs Simmons, the cook, Bennett, and a few footmen who seemed intent on studying the pair during their verbal duel. While the thought of becoming a spectacle to the remaining servants was abhorrent to Sofia, the suggestion of privacy between them felt even worse. It felt like an unacceptable risk.