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She didn’t have the strength to do anything with it. She didn’t explore the townhouse properly. She barely cleaned, only tidying the areas she absolutely needed to occupy.

But she needed to pull herself together. She hadn’t left the Caldwell household to wallow in misery. She had left to fight.

To fight in the hope that one day she might return—not as a servant or a secret, but as a full member of society. Not hidden. Free.

She rinsed her hair with water from a pitcher, the cascade reminding her of the narrow waterfall from Jacob’s shower-bath.

She couldn’t help but remember their passionate encounter there. The way Jacob had touched her, his hand gliding against her wet body.

Leaning back, she slipped her hand between her thighs, imagining his touch, the way he had kissed there, caressed, devoured.

A gasp left her mouth, echoing in the empty room.

* * *

Day 7

She went for a walk late at night, just to clear her head, she told herself. Yet somehow, her path led to Caldwell’s townhouse.

Music drifted from the windows. Elise was playing the piano. The mournful, swirling notes of Gretchen am Spinnrade.

The piece she’d learned was about a young woman, Gretchen, falling madly in love with Faust and spiraling into madness from the strength of her feelings for him.

The music stopped. Honoria stood frozen in the quiet, watching the window. A shadow appeared—Elise, looking out.

Would she see her? Did Honoria want her to?

She didn’t know. After a brief moment, Elise disappeared, and the music resumed—sad, relentless, and spiraling out of control.

* * *

Day 10

Her blond streaks were more visible beneath the fading dark dye. She stood before the mirror, applying vinegar with trembling hands, trying to remove the last traces of her disguise. The smell was making her nauseous, a regular occurrence these days. She hoped her blond streaks would clear soon, so she’d be able to cease the vinegar applications.

Thunder cracked outside, rattling the windows. Lightning illuminated her reflection—neither the dark-haired housekeeper nor the blonde lady she had once been. A woman in between worlds, belonging nowhere.

The thunder rolled again, and Honoria looked out the window. Was Rosie scared? Or sleeping peacefully in her bed?

She shook her head, trying to push the thought away. But the image of Rosie, standing barefoot outside her door, asking for a story, would forever be etched in her mind.

“Hush, my wild, winter rose,” she sang softly, the first lullaby she had ever sung to Rosie. “Thorns and petals softly close.

All the secrets earth can keep,

Lie in roots that dream too deep.

Sleep, my wild, winter rose,

Safe until the morning shows.”

* * *

Day 13

Her red masquerade gown hung from the wardrobe door, clean, pressed, and repaired. Honoria ran her fingers over the fabric, remembering the night she wore it—the first night she felt Jacob’s kiss.

Her fingers moved over the bodice where he had torn it with his bare hands, the rip now invisible thanks to the modiste’s skilled work.