I stared at the open wardrobe for what felt like the hundredth time that day. The morning had bled into the afternoon, and now the light outside my window was turning golden, snting across the floorboards like a quiet warning: time was slipping away.

  My eyes moved between a dusky rose gown that felt too bold and a cream muslin that suddenly seemed too delicate. I didn’t know what kind of people Benedict came from—whether they’d be sharp and aristocratic or loud and polished with new wealth. Whether they would look at me and see someone to welcome, or someone to weigh.

  I turned from the wardrobe and crossed the room to the bell-pull beside the door. My hand hesitated a moment before I gave it a firm tug.

  Josephine arrived a few minutes ter, quiet as ever, her cap crisp and her gaze level. She took one look at the state of the room—gowns draped across the bed, shoes mismatched on the floor, stockings in disarray—and said nothing. She stepped in, her dark brows faintly arched. She took one sweeping gnce around the room and closed the door quietly behind her. “You have decred war on your wardrobe,” she said in her soft, precise accent.

  I let out a breath and dropped onto the edge of the bed. “It’s hopeless.”

  “Ah,” she said gently. “So it is a man.”

  I looked up. “How did you—?”

  She only smiled faintly. “There are only two things that make a woman doubt every dress she owns. One is grief. The other is a man.”

  I huffed a ugh. “You’re not wrong. It’s Benedict. I’m meant to meet his family tonight.”

  She stepped closer, waiting. When I didn’t continue, she said simply, “Tell me what you are afraid of.”

  I hesitated. “I told Aunt Eliza where I’m going. She won’t tell Father. Not yet. I said I wanted to meet them first—his family. To understand what sort of people they are.”

  Josephine moved toward the wardrobe, smoothing a sleeve here, and folding a discarded scarf there. “And if they are kind?”

  “Then I’ll tell Father,” I said. “Properly. Fully.”

  “And if they are not?”

  I pressed my fingers to my temple. “Then I’ll decide whether Benedict is worth the risk.”

  Josephine nodded slowly and reached past a cascade of ivory silk and pulled a gown from the back of the wardrobe. It was a light blue gown. “This,” she said. “It is quiet. Not showy. But beautiful. Like you.”

  I looked at it—the soft fabric, the gentle gathering at the sleeves, the graceful neckline. It was quietly lovely. Unassuming but confident. “Yes,” I said, almost surprised at my own certainty. “Yes, that one.”

  “You may wear the pearl drop earrings,” she added, ying the gown on the bed. “And no neckce. Let them see your colrbones. It is a very feminine kind of strength.”

  “Josephine,” I said, amused. “Are you dressing me for a dinner or a battle?”

  She gave a little shrug. “Both, perhaps.”

  As I stood, she motioned for me to sit at the vanity. Her fingers moved through my hair, steady and skilled, her French murmurs filling the quiet between us as she twisted and pinned. “You care what he thinks,” she said after a moment.

  “I do,” I admitted. “But more than that—I care what I think of him. I need to know what sort of life he comes from before I say anything to my father.”

  Josephine paused. “Oui. It is wise.”

  “I don’t want to look like a fool,” I said, lowering my voice. “I want to look like someone who knows what she’s doing.”

  “You do not need a gown for that,” she said, smoothing the bodice once it was buttoned. “But it does not hurt.”

  I smiled, the tension in my chest easing slightly. “I suppose. It’s just…” I trailed off. “There’s something in me that wants to trust him. But I don’t want to be wrong.”

  “You will not be wrong. You will learn.”

  I opened my eyes and met her gaze in the mirror. “And if I learn something I don’t like?”

  “Then you walk away with your head held high,” Josephine said simply. When she was finished, I stood. The gown settled around me like it had always belonged to this moment. Josephine stepped back, gave me one st look, and nodded once.

  I gnced toward the window. The sun was nearly down. He would be here soon. And I was ready. I made my way to the Drawing Room, the soft swish of my skirts the only sound accompanying me through the quiet corridor. The room was dim with the soft light of te evening, warm candlelight flickering along the walls and reflecting faintly off the gss of the window panes. The air carried the scent of polished wood, vender oil, and something faintly sweet.

  I sat with my hands folded tightly in my p, my back straight. Still, my knee bounced with impatience. I had barely been seated for five minutes when Aunt Eliza stepped in, her expression calm—but her smile betrayed her amusement. “I thought I might join you,” she said, making her way across the rug with her usual quiet grace.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Curious, are you?”

  She sat beside me, smoothing the folds of her gown. “Not curious,” she said, “concerned. I must meet the man responsible for making my niece blush every time his name is mentioned.”

  I turned sharply toward her, my mouth dropping open. “I do not—!”

  “Oh, but you do,” she said lightly, patting my hand. “It is entirely endearing. And entirely obvious.”

  Before I could protest further, the sound of carriage wheels crunching over the dirt path reached our ears—soft but unmistakable. My breath caught. Eliza stood calmly. “Come now. Let’s not keep the poor man waiting at the door.”

  We moved together to the archway that separated the Drawing Room from the front hall. I folded my hands again, this time more tightly, as I watched Mr. Lockhart take his pce beside the front door. His face remained expressionless, as always, but I imagined he, too, was silently forming his judgments.

  The sound of the carriage halting. Hooves stamping the ground. A carriage door opening. Then—footsteps. Slow, measured, deliberate, ascending the few steps to our threshold. Mr. Lockhart pulled open the door with understated ceremony.

  Benedict stepped forward into the golden glow of the hall, removing his bck silk top hat as he crossed the threshold. The air stirred slightly as he passed through, carrying the faint scent of bergamot and starch. His short auburn hair, slightly tousled from the hat, caught the soft light from the chandelier above. For a moment, the gss prisms caught his eyes and lit them like amber—like warm honey at the edge of fme.

  He was dressed in bck evening tails, a white waistcoat that caught the light without gleaming too brightly, and a carefully knotted white cravat at his throat. His bck trousers were sharply pressed, and his polished leather shoes made no sound on the wood floor. “Miss Geldart,” he said with practiced ease, his voice low and clear as he approached Aunt Eliza. “I’ve heard so much about you.” he bowed politely.

  Eliza inclined her head with a small, knowing smile. “Only good things, I hope.”

  “Only the very best,” he said, and then turned to me.

  Our eyes met. And though I had seen him before—at the hospital, in hurried glimpses, during our nightly walks—this moment felt impossibly different. Like the first time, somehow. He didn’t smile right away, nor did I. We only looked.

  “Elizabeth,” he said softly.

  “Benedict,” I returned, somehow finding my voice.

  A flicker of something—relief, maybe—touched his expression. He gave a slight bow, just enough to acknowledge me but not so much that it felt distant. I felt my breath steady, but my heart did not. Eliza folded her hands loosely before her, her smile still in pce—but her eyes had sharpened, just slightly. “So tell me, Mr. Benedict,” she began with polite warmth, “what is it you do during the day while my niece is tending to the sick and dying?”

  Benedict’s expression didn’t falter. “I serve as King’s almoner,” he replied evenly. “I manage charitable funds, ensure patients who cannot pay still receive care, and oversee the pcement of those who need ongoing support after discharge. Much of my time is spent bancing ledgers, meeting with donors, or speaking with patients’ families. Occasionally, I assist with intake for long-term cases.”

  Eliza tilted her head. “A man of administration and compassion, then?”

  He gave a small nod. “On my best days, I try to be both.”

  Eliza’s eyes crinkled. “And your family? What do your parents do?”

  “My parents don’t work,” he said pinly. “My father holds the title of Viscount. He oversees our estate and affairs when necessary, but mostly, he prefers hunting and meetings. My mother runs the household. My older brother Andrew is eighteen now, newly returned from Eton to begin learning how to manage the estate.”

  Eliza raised a brow. “Ah. So you are not the heir.”

  “No, ma’am"

  “And the others?”

  “Gabriel is fifteen,” he said. “committed to her education and quite determined to enter society knowing more Greek than most of the men she’ll meet. William is thirteen and currently attending Eton, though he was allowed to come home for this evening.”

  Eliza smiled faintly. “Your mother must be very busy, then.”

  “She is,” Benedict said. “Though she’d never admit it. She insists she thrives in the chaos.”

  Eliza let out a soft hum of amusement, just as I cleared my throat—perhaps a little louder than I needed to. Both of them turned toward me. “Forgive me,” I said with a slight, utterly unconvincing cough into my gloved hand. “We really should be going. We don’t want to be te.”

  Benedict gave a small nod, ever composed. Eliza looked at me with the mild suspicion of someone who knew exactly what I was doing—and chose not to say so. She stepped back and gave me a parting touch on the arm. “Do enjoy yourself, darling,” she said smoothly. “I’m sure your evening will be wonderful.”

  I smiled tightly and turned toward the door. Benedict offered me his arm. And as I took it, I felt Eliza’s eyes on us—assessing, weighing, calcuting—not with malice, but with the practiced eye of a woman who had long understood how the world worked. The door closed behind us and the night began.

  Benedict held the carriage door open and extended his hand to me. The cool evening air drifted through the entryway, ced with the scent of rose and earth. I pced my gloved hand in his and let him help me up, careful not to catch the hem of my gown on the iron step. Once I was seated, he climbed in after me and shut the door with a soft thud. We sat across from one another, his bck coat gleamed faintly with every shift of the wheels. Outside, the faint creak of harnesses and the muffled sound of hooves filled the silence as the carriage pulled away from the house and onto the long dirt road leading out of the estate.

  I tried to sit still, composed. I folded my hands neatly in my p. But it didn’t st. “I’m nervous,” I admitted, watching the way the shadows pyed along the edge of the window. “I don’t know what I expect, exactly. But the thought of... meeting your family, being seen by them, it’s a bit terrifying.”

  Benedict leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. “There is nothing about you that is not to be liked, Elizabeth.”

  I gave him a look. “You don’t know that.”

  “I do,” he said easily. “You’re a wonderful person. You’re kind, you care more than most people I’ve ever met, you speak up when something’s wrong, and—” he tilted his head, giving me a wry smile, “—yes, you’re a bit rebellious at times, but even that is part of your charm.” I flushed, smiling despite myself. “And if they can’t see how utterly happy you make me,” he went on, more softly, “then they really must consider seeing an eye doctor.”

  A ugh broke from me before I could help it—light, unexpected, and very real. “Well,” I said, once I had caught my breath, “that is... oddly reassuring. Thank you.” He smiled back at me, and for a while, neither of us said anything more.

  The countryside stretched out on either side, slowly blurring into motion. Fields became scattered cottages, which turned into cobbled nes and the dense press of London’s evening traffic. Gas mps flickered in the foggy dusk, and carriages passed us with quick gnces and the occasional rattle of wheels. People bustled on the sidewalks, and for a while, I simply watched them from the window—men in top hats, women in sweeping cloaks, children darting between wagons. The city never slept.

  But then, just as gradually, it faded behind us again. The buildings thinned, then disappeared. Stone gave way to hedgerows, and the st streetmp faded into the distance. We were surrounded once again by trees and fields, the moonlight casting long silver streaks across the rolling nd.

  I leaned back against the cushion, my hands tucked under the folds of my gown. Across from me, Benedict looked perfectly at ease, gazing out the window, one hand resting against his knee, the other absently tapping his thigh in rhythm with the road. We didn’t speak much for the remainder of the ride. There was comfort in the quiet.

  After nearly two and a half hours, the horses began to slow. I sat up straighter, peering through the window as we turned down a wide gravel drive fnked by trimmed hedges and wrought-iron mpposts. And then, beyond the st bend in the road, it appeared. Grand, stately, and illuminated from within like something out of a painting. Stone columns rose along the front entrance, and ivy curled neatly up the east side. The windows glowed with warm light, and I could see figures moving beyond the gss—shadows cast in a hundred golden hues.

  I felt my breath catch. Benedict leaned forward slightly, his voice low but sure. “You’ll be alright.” And somehow, I almost believed him.

  The carriage came to a smooth stop at the base of a grand stone stairway. Before I could move, Benedict was already stepping out, the door opened wide by the footman. He turned and extended his hand to me without a word, his expression calm, but his grip firm and grounding.

  I took it. The chill of the evening touched my skin as I descended, one gloved hand gathering my skirts. My shoes clicked softly against the stone as we stepped onto the front nding. Above us loomed the entrance: heavy double doors, ornate iron nterns glowing warmly on either side and polished brass handles that gleamed in the light.

  Benedict pced a hand gently over mine and guided us up the steps. The doors opened before we could knock. A servant, crisp in appearance and quiet in movement, stepped back to allow us inside. The entrance hall took my breath.

  The floors were marble, polished to a mirror shine, the soft candlelight catching in the delicate veining of stone. A great chandelier sparkled above us, casting fractal patterns across the ceiling. A wide double staircase stretched out before us in two elegant curves, like open arms. Dark wood banisters gleamed. The walls were lined with portraits in gilded frames—stern-faced ancestors watching us from across the centuries. But it wasn’t the decor that made my heart still.

  It was the five people standing in a perfect line at the base of the stairs. To the left, two men—one older, one younger—but so alike they may as well have been reflections. The man on the far left had the unmistakable bearing of authority. His features were sharp, his posture rigid, and his eyes—so dark they looked bck—held a coldness that made my spine straighten involuntarily. Benedict’s father, I knew at once. To his right stood the younger version of him—slightly less severe, but only just. Andrew. His red hair matched Benedict’s exactly, but where Benedict's eyes carried warmth, Andrew’s were ft, disinterested. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

  On the right side of the staircase stood Benedict’s mother—a woman of striking beauty. Her hair, thick and bck, was pinned into a neat twist, and her hazel eyes regarded me with polite interest. She stood with elegant poise, her hands folded at her waist, not cold, but unreadable. Beside her, Gabriel was the perfect contrast. Hair as dark as her mother’s, but with her father’s eyes. She stood tall for her age, her chin slightly raised as though determined not to appear childish. She studied me with a mix of curiosity and scrutiny, her hands csped behind her back like she’d rehearsed the gesture.

  And in the middle—William, with wide hazel eyes and the same soft bck hair as his mother. He had her entire face, really. There was something shy but bright in his posture, as though he was excited but wasn’t entirely sure what was expected of him yet.

  Five of them. Lined up like an audience. My grip on Benedict’s arm tightened slightly. He leaned in and whispered, just for me, “They always do this. It’s a terrible habit.” I nearly smiled. Then he straightened and spoke, his voice steady. “May I present Miss Elizabeth Geldart.”

  As the words settled into the silence, I caught it—just a flicker. A shift in the expression of the man on the far left. His face, cold and unreadable only moments ago, flickered with something else. Not warmth. Not surprise. But recognition. Like a puzzle piece had clicked into pce in his mind. And then, just as quickly, it vanished—repced by a practiced smile and a sudden fluidity in his step.

  He was the first to move. With a flourish far too elegant to be spontaneous, he stepped forward and gave a deep, deliberate bow. His voice, when it came, was smooth and heavy with charm that felt worn-in and intentional. “Collins,” he said, his dark eyes never leaving mine. “Bartholomew Collins.” He straightened slowly, lips curling into a smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes. “It is a rare delight to meet a young woman who carries herself with such grace. Benedict has been very tight-lipped about you. I can now see why.”

  I dipped into a polite curtsy, keeping my expression neutral. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my Lord.”

  He gave a brief chuckle, a sound that felt too sharp around the edges. Then, with a sweep of his arm, he gestured toward the rest of his family. “My wife, Martha.” She gave a graceful nod, her expression soft but distant. “My eldest son, Andrew.” He inclined his head slightly, saying nothing. “And then Gabriel”—she offered a prim smile, eyes sharp with interest—“and young William, who’s come home just for this evening.”

  William smiled brightly and gave a small wave before quickly remembering himself and adjusting to something more formal.

  “Hello,” I said, offering a warm gnce to each in turn. “It’s very nice to meet all of you.”

  There were polite murmurs of greeting in return, and for a moment, the room felt still again, the weight of introductions hanging in the air like fine mist. But I couldn’t shake it. That look in Bartholomew’s eyes. The shift. The flicker. There was something in the way he looked at me that didn’t sit right—like I was a card in a game he’d just realized he’d seen before.

  And though his smile remained, and his tone was perfectly polished, I felt it in my bones: He was not merely meeting me. He was assessing me. And I didn’t know why.

  “Come,” Bartholomew said with another one of his smooth, sweeping gestures. “I’ll lead the way to the dining room.” His tone was pleasant, but it left no room for hesitation. There was an edge to his authority—not shouted but understood. He turned and began walking without looking back, and, as if on cue, the others fell into step behind him.

  No one else had spoken. Not even Martha, who had given only a graceful nod during introductions. Not Andrew, who barely acknowledged me. Gabriel had offered a brief, proper smile, and William a quick hello—but now, silence reigned. No one questioned. No one challenged. No one dared move before Bartholomew did.

  I gnced sideways at Benedict. He hadn’t moved right away. His expression was calm, but there was something stiff in his posture, something careful in the way he adjusted his cuffs before stepping forward to follow. Was this why he didn’t live here? The thought came unbidden but sharp. I walked beside him, our footsteps echoing softly on the marble floor. The corridor we passed through was grand, lined with oil portraits and sconces flickering with candlelight. The wallpaper was rich, and the runners beneath our feet plush. Every detail whispered of wealth—but not quietly. Bartholomew was not a man who let subtlety speak for him.

  The dining room was no different. Eborate crown molding curled along the ceiling, and the chandelier above the table looked nearly rge enough to crush the table beneath it. The table itself was long, polished to a mirror sheen, and already set with ornate silverware, sparkling crystal, and folded linen napkins so crisp they looked sculpted. A fire crackled in the grand hearth, its glow bouncing off the gilded frames of oversized paintings and the golden edges of serving trays on the sideboard. A dispy of extravagance, more than comfort. Less about warmth, and more about control.

  Bartholomew and Andrew moved with certainty, each taking one of the two heads of the table—as if it were their unspoken agreement. It struck me then how effortlessly Andrew mirrored his father. Even his silence felt inherited. Benedict took his seat in the middle of one side, opposite his mother and sister. William slid in beside him, bright-eyed but quiet. I was seated between Gabriel and Martha, directly across from Benedict.

  It was not lost on me that the seating had been pre-arranged. I smoothed my skirts and sat tall, though inside my chest, something turned over. Gabriel sat perfectly straight, hands folded in her p, her chin slightly tilted as if daring me to speak first. Martha, by contrast, sat with grace but passivity, her eyes drifting now and then toward Bartholomew like a compass to true north.

  I gnced again at Benedict. He was already looking at me. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes said enough. Yes, they seemed to say. Now you see it too. I offered him the faintest of smiles. And then the first course was brought in. The first course was served—a clear consommé in fine porcein bowls edged with gold. The silverware gleamed. The candles flickered.

  And no one spoke. Not a word.

  The sound of spoons delicately tapping against the edges of china was the only thing filling the vast, echoing room. No small talk. No polite questions. Not even the usual pleasantries about the meal. It was as though conversation itself had been outwed. I sipped the broth carefully, trying not to let my eyes dart too often. But the silence pressed down on me like wool soaked in water.

  Then—just as I had begun to wonder if the entire evening would pass this way—Bartholomew cleared his throat and spoke. “I would like to speak with Miss Geldart privately after dinner.” I stiffened, my spoon pausing midway to my mouth.

  Across from me, Benedict’s hand visibly tightened around the stem of his wine gss. His jaw clenched, his mouth opening slightly—but all he said, voice low and controlled, was: “Yes, Father.”

  The silence that followed was worse than before. The way everyone resumed eating, pretending nothing strange had just been said, made it even more unsettling. My appetite, which had been fading steadily since we sat, vanished entirely. I forced down another mouthful, more out of necessity than hunger, my mind racing. What could he possibly want to say to me in private? Was it a warning? A threat? Some disapproving interrogation masked as civility? I tried not to look directly at him, but his presence at the head of the table loomed, unmissable.

  The second course arrived—roasted duck with gzed vegetables, the scent rich and sweet. The footmen moved quietly, perfectly timed. Still, the silence reigned. Until Bartholomew spoke again. “Martha,” he said, turning slightly toward his wife, “didn’t you say you were curious about Miss Geldart’s family?”

  Martha, startled by the attention, looked up with a soft blink. “Oh—yes. Yes, I was.” Her voice was quiet, uncertain. There was no warmth behind the smile she offered me—only a sort of polite nervousness, like someone pying a part and afraid to get it wrong. “If you don’t mind me asking,” she continued, “what does your father do, Miss Geldart? And… do you have siblings?”

  I swallowed and straightened my posture, setting down my fork carefully. “My father was a journalist,” I said. “He worked in London for most of his life. But after my grandfather passed, he returned home to run the family estate.” I saw it then. Another flicker. Bartholomew’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes did. Just for a moment. Recognition. Again. That same quiet snap of a puzzle piece slipping into pce. But no one else seemed to notice.

  I continued, doing my best to sound even. “My older brother is under his tutege. He’ll take over when Father retires. My mother is preparing for my younger sister’s debut—she turns fifteen this year. And my aunt—whom I live with—is a nguage tutor.”

  Martha nodded politely, as though that answered everything. “How lovely.”

  Andrew said nothing. Gabriel pretended to be focused on her pte. William was the only one who looked at me directly, his gaze open and almost curious. But Bartholomew? He was still watching me. Not with interest. With intent. I tried to look away, but the discomfort crawled beneath my skin. I forced myself to take another bite of duck I could barely taste. The evening dragged on in that same strange rhythm. Bites of food. Long silences. No conversation unless Bartholomew prompted it—almost as though no one dared speak until he permitted it. It wasn’t a family dinner. It was a performance. And he was the conductor.

  I thought back to st weekend’s supper with my cousins—how we’d ughed, passed around too many scones, and talked over one another about ridiculous things like hat ribbons and bad poetry. There had been life in that room. This table felt like gss—beautiful, fragile, and cold to the touch. Even dessert, though delicately presented, offered no comfort. When the final pte was cleared and the servants vanished as soundlessly as they’d come, Bartholomew stood. And so did everyone else. It was automatic. Reflexive. Even Benedict.

  Bartholomew smoothed his waistcoat, then turned toward the rest of the table. “We’ll join you in the Drawing room shortly,” he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Miss Geldart and I need a word.” He turned his gaze on me and offered the ghost of a smile. “If you’ll follow me.”

  My stomach twisted, but I dipped my head slightly and said, “Of course.”

  He turned and began walking, not waiting to see if I followed. I did. As we stepped into the corridor, I risked a gnce over my shoulder. Benedict wasn’t following. He was walking in the opposite direction with the others, toward the drawing room. But just before he disappeared around the corner, he looked back. His expression met mine—briefly—but clearly. Apologetic. And that one look said more than he had all evening.

  He knew this was wrong and he couldn’t stop it. I turned back, my steps echoing slightly as I followed Bartholomew down the hall toward the front of the house. Toward his study. And toward whatever conversation he thought he needed to have with me in private.

  Bartholomew reached the study doors ahead of me and pulled one open, holding it just wide enough for me to pass. “After you, Miss Geldart.”

  I stepped inside. The room was dressed in the same ostentatious fashion as the rest of the house. Dark, glossy wood paneling lined the walls, broken only by tall bookshelves and rge, self-important portraits. Rich burgundy drapes framed the windows, though they were already drawn shut. A massive desk stood in the center of the room—deliberately pced so that whoever sat behind it faced the doors, as though conducting trials. I hadn’t even reached the center of the rug when I heard the door click shut behind me.

  The mps burned steadily in each corner, and yet—a shadow fell across the space. Not from a curtain. Not from the light. From him. Bartholomew moved slowly, stepping around me, his presence shifting like a predator finding the angle he liked best. He leaned casually against the desk, the mask of practiced charm gone. What remained underneath was sharper. Harder. Real.

  “My apologies for the sudden nature of this… private conversation,” he said, voice smooth but now without its former silk. “But I fear there’s something you must know.” I didn’t speak. My throat had tightened. His eyes roamed over me, and I felt it like a chill under my skin. “That dress suits you,” he said. “And your hair—lovely. That auburn shade… rare. Striking.” He paused, then added, “Just like your eyes. Light blue, like your father’s.”

  The room felt suddenly much smaller. I straightened. “How do you know my father?”

  He smiled. “Ah. I shouldn’t say. Not to such a sweet girl.” He pushed off the desk, moving toward me. When he reached me, his hand came up—fingers brushing my cheek with casual familiarity.

  I flinched back. “How do you know my father?” I said again, this time louder.

  His smile faded into something thinner. “You sound just like Eliza,” he said, with a touch of amusement. “So stubborn. So full of fire.” There was a long pause. A beat. Then he folded his hands behind his back and began to pace slowly, like an actor setting his monologue in motion. “I was once an acquaintance of your father,” he said. “And of your aunt, Eliza. Back before they were quite so... respectable. But then I found out your father’s secret.”

  My blood chilled. “What secret?”

  Bartholomew turned, face smooth again. “Your father... was a resurrectionist.” The word hit like a crack of thunder. “I caught him red-handed,” Bartholomew said, his voice rising slightly with a fre of remembered triumph. “Digging up what was never his to touch. Covered in soil, stinking of rot—like some creature from the underworld, elbow-deep in the dead.”

  He began to pace again, hands behind his back, his every step punctuating the words like a gavel. “And I—I tried to save her. Your aunt. Eliza. I begged her to see the truth. To recognize what he was and what it would mean for all of you if it ever came to light. I warned her. Pleaded with her to understand that this—this—was not just some petty crime. It was a stain. One that would cling to everything he touched. One that would cling to her.” He stopped pacing and turned to face me fully, voice lowering now into something bitter, something personal. “But she refused to listen. She looked me in the eye and turned away—as if I were the one speaking madness. She chose him. Her brother. A grave-robber. Over me.”

  His lip curled slightly, “I would have done anything to protect her from what he was becoming. But in the end, she cast me aside like I was nothing.” His voice dipped with just the barest edge of something else—wounded pride masked by superiority. “Heartbroken,” he said lightly, “I left. Traveled the continent. And there, I met my wife.”

  I staggered back a step, breath hitching in my chest. My back bumped into the edge of a bookcase, grounding me—but only just. My father…? A resurrectionist? A criminal. A body-snatcher. A necessary evil in some corners of medicine, yes, but still—illegal. Dishonorable. Hidden. The air was thick. I couldn’t draw it in fast enough. The edges of the room began to blur. “I…” My voice barely formed. “I would like to return home.”

  Bartholomew raised a brow, then nodded with false concern. “Of course. You’re not feeling well. I’ll have Benedict informed at once.” He crossed to the desk and rang a small bell. A servant appeared almost immediately—too quickly. “This stays between us,” Bartholomew added, his tone light but unmistakable in its finality.

  I nodded, but I don’t remember doing it. The next few moments vanished in a fog. I barely recalled the carriage ride, or who helped me inside once I reached the house. The only thing I knew for certain was the sound of my own thoughts, looping like a melody gone wrong. My father. A resurrectionist.

  By the time my head hit the pillow, the house was still and cold around me. But inside me, nothing was still. And as sleep began to take me, one thought lingered in my head: Tomorrow, I will confront my father.