She set the folio before her and slid down onto the window bench, pulling her knees close beneath her nightdress. The lamplight haloed the papers, turning the columns of numbers into pale, ghostly lines.
She smoothed the first page with trembling fingers.
He must be right.
Of course, he must.
He knew the mill in every bone of its structure, every rhythm of its work. If he told her it was unsalvageable, then she had no business believing otherwise.
And yet, how could she cut him loose?
It was not simply the mill she imagined falling from her grasp.
It was the man himself—the man who had stood so openly at dinner, answering questions others would have evaded, refusing to puff himself or to plead excuses, refusing even to soften the truth for her sake.
It was the man who had bowed to her tonight as though he feared his very presence might disturb her.
It was the man she wanted, absurdly, painfully, to hold onto—not for the mill, not for duty, but for some unspoken thread between them she could neither name nor sever.
He believed letting go was the honorable thing. That she should free herself of him. That she should walk away.
But she could not. Not without knowing—trulyknowing—that there was no other path.
She opened the next sheet. And the next. She spread the papers across the window bench, studying each account, eachcopied invoice, each accounting note in Thornton’s hand. Her eyes burned, but she read, and read again.
There must be something missing. Some detail he had been too weary to see. Some overlooked point she could catch. She read until her vision blurred.
The lantern sputtered once, then regained its small flame, casting light over the scattered papers—Bell’s looping notes, Harcourt’s summaries, Thornton’s figures written in a firmer, more utilitarian hand. She gathered the loose folio pages into stacks, combing them methodically, refusing to surrender to the fatigue tightening behind her eyes.
There was nothing.
No hidden credit.
No miscalculation.
No unclaimed debt that might miraculously shift in their favor.
He had been honest. Painfully honest.
And still… Still she could not accept the finality of what he believed.
She pressed a hand to her brow, breathing out slowly, steadying the thrum of her pulse. Her eyes drifted over a margin note she had skimmed earlier—Bell’s handwriting, quick and angled—then toward the adjoining memorandum Harcourt had labeled trivial.
Something tugged faintly at her attention. She pulled the memorandum closer.
A clause.
No—more than one.
Her breath slowed. She leaned nearer, lantern-light paling her face in the glass of the window. She traced the lines again from the beginning, reading carefully this time, checking dates and cross-references. A shiver went through her—not of cold, but of something else entirely.
She turned to another page—one she had nearly set aside. Then another. Then the map. The deed. The half-sheet tucked between two accounts as though accidentally.
Her heartbeat quickened. None of these pieces, on their own, meant anything extraordinary.
But together…
Margaret sat very still, both hands pressed to the edge of the window seat, as the truth composed itself in her mind with a clarity that felt almost painful.
