“You have pinned flowers in your hair,” he said, voice mild.
She touched them reflexively. Clara had arranged a cluster for her hair to match the bell-shaped blooms embroidered on the dress.
“I thought you’d like them,” Aoife said. “They… suit the dress.”
His brow lifted slightly. “They were Florence’s favourites.”
Her throat tightened.
“I know,” she said.
Silence stretched between them, thin, clear, and sharp-edged.
“You chose them because of her?” Halverton asked.
She expected an accusation. Instead, it was almost curious.
Aoife steadied herself. “I thought… if I could match what you admired in her, I—”
She fell silent as he took a step closer.
His gaze was cool, assessing, though not unkind.
“Aoife,” he said slowly, “why would you think I want you to be Florence?”
Her breath snagged. It felt like a trap, but his tone told her it wasn’t.
“She was everything you wanted,” Aoife said.
He exhaled through his nose.
“You misunderstand.”
Her pulse fluttered. “Do I?”
“Yes.” His voice gentled, though the steel beneath it remained.
Aoife’s hands tightened around each other. “She left after… after the fire. After the demotion.”
“She did.”
Aoife swallowed. “Don’t you want me to replace her?”
“No.” He moved closer, close enough that she felt the warmth of him. “I do not want you to be Florence.”
He lifted a hand, not yet touching her, hovering, waiting.
“I want you,” he said softly, “to surpass her.”
The simplicity of the words struck her harder than anything he had said before.
Surpass.
Not replace.
Not mimic.
Not echo.
