“Anyway, that’s what I keep thinking about,” Persephone said. “That we need to unlearn that helplessness.”
The words sparked something in Beatrice.
“Not for myself, mind you.” Persephone grimaced a little. “Disregarding that one unfortunate incident, gentlemen do not trouble themselves with me,” Persephone said as she stepped back. “Not in that way.”
There was no bitterness in it. Only a plain accounting of what she believed to be true.
“But my sister is often noticed,” she continued. “She is lovely, and trusting, and far too ready to think well of everyone. I want her to know when to trust—and what to do if she has trusted wrongly.”
Beatrice smoothed the fabric once more, though there was no need. Then she stepped back.
“She will,” she said. “You both will. That’s precisely why we are doing this.”
Persephone went very still, her gaze lifting to Beatrice’s face. A moment passed.
Then, quietly, she asked, “Did you… trust wrongly? Is that why you are doing this?”
Beatrice’s first thought was to deny it. But… then she swallowed. And grimaced. “Yes,” she said. “Something like that.”
Persephone turned toward the mirror, considering the borrowed clothes, and then glanced back at her. “I thought there must be something more.”
Beatrice stilled. “More?”
“To you,” Persephone said simply. “To all of this. I could not quite decide what made you so brave.”
Brave?
The other woman tilted her head. “There is something rather remarkable about you, Lady Beatrice. I only wanted to thank you for allowing me to take part.”
Beatrice, who was quite unaccustomed to compliments of such a personal nature, found herself without a sensible reply.
So she tugged at the scarf around her own waist, then gave a small nod. “Yes, well. We shall see how grateful you remain after the first fall.” She glanced up, her lips tugging into small grin despite herself.. “And perhaps… just Beatrice. If you like.”
Persephone’s smile warmed. “Then you must call me Persephone. Or Percy, if we are being very daring.”
“Percy,” Beatrice repeated, testing the name.
She cleared her throat and turned toward the door. “And now we ought to go down. It’s early yet, but I have some organizing to do in the practice room.”
“You mean the ballroom?" Persephone asked.
“Not today, Percy. Not today,” Beatrice corrected.
A faint spark lit Persephone’s eyes. “Of course.”
Beatrice reached for the door. “Shall we?”
A few minutes later, they were in the ballroom, dragging mattresses into place across the polished floor. She had already determined earlier that her initial setup would not be sufficient for the number of people Gideon would now be training. Mr. Drake had looked rather resigned this time when she’d requested even more mattresses.
“There,” Beatrice said, brushing her hands together after they’d hauled the last one into position. “That should do.”
Persephone straightened, a little breathless but smiling. “I will admit, this is considerably easier than moving furniture in skirts.”
“Nearly everything is easier without skirts,” Beatrice said.
They shared a quick look of understanding—one of those small, unexpected moments that made the whole mad scheme feel less impossible.
Then a sound came from the doorway.
