“That’s hardly the same as hearing it.” Fanny turned, her eyes bright and kind. “Besides, if you’re to host a ball together, it might help if the two of you were speaking.”
A soft sigh slipped from Blanche’s lips. She set the fabric carefully on the chair beside her.
“There was an argument,” she said in a low voice.
Fanny, who had clearly been waiting for precisely such a moment, seated herself across from her sister with quiet grace, her expression attentive but patient.
“It was a few nights ago,” Blanche went on, her eyes drifting toward the tall windows and the light beyond. “About Father. About… Heath thinks I cling to a memory unworthy of defense.”
Fanny didn’t respond right away. Instead, she reached out and gently took Blanche’s hand. “Do you?”
Blanche blinked. “What?”
“Do you cling to it,” Fanny said softly, “because it brings you comfort? Or because you’re afraid to admit you’ve begun to trust someone else?”
The silence that followed deepened, though it was not uncomfortable. Blanche pressed her lips together, something catching just beneath her collarbone.
“Heath doesn’t understand,” she murmured. “He is too composed, too rational. To him, absence equates abandonment. But to me… not knowing is far worse than being hurt.”
Fanny gave a slow nod. Blanche looked down at their joined hands, and for the first time in days, she found herself without an answer.
“Do you miss him?” Fanny asked, though they both knew she did not mean their father.
Blanche did not deny it. She only said, “He frustrates me. He confuses me.”
Fanny’s smile was faint, but no less sincere. “All the best men do.”
They laughed—softly, gently—as if unraveling a portion of the tension sewn between them. When Fanny rose to leave, she placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder.
“Think on it, Blanche. Not the ball. What follows.”
When the room fell quiet once more, Blanche returned to the mirror. Her reflection met her with a gaze softer than before. Her eyes dropped to the blue silk in her lap and the threads of gold that shimmered in the midday light.
“This is merely for appearances,” she whispered to no one.
And yet, even in her own voice, the words did not sound true.
The interior of the small cottage smelled faintly of burned wood and aging paper. It was a narrow place—spartan, poorly lit, the home a man vanished into rather than lived in. Lord Gooldwer motioned toward a low-backed chair beside the hearth and gestured to a bottle resting atop a chipped sideboard.
“Brandy,” he offered, already pouring two uneven measures. “It’s not the type you usually enjoy, Your Grace, I’m afraid.”
“I’m not here for your hospitality,” Heath replied flatly, accepting the glass without gratitude.
Gooldwer’s smile—thin and wry—did not quite reach his eyes. “No, I suppose you’re not.”
The brandy was rough on the tongue, cheaply distilled, but Heath drank it without comment. The fire in the grate crackled low, casting long shadows up the stonework walls. Across from him, Gooldwer settled into a worn armchair, his posture slightly hunched, as though bowed more by thought than time.
“How are Blanche and Fanny?” he asked at length, the names tasting cautious.
“Well,” Heath replied. “They’re strong-willed, spirited.”
Gooldwer huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “That sounds like them.”
Heath said nothing.
Footsteps sounded behind them—bare, light. A woman emerged from the adjoining room, her dark hair pulled back, hands still damp from washing. She paused in the doorway as her eyes found Heath.
Her presence was unceremonious, stripped of pretense. Not beautiful in the way that ignited scandal, but plain and capable,with a steadiness that had likely once seemed alluring to a man desperate for escape.
