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Helena took a step up, glancing over her shoulder as if afraid to be caught. "Are you all right?" The question was soft. It was also inescapable.

Adelaide drew herself up, the way her aunt had trained her to do for a lifetime of parlor disputes and drawing room disasters. "I am quite well. Thank you," she managed. Her throat constricted around the words. She did not linger for Helena's reply, turning sharply and ascending the remaining stairs.

The hallway on the second floor was empty. The staff had all gone to ground or were otherwise occupied; she saw only the faintest movement in the shadow by the linen press. She let herself into her bedchamber, shut the door, and only then released the breath she'd been holding since Julian said no.

She leaned her forehead against the door. The wood was cool and unyielding. Adelaide pressed her palms to it, willing herself to disappear.

A sound: a soft knock, barely audible.

A traitorous part of her heart whispered that it was Julian, come to recant, to explain that it had been a mistake, that he was a coward but not a monster, that he would say yes if she would only give him another chance.

But it was Helena's voice that came through the panel. "Adelaide. I know you are not fine. I am here if you wish to speak."

Adelaide swallowed the useless hope and replied, "Thank you, Helena. I am fine."

There was a brief pause, and then Helena said, "If you change your mind, I will be in the east drawing room." Another pause, longer this time, before footsteps receded down the carpeted hallway.

Adelaide pressed her forehead harder against the door, trying to blot out every memory of Julian's hand in hers, Julian's voice calling her brilliant, Julian's eyes tracking every movement she made at the Kew, at the waltz, by the stream. You absolute fool. She bit her lip, hard enough that she tasted copper. The pain did nothing to distract her from the emptiness.

She turned, letting herself fall back onto the heavy door, and stared into her room. The clock on the mantel ticked out the seconds. Her gloves were still on, and she did not bother to remove them.

She thought of Kent, of the kitchen garden and the weed catalogs, and the years she'd believed there might be more. She thought of the way Julian had kissed her, desperate and drowning, only to throw her away when she reached for him with her heart exposed.

She stood in the middle of the room for a long time, not moving.

There were tears on her cheeks, but she refused to let them fall to the rug.

She did not light a lamp. She did not undress. When she moved at last, it was only to sit on the edge of the bed, hands clutched tight together, staring at the closed door with dry, burning eyes.

The silence in the room grew until it pressed against her eardrums. The only sound was the clock, beating time for the life she had managed to destroy in under a year.

She did not move again until the sky outside the window darkened and the house below went utterly, perfectly silent.

* * *

Julian did not light the lamps in his study. He sat at the old desk, hands flat on the dark surface, and watched the chill blue dusk climb up the library windows. The only glow came from the dying embers in the grate and the thin strip of gaslight that bled in from the hall. His mind ran over every word he'd spoken to Adelaide, every word he'd failed to say.

At some point, he realized he was gripping the arms of the chair so hard his knuckles ached.

He didn't know how long he'd been there when the door handle turned. He expected a servant, or the dull emptiness of the wind at the window, but it was Helena. She entered softly, her presence unfamiliar in a room she had not set foot in for over a decade. Her silhouette cut against the firelight, one hand braced on the back of a reading chair as if she might change her mind and flee at any second.

"May I come in?" she asked.

He nodded, unable to muster even the courtesy of standing.

She closed the door behind her and surveyed the shelves, the old armillary, the heap of unsorted journals piled on the hearth rug. For a long moment, she seemed to be taking the measure of a life that had moved on without her.

Helena sat down across from him, smoothing her skirts over her knees. "I have not been in this room since Father's funeral," she said.

He said nothing.

She cleared her throat, and the sound was thin and strained. "I expected you would come to me after breakfast."

"Did you?"

"I did," she replied. "But I see now I was foolish to hope for it." She looked down at her hands, fingers twisting together, then raised her eyes to his. "Julian, I wrote to your wife because I wished to see you. I could not write to you, not after—" She trailed off, gathering herself. "It would have been an intrusion. So I wrote to her instead. Adelaide answered with more grace than I deserved."

He couldn't decide whether to feel grateful or betrayed. "She has always been generous."