The carriage rocked gently beneath me, the wheels humming over the uneven road. Outside, the world still slept. The sky was a deep, velvet blue, not yet stirred by the sun, but the air was oddly heavy. Warm, thick, like a breath held too long. I unlatched the window and let it open just an inch. The breeze that slipped in carried no coolness—only the scent of earth, damp and clinging. Fields stretched out on either side, shrouded in low, drifting fog. The grass, coated in dew, sparkled faintly in the early light. Trees loomed in the haze, their forms blurred and softened. It was beautiful in a strange, uneasy way—quiet like the world was holding its breath.

I adjusted the folds of my skirt and glanced down at my hands, folded neatly in my lap. The hospital felt close now—not just in the distance, but in the way it had begun to nest itself into my thoughts. The faces of the patients, the soft rhythm of the ward, even the sharp scent of vinegar and soap. It was no longer unfamiliar. It was becoming mine.

As the carriage rounded the final corner, King’s emerged from the mist, solid and solemn. The stone façade was gray in the half-light, rising from the fog like a memory. I felt the usual flutter in my chest—some mix of nerves and purpose—and straightened my spine as the carriage slowed to a halt. The door opened, and I stepped down onto the damp pavement. The city was stirring now—faint voices in the distance, the clatter of carts, a bell tolling somewhere far off. I didn’t linger. My boots carried me up the steps, through the side entrance, and into the cool hush of the ward.

 

Inside, the world narrowed. The air, still tinged with vinegar, wrapped around me like a habit. Beds lined the walls, the soft rustle of sheets and the occasional cough filling the space. At the far end of the room, two familiar figures stood with heads bent over the patient log. Phillipa looked up first, her face breaking into a smile. “Well, look who’s early.”

Constance straightened beside her, brushing a strand of pale hair from her cheek. “And smiling,” she added, lifting a brow. “That can only mean one thing.”

I let the door ease shut behind me and made my way down the aisle, my steps careful not to wake anyone still sleeping. “Good morning,” I said, unable to hide the warmth in my voice. There was something about seeing them—Phillipa steady and kind, Constance sharp and clever—that eased the tension in my shoulders.

Phillipa leaned casually on the desk. “You look brighter today.”

“I suppose I am,” I said. “The air smells like the start of summer.”

Constance rolled her eyes, amused. “Or like a storm waiting to happen.”

We settled into the morning routine quickly—notes updated, patients checked, linens folded. The quiet hum of the ward was comforting in its predictability. Still, my thoughts tugged elsewhere, warm and persistent like a hand brushing against mine beneath a table. I glanced at Phillipa, and then Constance, both focused on the logbook. My heart beat a little faster. I took a breath. “There’s something I need to tell you both,” I said, my voice low but steady. They looked up in unison. Phillipa blinked, curious. Constance tilted her head, already suspicious. “It’s about Benedict,” I said.

Connie’s mouth dropped open before I’d finished the sentence. “Oh, saints preserve us.”

Phillipa leaned in across the desk, her eyes wide. “Don’t keep us waiting, Lilibet.”

I tried to keep my expression composed, but I felt the smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. “As of this past Saturday,” I said carefully, “we’re courting. Officially.”

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then— “You’re what?” Constance squealed, grabbing my arm. “Courting? As in real, proper, respectable courting?”

Phillipa clasped her hands together with a delighted gasp. “Oh, Lilibet!”

I laughed despite myself, a little breathless. “Yes. Real, proper, and respectable, though not without a fair amount of effort.”

Constance was practically bouncing in place. “You’ve been pining for him since before I started!”

“I have not,” I protested, but Phillipa waved a hand.

“Darling, you’ve been writing his name in the margins of your mind for months.”

I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks were burning. “It’s strange,” I admitted. “Now that it’s real, I feel... calm. As though I’ve stepped onto something solid.”

Phillipa softened, smiling warmly. “That’s how you know it’s right.”

Constance grinned wickedly. “Does he kiss as well as he looks?”

“Connie,” I warned, but she only laughed, unrepentant.

“Well, I’m thrilled for you,” Phillipa said, reaching out to squeeze my hand. “Truly. You deserve this.”

 

The ward called us back quickly—a cough from the far end, a patient stirring—but even as we moved into our work, I felt lighter. Their joy settled around me like a second layer of warmth. The morning passed with a gentle sort of ease—rare, but welcome. The ward was unusually calm. The patients, though still weak, seemed lighter in spirit. A few even offered smiles as we made our rounds. The smell of soap and boiled broth drifted through the air, mingling with the scent of candle wax and lavender sachets tucked beneath pillows.

I was changing the water in a bedside basin when Constance appeared beside me, arms full of fresh linens. “So,” she said, keeping her tone casual, “when should we expect you to be swept away in a carriage full of roses and promises?”

I glanced sideways at her, biting back a smile. “That would be impractical,” I said. “Where would I put all the soiled bedding?”

Connie grinned. “Ah, practicality—the surest sign of a woman in love.”

From across the ward, Phillipa called out without even looking up from the logbook. “Careful, Sister Levingston, she might make you her bridesmaid out of spite.”

I chuckled softly, “Keep talking and I’ll assign you the chamber pots.”

“Oh, she’s feisty now,” Connie said, theatrically folding a sheet. “Must be the effect of romantic stability.”

We worked in rhythm—changing linens, adjusting pillows, checking temperatures. The patients watched us with quiet amusement, their eyes following the ebb and flow of our banter like they would a play. No one cried out. No one worsened. The usual desperation that clung to the ward like a fog had, for today at least, lifted. At midday, we paused for tea in the alcove near the ward’s rear. The three of us sat on overturned supply crates, balancing mismatched cups on our knees. The tea was oversteeped and bitter, but none of us complained.

Phillipa stirred hers absentmindedly. “So, has he written yet?”

“Not since yesterday,” I replied.

“That won’t do,” Constance said dramatically. “A true suitor must pen at least one swooning letter per day. With flourishes. And poetry.”

“I’ll settle for legible handwriting,” I said, blowing gently over the surface of my cup.

We sat quietly for a moment, listening to the soft rustle of blankets and murmured conversations drifting in from the ward. The weight of our aprons, the ache in our backs, the stiffness in our fingers—it was all familiar, all part of the work. And yet, I felt settled. Whole, somehow. Like the worry I had worn for so long had loosened at the seams.

After tea, we returned to the floor. I helped an older woman tie the ribbon of her nightcap and refilled a water pitcher for a girl whose fever had broken. Constance straightened picture frames on the wall that no one else bothered to notice. Phillipa hummed a song under her breath while recording temperatures. Everything moved slowly, without urgency. Not boring—just... steady. Predictable in the best way.

 

Near the end of the afternoon, I passed the nurse’s desk just as Phillipa was finishing a note in the ledger. She glanced up and smirked. “You know, you’ve smiled more today than you did in your entire first month here.”

I shrugged, a little self-conscious. “I suppose I’ve just grown used to the place.”

“Mm-hm,” she said, unconvinced.

Constance leaned against the wall beside the desk, arms folded. “Just promise us that if Benedict proposes in the ward, you’ll at least wait until rounds are finished.”

“I’ll consider it,” I said dryly, “as long as he doesn’t bring flowers into the infectious wing.” They laughed, and I joined them. The sun dipped lower, casting soft gold across the floorboards. A breeze stirred the curtains at the far windows.

The ward grew quiet as the evening settled in. The last trays had been cleared, the patients tucked into their beds, soft candlelight flickering across tired faces. I moved slowly, checking one bed after another, replacing each stub of wax with a fresh candlestick. It was a task I’d come to think of as mine—something final, something gentle to close the day.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Hodges,” I whispered, setting a new candle into the candlestick on her bedside. She gave me a faint smile, her eyes already heavy with sleep.

“Sweet dreams, Sister Geldart,” she murmured, voice rasping like paper.

I moved to the next bed, hands practiced now, steady and quiet. There was comfort in the routine, but tonight I felt a tug at my chest with every candle I placed. The clock ticked forward, and my mind kept slipping out of the ward, past the stone walls, and toward him. Toward Benedict.

By the time the last flame had been lit, I was already fetching my cloak from behind the nurse’s desk. The others had already gone—Pippa gave me a knowing look before she left, and Constance had winked outright. I didn’t care. I just wanted to see his face.

 

I stepped out into the night air, the coolness a relief against my flushed skin. The gas lamps burned steadily, casting warm halos of light that flickered on the cobblestones. I spotted him quickly—leaning against the wrought iron fence just beyond the hospital gate, his hands in his coat pockets, gaze fixed on the ground. My breath caught, but something was wrong. His stance was too still, too rigid. And when he looked up and saw me, the smile I’d imagined—the one I’d played over in my head all day—never came.

I hurried toward him. “Benedict?”

He gave a small nod, his expression taut. “Elizabeth.”

I reached for his hand, but he didn’t take it. Not immediately. He glanced over his shoulder, then gently pulled me to the side, into a narrow alcove along the stone wall—away from the street, from any passing eyes. We stood close, backs to the world as if we were just another couple out for a quiet moment. But I felt the tension rolling off him in waves.

“What is it?” I asked, lowering my voice. “What’s happened?”

He didn’t speak right away. Then: “Gabriella wrote to me.”

My stomach knotted. “What did she say?”

“She overheard Father talking to Andrew,” he said. “It’s not just suspicion anymore—Father’s convinced something’s happening. He doesn’t know what, but he’s watching me. Andrew’s been tasked with keeping an eye on where I go, who I speak to, when I leave the hospital. Clara said it’s only a matter of time before he digs up something he can use.”

I exhaled slowly, trying to steady myself. “So we’re no longer just avoiding his notice—we’re already on borrowed time.”

Benedict gave a short, humorless nod. “Exactly.”

The street noise drifted behind us, distant and dull. I searched his face. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“That doesn’t matter to him,” he said. “He’s never needed much to justify control. And if he thinks I’m slipping out of it—”

“He’ll tighten his grip,” I finished quietly.

We stood in silence for a moment, the weight of it all pressing in. Then I reached up, resting my hand on his coat sleeve. “Then let’s make sure he doesn’t get the chance,” I said. My voice didn’t shake, though my insides were ice. “Come to Aunt Eliza's in four days. I’ll invite you to over along with my father and cousin Cameron. They’ve dealt with your father before. They understand him in ways we don’t.”

Benedict’s brow furrowed, and his breath caught. “You think they’ll know what to do?”

I nodded. “They’ll know how to disarm him, or at least how to keep him at bay. My father has dealt with men like yours his whole life—soft hands hiding clenched fists. And Cameron… well, Cameron’s not afraid to call a monster by name.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes, so often clear and calm, were stormed with doubt. But then he looked at me, really looked, and something in him settled. He exhaled through his nose, slowly, and the tension in his shoulders eased just a little. “All right,” he said. “But what of Andrew?” he whispered, eyes sharp beneath the flickering streetlamp.

I gripped his hand more tightly. “You go about your day like normal on Friday. Nothing out of step—speak as you usually do, keep your routine at the hospital. When your shift ends, go straight home. Lock the door. Don’t look out the windows, don’t linger near them. Don’t light more candles than you need. Just wait. Several hours, maybe more. It has to look unremarkable.”

He nodded slowly, but I saw the unease behind his eyes. I pressed on.

“Once it’s late—late enough that any watchers have grown tired or convinced themselves there’s nothing to see—you’ll leave. Quietly. No bags. Walk to the edge of town. Take the orchard path, past the ruined fence. There’ll be a carriage waiting just beyond the ridge, near the grove. I’ll make sure of it.”

He stared at me, brow furrowed. “You’re certain?”

“I’m certain.”

A silence stretched between us, full of everything we didn’t dare say aloud. Then, softly, he said, “You should go. In case something… happens.”

My breath caught, but I nodded. I couldn’t afford to argue, not with time pressing in. “Take care of yourself,” I said. My voice came out more brittle than I intended. I leaned in, and before he could pull back or hesitate, I kissed his cheek. Just once. Quick, firm. The way you’d press a seal to a letter you prayed would reach its destination. Then I turned, skirts catching against my boots, and hurried toward the waiting carriage.

As we pulled away, I risked one last glance back. He hadn’t moved. Still standing in the alcove, half-shadowed, hands now hanging uselessly at his sides. The outline of him grew smaller, swallowed by mist and gaslight until he was just another figure blurred by distance. I didn't let myself cry. Not yet. I would save that for when it was done.

 

The carriage ride home passed in silence, broken only by the steady rhythm of the wheels and the distant hoot of an owl. The driver, knowing better than to ask questions, kept his eyes on the road and his hands tight on the reins. I sat with my fingers clasped so tightly they ached, my heart still fluttering from the weight of what I’d just set into motion. Familiar hedgerows blurred past, and when the carriage finally stopped before the house, I didn’t wait for the footman. I stepped down quickly, skirts gathered, and hurried up the walk.

The front door creaked softly as Mr. Lockhart opened it. Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of rosemary and hearth smoke. Aunt Eliza sat in her favorite chair near the Drawing room window, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, book set aside. She looked up the moment she heard me.

“Eliza,” I said, breathless. “I need to speak with you.”

She saw the urgency in my face and rose at once, crossing the room in two swift strides. “What is it?”

I took her hand and led her toward the sitting room. “Bartholomew knows something is going on. He’s had Andrew spying on Benedict. It’s only a matter of time before he tries to tear everything down.” Eliza’s mouth pressed into a hard line, but she didn’t interrupt. “So,” I went on, “I’ve told Benedict to leave the hospital quietly on Friday night. He’ll go home after his shift, wait several hours, and then walk to the edge of town. I’ll have a carriage ready for him.”

Eliza nodded slowly. “And where will it take him?”

“Well, here of course. But more importantly—” I drew a breath. “I also want to invite Father and Cameron. Once it’s dark, I want us to all sit down and figure out how to stop Bartholomew from ruining everything Benedict and I want.”

Aunt Eliza’s gaze didn’t waver. She took in every word like a general absorbing a battle plan. Then she reached out, placed both hands on my shoulders, and said, “Done.”

I blinked. “You’ll help me?”

“I will do everything in my power to see you happy, Elizabeth,” she said, voice steady and fierce. “That man—Bartholomew—has terrorized too many hearts for too long. Not this time. Not with you.”

The relief that surged through me was almost too much. I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her tightly. “Thank you,” I whispered. “For everything. For always.”

She held me close. “It’s my pleasure, dearest girl.” We stood like that for a while—quiet, warm, safe. The kind of stillness you only find in the eye of a storm. 

I pulled away from Aunt Eliza, wiping the corner of my eye before the emotion could settle too deeply. “Mr. Lockart?” I called toward the hallway.

A moment later, his polished shoes appeared at the parlor threshold. “Yes, Miss Elizabeth?”

“I’ll need parchment and ink brought to my room, please.”

He nodded without hesitation. “At once.”

As he disappeared, Eliza gave me a pointed look. “Don’t stay up too late, Lilibet. Even revolutions need rest.”

I smiled, tired but grateful. “I won’t. Goodnight, Aunt.”

“Goodnight, love.”

 

I turned and ascended the staircase, the soft creak of the wood beneath my boots oddly comforting. My room waited at the end of the hall, warm and dimly lit by a bedside candle. I slipped inside and lit a second wick at the desk. Not two minutes had passed when there was a soft knock. “Come in,” I called.

Mr. Lockart entered, a small silver tray in his hands. On it, a fresh stack of parchment, a well of dark ink, and two clean quills. He moved efficiently, setting the tray on the small writing desk tucked in the corner just to the right of the door.

“Thank you, Mr. Lockart,” I said.

He gave a quiet bow. “Shall I fetch anything else, Miss?”

“No, that will be all.”

With a respectful nod, he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

I sat slowly at the desk, smoothing the surface of the top sheet. The flame from the candle danced in the ink’s reflection. For a moment, I let myself be still. Then I dipped the quill and began.

The first letter was to Father—measured, direct, but threaded with urgency. I told him only what he needed: that Bartholomew was tightening his hold, that Benedict needed protection, and that his presence late Friday night would be both requested and vital.

The second letter was shorter but less restrained. To Cameron, I wrote like a sister asking her brother to bring his fire. I didn’t couch it. I told him that a reckoning was coming—and I needed him by my side when it did.

When both letters were finished, I sealed them with wax and pressed the stamp flat.

Friday couldn’t come soon enough.