As I lay in bed, a gentle shuffling of feet roused me from sleep. The room flooded with soft, warm light as the curtains were drawn back, and I squinted up at Simon. His silhouette was bathed in a golden glow, his hair resembling strands of honey in the morning sunlight.

"Good morning, Sir. Today, you have nothing on your itinerary. Lottie is downstairs awaiting orders to start your breakfast. Catherine has been taken outside and fed. And your bath has been prepared for you." Simon sounded like he was reading from a script.

A groan escaped my lips and I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. The nightmare from last night still lingered and I could see Abigale's pale face behind my eyelids. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Simon handed me my banyan and left the room. When I finally got to my own two feet, I slipped it on and headed down the hall. Light steam filled the bathroom as the smell of roses came through the small open window. The copper tub glistened in the sunlight having just been recently polished. I sat my clothes on the small bench just across from the tub and climbed in. The hot water stung as my skin adjusted to the temperature and my muscles started to relax from the heat.

After soaking for a few minutes, I went over myself with a soaped-up cloth. Attempting to rid myself of the filth from the night before, but never quite getting myself that clean no matter how hard I tried. After rinsing, I carefully got out and dried myself off. Simon had already put my clothes in the room before I awoke.

As I got to the landing, I heard giant footsteps coming up the stairs and a ball of yellow fur jumped up on me. It was Catherine.

"Hey there, girl!" Her tail wagged and she barked, "Who's a good girl!? Huh!? Who's a good girl!? You are! Yes, you are!" She ran circles around me and jumped up on me again. I ruffled her ears and kissed her on the top of her head before descending the stairs.

Rounding the corner, I saw Lottie placing my breakfast on the table. The morning light streaming through the tall windows framed her like a portrait in a gilded frame. Her movements were brisk yet graceful, her freckled hands adjusting the plates with practiced ease. I paused, unnoticed, as a peculiar warmth spread through me. There was something disarming about the way she tucked a loose strand of ruby-red hair behind her ear as she worked, completely unaware of how effortlessly captivating she was.

Steeling myself, I stepped forward, the echo of my boots on the polished wood drawing her attention. She turned quickly, her emerald eyes meeting mine, and for a moment, time seemed to falter.

"Good morning, Sir," she said, curtsying slightly. Her Irish lilt was like the melody of a soft harp. She gestured toward the table. "Your breakfast is ready."

"Thank you, Lottie," I said, though my voice sounded quieter than I intended. My gaze lingered on her for a fraction too long, drawn to the crimson lock of hair that had escaped the confines of her cap once again. Before I could stop myself, I reached out and gently tucked it behind her ear.

Her breath hitched, and a flush crept up her cheeks. "Sir..." she whispered her voice a blend of surprise and something unspoken. The faintest tremble betrayed her composure.

I drew my hand back, suddenly aware of how inappropriate the gesture might seem. Clearing my throat, I said, "Oh...yes...um...thank you for breakfast, Lottie." My words stumbled, betraying the thoughts racing through my mind.

She dipped her head, her face still tinted with embarrassment—or was it something else?—and curtsied again. "My pleasure, Sir. If you don't mind, I have some cleaning to do." Her voice was steady, but there was a faint tremor at the edges, a hint of something she wasn’t ready to say.

As she turned to leave, I found my gaze following her, unable to help myself. A fleeting thought crossed my mind: did she feel the same pull, this quiet magnetism that seemed to hum in the air whenever she was near? But before I could linger too long on the question, she disappeared around the corner, leaving the scent of lavender and beeswax in her wake.

I sat down at the table, though my appetite felt strangely muted. Still, I reached for a piece of toast, spreading a thin layer of jam across it before taking a bite. Catherine padded up to my side, resting her head on my knee, her warm, steady presence grounding me. As I absently stroked her soft fur with one hand, I found my thoughts drifting back to Lottie—the way her cheeks had flushed, the way her eyes softened when they met mine.

I chewed slowly, the sweetness of the jam barely registering as I turned the moment over in my mind. Could there be something unspoken between us? Something that neither of us dared to name? My hand paused mid-stroke, Catherine’s tail wagging gently as though to bring me back to the present. I finished the slice of toast and reached for my coffee, its rich warmth doing little to chase away the lingering questions.

"Sir," Simon called, "Two letters have come in addressed to you."

"This early in the morning?" it was very uncommon to get a letter before 8 o'clock, for the first post didn't even come until then.

"One from the Marchioness Genevieve Griswold and one from Mrs. Geldart." He presented a silver tray with the two letters neatly displayed.

"Please take them up into my study, Simon. I shall read them when I've finished my breakfast." I stated before returning to my plate, his footsteps echoed as I took the first bite.

After finishing my meal, wiping my mouth with a napkin to make sure no bit of egg was stuck to my face, I headed up into my office. I couldn't help but wonder why the Marchioness was reaching out to me specifically. Does she know about what Cameron and I do? As I climbed the stairs, questions swirled in my mind.

When I entered my office, the scent of oak permeated the air. The desk was meticulously organized, with not a single piece of paper or quill out of place. Stepping around the desk, I sat in the chair and reached for my silver letter opener. I opened the letter from the Marchioness first, my hand slightly quivering. Glancing at the letter, its contents were far from what I had feared. Instead of her knowing what I did, she was instead inviting me to her engagement ball in just over 2 weeks' time. She also wrote that the reason for her inviting me was that she was a fan of my writing and hoped that her 'favorite columnist would write about her ball'. I sat back in my chair, stunned. To think that someone of her status would find my little musings entertaining enough to invite me to such an event. I penned a response immediately after I regained my composure assuring her of my presence.

Then I turned to the letter I dreaded, the one from my mother. I already had an idea as to what it contained. See, my birthday is coming up just around the time of the Marchioness' ball. Unfortunately, it wasn't just my day of birth, but also that of my twin sister, Eliza, whom I haven't spoken to since we were both ten. My mother had always hoped for us to reconcile our differences, particularly around our birthday.

This time, upon opening the letter, it was just as I'd feared. My mother was hoping that I'd finally include Eliza in the birthday celebration held at my house and I couldn't help but feel anger well up inside me at her neatly written name. I slumped into my office chair, attempting to contain my rage, and remained seated for a minute. I couldn't contain it any longer, so I swept all the papers from my desk onto the floor, as well as the quill and ink pot. They clattered to the floor as I spun around and looked out the window at the back of the room, my mind going back to twenty-three years ago when we were five.

I could still hear the screams. I’d been outside chasing butterflies, my laughter ringing through the garden when the cries from the house brought me running. The sight that met me at the foot of the grand staircase was one I would never forget.

Eliza lay motionless on the polished wood floor, her small body crumpled in a heap. Her skin was pale as porcelain, her curls spread like a dark halo around her head. For a moment, I thought she was gone. The world seemed to hold its breath, silent except for Mother’s wailing.

"Eliza!" Mother sobbed, falling to her knees beside her. "Please, please wake up!"

I stood frozen, unable to move or speak, as the nursemaid rushed in and pressed her ear to Eliza’s chest. A tense moment passed before she looked up and nodded. "She’s breathing."

Relief washed over the room, but it was fleeting. The physician arrived soon after, and Eliza was carried to her bed, her tiny frame looking even smaller beneath the heavy quilt. Her face was ashen, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow and labored. She looked like a doll abandoned by its owner—fragile, broken, and lifeless.

The house fell into a hushed vigil. Servants moved quietly, their footsteps muffled. I wasn’t allowed to see her at first; Mother didn’t want me disturbing her rest. But late one night, I crept over to her bed. The sight of her nearly broke me. Her once rosy cheeks were gaunt, her lips cracked and pale. The rise and fall of her chest was so faint I thought it might stop entirely. I sat by her side, my small hand trembling as I reached out to touch hers. It was cold, and limp, as though life itself had slipped away, leaving behind only a shell.

"Eliza," I whispered, tears pricking at my eyes. "Please don’t leave me."

She didn’t respond.

For weeks, it seemed she hovered on the edge of death. Mother rarely left her side, feeding her spoonfuls of broth and wiping her brow with a damp cloth. When she finally opened her eyes, weak and unfocused, Mother wept with joy, clasping her to her chest as though she might slip away again.

Eliza survived, but something in our family shifted after that. Mother never looked at her the same way. Her recovery was slow, marked by bouts of fever and frailty, and during that time, she became the sun around which the household revolved. Mother doted on her endlessly, lavishing her with gifts and affection. The nursemaids tended to her every need, while I was often left to my own devices. I watched from the sidelines, a child too young to understand why I felt so bitter. All I knew was that my place beside her—equal, cherished—had been stolen.

At first, I tried to earn back that place, but no matter what I did, it seemed I could never match the concern and care Mother poured into her. Eventually, I stopped trying. Years passed, and Eliza grew stronger, but the balance never shifted. She remained the delicate flower, shielded and adored, while I was expected to act as the sturdy oak. "You're the man of the house when your father is away," Mother often said, as though the weight of the world should sit comfortably on my small shoulders. I envied Eliza’s comforts, her privileges, the constant attention.

Now, as I sat at my desk, the years seemed to press down on me, heavier than the oak furniture and the silence of the room. I've reflected on that period in my life multiple times. Countless times. I did it even in my sleep and it got more unfair every time. This time, however, was different. As I sat there, contemplating, I considered the idea of finally having a shared party with my sister again. I've always wondered what kind of woman she has become, and according to what my mother has told me against my will, she's quite intriguing. I let out a sigh as I heard the oak door creak on its hinges when Simon entered the room, no doubt because he heard the clattering of the inkwell.

 "Are you quite well, Sir?" he inquired as he neatly stacked the pieces of paper.

"Mother wrote to ask me about my plans for my birthday and if I could include Eliza in the festivities here this year, as usual," I paused, "And I'm considering it."

He looked at me the way I knew he would, a mix of astonishment and concern. Simon has been with the family since I was eight and got to witness everything firsthand. All the arguing, the slammed doors, the stomping, the refusals to eat meals at the same time. Even when we stopped talking to each other despite living in the same house.

He gathered himself and said, "If that's what you want, Sir, I can ensure all preparations are in order."

I nodded and turned to stare out the window, pondering how to inform my mother that Eliza could join the family here for the party. Should I inquire about her favorite foods? Did she have any musical preferences? From the stories I heard, who knew if she even liked music? Turning back to my desk, everything was in its correct position again. I picked up my quill and penned my response back to my mother with these questions. There were still two weeks to plan the party, and my family wasn't too far from London, so I would receive a reply from them with a week to spare.

 After finishing the letter, I rang for Simon to come and collect my replies so they could be dropped off and sent out. I sat in my office for a bit, thinking, until I couldn't stand thinking anymore. I walked out and down into my Morning room and picked up one of my favorite books, Pride and Prejudice. The book was weathered and almost falling apart at the spine. A lot of the pages had creases in the corners since I didn't always have a bookmark. The clock chimed twelve times until I noticed the cup of tea and plate of biscuits that Lottie had sat aside for me.  With each sip, the warmth cascaded from my belly to my toes and fingertips. A hint of sourness lingered, almost as if it was trying to jolt me awake. I subconsciously snacked on the biscuits and sipped the tea as I read the book some more. It enthralled me.  How could anyone possibly write a whole book? My handwritten letters were always short, sweet, and simple. At work, all my articles were concise, yet met the required length. I continued reading, yet not paying attention to the words on the page.

My mind buzzed with unanswered questions, a persistent hum that refused to quiet. No matter how hard I tried, the words on the page blurred into nothingness, their meaning slipping away. With a decisive thud, I closed the book and stood, the sound breaking the heavy silence of the room. Perhaps a walk in the garden would offer the clarity I sought, a reprieve from the futile attempt to lose myself in words that weren’t my own.

Stepping outside felt like stepping into another world—a sanctuary far removed from the noise and chaos of London. The garden stretched out before me, tranquil and orderly, yet alive in a way the city could never replicate. The gentle rustling of leaves and the faint hum of bees among the lilac bushes created a symphony of quiet, natural rhythms, soothing the edges of my restless thoughts.

I’d chosen to live here deliberately, away from the prying eyes of my family and the relentless clamor of London. The house, a gift from my grandfather’s estate, offered solitude—an escape from the expectations and obligations that had weighed on me for years. London was a place of endless chatter, its streets a cacophony of voices, wheels, and hooves, but here, the world moved at its own unhurried pace.

The gravel path was bordered by squares of neatly trimmed hedges, each acting as a natural frame for bursts of vibrant color. Within the hedges, rose bushes stood tall and proud, their velvety petals glowing softly in the morning light. Alongside the roses, clusters of other flowers added texture and contrast: cheerful daisies, bright marigolds, and delicate bluebells that seemed to dance in the gentle breeze.

I reached out to touch one of the roses, its fragrance rising to meet me, sweet and faintly nostalgic. Something was deeply reassuring about the order of it all—the crisp edges of the hedges, the delicate blooms standing proudly within their bounds, and the rhythm of nature carefully guided but never stifled. The symmetry of the squares, each bursting with life, was a quiet reminder that beauty could flourish even within constraints.

As I walked further, the garden grew wilder at its edges, the lavender bushes sprawling out and the grass growing a little taller. It was here, in this balance of cultivation and freedom, that I felt most at ease. The estate wasn’t my childhood home, but I had made it my own in a way that London could never be. This was a place to breathe, to think, and to exist without the ceaseless din of the city or the demands of others.

The oak tree at the edge of the garden caught my eye, its broad branches reaching skyward. I smiled faintly, remembering how Eliza and I used to sit beneath a tree like that as children, sharing secrets and dreams. Now, the thought of her was more complicated, layered with the unresolved tensions of the past. Did she think of me at all? I let the breeze carry the question away, my steps crunching steadily on the gravel as I returned to the house. The sky had begun to shift, clouds gathering to veil the sunlight. It suited me; there was something comforting about the muted light and the quiet embrace of the estate.

Here, there were no voices but my own, no clamor of expectations, no endless conversations to feign interest in. Just the hum of bees, the sway of the roses, and the solitude I’d chosen—a life apart, in a world that finally felt like mine.